Chapter Summary: In which Karl's faith in Marianne is challenged.

X

1963

Marianne

Forty-two years ago, a woman had taken a trek through the Romanian mountain ranges. No one knew where she had come from or even where she was going. All anyone knew was that she spoke in a foreign tongue and carried a newborn swaddled in blankets. The village farmer who claimed to have met her said that she had come as far as the village gates, paused once, and then laid the bundle of blankets upon their doorstep.

And after that? She had left, never to be seen again. It was assumed that she had died on the way back down the mountains for, years later, a brittle skeleton hunched over upon itself would be found in an old cave, still swathed in shawls long since faded of their color.

The villagers had been hesitant to take in the infant. Its coloring was odd and repulsive in their eyes. Some had suggested tossing it in a well but the more religious among them would not hear of such a thing. However, their interest in the child's livelihood extended only as far as their Christian faith demanded. No one wanted to claim the infant as their own, and so the child was moved reluctantly from home to home, sleeping in basements or on porch steps, surviving only on castoff scraps of bread and muddied water.

It hadn't taken the village men long to realize there was an opportunity in the child's homelessness. With no guardian, friends, or traceable lineage it was easy to take advantage of her.

And, take advantage of her, they did.

However, there had been one man in the village who hadn't shown any desire to abuse her: Karl Heisenberg, one half of a set of twins who had been born only a few months earlier than her. She'd never forget the first time they laid eyes upon each other: her, six years old and kneeling in a puddle of mud, and him walking up with those narrowed green eyes, whistling tunelessly between the gap in his front teeth before asking if she 'wanted to play a game or somethin'.'

From thereon their friendship grew. It was an odd sort of kinship in which they gravitated and recoiled from each other throughout the years, each facing the tribulations of their own lives and yet always returning to each other. He never raised a hand against her and never spoke down about her occupation in the village. At such a young age he had already developed a sense of virtue and took pride in calling himself a religious gentleman. His worst offense had been flicking her on the nose from time to time - a fair trade-off for her habit of playfully kicking his legs out from beneath him.

At some point in her adult life, Marianne had come to realize that maybe she had never even loved him at all. Maybe she had only come to depend on him as the one man in the world who wouldn't hurt her.

Now she sat tall upon her horse, nervously clenching and unclenching her gloved hands across the reigns. Before her sat the factory, dim lighting spilling from its windows and washing over the desert wasteland of the front yard. At any moment she expected him to walk out with that same oddball smile on his face, the one that showed all of his back teeth-

But it was a desperate and unreasonable hope that she clung to. The past few years had been hard on Karl, she knew that. Though he reveled in the freedom of his blood-won factory and prowled the halls like an exuberant king, it was obvious to her that the 'manufactured madness' forced upon him by his exile and cruel mistreatment of the villagers had long since taken a toll on his once so sharp mind. Many times she had awakened in the middle of the night to find him cackling to himself in the broiler room or loudly reciting scripts from radio shows as he paced the factory roof, swinging his hammer around like some gaudy stage prop beneath the stars. She'd never let him know that seeing him thus hurt her tremendously, and that there had been no greater burden in her life than watching his slow descent into madness.

She had been true to her word and given him three years to make his decision - three years in which she had spent her days pacing around him, watching for any sign of a change in his mindset, knowing that each day only served to push them farther apart. If only she could just get him to America where he could experience true freedom! Find his people! Breathe in the invigorating American air! Escape the cruel and suffocating confines of his own mind! But every time she had attempted to breach the subject he had looked down at her with his narrowed eyes and asked, with a smile, if such an escapade would be more for his benefit or hers.

There was simply no way that he'd ever be able to leave it all behind and come back with her- she knew that, deep down in her heart. She had known it ever since the day of the factory massacre when they had stepped over the bodies of the workers and stood with hands clasped beneath the awning, glancing nervously around at the overwhelming magnitude that was the humming factory.

It was funny, in a way. Back in America, she had clawed her way to the top of the food chain. She had gotten herself a car with a white leather steering wheel, had filled her closet with pastels and faux pearls that she never wore, straightened her hair, painted her nails red, thrown her fist in the sky, ran from police in the middle of protests…

And yet, steeped as she had been in the allure of American modernity and luxury, all she could ever think about was the Romanian man with the toothy grin waiting for her back home in the village with no name.

"Alright," she said after a beat of silence. And then, "Okay."

She held two fingers and a thumb towards the looming factory and uttered a soft 'bang' as she cocked her hand. On her way out, she had briefly imagined lighting a match and flicking it onto the factory porch steps. Burn the whole thing to the ground. And why not? She knew, deep down in her heart, that Karl would die in the village anyway. It'd be better to have his life taken by someone who loved him rather than the foreign wolves that would one day come crowding the village gates - attracted, no doubt, by the promise of Miranda's mold.

But.

There was nothing more that she could do. There was no use standing around waiting to say goodbye. In a way, they had already parted ways some eighteen years ago. They had just been too cowardly to speak on it.

"Karl Heisenberg," she sighed as she nudged her horse's side. "I guess I'll see you next lifetime, aye, you rat bastard?"

The horse gave a rather unsympathetic toss of the head and began to turn the other way. She kept her eyes on its broad neck as it ambled through the dry brush, whistling tunelessly to herself between her teeth. The village wind chilled her to her very bones despite her heavy jacket and wool scarf. The damnable weather was the only thing that she was happy to leave behind.

Finally, she and her horse reached the wrought-iron factory gates bearing the symbol of a horse head surrounded by a horseshoe: the Heisenberg family crest. She hadn't even realized that she was just sitting there watching the snow pile atop the iron bars until suddenly she heard a voice that snapped her straight out of her reverie.

"You keep sitting around like that, you might just catch a cold!"

Her horse gave an alarmed whinny as she forced it into an about-face. There was a dark figure bounding along the factory porch steps. Her hand flew to her mouth as she watched the figure grow nearer, the outline of its sauntering gate and broad shoulders undeniable in the blinding white gusts of snow. Karl Heisenberg lifted his head into the evening light and drew a broad smile that took her very breath away. Though he was wearing his odd tinted glasses she knew that his eyes must have been sparkling beneath the lenses.

But it hadn't just been the sight of him approaching that had filled her with overwhelming endearment. It was the look of him. He had traded his factory attire for a fitted cinnamon-brown suit complete with the low-heeled loafers and a mahogany tie pinned neatly to the seams of his button-up. Tears began to spill across her hand as she took in his freshly combed hair tied modestly behind his neck, and the high rise of his freshly shaven cheeks. Never in their forty-two years of friendship had she seen him pay so much attention to his appearance. With the sparkle of his shoes and the premature streaks of gray rolling along his freshly gelled hair, he could have easily fit in with the 1960s mobstars that were so popular on American television.

"Got room enough for two?" He asked as he stamped the flat edge of his hammer in the snow and set his suitcase down beside it. As she watched with quivering lips, he set about rearranging the bags that she had clipped to the horse's saddle. Then, having finally noticed her odd silence, he looked up at her with the sweetest pair of questioning green eyes that she had ever seen. "Oh! You're crying." His hand jumped to his face and he stroked his chin nervously. "D-do I really look that ugly without my beard?"

"N-no, it's just…" It's just that you're here with me and I see in your eyes that you're coming back with me to America and you look so handsome and I could kick myself for having thought that you'd let me leave you behind. But she said none of this. Best not to let him think that she was getting sappy and overly sentimental. And so instead she pulled her hand away from her face and conjured up the most stoic smile that she could. "The cuffs above your shoes are uneven."

"Huh?" He said, glancing down. For no explicable reason, the sight of him whipping his head around and glancing along his titled heel caused a fresh well of tears to spill across her face. "Damn," he cursed after sucking his teeth. "Well, what did you expect? I'm not used to dressing like some fucking churchgoer, alright?!"

"You don't look like a churchgoer," she said. "What's within is finally starting to reflect on the outside."

"Eh?" He said stupidly, twisting his pinky in his ear. She leaned forward across the horse and rolled her tongue along her bottom lip.

"You look like a rugged cowboy gentleman. Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice! Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse Silver!"

"The Lone Ranger rides again!" They both yelled at the same time before falling into a fit of laughter.

Karl let the last few chuckles fall away from his lips before running his knuckle beneath his eye and glancing at the moisture left over on his finger. "You thought I wouldn't come," he said as he rubbed the pads of his fingers together. "You thought that I'd just let you walk away."

"No," she lied and then, realizing that he was implying that she had lost her faith in him, quickly tried to divert the conversation with the first raunchy thought that came to mind. "I've always known how to make you come."

He snickered, thought about this, and then shook his head. " ''I'm not like the other villagers. The coarseness of your tongue has never frightened me.' That's what you told me three years ago when you first proposed that I leave this village behind. You can't hide behind your parlor jokes, Marianne. You can't deceive me. I can see in the way that you're strangling that there horse's reins that you thought I'd never join you in America, that I was somehow stupid enough to stay here biding my days until I die of some village disease or…worse."

She quickly glanced away. They both remembered the harrowing warnings that she had delivered that night, the ones pertaining to the outside forces that now had the village on their radar. He reached up and snatched her by her collar, pulling her down so that her face was level with his. "And just so we're on the same page," he hissed, forcing her to close one eye against the moisture of his breath. "When we get to America, I fully intend on marrying you." He pressed his lips briefly against hers and then pulled away as she sighed. "Thank you, Marianne, for never losing your faith in me."

She straightened up, cleared her voice awkwardly, and began to brush disjointedly at the wrinkles in her shirt. "I-uh-you-well-er-uh…h-how are we supposed to ride the horse with you carrying that ugly ass hammer?"

"Not a problem, sweetstuff," he said as he lifted the hammer with fluid ease and then balanced it along his shoulder. "You'll be riding the horse. I'm just going to walk alongside you."

"Don't be an egghead. You can't walk all the way to America."

"Don't underestimate the zest of a man who's got pussy and plans in his future." He flashed his odd smile at her again before tilting down his glasses to peek up at her. "You should know better than anyone that my levels of endurance are unparalleled! How the hell do you think I was able to lift the hammer in the first place?"

"Right, right…"

He had a sense that she hadn't heard a single word that he had said. Her eyes had taken on a slightly vacant look as she gazed distractedly over his shoulder. Then she gasped and nudged him back with her boot. "I gotta do something before we leave," she said in a rushed voice. "Stay here. It won't take long. I'll come back for you."

"Marianne, what the hell-"

But his voice was lost in the sound of hooves crunching thunderously against the snow as she rode away from him, her black hair flying wildly in the wind. He stood there dumbfounded in the snow before reaching up and shuffling around in his pocket for cigarettes.

"Ah shit," he said as he flicked the empty pack. "I guess this is what I get for shaving off the beard."

X

He waited for a long time.

The minutes spanned into an hour as he sat upon the steps leading back into the factory, trying to surreptitiously adjust his balls against the stiff fabric of his suit pants. He had been trying to distract himself with fantasies about what his life would be like once he finally reached America. By that time he was quite a few months into being forty-two years old, but he figured that it wasn't too late to start his life over again. Maybe he'd go to one of those fancy colleges that he had read so much about in the newspapers. Or maybe he'd befriend a group of bleeding-heart protesters, don some denim, go to jazz bars, grow his hair long again and wear big gold rings on his fingers. He wondered if the people over in America would accept him - but then again, why wouldn't they? They'd probably find his Romanian heritage exotic and alluring. He was willing to bet that they'd never met someone like him before: a village-raised hothead with big ideas and bravado in his voice. Maybe there he'd work in a factory for a while, just long enough to raise enough money for a wedding ring for Marianne. And then, after that? Shit, the opportunities were endless! He could become a doctor and practice his craft freely in the free world.

After a while, he stood up and placed his hands along his back, giving a luxurious stretch and a matching yawn. There was a prickling along the back of his neck, like someone was watching him. The feeling had been coming on and off ever since Marianne had ridden away. He sighed heavily into the wind and turned to face the woman whom he had a feeling had been lurking in the shadows for a long time.

"Come to say goodbye, or what?" He asked none-too-gently as the Old Hag crept out from beneath the darkness spanning the factory overhang. She wasn't cackling or muttering to herself as she usually did, and the resoluteness in her gaze set off several warning bells in his head.

"Folly finds failure in foreign fantasies, and feminine fabrications," she muttered, anger leaching its way into her voice. "Run, run into the den of hounds, then! Jezebel and Eve contorted before a furnace, becoming one…wielding the apple of her thighs, rotted…drawing the slit of your throat without a knife in her hand."

Karl yawned.

"You seek out in America what was offered to you by Miranda," the Old Hag informed him.

"Pardon my vulgarity but maybe if Miranda had let me stick something inside of her instead of sticking something inside of me, I'd be more…inclined to hang around-"

"Bah!" The Old Hag pinched her lips into a frown and then looked away. Something about her entire demeanor felt very out of character. She was speaking coherently and with a bluntness that betrayed the fact that she was desperate for something. But what it was, he couldn't even begin to imagine. She simply stood there, staring back at the outline of the factory beyond the snow before letting her shoulders fall and giving a sigh. "Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him. Karl. Don't you think it wise to say goodbye to your brother?"

He blinked and she was gone. He stood there for a moment glancing around, wondering if her image had been a mere mirage conjured by the dying sunlight bouncing off of the snow. She had made a fair point. It was only right for him to part from his brother with honor. After all, Ken was the one who would be staying behind in the village, a slave to his failing mind and drunken, witless ways. Before Karl lay opportunity: a loving wife, a new life, a home in America. Ken had nothing. Though he had been a cur and bully to Karl throughout his entire life, he was still his brother. It was somewhat painful for Karl to think that Ken would most likely choke on his own bile and die in the mud behind some nameless tavern.

"Very well, tough guy," Karl said, kissing his golden cross pendant and pointing a finger up at God. "I'll do it but hey. I don't want any milk and honey when I get up there. Got that? Brandy and beer is fine for me. And you better have the right Cuban cigars, too!"

He began his long trek towards the center of the village. He figured he'd make it quick: find Ken, clap him on the back (the harder, the better,) and say good riddance once and for all. He knew that Ken had taken up residence in the cellar of some long-since abandoned bakery. The poor, pathetic thing had been too scared to confront Karl after he had massacred the factory workers and taken up his rightful place upon the throne of his factory. As Karl trudged through the more populated avenue of the village, people stopped and stared at him in surprise. Never before had they seen him dress so sharply and his fancy Americanized style stood in stark contrast to their dull village drab. Several women stopped what they were doing to drop him a curtsey or giggle abashedly behind their hands when they met eyes with him. But he was older now, and smarter. He'd never forget that these were the very same women who couldn't spare him a loaf of bread or a warm blanket when he was cast out among the Lycans some seventeen years ago. Though he pulled down his glasses and winked as he passed by, he couldn't help but think of them all as two-faced bitches and cowards.

Up ahead lay the boarded-up shop front that made up his brother's home. Karl was whistling to himself as he stopped before the building and set his hammer upon the worn wooden steps. For no particular reason, he glanced up at the dingy curtains fluttering from the topmost window. There was feminine laughter coming from within and he wondered what poor unfortunate female had been coerced into joining Ken in his bedsheets…

Then something in his stomach began to coil.

He stopped whistling abruptly. His brows came together along his head as he leaned forward and listened. There was something way too familiar about the laughter, its dry 'tch tch tch' causing a wave of boiling anger to flush all along his stomach. A movement from above him made him glance up again, just in time to see Marianne lean out of the window. She was shirtless and shamelessly bearing her small breasts for the world to see as she squealed against the arms wrapping around her. A second later, Ken appeared and nestled his nose along her neck, making her laugh. Something in Karl was sinking, sinking, sinking - as if a fishing hook had been embedded in his soul and was quickly pulling him down. As Karl watched, Marianne lit a cigarette and blew its smoke at the sky, oblivious to him standing only a few feet below him.

"Mother fucker," he said under his breath as he flung the shop door open. He had never been in the place before, but he intuitively knew to climb the single staircase leading up to the second level. Metal nails sprung free of the walls and kitchen cutlery went flying toward him as he ran up the stairs. But by that time he had already honed his electromagnetic powers. A flustered wave of the hand caused them all to fall to the ground with a clatter before he flung the door open to the bedroom atop the staircase. Ken gave a frightened squeal and fell back against the wall but Karl couldn't have given less of a shit about him.

Panting, he whipped his gaze around the room until he spotted Marianne standing in front of the window in her panties. He stormed up to her without a second thought and grabbed her throat before bending her backward out of the window. Words failed him as he watched her glance nervously at the street below where a group of nosy onlookers had gathered. He took one more shuddering inhale before removing his glasses and leaning closer to her face.

"You need to tell me that this is a nightmare right now," he said in a voice that did not tremble, not even once. "You need to tell me that I'm dreaming. Any second now I'll wake up and kick myself for even thinking that you would fuck my brother."

"Karl, let me go-"

He loosened his grip on her neck just enough to frighten her. She quickly grabbed hold of his shirt to keep herself from falling and glanced back down at the street. "Believe me, doll," he growled. "I will let you go. I'll drop you right on the pavement and watch your brains splatter unless you tell me exactly what I need to hear-"

"You want me to lie to you? Tell you that this is all a dream? You know that's not true - you can feel my neck beneath your hand!"

"You cankerous bitch-"

He gave a tremendous roar and slung her back into the room. He had been so, so close to shoving her out the window. That, or gouging her pretty eyes right out of her face. He fell to his knees and ground his fists against his forehead as she stumbled dizzily into the wall. She stood there with her hand upon Ken's shoulder as Karl reared up and tossed his hands out hopelessly. He simply couldn't believe it, but the proof was there: while he had been waiting around for her at the factory, she had been in Ken's home sucking his dick and spreading her legs like there was no tomorrow.

"Why?" He finally found the strength to utter as she stared him down. "Why would you even-...Marianne. We were so close to leaving! I was willing to give you everything! For God's sake, Marianne, I did what you asked! I was willing to give up my hard-won factory just to be with you in America! And then you turn around and fuck him behind my back!" Karl thrust his finger at Ken, who cowered beneath his unseeing gaze. "You said you had to do something…you didn't say you had to do someone-!"

"Karl, shut up, please!" She held her hand up to him and then used it to quickly push back her hair which had fallen all across her face. "Just be quiet! God, I'm so tired of hearing your voice-"

"Mar-ri-anne-" he pleaded, utterly and completely confused by the turn of events. It felt as if the ground had been yanked from right out under him and he was free falling into some fetid, black abyss. She held up her hand to him again and closed her eyes.

"Mar-ri-anne," she repeated in a mocking falsetto. "Marianne this and Marianne that! God, forty-two years of listening to you cry and beg and plead and say my name like some sort of pathetic and lovelorn loser. Quite honestly, I'd rather kill myself than hear you say my name again."

"You don't mean it," he said as a single tear rolled across his cheek. "You're lying. Y-you're talking all strange...you're toying with me. This is one of your sick jokes, isn't it-" his voice cracked and he quickly covered his mouth. "Please, doll. I forgive you for - I forgive for whatever game that you're trying to play. I know you don't mean it, doll, I know it's j-just a parlor trick meant to make me laugh. You wouldn't really do this to me - y-you wouldn't-look, I-I-I'm sorry for threatening to push you out a window, just…come here, take my hand, and let's walk away from all of this. M-maybe you don't even have to tell me that you're sorry, just…say that it's all been a small matter of confusion-"

"Ken, come here. Get up."

He watched helplessly as she held her hand out and leveraged Ken off of the floor. He stood there brushing the dirt from his trousers and looking between them nervously. For once, he didn't seem to take any pleasure in Karl's pain. He just seemed utterly confused, and slightly intimidated by the hatred radiating from his brother. Marianne put a hand on his shoulder and graced him with a small smile before turning to look at Karl.

"T-this isn't a joke, is it?" Karl asked weakly. "And you…you're not sorry. Why?"

"Because, Heisenberg, I felt bad for you," she said quickly. "Everybody in the village does. You think that you have become some sort of untouchable God - that the factory is your throne and you're sitting tall and pretty on it. Let me make something absolutely clear to you: you're a maniac. You are weak, and your mind has failed you. Do you want to know what all of the women are thinking when you walk past and they giggle behind their hands? 'There goes the village lunatic - the poor, pathetic Lycan-fucker.' What? You thought they were admiring you? That they found you tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious? Goodness, Karl. Have you even looked in a mirror? That brand new suit and cologne hanging around your neck can not take away from those scars disfiguring your ugly face." She giggled derisively. "You know it's true. That's why you hide behind your glasses - your eyes aren't pretty or alluring. They are ugly, son, and that is why people have trouble meeting your gaze-"

"No," he whispered, completely oblivious to the odd matter of her referring to him as 'son.' "No. You don't think I'm ugly. You have spent eighteen years going back and forth from America - eighteen years claiming that you couldn't leave me behind, and that is why you always returned-"

"I returned for your brother," she corrected him. "You think you were the only man in the village that I was having relations with for all of those years? Goodness, Karl, you're so thick - and don't go thinking that I mean it in a good way. Having sex with you was just purely out of pity. I figured you'd probably go and kill yourself if you didn't get your desperate little pussy quota. Not to mention you were always so enamored with me. I suppose I felt obligated-"

" 'A woman who hates you won't let you shove your manhood into the most vulnerable part of her body for five years straight,'" he croaked. "Do you remember that? That's what you told me, when I told you that I had been sleeping around with Mihaela. You can't stand here and try to convince me that eighteen years of sharing my own bed with you meant nothing-"

"Nothing? My poor, pathetic man! Are you not aware of my occupation?" She screamed in his face. "I have been serving men like you since I was a child! Do you really think a little bit of dick is going to make me sentimental? Being with you was about as emotionally impactful as taking a piss. Get it through your head, please: I do not like you. I do not love you. And I never cared for you. You were my pity project."

You were my pity project.

Those words bounced round and round in his head as he stared back at her. He simply couldn't believe it: forty-two years of friendship had meant nothing to her. But, according to her, it hadn't even been friendship: it had all been charity on her part. To think that she - the drug-addled village whore - had felt obligated to provide him with charity! So what did that make him? The bottommost rung upon the village hierarchical ladder, lower than the lowest, the poor pathetic village lunatic. For a moment - for a brief, delicious moment - he had actually allowed himself to think that he had become the king of his world: that everything that he had ever wanted was just a stone's throw away.

But it was his fault for letting his guard down - his fault for letting her crowd his mind with delusions of grandeur all while laughing behind his back. How could he have ever been so stupid to think that love could come without pain or abuse?

He looked her up and down as if he was seeing her for the first time: the slender brow legs, the flat torso beneath the blink-and-you'll-miss-it titties, a jawline so sharp that it could have been a tarp stretched over a vendor's table. Then he looked into her eyes, forced himself to memorize the glinting beetle-black pupils rimmed with milky-gray, before picking up his hammer.

"Funny thing about human eyes, Marianne," he growled as he leveraged the hammer's staff along his shoulders. "Little something I learned from Sal a while back. The pupils will constrict - get smaller, if you will - when a person is staring at something that makes them fearful. But! They'll also dilate - grow bigger, I mean - when a person is staring at something that they really like. So! Either you really do love me, and you're attempting to deceive yourself…or you just like the way that I look when my heart has been broken. Either way, what say you I do the world a little favor and make sure that no one has to ever look into those treacherous lying eyes again-!"

"Karl, stop!" Ken screamed. But it was a little too late. Karl grabbed hold of his hammer and swung it with a grunt above his head. Something snapped in Marianne's face two seconds before she reached out with one hand and grabbed the hammer's staff. The look on her face had caught him off guard - it didn't fit her and for a brief second, it was as if he was looking into someone else's eyes completely.

Except he knew where he had seen that look before. It was the exact same one that Mother Miranda had been wearing on her face after he denied her for the hundredth time. So thrown off was he by the change in Marianne's face that he let go and stumbled back as she held the hammer horizontally before her chest. Something was wrong - he couldn't pinpoint it, not even as thin black rivers began to cascade from her eyes.

And then he realized.

She was holding Guglielmo's Hammer - the very hammer that no one but the strongest of the Heisenberg lineage could carry - the hammer that he alone had been able to lift until that point.

Ken gasped as he fell to his knees, his eyes riveted on Marianne. The black tears had completely covered her face. Karl put a hand to his lips to stop the quivering as she closed her eyes in exasperation and then dropped the hammer onto the ground with a reverberating 'clunk.'

"You…" Karl struggled. "Y-you…you!"

"Get out," she said softly, so softly that he almost didn't hear her.

"You-"

"Karl!" She thundered in a voice that was not her own. Her eyes opened and he'd never forget the stark white of her sclera shining from beneath a face covered in a wet, pitch black. "I have changed my mind. You saying my name doesn't make me want to kill myself - it makes me want to kill you. So turn like a dog with its tail beneath its legs like you've been trained to do, before I murder you with your very own hammer. Go, now, you pathetic fool."

Karl fell onto his hands and knees before her. He crawled towards his hammer and wrapped his shaking fingers along the staff, panting all the while. By chance, he met eyes with his brother. The other man looked completely terrified, and Karl realized that he was frightened to be left in the room with whatever Marianne had finally revealed herself to be. 'Don't leave me' Ken mouthed to him from his spot on the floor. But, seeing the brother's gaze, Marianne turned away from Karl and set her furious eyes on Ken.

Karl saw his opportunity and took it. He swiped his hammer off of the ground and ran as fast as his legs could carry him out the door like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Just like he had always been trained to do.