Who is Maxwell Dane?
Who is Maxwell Dane?
Who is Maxwell Dane?
Who is Maxwell Dane?
Who is Maxwell Dane?
Who is Maxwell Dane?
Who are you?

Wake up
Open your eyes and see what’s in front of you
Most will never see--> THEIR TRUTH
Walking hand in hand together
Only we
Can save the world

Do you want to hear a story? One with a hero and a villain? Where good triumphs over evil? Then you’ve come to the right place. There are whispers and speculation over who Maxwell Dane is. What he is. The nature of his existence and his motives. All valid things to inquire about, but all are irrelevant at this moment in time. All that needs to be known is Maxwell Dane is your hero. Your Engel. Always and forever. *~* in which *~* *~* first impressions *~* *~* are key *~* *^* I suppose I should feel some tinge of remorse for what I just did. Or, broadening the spectrum of emotions I could, and probably should be feeling at the moment.... I suppose I should be feeling something, anything, anything at all right now in regards to what I just did. Yet, the only thing that crosses my mind as I look down at the blood stained corpse of Clara Rosenberg is, well, nothing. I feel nothing, sans the hollow sense of acknowledgement that there should be something. A certain, je ne sais quoi. Urgency, perhaps? A pounding in my chest, an overwhelming urge to flee, perhaps? No doubt the police will arrive with guns drawn, given the order to pull the trigger on sight. Shoot to kill. I could go further with this paranoid delusion if I wanted to, about how each bullet fired will strike me. Where they’d hit. The angles, the damage, the severed arteries, just how my body would spasm and twitch as each shot pierced my body. Fascinating stuff. Really. Completely and utterly useless, but fascinating. Right. I can’t help but wonder as I look down at the bleeding knife in my crimson-painted hands that I may be getting a bit ahead of myself, yes? Let’s take it from the top. ”Care to explain, Clara?” I ask as I kick her sprawled corpse in the ribs. ”Come on, you don’t want to disappoint everyone, do you? Tell them what happened.” Don’t mind her. She’s shy. I guess being stabbed thirty-two times would put a damper on anyone’s mood, though. Her blood’s practically everywhere, except for inside of her. Pouring from each hole, down her pale, lifeless skin, onto the hardwood floor. She stares up at me with her bleeding, gouged eyes, almost accusatory, if I were the type to attribute emotions to the dead and act like they’re real. They say I’m crazy. That I’m the one with issues while they waste time wondering what dead people would think of certain things. While they worry themselves silly over whether or not people like them. Whether their clothes are trendy. They’re the really crazy ones, because they think they’re sane. They live their little facades and tell themselves every time someone like me pops up on their TV screen that we’re of a different species. That they could never be like us. They don’t have the heart to admit it. ”Ain’t that right, Clara?” Clara remains silent. Pity, she had a pretty voice. Granted I didn’t hear much of it in her last moments because she was too busy crying over her husband, who’s still lying dead in bed, slashed throat at all. Then she was sobbing uncontrollably, begging for mercy. When these two are discovered, the blame will be placed on a local serial killer, still at large. This is his MO, his sloppy, disorganized MO. Break & enter, followed by murder with a knife and then leaving the bodies where they lay. He’s not a very smart man, whoever he is and he will be caught sooner rather than later so what’s a couple more cases to put on his rap sheet? He’s a glory hound anyway, he’ll leap at the opportunity. Wait a second. I hear footsteps. Loud thudding footsteps coming in like a wrecking ball, shattering the previous peace and quiet. My fingers tighten around the handle of the knife as I strike a fighting pose, stepping over Clara’s body. Two sets of footsteps, I can make them out more distinctly as they draw nearer. One set heavy, the other faint, almost non-existent. Then I see the door handle move. It turns and the door swings open and I see the two. A sharply dressed, older black male, and a man in a bunny suit. ”Amalia Leclair?” he asks, his voice calm and almost hinting at pleasure. He eyes the room and nods his head yes before returning his masked glare to my face. ”Yes?” I respond, smirking at the men and slowly raising the knife until I’m certain they can see its burgundy blade. The black man shoots a questioning glance to his bunny suited companion, who presses a purple pawed hand to his chest and takes a step towards me, just as I step towards him. I can feel his glare piercing through my eyes, looking past them and at the empty, emotionless husk of a brain behind them. I can’t see his face, but I can’t help but think he’s smiling at me underneath the mask. ”Good. We are in the right timeline.” ”The right timeline?” ”Indeed. The right timeline. Hardly see, oh right. I may be getting ahead of myself, yes?” I squint my eyes in confusion and nod. ”Sorry, habit. My name is Maxwell Dane, nice to meet you Amalia. Right, this is your copycat killing.” ”How do you know that?” ”No matter. The important thing is that you come with us.” Is this guy serious? I laugh almost hysterically and shake my head at him. ”And why would I do that? ”Oh, don’t act like you have anything better to do. Currently unemployed, bored to the point of committing random copycat murders, too intelligent for the banalities of normal life. Too vicious for them too. You stabbed poor Clara Rosenberg thirty two times, gouged out her eyes, and had I not arrived, you would begin to flay her corpse in twelve minutes. A bored psychopath, one of the most dangerous things in existence. Now, I could continue on with how your life would go if you don’t come with me, and believe me it isn’t pretty.” I look down at Clara, then to my knife. He’s out of his mind, but flaying? That does seem like a good time killer, even if it starts to deviate from the established MO. Could even be chalked up as an evolution. ”You don’t make it out of this room. You get too wrapped up in skinning her when the cops show up. They shoot you dead. Twelve bullets before you go down.” I scoff. ”And if I come with you?” ”You live. You rewrite the story of your life. You begin to understand why I had to affirm that I was in the right timeline. Need I continue?” ”Alright, I believe you. Let’s get out of here.” They left. No words said.... none needed. As they make their way out of the house however, you, being the astute viewer you are, spot a calendar. April 2012. The sands of time tick, tick, tick on as the night becomes day and what feels like years pass by with the blink of an eye, everything moving like a video tape being fast-forwarded. The 22nd of April, 2015. Our setting is a lavishly furnished home, far removed from society or at least that’s how it would appear. No, it is nowhere near as secluded as it seems at first glance. However, that isn’t important. No, what is important are the two men on camera presently. Steve Sayors and Maxwell Dane. Both men are seated on a most luxurious leather couch. Sayors, glancing anxiously at his guest pushes his glasses up off the bridge of his nose and lays his hands in his lap before swallowing hard and stammering through the first question. ”Well, I guess the best way to start this is to, is to ask you to divulge a little about yourself.” ”Steve, there’s no need to worry. As for me, I feel all that needs to be known about me will be revealed in time. No sense in rushing things.” ”Very well. You’re set for your debut match on April 29th, against the returning Ghost Tank. A hungry, returning Ghost Tank might I add. This would be a great challenge to even the most seasoned of veterans, so for a new addition like yourself to be put up to the challenge, how does it make you feel? Are you intimidated?” The camera operator opts to zoom in on Maxwell’s covered face. The mask soon engulfs the entire frame and all you can pay attention to are its pure white eyes. ”Intimidated? No. Intimidation implies self doubt and if I doubt my ability to pull off a victory regardless of opponent, how can I expect that to be the outcome? That isn’t to say I have no respect for Ghost Tank or that I think this will be an easy victory. Just that it is a victory I will achieve. Ghost Tank fancies himself a phoenix, rising from the ashes which at first glance when combined with his recent return would seem to a nickname brought on by his reemergence. A little digging provides evidence to the contrary. See, he “transformed” into the Phoenix as a title for his role in the Asylum. More on them a little later. After a string of losses, he wished to be reborn, so to speak. The Phoenix has been down in the dirt a little longer than you’d think, Steve. Sooner or later, you have to wonder if its wings are clipped and it will never fly again. Back to the Asylum. See, this is a tumultuous time for them.... they are the no longer the presence they once were and Ghost Tank has been absent for a fair bit of that decline. He’s stepping back into an XWF that is much different from the one he faded out from. He’s lost his footing, and he’s going to have to spend time regathering his bearings. What I’m saying is, he’s not going to be one hundred percent. Physically, he may be. Mentally, not a chance. The mental battle is the more important of the two, because it controls the physical battle. See, Ghost Tank’s back and he wants to prove he’s a monster, like he was when he first arrived. He wants, nay he needs to regain his level of dominance, and so he wants nothing more to make an example out of me. The rookie, debuting in a slaughter is how he sees it, more likely than not. He’s too focused on that show of dominance to see that it doesn’t exist. That there are no possible outcomes where that is even a possibility, because the lust for it has polluted his mind and corrupted his thoughts so thoroughly.” Maxwell chuckles. ”So, in short and to repeat, no. I am not intimidated by Ghost Tank. Now, I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat a while longer, but I’m afraid I am terribly busy and must ask you to leave.” Sayors blinks hard and keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds. Then he opens them and gets out of the chair. Maxwell stands up as well and extends a fuzzy paw to him. Sayors looks down at the paw, then back up the mask before reluctantly accepting the handshake. Fade to the Ghost Tank’s chance of winning - Nothing. The lines haven’t even begun to blur.

Return, whence you came




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