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

There once was a man who believed himself to have been reborn, remolded by the flames of tragedy. A man who arose from the fire and the ashes stronger, harder than he ever was.... wait, we’re not doing that one today? What a shame. *~* We’re just animals *~* *~* still learning *~* *~* how to crawl *~* *^* Flash. A surge of blinding light, followed by relative blackness. Amalia’s head throbbed, her brain felt like it had been pounding against her skull for hours. She looked down at her trembling hands, weary of pressing them to her head for fear of tearing through the bone like tissue paper. The rest of her body wasn’t much better off.... she was almost certain her ribs were broken and each breath she took stabbed at her lungs. She had to lean against the wall to keep herself on her feet. A trail of blood ran down her nose, past her chin, and dripped onto the floor. ”Ughhhhh, where am I?” she asked, delirious, voice strained and distant. She turned her head and forced her mouth into the crook of her elbow before hacking and wheezing loudly into her bare flesh. With each cough she flinched, her entire body tightening all at once for just the briefest of moments. Then, after a half minute of the barrage, she pulled her head back and let it fall against the wall she was leaning on, eyes on the ceiling. Her vision was blurred. No matter how much she strained her eyes, she couldn’t make out what anything actually was, just that it was a vague outline in the corners of her eyes. ”Down here, Amalia,” Maxwell said, motioning with his hand for her to lower head to look him in the mask’s eyes. Those cold, featureless eyes. She did, slowly and cocked her head. ”Where am I?” she repeated. Much clearer this time, however that wasn’t saying much. She was still barely comprehensible, and nowhere near coherent as she stretched out her syllables, afraid she would swallow her tongue if she spoke any faster. Dazed, she pushed herself off the wall and stumbled her way over to the man in the bunny suit. ”Don’t worry about the where, the where is boring. The real fun is the when. ‘When are we?’ you ask. Two thousand fifteen, Ms. Leclair.” ”How’d we get here? Last I remember, we were in the Rosenberg’s living room and there was a flash and wait a second,” she cut herself off, finally catching what exactly he said. ”Two thousand fifteen? How long have I been out for? It was April fourteenth, last I remember.” She finally grabbed her head, forcing her face into her hands. ”You never lost consciousness. We time traveled. That’s why you’re aching right now, and why your nose was bleeding. It takes a while for uninitiated to the physical strain that time travel has on the human body. It isn’t nearly as pretty as the movies make it out to be.” Amalia shook her head in her hands and began to laugh. ”You know how stupid you sound, right? Time travel? Yeah right. Look, I appreciate you getting me away from the-” ”You’re a diagnosed psychopath. You don’t appreciate anything. Don’t lie to me, Ms. Leclair. I know too much about you to let you get away with it.” ”Fine. Yes, you’re right. I don’t appreciate it, but hey, it’s whatever I guess. But to try and convince me you’re a time traveler and not some eccentric furry nutcase? I have a better time believing I actually have emotions.” ”Think about it. What would I have to gain by convincing you that I am a time traveler when I’m not? How would I know what house you were in, and that you were committing a copycat killing out of boredom? That even before that, you’d been on a killing spree of your own? The matter of your death, need I go on? Do you think I’d try to convince a violent psychopath of such things if I was bluffing? Do you honestly believe that anyone is that stupid?” Maxwell took a few steps and bent his knees to bring himself to eye level with his half awake, hardly listening guest. Without a word further, he brought his shrouded face closer to hers and clicked his tongue. ”Well?” ”I get it. What I don’t understand is how I ended up in this mess.” ”I could go into the specifics of things, but you’d stop listening after a couple of seconds so let me make it blunt. I need an army. Holy war, of sorts.” ”And you choose me to fight for you? You know I’m not exactly holy.” He scoffed at the thought. ”Only fools would send for the holy to fight.” The wheels begin to spin. Transition. Fade out. Cut away. Whichever bit of terminology you prefer, we turn our attention from that, to this. A camera, set up on a tripod pointing at a dusty leather chair, where our hero Maxwell Dane sits, head cocked and the dead eyes of the bunny mask boring holes into the lens. His elbow digs into the arm of the chair, and he holds his head up by his hand. ”It is always a shame when people fail to see past what’s right in front of them. How content they are to point out only the most obvious and basic of facts like it makes them clever.” Maxwell pushes his head off his hand and shakes it for a moment, as if he’s shaking himself awake. ”Worse yet is when they can’t even get those basic facts right.” He clicks his tongue and taps one clawed finger against his chin. ”I’m talking about you, Grime. There, no more beating around the bush. Direct, and to the point. Grime has no idea what he’s talking about. Full stop. Honestly, I’m amazed he got my name right, but that’s beside the point. Why is it such a big deal that Grime’s unable to form a thought about me that’s anywhere close to the truth? That’s the question of the hour, and the answer is simple. How can he make me bleed when he doesn’t know who he’s stepping into the ring with? When he’s so certain he has me all figured out, no less. Let’s not stop there. Let’s ask some more questions. For instance, how is it he’s so confident he’s got this match cinched when he has so little to actually say about me? A mixture of laziness and ignorance perhaps? Perhaps. Another one! Who does he think he’s fooling? His skirting on the line of mental stability, the ‘manic’ words, the urge to inflict pain like every other dime-a-dozen psychotic-playing-psychopath, to do what? Get in the head of the, and I quote, ‘demented Easter Bunny that plays with dolls’? Let’s look at that like it was the truth. Did you think that would work? That you’d be able to rattle the sanity of a mind already free of it? Wouldn’t surprise me, with your inattentiveness and all. Do you all see what I’m getting at here? How ill equipped Grime is to be setting foot in the ring with me. None of his ‘sinister’ laughter pierces through the fur of the bunny costume I wear that is the only thing he can focus on. That he won’t be making me bleed as he thinks, or more accurately hopes. None of that is happening, Grime. I’m sorry to disappoint. So, so sorry. It’s just, you won’t win this fight, Grime.” The blackness embraces you, then releases you. Back where we came from. The room. The spacious, empty room. Amalia appears to be much better off than she was last time she was seen.... wiped clean of blood, and at least possessing the guise of lucidity. She still stood leaning against the wall however, and her eyes are sunken in. ”A baptism?” she asked, her eyes wide with confusion. ”Yes, a baptism. Of sorts. It’s a show of loyalty, more than anything.” ”Loyalty?” ”A small price to pay for saving your life and giving you the opportunity to indulge in whatever it is that makes you feel alive.” ”You got a point there,” she said, shaking her head. Then she cocks her head and contemplates for a moment the consequences of going through with this “baptism”. ”Can’t believe I’m about to say this, but go ahead.” ”Excellent. Come on in.” The door opens and in steps the black man Amalia met, sort of, during her extraction, holding a branding iron. The end glows orange and the look on his face is cold and emotionless, like a husk. I apologize, I don’t think you two were properly introduced. Amalia, this is Voodoo Pizzaman. Voodoo, this is Amalia Leclair.” ”Voodoo Pizzaman?” she could barely choke out through her laughter. ”Are you serious?” ”Yes, he is serious.” Voodoo’s words come out as a snarl. Amalia looks over at him and sighs. ”Before you two bring out the claws, I wish to get this ceremony on the road.” With that, the two snap to attention. ”Very well. Amalia Leclair, do you pledge your loyalty to me as repayment for your rescue?” Amalia nods. ”And do you vow to perform any tasks asked of you to the best of your abilities?” ”Yeah, sure.” Voodoo raises the iron. He reached out and grabs her hand. She tries to pull away at first, before shaking her head and deciding to just let it happen. He steadies the hand he’s holding the iron in before dropping it down on the back of her hand. The iron sizzles as it burns into her flesh. She winces, and her skin blisters and peels away. ”Jesus fucking christ!” Voodoo pulls the iron away and lets go of her hand. ”And with that, we’re finished. Well, except for one order of business. Your name. Last part of the process. You won’t need your given name anymore, so feel free to think of one for yourself. You have twenty-four hours.” Starting now. Tick, tick, tick. The lines haven’t even begun to blur.

Return, whence you came




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