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| A fashionable alternative. [Complete]; -- Max's Apartment | |
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| Topic Started: Apr 6 2008, 07:08 PM (82 Views) | |
| . Max Falkenstein | Apr 6 2008, 07:08 PM Post #1 |
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I'm not a Nazi and I don't hold any such beliefs. However, I do like them as characters and I thought it would be an interesting element to add to the sort of people who live in Rapture, especially considering the time period. Feel free to be offended by any of his ideas or beliefs because he's a fictional character! Please don't assume they are mine, however. Tiny disclaimer is probably unnecessary but I thought I'd add one anyway. --- There were times when Maximilian Falkenstein had to remind himself why he had come to Rapture in the first place and that he could be under the sea or he could be dead. There wasn't much choice between a city under the ocean and death. There might be, he assumed, for some of the more religious types but he had never been one of those. He understood the value of it and had seen that at work every day once. Faith was powerful and people were willing to die for it, willing to be dragged out of their homes and shot for it. He wasn't the sort. He didn't want to die. So, here he was. He had been making preparations to go somewhere like Argentina. Everyone went to Argentina it seemed. All the really foul people did, anyway, and while he did not consider himself in that category there were those who did. He had been packing his suitcase and putting his forged papers in order when the invitation had come to him through a friend of a friend of a friend, all business connections who knew of his former empire. "Andrew Ryan would like you," the letter had said, "He's a Russian, but not one of the damned Red Army, an old Russian. You know the sort. You might even like him, at least you might like some of his ideas." They said Rapture was a city of dreams, a place where a man could make a profit and keep a profit. They said it was a place without the silly moral constraints of society, the bothersome little bits that kept scientists from curing deadly diseases and dark-skinned people in virtual slavery in the southern states of America. "Rapture..." Max sighed. He tossed a crumpled notice onto the bare kitchen table in his otherwise bare apartment. "The most cruel and immoral..." He stopped himself in front of the mirror. For several minutes he stared into it and at the unfamiliar face that stared back. Every last cent of his fortune had gone into that face. Every penny he had earned from every bomb and shell and tank he had manufactured for the Reich had met their final purpose here. He had sold his furniture and now they had left a note pinned to his door that said they would take his apartment as well, give it to someone who wasn't... who wasn't... his hands curled into fists at the word... a parasite. Every investment, every venture, they had all failed. The elite of Rapture had called him a murderer, a killer, a filthy Nazi. They had turned him away from their boards of directors. In this world ruled by money and without morality they had turned away his money. It was coated, they said, in innocent blood. There was a difference between that sort of blood and others. Even in Rapture it was unacceptable to have on money. In desperation he had called Ryan, whispering angrily into the telephone in the middle of the night. "You have to help me," he snarled. "You must. If the citizens of your city are too stupid to take money when it is offered..." Ryan had called him a parasite, given him a speech about the sweat of his bow. That had not changed things. There was only one possible option. He had to change. Rapture would not change. Rapture was a towering defiance of nature, steel and glass rising up out of the abyss. Rapture did not bend. She did not break. She pitied no one no matter how generous with pity that person might have been in the past. If Maximilian Falkenstein was too blood-soaked to succeed in Rapture then his talents, his ability to spot and opportunity, seize it, and ring it dry of ever last cent would have to be gifted, conferred onto another. He had failed with the sweat of his brow but, perhaps, with the sweat of a new brow... In a dusty trunk he kept his favorite suit, the one he had worn during the early days of the war when Germany was master and profit rained from the skies before it had been replaced with ashes. Silently he removed the unacceptable insignia, the swastika pin, the eagle cuff links. He needed those no longer for now... now... He looked in the mirror again and for the first time since arriving in Rapture he smiled, a perfect example of the Aryan race crafted by the scalpel of Dr. Gareth Orloc. Maximilian Falkenstein would not fail twice. Edited by . Max Falkenstein, Apr 6 2008, 07:09 PM.
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2:06 AM Dec 1
