1963-11-28 - Maximus Vignette
Summary: Maximus prepares for war
Related: Inhumans logs
Theme Song: The Dance by Tangerine Dream

My name is Maximus Boltagon. You killed our father. Prepare to die.

Except. Not dead. No no no, he didn’t really want him /dead/. Just, subservient, as he should be. A prince of Attilan, like he was all his young life. That seemed fair, really. After all, it was HE, Maximus, who had spent all those years plodding away at studies, learning the law, tech, studies, how to maneuver politics, all those things that Blackagar was not present for because he was learning how to meditate and how to not kill people in his sleep. UGH.

Three day ultimatum, too? Three days to have everything prepared for war. Amazing. Traditional, even. Like a fairytale, except that it felt like a nightmare…or that he was decidedly on the wrong side of this fairytale. Unless he could get help.

Maximus paced his private quarters in Attilan with his hands folded behind him. He glanced to his bed, and the person asleep in it. Stare. So distracting. He folded his robe around himself and moved to the hallway, heading for his lab with bare feet soft against the floor.

Instantly, he realized, someone had been in here. Rage began to boil up in his veins and he took wild steps to reach his bench. His hand shot across it, skittering some tools to lay upon the remote to his project. Still there. Undisturbed. A look to the rest of the bench and he realized…it was only /clean/. He pressed his hands on the workbench and leaned on them, looking down at the little present left behind for him from the cleaner.

Stupid. He snapped it up and shoved it in his robe pocket. Idiot. He shoved off and moved to the shallow bowl of water to spy, /again/, on the girl he saw in the park…the one who could knit up time like it were a broken sock. He sure could use a friend like her. What was she DOING? He watched as Wanda /stabbed spirits/. Intense. Interesting. Not as useful as a home address would be though. He set down the scrying crystal and moved to the center of the room where /it/ stood.

Large, imposing, weird, possibly slightly phallic, the metal contraption was a work of art, of genius, of /brilliance/! Maxmius caressed its curved control panel, pale fingers brushing the aluminum like anyone else would touch a lover, and he projected no shame over it, over anything that he was. He was a hero! He was a King! He was a creator…of things that destroyed, and this machine fit that completely.

“I only wish I knew…what this button does.” Maximus tilted his head, studying it, following a trail of wires from the button, to the complicated interior of the machine. A few moments perplexed at something he must have done while half asleep. A shrug and he moved on, from the lab, down the hall, to where other guards waited and protected.

Maximus the Mad. Maximus the Magnificent. Two opinions. Two observations. As his orders barked out, both were present.

“Have Our People retreat to the fortified locations in the next 72 hours. The palace should be cleared of staff aside from the barest minimum and my Royal Guards. The standing defenses must guard the people.” Maximus paced, snapping his middle finger once, twice. Then he points. “Blackagar will not be after /them/. He comes for ME. Others may come too, but yes…yes…the people will be safe. Maximus the Magnificent protects them!” Maximus the Magnificent.

“Sire, we cannot hold back the exiled. We are not powered as they are.”

“You are decorations.” He swept his hand through the air. “I will call up my servants, once again. The Alpha Primitives…those subhumans that seem so unworthy of consideration to everyone else. Open the gates to beneath the palace!”

Maximus the Mad.

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