S I L E N C E.

- Krieg, The Wanderer



T H E  'C Y C L E

Max was once just a boy, cruising on his bike through every inch of the streets of his neighborhood, ringing his bell as the adrenaline seeped out of his eyes whilst the force of the plummeting wind caught him off-guard. Mother had not taken it lightly. He had come home beaten up, skin scraped off the asphalt since his jeans had been ripped to smithereens. The street did not care for his safety and neither had he. Mother was angry, but the wanderer did not listen. Mother would always yap, and he would only be absent. Father was never there since he had grown a preference for staying over with Anne, the neighbor that lived at least two streets from their house. Max would eavesdrop on them, but he’d only hear a ruckus beyond the walls from the exterior—he never managed to pinpoint the origin of it until he told mother and she burst into a waterfall of tears. After mother found out about Father’s whereabouts, she was never the same. That ruckus became to be known as an affair of the wild. Anne was a slut, mother told Max, and mother wasn’t, even if mother had boys come over for orgies while Max attempted to study. He did not understand. Silence accompanied him. Every time the ruckus resumed, he went to the garage, plopped the bike unto the floor from the wall’s hinges and rode off into the streets to meet the asphalt once more. Freedom was what he felt.

               Max never went to school because he adored the streets and their endless road. Eventually so, he became a professional biker and took up the dangerous sport of motorsports at the age of fifteen in Munich, Germany. In a matter of weeks, he became well-known and acquired a variety of prizes that endowed him with the capabilities of moving forward. A patronage ultimately grasped unto him at seventeen. Naturally excited for his future, he immediately visited his mother to inform her, only to find her convulsing on the floor surrounded by a multitude of cocks, semen and heroin, lots of it. Shock and awe couldn’t describe her. Mother was never a slut. He bolted for his room, grabbed his backpack, a meal, his pillows and sheets, his favored toy, and fled the scene. Father had been shot dead by Anne after he had been caught with Bella, the other whore.

                His parents were never more. His mind understood nothing, yet it had seen it all: moans, blood, gunshots and drugs. A plain of cacophony, an allegiance with death and a deal with the gentleman—it was the only chance. The day after, he was in the gentleman’s car, eager and nervous, frightened by the gaze of a man that only knew of money and success.

“You’re young and proud, kid” he muttered amidst breaths of smoke.

Max was silent.

“I’ll make you young, proud and rich, trust me,” the man then added as the car departed from the neighborhood with his bike and few belongings in the trunk. With zero expectations, he only nodded.

                Leaving Munich wasn’t an easy task for Max, but he trusted this man with his life. Money came out of his mouth each time he spoke, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Once they were in Berlin, it all changed again. At eighteen years now, Max was forced into a life of fame. Every weekend, he rode for Germany’s best motorsport sponsor—Germany’s Gears. Every win meant a party and a couple thousand Euros accompanied with women, alcohol and drugs. At twenty-one, he fit into the big leagues and got into racing with motorbikes. It was a whole other world now. Racing was dangerous for the young one, who was now deemed to be Krieg, for he was fire and a war to be reckoned with, a silent soul that had been molded by the violent life of fame and adrenaline.

 Race after race, he defeated the best and toppled the weak, skyrocketing to the mountain of success in only a few months. Then, the deal came to be. A contract worth over one million euros launched itself unto Krieg. He could not deny it. Accepting it, he was informed that he had to compete in Berlin’s motorbike racing cup. If he won it, he would be crowned the best. A task worthy of his appraisal, he took it in his arms and prepared his mind for it and its dire exhaustion. Weeks of practice ensued, and the day arrived.

                It was a morning; the sun was only so high at eleven o’clock as it shone above all twenty-four racers. The track was ample and circular, and its curves were menacing. Every bike hummed and purred under the heat of the summer of 1989. Then, the silence, the echo of the crowd and the gunshot. TAH! All bikes followed it, roaring in unison with Krieg in the lead. It was only two laps and one chance for victory. Curve after curve, he persisted, marking lap number one, locked for the finish line. He did not swerve, he did not hesitate, but alas, the bike gave in and halted, mechanism damaged and rendered futile. He was flung forward and unto the asphalt he knew so well up to the date. On impact, he broke a few ribs, his helmet smacked the inside of his head and he rolled and rolled and rolled until he stopped by the edge of the track, feeling the soaring competitors by him, vision blurry, savoring the sour taste of defeat and blood, stung by a pain too abysmal to comprehend. The scream shadowed him and the ambulances rung, rushing to the scene. His bike, Obscüra, was but a pile of junk and debris, dispersed all over the track and its laterals. He reached for it as if it were his mother, but was immobilized by the presence of shock and the arrival of a respirator gifted by the nearest paramedic.

              His vision soon faded and dimmed the light of the morning sunlight, blackened by his unconsciousness. Hours passed and he awoke on a comfortable, white bed with a neck collar restraint next to an empty chair and a briefcase. His eyes were shooting everywhere as he was gasping for air, anxious and overwhelmed by the situation. He could feel his body and move it, but he was in too much agony to respond with it. Suddenly, the door was flung open and the gentleman came in, concerned and preoccupied. He was solemn with his arms crossed over his chest as he approached Krieg with each perpetually resounding step.

                “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Krieg. You blew it. You had one chance. Just one. And you blew it.” Unraveling his arms, the gentleman took out a sheet of paper—the contract itself, signed in blood by Krieg. He ripped it apart and threw it in the trash. “I wish the best recovery,” he muttered, smashing his fist over Krieg’s left, instantly placing a palm to muffle his shriek. With a vile smile, the gentleman departed and abandoned the racer, leaving him to his doom as he once more blackened out from the immense aching.

A year passed. Krieg was in slums of Germany, fucking sluts for five euros and having his cock blown for another ten euros every day. He submerged himself into the life of alcoholic and a brute, carrying on with his limb until he was approached by an individual that went by the name of Brienne, a woman of character and might. She stunk of profession and money as well.

                “Get the fuck away from me, I already got my cock blown,” he uttered, throwing a bottle at her feet.

                With an inquisitive look, she neared him more.

                “Are you fucking deaf?,” his accent thick with German. “Get the fuck away!” Just as he was about to push her from his way, she stopped him and whispered to him words that he’d never forget.

                “I can help you kill Sigismund.”

                He was blank for a moment. Was she talking about the bastard?

                Only a nod was needed.

                Fast-forward a few days and Krieg found himself well-clothed and in peak condition, dressed to impress and armed with a sawed-off. He was in the reception area of a hotel, standing behind a desk that only attended those that arrived. His limp had gotten better with the treatment offered by the woman known now as Broomhilde. The area was lush with luxury, occupied by many representatives of wealth and advantage. Krieg only had eyes for one, however— the man that had just waltzed into the building with the same briefcase in hand. With his head lowered, he waited to strike.

Sigismund rung the bell, just like Krieg had rung his as a boy and, after three seconds, he raised his gaze to meet the gentleman’s. Silence was beautiful once more.

                “Regards from your friend,” he said before he raised the sawed-off and permitted led to be let loose. His face was blown to shit, and blood decorated the marble floor with its enchanting crimson.

                From that day and onward, he was known as The Wanderer. Krieg had been used for a great cause. He was indebted to this woman, but he did not even know why she had come to him. He had been aided by her, but for what? The reason was bigger than what it sounded—a favor. It was much more than that and he could not fathomably envision it. He was gifted a new bike, a new life and a new profession. He belonged to her, but he did not understand why. Krieg was transformed by this woman to a new degree. The murder had been covered-up and the police had been bribed. The woman trained him to walk with his limp and even cured it to the extent of seeming as if he had never had a limp to begin with.

           Sooner than later, he found out the woman was in-love with Krieg, a love that had never meant to be, but came to be. The two set-off to ride together. Yet, she proved to be too poisonous and harmful for the man. Now, in 2018, they go back and forth, loving and hating each other, using themselves as tools of war and money when convenience arrives.



M A X I M I L I A N    K R I E G   W E I S S E R B A U C H

The Wanderer; Asphalt Eater; Hired Gun; Brother of Wilhelm

Rider, homeless; 44 years of age.

6'3", Spheres of Lightened Bark

Darkened strands of hair, German.



"I only hear Her."



"It's mercy if you die quick."


T H E  O L D E R  S I B L I N G

          Krieg is family of Heinrich Schultz. They were both separated at birth. Heinrich remained with their biological parents were Kreig was handed to a secondary family thought to be responsible. Thus, Krieg's real name is Maximiliam Krieg Schultz. The two do not know about each other's whereabouts, but both are aware of their existence. 


Maximilian K. Schultz                              &                            Heinrich W. Schultz



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  • Lance seems even mildly amused by Krieg's silence, not at all bothered by that wandering and evaluating gaze of his. What was he thinking? Well, he's bound to speak his mind and he does, which gains the gaze of Lance's own dark eyes to fall back on the younger biker after another pull on his drink.

    Both his eyebrows raise at this statement. He..well, he doesn't exactly here that from too many people, at least not anymore since these days he's on his own and not exactly the most likeable character out there. He looks away again, seemingly interested more with what remained of his drink then accepting a, what, a comliment? Pft. He can't help the huff of laughter from him, about the same time Krieg laughs and with one look, it's evident they are definitely not laughing about the same thing. 

    Time goes on and drink after drink, Lance gets himself to feel much better going out than he had coming in, hopefully, saying that only because anything could happen from point A to point B. Past experiences and all that.

    Free alcohol, though. The best kind.

    Was Lance at ease with the other man by now? It certainly seemed it, but Lance has that ability of snapping from pleasure to business in one swift mode and how he acts can easily be just some facade. In short? Lance didn't trust Krieg as far as he could through him, but hey, it's just the beginning anyways, so yeah he chatters along with the German up until he gets that call. 

    Lance minded his attention elsewhere, but of course still listening in closely while focusing on his.. what, seventh drink? Eighth? Ah, fuck if he knows anymore. 

    Krieg wasn't hiding much. Only confirming what they both knew had taken place back on that highway and then some. Once he hung up the phone, then did Lance look back to him and offer a short laugh, an all knowing laugh too.

    "Aye." Another bit of laughter, he adds,

    "Just can't quite live with out em, though. " He thinks of Lys, of course he does, but with a shrug of his shoulders, he downs the rest of his glass. 

    " Well, I ought be going. Much as i'd love to drain your bank account." He grins, more genuinely this time because who's to really challenge if he could indeed drink the German right under the table, but it's all fun and games untill you remeber you're not here to fuck around, but to get some work done. 

  • ||Actually...I got nothing xc I know I added and asked and read your page, but I’m drawing a blank. You got anything?||

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  • "I have ridden a motorcycle before. The sound is no stranger to me."

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    - Lance (REPLIED)

  • Those intense eyes hardly left him, but now, his gaze almost seemed bored or uninterested, as though he hadn't a care in the world if Krieg would just decide to turn on him and aim and fire. Suppose all the anger has just about left him in the events of the last minute or so. You could never really tell with a guy like Lance. Hell, all he does when Krieg offers the weapon is grunt and wave off the weapon. What was that even about? Or did he think he had nothing to worry about in the other man? Maybe he just knew Krieg's intentions shifted and might even know just when they might shift again, so there's that.

    He certainly doesn't seem so uninterested when the man finally leads them around to the enterance of the bar. How fortunate one was so close. One quick sweep of the interior, exits, amount of people within. His attention quickly leaves that and turns to the women and hell, maybe even some of the men. Lance certainly didn't care of others opinions on where his own desires remained, so it was hardly covered up, nor so loudly put out there,either.

    In taking a seat and after Krieg calling for the beers, the mutant would avidly watch the bartender do her thing, his attention more than divided for numerous reasons. All the while, Lance oddly remains silent still, almost as though he's reverted back to his original state of silence as The Courier. It seems he's just not been having a good day at all, but at least there's a break in that shitstorm where he now finally gets to have a proper drink.

    He takes a long pull from the beer and oh..yes, this was all worth while. 

    " Mh, killing isn't nearly as satisfying as beating someone to a pulp." He takes another swig, but this time he savors it a little more. 

    " I'll be damned if I have to wear another one of those itchy plaster prisons again.." Well that's that. Krieg's recommendation straight out the window. Then, it seems his humor finally returns just a little,

      " Most important meal of the day. " He says matter of fact, because him and the road? It's a love/hate relationship at best. If Lance was brushing aside his condition as nothing of concern, it was usually best not to nag him on the subject. Besides, he's learned a thing or two in handling the various injuries he's sutained over the years and has gotten by this far for what it's worth, right? So no, the alcohol won't do much, it never does anymore, but pain keeps him sharp, it's become more of an advantage, so here's the guy finally glancing to meet Krieg's gaze, again, without much of any hint of that pain. Instead something like mild humor; the bad mood was slowly lifting.



  • Well, that was the desired effect; a small part to the bigger part with him just wanting to hurt the other man in the same way, or something similar in the hurt he'd had to feel and exclaimed, too, with a sarcastic sneer,

    " Hope that felt good!" It didn't. At least, not on his end, ow, but ohhh so worth it.

    --Wait was the fucker laughing?? Lance was ready for a fight, a struggle, anything but the guy laughing. His dark intense eyes narrowed, jaw set firm as he scrutinized the other man before eventually getting up and away from the German to adjust himself, testing out for any new significant damage. So far, so good. Broken arm and some aches and bruises. Whatever, mild compared to what he's dealt with before. 

    No doubt Krieg carried a German accent as he spoke, but Lance spending near twenty years around another German associate of his, found it easy to understand. 

    He really didn't expect any of this and it's got him at a loss for how to proceed. His gaze stays leveled about the German, cautious of the man's discarded weapon some feet away, untouched by either of them, for now. He won't go for it, not unless he sees a flash of movement of the other intended to grab for it. Eventually, after the man continued to go on in his explanation, Lance just utters,

    " Yeah, yeah.." , but the guy just goes on and Lance nearly grumbles further, not seemingly in as good spirits as he often was any other time, when he stops to listen, curiously. He nearly scoffs at the bit of him "willing" in sharing his paycheck. He doesn't need that, besides it's more rewarding when he actually has a hand in the act rather than being collateral fucking damage.. But a drink..Well now..

    " Ja.." He says, almost mockingly. Who was he to turn down that. Goddamn alcoholic that he is. 

  • Oh he wasn't letting up, not one damn bit. A maniacal grin graces his face, twisting his features, his eyes already full of dark gleam. In these days since the ending and his inevitable leave from Delta Six, Lance has become quite volatile, unstable and it's a wonder he hasn't fallen back on drugs, but you could count on every other of his various destructive habits, including being so stubborn as to never give in on a chase like this. In conclusion? He can't always be trusted as an ally, but he'll be a worthy enemy, for sure. 

    Did the man think the traffic would stop him? Okay, yes, he's got the advantage of his bike, a smaller machine more fluid in it's movement, but Lance has his own tactics, one unforeseen by the mysterious biker, one he had to be careful to use in all this traffic, but it keeps him on the others trail, easily. Another tactic is that volatile streak of his, the proof when metal meets metal, a scraping noise like nails on a chalkboard when he bumps others out of the way, pushing through, just to get close enough. He only needs to get close enough..Or--

    --Ah, Krieg's own tactic.. Moving into the city. Very well then. Lance has had plenty practise with the cover of cities, that doesn't quite hinder him even if he's in a foreign country. There's only just a moment that Krieg almost..almost manages to sneak passed, but Lance knew better. Seeing the alley ahead, the sight of the biker gone, he snorts to himself. Really? But of course he knew what to expect, knew what the other man expected of him too. 

    So, the car is ditched.

    Krieg is left to his musings with nothing to snap him back to the present but his own wit. And Lance? Lance, the fucking crazy and sometimes reckless Canadian he is, had taken an alternative route, finding his opening when he parkours from building to building. Ah yes, his newly acquired skills, flexible despite his age. His arm starts to throb, that familiar thrum of pain, but it keeps him going, it motivates and keeps him alert where it usually clouds others judgement. 

    He's running, running and.. There! He looks down where through the darkness and cover of the alley, he makes out Krieg's form and his bike. This time a sneer graces his face, brief, before the crazy fucker jumps to land right on top of Krieg and knock him down, be damned whatever else damage he causes himself in the process, as long as he hurts the other man, too. 


  • So, why was he here? Seems odd for Lance to reach out this far beyond his claimed "Turf", but when the man was on a mission, he was stubborn and has always been willing to go that extra mile, always that extra mile. A man of sheer will, a man strong headed and even dating as far back as his childhood, "No" meant "yes" , of course certain circumstances excluded.. Anyways, so it really wasn't all that odd for him to happen to just be on this particular highway, speeding (But of course), weaving through traffic, expertly so and perhaps irritatingly so to other drivers. He's oblivious to it, purposely, his mind and soul tethered to the feel of the engine beneath him, it's power one with his own where he was only operating within boundaries for now, nothing so dramatic that it'd blow the average mind or gain the interest of those whom grind their teeth at the very existence of his kind. 

    The Canadian was far off yet, miles apart, miles passing quick from where Krieg was ready to commence his agenda of the day; act one? Perhaps. 

    Lance was one act 3, that day. His mission has taken him over a stretch of places and fate turned him this way, as though to try and mock him, to tell him that Not everything would always go perfect, but it's not like he had to actually be told this. He's lived long enough to know fate was hardly on his side, only keeping him alive as to have a plaything, to toy with it's food before the kill. 

    Dark eyes gazed upon the road, deeply brown and ever intense in the severity of his gaze, hidden behind the visor of his own helmet. The view could be so much nicer without all these other cars, he complains inwardly, but fate sometimes can be kind, this concluded when he pulls up along a fiery red-head, fair complexion, soft features even if he only catches just her profile at first, until she turns to look over and see the biker clearly gazing upon her. She doesn't smile, just narrows her eyes in wonder and it's too bad.. Bet she looked stunning with a smile. Stunning as Lysienne had on the rare occasions of those genuine smiles..His mind stutters, the aging mental image of her too much and it's this for which would have had him too distracted to notice the other biker, wreaking havoc just ahead, sooner.

    He'd only just passed the red-head, gaining within sight of the red porsche, the black ones booking it in and..oh, well this is interesting and then comes along the biker and oh..O h. He'd be disappointed later on why hadn't he come to the conclusion quick enough, quick enough to save him the damn aggravation. Maybe it's age; Is he losing his touch?  The distraction causes him to falter, the damage is done too quick for him to keep up with and he'd been going much too fast as well, that it's quite embarrassing that he's not able to react just as fast. The bike goes askew, his control of it lost in all of that second, an instinctual act to evade the oncoming destruction of the vehicle as it tumbled along in the lane he'd have nearly continued down. He hits the guardrail and the bike jolts it's momentum, tossing him off like a bucking bronco. He tumbles, his reflexes catching him enough that he wouldn't break his neck, keeping himself loose rather than tensed up, but the slope is suddenly steeper and he uses his arm to catch himself, a resounding snap felt more than heard, at least by him. 

    That arm had just fucking healed fully about a month ago, too.. 

    His jeans are shredded on one side now, caked in dirt, too. The leather of his jacket holds up well enough, but it'd been left open and rocks scrap the skin under and dirt smears the front of the grey t-shirt beneath. When he gains enough sense to sit up and pull his helmet off, he's only slightly dazed, not quite yet fully finding of any possible effects of a concussion. If he could evade another one of those, that'd be great.. 

    There's a buzz down his arm, he's aware because he already knows it's broken, again, but he ignores it in favor of getting his feet back under him and climbing back up. His bike is a little more then dented, pieces scattered, paint job scraped up and ah, wonderful, a piece of his motor hanging loose. A frustrated sigh leaves him,a slight growl at the end. His eyes immediately seek out the biker and.. There he is..the fucker.. He's too annoyed to value the roar of that engine, but then the other biker was fleeing the scene and Lance didn't wait a moment longer to approach the first car that was near him, rounding the drivers side and it was like a scene from GTA, the door thrown open, the man inside panicking in all his confusion and screaming something Lance chose to ignore as he tossed him out with one strong pull to his jacket, before he was clambering in himself, shutting the door and stepping on the gas,  his goal set. Track that fucker down and make him pay. 


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