Pilot : Pilot (Complete)

Le Patron

Where else might the next stage unfold, if not in Paris? Ah, but no-Le Soleil! Though not an ancient name, its predecessor had grown too archaic since the founding of the State fourteen years ago.
And it is here that Askan pondered gravely: the new Vice-Director of Public Safety, it seemed, was an imbecile from the Alsace region-untrustworthy, to be sure, but disturbingly shrewd, with an oratorical brilliance that was far from trifling. Perhaps that same brilliance had carried him across the border during the tumult of national unrest. Alone in his office, Askan meditated at length-and he had also received advice from Anounilh, the Head of Government, that a discreet inquiry into the man was warranted. He could well become a source of future discord. Despite his German blood, Baudelair possessed the dangerous knack of rousing the masses, which made him, therefore, a man to be watched.
Askan turned in his chair and studied the antique window behind him, once a symbol of the Old Republic. Who had burdened it with such symbolic weight remained unknown; but plainly, a wooden lattice inset with glass panes could hardly be thought fit to represent the lofty ideals of a nation.
A knock fell upon the door, and from behind it came a voice:
"Permit me to enter, Patron..."
Askan turned his chair again.
"By all means," he said, and laid down his papers.
The door opened. A man stepped in, clad in a black coat over a pale brown shirt.
He spoke: "Patron," and offered a bow before rising straight once more.
One might mistake him for any ordinary fellow-but once the plump, youthful face was lifted, it became unmistakable: it was Baudelair.
"It is not your habit to visit my office, young man..." Askan remarked, gesturing toward a chair and shaking his hand.
"Perhaps you do not often see me," Baudelair replied.
"That cannot be-I make frequent circuits of the building," said Askan. "Unless, of course, I've missed something in the Bullion or Bain dormitories. That wing belongs to the military. They do not take kindly to being disturbed."
"I understand."
"And so-your purpose here?"

"To be perfectly frank, I did not expect the door would be left open to me."

"Anounilh is not here. She is-Mikail. Anyone who seeks an audience with me must first contend with her." Askan sighed. "But in her absence, the air becomes still. I scarcely manage to work, for she carries all the burden-"
"I mean no insult, Patron, but I confess I have long thought the Head of State to serve more as a national emblem than a functioning authority."
"Oh? Then my people mean nothing to you? Nor to this government?"
"That is not my meaning, Patron. Surely you understand how perilous it is to allow a Head of Government unchecked control over the lifeblood of the State... though I do place great trust in Miss Anounilh-"
"Then it is my duty to silence her. My people are myself. To harm them is to strike at me."
Baudelair smiled. "A wise declaration," he said.
"This is not a matter of militarism or governance, Baudelair..."
At that, Baudelair's smile vanished-yet beneath his nose, the redness of his lips still shone, wide and parted in Askan's presence.
"I am astonished, Patron-have you resided within my mind all this time?"
"Let us say you are part of something larger. A spectacular actor in the grand opera known as France-alongside other offices... ha!"
"It ought to be legitimised!"
"If Anounilh shares my sentiment, it shall be so," said Askan. "To me, she is an antiquated performer-a king disgusted by his own queen, such am I... Her existential-capitalist strategy is far too effective in advancing her intellectual liberty, which borders on the inhuman."
"That is difficult to calculate... and we have struggled to negotiate with her," Baudelair admitted.
"So that is your purpose in coming here? Or one of them?"
"One of them. You've already named the former."
"You refer to the budget of the Youth Wing-the paramilitaries, yes? A matter of considerable importance. But I would also like the Eiffel Tower to revolt at once, to become an instrument of vandalism-if you are amenable. Should the Department of Public Safety acquiesce, they shall receive nine percent of the national surplus-provided they allow my people to scrawl upon the walls and tower alike," Askan explained, his eyes drifting from Baudelair to the painting beside the maroon curtain that hung along the right wall of his office.
"Is this measure confined to the city, Patron?" Baudelair whispered.
Askan returned his gaze.
"Yes, to this administration alone," he said.
"I must deliberate with the Deputy Director, if you permit?"
"By all means. May the Kapitan approve of it."
Baudelair bowed once more, turned on his heel, and appeared to stagger slightly upon exiting, closing the door behind him.

At last, he had gone. Askan smiled. It had been a fine plan. The purpose had been, indeed, to defile the Tower-but the Department of Public Safety would surely denounce the act. Therefore, it was prudent to divert a modest portion of the national surplus-after all, the market had reached such a state of orthodoxy as to guarantee internal investment stability. At least, they no longer required the World Bank. And soon enough, the world would adopt what France now embraced: Genitals, and Gold! That artistic system long forgotten since the Great War of 1914!

Damage / Bullying

Askan was hesitant to meet the head of his Government now, yet he didn't want to anger her either... Anounilh's office was not far, located on the ground floor, and solitary; the other rooms had been left empty or turned into storerooms for the surrealist paintings she herself had made. He had to admit, Anounilh was more than a gifted mad intellectual-if she had wanted to, she could have easily disposed of him... But if she was that powerful, and her party was elected, why hadn't she done so? Only Anounilh knew the answer... After all, she seemed to enjoy her role, her job, her responsibilities, and that was perhaps why she did nothing to Askan. Or so he believed.
His steps echoed softly. The corridor was neither loud nor silent. The paint on the walls still looked freshly yellow and smelled newly applied... And so he arrived at the door to Anounilh's room, at the far end of the corridor, where the chandelier had gone out on its own... When Askan entered, he saw a young woman sitting on a rounded chair, her head covered by a beret, hiding her short blonde waves that reached the upper part of her neck. The room was yellow and cramped. Though it spanned more than 2.5 meters, broken canvases were scattered on every side, untouched or left there at her own request. From the ceiling hung a crystal lamp-its chain, sockets, and fittings made of gold. But even that area hadn't escaped attention: scraps, torn papers, useless documents had been pasted all over it. No one knew why...
Askan never wanted to explain what he did, except in his own records. It seemed she was aware of his arrival, because as soon as he entered, her arms were busy slashing, tossing paint, smashing and rampaging across the canvas! A usual sight for Askan, but this was the first time he'd seen her this furious and savage... Then she stopped-glanced back. Her eyes were blue, cheeks red. From Askan's view, a look of disappointment danced in the eyes of the young woman-Anounilh. She asked, "What! Weren't you still talking to him?"
Askan replied, curious, "No... All are equal in cruelty and suffering. But, if you were that upset, were you on your way to my office?"
"Obviously..." she narrowed her eyes. "So-"
"Maybe I should tell you everything."
"You should have, shouldn't you? Speak, Patron. How is he?"
"Baudelair? I like him." Askan walked closer. Anounilh didn't reply. Her eyes were fixed on the canvas. On it, maroon and grey dominated the swirls of color-Askan bent down and said, "Where should I begin?"
"Do I need to explain?" Anounilh asked, lifting her head. Askan paused, then shook his head. "No need."
Askan said, "His group is strengthening their influence in the power struggle."
"That's unusual- I'm sure the Captain wouldn't go that far, and he understands the consequences of such growing power- but I'm not just talking about politics and cruelty: I mean economics too. Practical implementation is starting to show common distortion..."
"General economic execution depends on the minister in charge," Askan responded diplomatically.
"And I am that minister, Patron," Anounilh emphasized. "But you're the only one who knows that..."
Askan sighed. Then after glancing behind him, he dragged a chair, flipped it, and sat astride it, staring at the ceiling. Strangely, he had an erection.
Anounilh was still observing her painting. She glanced back-Askan was deep in his eccentric daydream, as always, strange-he was an expert in that: strangeness! But was that formal attire necessary? Anounilh thought. Her office fell into quiet again. She tried to finish the canvas-or else she needed to do something to please or embarrass herself... Personally, she hated silence. If she could express it, she might've said many things: her thoughts were too absurd, and in the quiet, her nerves worked abnormally to imagine all sorts of things-lewd, cruel, and otherwise. Yet because she was sane enough, she could control it!
Patron-she liked him... Not for his title, soul, or body, but as her most loyal doll: mad and ever-imaginary... If only she could do something to make the Patron truly hers-not just a figure-she would. And she would do it sanely! Anounilh always imagined herself beside the Patron in her eccentric way; yet when the moment came, she chose silence-and opportunity made her busy...
"Rain-" Askan began again.
"Not yet," said Anounilh. "So, what are we talking about?"
"Explicitly, this is a cultural strategic advantage-to allow us to persecute the old culture in Paris."
"What do you mean? Oh, that? Eiffel, right? That's old culture too..."
"You hate culture, don't you? You said so when we first met. At the Garnier. On the black market."
Anounilh smiled, looked back at her canvas, flung paint again from her brush and gripped the canvas-
"They're letting the people desecrate it; fine? I'm sure Paris will collapse after a long period of persecution..." she explained.
Askan said: "Eight million supporters in every district... More than enough! That's what's needed to tear down old civilization-and then usher in the age of culture: the modernist era supported by technology, diesel, and the marvel of art!"
"For those who understand such things?"
"Every aspect of life is an artist presenting humanity as a massive subject; unfathomable, unrecognizable, uncontrollable-that's why they find meaning in art: harsh, cruel, and vile!"
"Haha... Is that so?" Anounilh set down her brush and suddenly threw her palette into the canvas's face-colors splattered, oil dripped, the previous beauty swallowed by thick, boiling pigments...
Askan jumped up in shock and shouted, "Ani-God, what's happening!" panicking, his erection worse than before. "Why? Oh, look! Your realisme is ruined..." he added, rushing to the canvas. Anounilh stepped aside. With trembling hands, he lifted it from the easel, whispering, "Good God... Good God..."
Anounilh said coldly, without emotion, brushing away reason, "You liked it, didn't you? This is art... No-this is what art means. Full of cruelty. But fragile, and its admirers only watch it slowly disintegrate-through amoral lead..."
Who would've thought Askan hugged the canvas instead; with both arms, he embraced its ends, trembled, face unreadable, then burst into sobs like he had lost his favorite dog.
Anounilh added, "I don't agree with your definition of art-if I had spoken earlier, I'd have called you a coward and a maniac! No, Askan-art means being ready to lose yourself... Art destroys itself and whispers after its transfiguration with the artist... Imagine how hard that is! How fascinating... how arousing-to the point you might ejaculate to it... Or worse, to yourself... Disgusting!"
"That's cruel." Askan looked up through tear-blurred eyes. "It's cruel, isn't it? Isn't it?"
"That's the point!" Anounilh leaned closer, stared at the bulge in his trousers. "But yes, try it-feels great!-I've done it countless times with a portrait of Saint Justiana-sin, virtue, pleasure that words can't describe-oh, imagine it..."
The room was silent. The ticking clock rang. Askan still hugged the canvas and looked at his stained jacket. "I have to go," he said. "It's lunchtime."
But Anounilh stopped him, asked him to stay, and said she would teach him how to masturbate with it-and "it" meant the canvas Askan held. Anounilh smiled, her face tinged with blooming pink, a strange sound lingering between her lips and brows... Was it coercion? A plea? Neither? What was it? Askan was already lost. His pounding heart throbbed beneath paint-smudged chest, his feet moved toward her. Then the girl offered her arm, which Askan took and kissed-
Anounilh said, "I'll show you the true Dionysian image. It begins with self-destruction... etc. etc."
And so until evening, 7 PM, what was heard from Miss Anounilh's office was nothing but confused sighs, wild screams, and an unexplainable commotion... No one knew what Anounilh had given Askan through this practice. But the next day, through a decree from the Patron, he granted wide recruitment access to the Acéphale subsection in Paris, allowing them to act freely and bring their secret organization, the Invincible Universal Empire, into the public eye, meddling in state affairs, Macron's laws, etc... including the dissolution of the Democratic Party and others, persecution of Christians in Gaul and the Celtic territories, followed in the days after...

French newspapers were many! France had transformed itself!

Meanwhile, at the Committee of Public Safety, a week later, the bodies of staff and workers, including Captain Dany Marais, who had gone missing two days earlier, were found in the weapons storeroom. Baudelair's body was never found-the young man had vanished without a trace...

The Red Flood

Tuesdays were never too busy at the office. On such days, Askan enjoyed opening the window to gaze at the broad avenue behind the building, letting the wind brush his thoughts away, muttering nonsense, watching white birds glide through the sky as he whistled in vain attempts to draw their attention. But Paris had not resolved her turmoil. One might say, it had only just begun.
The dissolution of the Committee of Public Safety-he had not expected it would affect the general progress of things so profoundly. Yet here it was: delays in workflow, the grinding of the civil industries, and a creeping lethargy in bureaucratic mechanisms... He sensed a mistake somewhere-something submerged, not yet floated to the surface.
But he had to be quick. Quick! Quick! Quick! That was the only thought that clung to him.
At around two o'clock, Anounilh entered the room carrying a stack of documents and three fresh folders. Askan glanced over-recognizing her handwriting instantly: childish, nearly Latin, with corners of the paper always doodled with something-symbols, or sometimes, only sigils.
Most of the pages dealt with mobilizing the populace to legitimize the Escadron faction, the Theatrical V-40, surplus wheat rations that had been reallocated, and a growing program of economic and social segregation in the outskirts of Paris-regions whose cultures were slowly being drawn into forced assimilation.
"Nothing too dreadful, I hope?" Askan asked, curious. Just then, a white pigeon landed on the sill, pulling his gaze.
Anounilh was busy sorting papers into corresponding files, attaching drafts to their sleeves. Even so, she responded, "Well, there is something, yes..."
"What is it?" he asked, still watching the bird.
Anounilh, tapping the corner of a folder, paused and said, "Rape. And the spread of homosexuals. They're rampant-on the sidewalks." She returned to her task, her voice unbothered.
"Is that so? Are they a nuisance? If they leave their vile fluids behind, I suppose, yes, they would be a nuisance."
"Your brain rarely sits in your skull," Anounilh said, smiling faintly. "Love doesn't mind chaos. Even when it resembles war. It is just-just in a way we can never equate. But also unjust. Monstrous, perhaps?"
She tilted her head, eyes rolling skyward as she sighed-and inexplicably drooled.
"Who are you calling monstrous? Love or war?" Askan asked.
"They're equal, aren't they? A difficult question. But whether in love or in war-there's always blood. Red blood. A red flood."

"As you say."
"Bewildering, no?"

She finished sorting the files and handed them to him. By coincidence, he opened one: it held two documents marked by draft numbers. The first was titled The General Dionysian Issue. The second investigated The Collapse of the Committee of Public Safety in Paris.
"Why is this involved?" Askan asked, but something flashed in his memory-he flinched, blinked rapidly, and began to stiffen, unaware of himself.
"You already told me the reason, didn't you?" Anounilh replied with strange confidence. Her blue eyes gleamed in the room's dim light.
"Did I? I forgot. Ha... Something's wrong with me."
"Nothing is wrong." Her voice calm, almost too calm. "You forgot, that's all. Allow me to remind you."
"Go on."
She sat down on the edge of the table, waist tilted forward. Watching him, she reached out, held his cheek, and began gently:
"Yes. It happened around three, before dawn. Suddenly, the Eiffel-she bore a giant flag, tied at the second platform, where no one stood. It was green and blue... with three spiral boar-heads, relics of the lost Gaulish civilization. The wind blew with fury but could not tear it down. And we knew the culprit. Of course it was the Committee of Public Safety. Their Druidic affiliations are no secret, and this only confirmed our suspicions.
When Escadron troops arrived to dismantle the display-none of them returned. Only my group returned; I had ordered them to act preemptively. And they shot.
And do you know what they dragged back to me? An officer presented a ragged figure cloaked in tatters-beneath, a Public Safety uniform. He wore an animal mask.
The officer said, 'There were nine of them.' That was more than enough proof. So I issued the ticket-to act without delay."
"And where was I?" Askan said, clutching his head. This didn't happen...
Yet he remembered stamping something. His brain felt scrambled.
"That wasn't a dream, Askan," Anounilh replied, withdrawing her hand. Her eyes, now tinged red, didn't look only at his face, but trailed lower-to his shirt, his trousers. "You were... spent after that delightful night," she continued. "The maids found you on the floor, filthy. They cleaned you up, set you down, and you slept here. Strangely, you never stirred-not a single groan."
The pain came back briefy, but he didn't dare speak it. If only he had the words...
"Why did I approve it?" he whispered. "The ticket for your decree... why did I approve it?"
"Well-you were half-awake at the time. Between dream and truth. But you spoke plainly, ranted on, and even praised the revolutionary Dionysian rights. You said: 'The revolution we lead is truly revolutionary! A vision passed down from the stars to found a Revolutionary Empire! A Universal Empire!'"
But that was not even a name. Not even an object.
"That makes no sense! Do you even know you've strayed from the topic? I want to know why I approved your decree!"
"Why do you want to know?" Her tone sharpened. "Unless you intend to drag your entire Avatar back into the primordial anarchy the Druidic front so desperately craves. Patron-do not make us guide you from the beginning once more... Do your duty-"
"I just want-please, please, I just want to know why I signed the decree's ticket... nothing more!"
Silence. Utter silence, broken only by the low hum of electricity burning in thelantern tubes. Unbeknownst to them, the sparrows outside had been chirping all this time-but now they, too, fell quiet.
Anounilh spoke again.
Her face-so disappointed. As though something unspeakable had violated her. Her eyes, once glowing red, now faded back to blue. That, that was disappointment.
"You're weak. It's not my fault you spilled so much onto my lovely painting. The canvas is still in my room-if you need proof-"
Alas, she could not finish.
From the outer corridor came rapid footsteps-marching, clattering, disorderly. Then: stillness. Then the guards barking. Then: a struggle. A kick. The door burst open.
He was filthy, bleeding, his face flooded in crimson.
But Patron recognized him.
Baudelair.
He was fighting against a guardsman twice his size. Thrashing. He was thrown down at last.
Askan leapt from his desk.
Anounilh only looked-skeptical, cynical-
But at least now it was clear:
Baudelair was still alive.
And he had come to explain everything.

Baudelair

The banquet was plainly unorthodox, and the Knight of Verse had received no permission from his head to welcome the guest whose appearance was frayed, degraded, ravaged-his soul visibly abandoning him in inches. His eyes were incomplete, as were his ears, and the left part of his lips and nearly half his face bore the cruel imprint of fresh burns-crushed, it seemed, under a divine foot.

Yet as host, Askan did what he could: he had summoned the maids to prepare delicacies which, in his own estimation, were not extravagant enough-melancholic, even. The table groaned with cut grapes in brandy, blood sausages, and two slabs of beef, roasted to a perfect brown. Baudelair, however, would not touch them. Not out of pride-he was not proud-but because his eyes were fixed upon Anounilh. The maiden stood behind Askan, fingers upon his shoulders. Her gaze was unwavering, sharp, unshaken. And she looked at the young man-he returned her stare with hate. Hate, and cynicism. But in that look she caught a fragility-an aperture he refused to close.

This youth-Baudelair-had reached the axis. Perhaps it had not been in vain: the beatings, the fire, the intimidation-surely orchestrated by his former comrades. Now he was fragile. He was almost ash.

He refused the offer of medical care by the maids at Askan's insistence, but the Patron did not force his will when he saw no danger. The boy was still alive. That was good enough. After all, Askan himself had been unconscious when the Druidist front revolted, and the uprising itself, it must be said, bore ties to the Committee of Public Safety.

Askan asked him, "How could this have happened?" while peering into the young man's eyes. He felt again that surge of emotion rising, involuntary arousal, and alongside it, a woman's familiar scent-emanating, impossibly, from the wounded and dangling flesh of poor Baudelair's face. "Tell me-was this the Committee's plan? Or did it come from the internal factions of the Front?"

Anounilh glanced at him without his knowing. She watched, watched and watched-perhaps hoping the youth would simply die. Baudelair had looked down since the question was first asked-his face screaming: I dare not! I dare not!-a fear so pure it became language.

Then, at last, his lips pulled taut and he began to speak.

Askan, for reasons he did not fully comprehend, felt a quiet relief-something small, something pious.

Stammering, the youth said: "There was nothing... nothing at all..."

Askan replied, "But you are the only one I can see now. Your comrades are dead, and yet you live-that is a miracle. A miracle. The universe spared you to deliver one thing: the truth."

He continued, "Then where were you when it happened? Our lines spun in panic. Twenty-three calls-eight separate devices-eight!"

The question was strange, for no answer followed. Baudelair looked up, glimpsed Anounilh-her neck and head hovering above his hair...

"I can assure you," she said, "no calls came during or after the incident. And if you did attempt to reach the Palace-how could we have missed it? We are not erotically employed-we labor without cease. That alone stimulates us!"
Baudelair replied, "How long will you keep lying? Our hands are stained with the blood of our comrades. Your soldiers-"
"They did what they had to do, didn't they?" Anounilh interrupted. "It is their right and duty to defend their humanity-not as soldiers, not as legionnaires... But against the Druidists-that banner-they acted as Avatars of the Patron. Guardians of revolution. Of the state."
"That's not what I meant!"
Askan began to speak, "Then it becomes difficult to search for truth. A conspiracy-a conspiracy brews near me. In this very nation." His face turned brooding, visibly distressed... And for the first time, he managed to subdue his arousal-no longer burdened by the labor of suppressing it.
But Anounilh looked displeased, for reasons unknown. Baudelair, under great pressure, continued to bleed. If only the blood would cease from the open wounds and scorched flesh... Perhaps he would appear clean. Orderly. But Anounilh, unbeknownst to either man, preferred him this way-disfigured. In such condition, he could no longer boast his rational gifts as an orator or agitator of masses, but only suffer-fragile. Mortal. Ready to die.
In the silence, repugnant and vile, Anounilh stared at Baudelair with loathing: expressionless and low. The youth did not flinch. The only movement came from Askan-busily chewing his sausage and beefsteak. When Anounilh glanced at him briefly, her face suddenly bloomed red with joy, but when her gaze returned to Baudelair, it folded back into grimace-the worst kind.
"The Kapitan is dead too," Baudelair murmured.
No one answered immediately-Askan was still chewing, and not even looking sorrowful.
"Patron, did you hear? The Kapitan of the Committee is dead-dead. This might shatter civic stability... What is your judgment?"
Askan replied after swallowing, "Reassign the Escadron Front for the coming weeks. Their influence may rise, but we have no other champions. That is my answer..." He looked at Baudelair-his eyes bleeding, his face a ghostly pallor.
"Let me be the one to speak to him, Patron," said Anounilh, resolutely.
"No. Let me."
He leaned forward. "I must say-there will be no organizational restoration for them, Baudelair. And if you will allow, this is the sentence I will pronounce-upon the lone survivor..."

Without their knowledge, Anounilh smiled sweetly. Baudelair closed his eyes-still filled with hope for something.

"You will be exiled. You will be brought to Brittany. For twelve days you shall be cut off from the public. But this is only the initial punishment-one that duty requires I deliver. Further decisions fall to the Head of Law, Government, Civil Affairs, Economy, and Security," Askan added, glancing at Anounilh. "It is her right."

At once, the girl stood and approached the youth, her arm trembling, her lips quivering. It was as though she had been granted a second chance.

From beneath the leather belt that bound her gown to her blouse, she drew a pistol. Silenced. What? Since when had it been there? Since when had she kept it? Askan heard the faint clatter of bullet against the pistol's small chamber. Semi-automatic.

But Askan had not even finished turning his head when-

Anounilh reached her mark. She pointed the pistol straight at his forehead. "Then, with this, I relieve you of your duty," she said. The trigger fell; his head erupted.

Blood splashed across the blood sausages, the beef, the two witnesses' faces, and stained the velvet couch with a pungent scent now ripe in the air. The spray painted an accidental abstract on the table, while his body crumpled-eyes still open beneath the new bullet hole.
Unintentionally, Askan hiccuped, struggled to swallow. He turned toward the girl who had just split open Baudelair's skull-and was immediately aroused. Beneath his trousers, he stiffened again. Confusion. His eyes widened, heart thumping violently. Blood surged so fast to his brain that his nerves throbbed with pain.
Anounilh looked back and smiled. With slow, graceful motion, she tucked the smoking pistol behind her slender waist. The room was dim, yet the smoke still hovered visibly in the air. But Askan did not mind-instead, he understood, concluded: This is love-sadistic though erotic.
The guards entered. Behind their masks, their eyes scanned the scene. A small crowd of maids peeked from behind the doorframe, secretly seizing the chance to gaze at the Patron a moment longer-to record and etch his image into memory... Useful, later, for masturbation.

'Empire's True Colors

No... no sane one remains-of course, certainly, and without a doubt. It is difficult. So difficult to forget. After Baudelair's execution, it became known that Askan suffered from severe migraines that confined him to his chambers for days. He remained on his bed, awake despite frequent fits of delirium, and refused to be approached-especially by Anounilh.
Anounilh-Anounilh terrified him! He could not sleep because of her; he dreamed of her constantly... Of that girl, the pistol, Baudelair: perforated, hideous, blood-blood-blood flowing... The rhythm of life had ruptured, its measure deranged, the stave distorted-because of blood! Quickly! Quickly! The ashen fog thickens-he no longer knows who she is...
Anounilh gave him no reprieve, not even in sleep. She intruded even into his most private visions, disassembling him. Thus, for two days, then three, then four, then five-a week passed, and they did not meet.
For a time, all files, correspondences, and audits were sent to Askan through Maids, Butlers, and Couriers. He turned morose. Meanwhile, Anounilh observed him through the cracks of doors, relying on the kindness-or vanity-of maids who delivered these parcels. Occasionally, they demanded shy recompense; Anounilh would silence them with a vial of seed. In truth, many coaxed it from him on the spot.
And so, without speaking to Askan, Anounilh kept watch. Erections surged at the thought of entering her Patron's office and perhaps taking him on a stroll by the lighthouse at Port Royal. But fear gripped her-this fear aroused her. The ecstasy of self-defilement just to behold him when spying.
One morning, before anyone had risen, even before the Maids began their duties at six, Askan worked. He wrote letters to anonymous correspondents, though the names overlapped and blurred into foggy smears. He smiled; his heart bloomed like a garden in spring... He could not decipher the messages, they were incoherent-but he loved them. They untangled the nerves long swollen from Baudelair's fate.
A knock, quiet and soft, sounded at the door.
"Come in," said Askan. Perhaps a maid.
But Anounilh entered.
She was composed, modest in her black and blue vestments, walking as softly as any Maid. But Askan was not entirely dull-he knew. His heart clenched, arms shivered.
"Anounilh-why? Why have you come?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"My arousal... has reached its limit," she answered. Her face flushed, glistening with sweat across her brow, nose, and temples.
Askan recoiled, disgusted-yet he could not lie; he was aroused too.
"Patron-I... I missed you. I missed you, Patron!" she cried.
"Why have you not spoken to me? Why do you not look at me? My heart-it feels strange... I hope something inside it erupts! Ah, ha-ha-"
If Anounilh had known the terror she inspired in him, she might not have moaned that way. Her behavior had long exceeded any ordinary bounds of decorum or logic. Where were the Maids? Where-?
She stepped closer. Around the desk. Askan rose and stepped back in tandem. But there was nowhere to retreat. The room ended.
Anounilh asked gently, "May I know why you fear me so, Patron?"
Her face had soured: not malice, but disappointment-like ink losing its hue.
"I... I don't know," Askan stammered. "Perhaps I failed to read... to read the full extent of things..."
"You mean... my actions have exceeded your forecasts? Your decision-tree logic?"
Confused, Askan nodded. But he likely could not match her intellectually. His knees buckled; he trembled like an addict deprived of his drug.
And the monster approached!

She smiled.

"I would never kill you, Patron. My reason for being here is... you. To harm you would be ingratitude... though it contradicts the Dionysian impulse within me."
"You mean... if I falter, you'll do something unimaginable!"
"France needs you. The people need you. Fiumean, Polish, Russian, Korean, American, British, African, the Balkans, the Indies, the Atlantic, the Sun, the Solar League-all that exists, all that survives, and all that has died-they need you, Patron! Am I to disrupt the balance of the cosmos for a personal ambition, when decisions still hang unresolved beyond these walls...?"
"I don't understand-"
"Then let me explain. Baudelair deserved death. He executed his authority recklessly, unobserved... I wanted him buried alive. But you asked me to act swiftly. Thus, the shooting was fair. It did not violate the aesthetics of worldly art."
"Aesthetics? Worldly art? Rules?"
"Cosmic regulations."
"I suspect your faction acts without my oversight. What-what exactly have you done behind my back, Anounilh?"
"Research. Love. The pursuit of economic art, refined by inquisitiveness... That's all."
She stepped forward. Thankfully, Askan no longer feared her. She touched his cheek, lifted his face, and found his ears, nose, and cheeks blushing-
And lower: a shameful stirring.
"You were right, by the way, about the conspiracy. We still don't know-"
"Your group-Acéphale-is investigating-"
He was silenced-Anounilh pressed her thumb into his mouth. Askan flinched, flushed.
"Stop! You're making me sick..." he pleaded.
But the more he begged, the deeper the thumb pressed. He could hardly speak. She savored this. She saw what he could not: a man whose tongue flailed helplessly, whose drool fell uncontrolled, whose throat-dark and exposed-was vulnerable.
She cupped his face, conquered him, and whispered:
"Calm yourself. Acéphale will act accordingly. There will be no chaos. I swear it. We'll purge what remains of those pagan Gauls-
We'll exterminate the Druidists.
To build a new France.
A universe-just for you, Patron. Fufu."
But alas, Askan could not answer.
Both thumbs held his tongue prisoner. And though he struggled, his hands futile, his tongue trapped, fear returned-utter confusion:
How-how is this woman stronger than me?
Perhaps that's why Parliament chose her. Because she was strong.
"But it's true, Patron," she said, "I haven't visited you these past days, have I?
So who helped you masturbate since then?
"Oh, sorry ... I-I've gone too far... There it is... Speak now, Patron. You may speak."
He coughed, choking on her saliva and his shame. He did not want to swallow.
Anounilh waited, smiling with eyes wide-almost perfect, but truly-who could answer such a question?
He glanced around, bowed his head. Unready.
"What's wrong, Patron? Why so gloomy? It's fine if you did it alone-I often do it myself during off hours... sometimes... with my paintings..." she said, her tone wilting.
Not the right moment.
Not the right words.
And only now did Askan realize-he never achieved arousal,
except when with Anounilh.
Only when with her.
How strange. He pondered. And it scattered his mind like petals, the earlier question now forgotten.
Anounilh watched, puzzled-but then something flickered within her. Her joy darkened. Her smile strained-tight, painful, almost trembling.
"Tell me, Patron... with whom did you do it?"
He gave no answer.
Yet his face changed-alas, into an expression of remorse.
Dense, unspeakable, ancient remorse...
A maid had arrived. Her footsteps familiar-Askan felt grounded again. The dream broke.
"Maid," he said.
But instead of seeing a group of maids-
He still stared at Anounilh.
Now flushed. Now livid. Now fuming.

Was she angry?
If not-why still biting her lip?