It wasn't the landing that woke Arsene; it was the ending of a dream. In the vision, he found himself transacting with a salesman, oddly enough, a salesman of toilets. He had slicked back silver hair, periwinkle eyes, and was overdressed to the point of old school aristocracy. There was undeniable wisdom in the way he spoke, persuasively charming, that Arsene ended up purchasing all his wares—his entire business before even receiving the details. The deal was sealed with a handshake, prompting the salesman to hand over the key to his menagerie: a quaint piece of metalwork that bore a familiar Masonic symbol. Blinding light washed over the room as its previous owner exited, in turn dazzling its new landlord awake.
Back in the real world, Clarinae greeted a rousing Arsene. They had touched down the Solomon estate's private airfield, and were easing their way into another hangar, one more rustic and practical than grand. "Rise and shine, boss—we're here," she announced with a smile.
Arsene's first lucid thought was how he could get used to this. Mornings with a satisfied Clarinae was exactly as he pictured it. All that's missing were the silken sheets, some pancakes, a lot of nudity, and zero jetlags. They've been flying for the last twelve hours—Arsene died after the first four. So as much as he wanted to return the gesture, a painful wince was all he could muster. "Are we dead?" he joked.
"What do you think?"
He looked deep in her eyes, hoping to distract her from the imminent cliché. Then he let it rip without any intention of looking back. "I think we flew straight to heaven… The receptionist is cute but a bit withheld—most definitely a snob."
Clarinae just shook her head in response, though it should be noted that her smile never faded, even when she returned to her seat and pretended to check her phone.
Out the window, Arsene caught a glimpse of his would-be estate, a stonework behemoth that towered high over the surrounding coppice. His expectations were once again subverted from an arid reception, and a somewhat racist view on war-torn landscaping. He boarded down the craft taken completely by awe, both for the whole-new-world unfolding before him, and the realization that Clarinae packed some serious guns beneath those designer brands.
"Just a little bit further, Arsene," Clarinae literally whispered in his ear as they hobbled down the airstair. She volunteered to support him herself, in spite of the beefcake brigade's insistence.
Arsene held tighter onto her with every downward step. His jetlag was genuine enough, unfortunately, so were the rest of his malicious inclinations. He slung his left arm over Clarinae's shoulders, while assigning the other around her waist for a discreet roll call of her six-pack. And when the guilt kicked in, he ambushed it with a diversion. "How far is a little bit further?" he spoke with matching daze to sell it. True enough, the estate looked a good mile off their current location; it didn't seem like it was due to his wonky depth perception either.
"Don't pretend like you're not enjoying this," Clarinae segued sometime later, a comment salvaged only by its playful delivery.
"Guilty as charged," confessed Arsene. "Here's hoping the feeling is mutual."
They hopped onto a Wrangler driven by Thanos Brownversion, who had apparently flown in before them. As soon as he was able to recline, Arsene was tempted to doze off again, until they left the field and entered what he could only describe as a Jurassic Park–Tomb Raider wedding reception. It was—for lack of a better term—every manchild's dream come true.
The way was paved by more solid stonework, albeit weathered by time and the elements. As they cut through the woods, it revealed the tangled ruins of a distant civilization, scattered sites that were beautiful and haunting to a seesawing degree. The deeper they went, the darker it got, and only after a quarter-hour of progress did they happen upon the black, iron-wrought gates of Solomon Manor. From that milestone, it was another two-minute trot before the estate's inner compound.
More eerie vibe emanated from the grounds, befitting of such landmark nexus. Natural light barely passed the bulwark of ancient trees; the winds so chilling, they could have been drafted straight out of the netherworld. And at the very heart of it all, stood an acre-wide edifice that'd give the Wayne Manor a case for existential crisis. Arsene imagined hectares upon hectares of land covered by the billion-dollar reserve, housing every manner of horrors and wonders under its shade. If anything, it solved the mystery of their spooked convoy, whose consensus was to stay well outside the inner proper, leaving but Clarinae and her original crew on escort duty.
They were halfway up the manor's doorstep when Clarinae revealed another surprise. "You have to wear this prior to entering." She held out a small, velvet-black receptacle lined with gilded trimmings.
Arsene snorted at what he assumed to be a jewelry box. He thought it a perfect time to be funny, with their spirits at an all-time low, and the scary kind possibly at large. "Are you proposing to me, girl?" He grinned cockily. "At least buy me drink first."
Only she didn't laugh. She was in fact so serious about it, Arsene slid way past silly. "This is no laughing matter," she said, her face grimmer than the backdrop manor. "Have you read the contract at all?"
He raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just playing," he mouthed, feeling his lips dry to a crisp. "Aren't you at least going to open it?"
Clarinae sighed, but still flipped the box open as requested. Arsene thought it better if she knelt as well, for completion's sake, though it would be a suggestion he'd ultimately keep to himself.
Perhaps by way of karma, his attitude backfired in an irradiated mushroom explosion—right in his face. He plucked the ring off its cushion, right out noticing how its design matched that of the salesman's key from his dream.
And that wasn't even the end of it.
While it could have been just another of life's many coincidences, it's tough to categorize instances that occur in a fluid sequence. The door that guarded entry to Solomon Manor was a colossal abomination in itself, complete with elaborate feudal depictions, metal fittings, and a gargoyle head knocker that complemented its big-brother sentries. Despite its imposing weight, it was swung open by a man of unimpressive girth, sporting a sleek mane of silver and a set of periwinkle eyes.