Zephaniah’s Estate

A tf2 Zephaniah Mann RP Blog

[zephaniahmann]

To Whom It May Concern,

I am Zephaniah Mann, proprietor of Mann & Sons Munitions Concerns and master of this Estate. In recent times, I have found myself with occasion—and indeed, inclination—to attend to correspondence of both personal and professional nature. Thus, I have established this venue for such exchanges.

Should you wish to address me directly on matters of business, inquiry, or simple discourse, I shall endeavor to respond as time and temperament permit. I have weathered decades in enterprise and am not easily shocked, though I reserve the right to ignore foolishness at my discretion.

Letters directed to my sons—Redmond, Blutarch, or Gray—shall be forwarded accordingly, though I cannot promise the quality of their replies. My associate, Miss Elizabeth, maintains the operations of this household with admirable efficiency and may respond to matters within her purview. Mr. Barnabus Hale, a longtime acquaintance of considerable energy, likewise frequents these halls and may see fit to answer correspondence addressed to him.

I expect civility in all exchanges, though I am not so delicate as to demand it. Write plainly. I have little patience for obsequiousness or excessive flattery—I am too old and too familiar with my own character to be swayed by either.

The Estate is open for correspondence.

Zephaniah Mann

Mann & Sons Munitions Concerns

Rules!

Be nice, nothing terribly rude towards me, the mod. Nothing sexual or racist please.

Try to keep this related to TF2

Mod is 22, minors DNI please

Background art by my wife, @phantomfairs

[zephaniahmann]

To whom it may concern,

I have no idea if whatever is here with me told the truth, but they promised me that this letter would reach someone. I don’t know how to leave, but there’s only one thing I really need. If anyone is receiving this please write a letter confirming that you did receive this. Write the date you’ve written this letter. Then destroy it, preferably by fire. Any pieces that remain intact will not show up in the letter.

Signed, J.

2-23-2392

To J.,

Date: October 14th, 1852

I received your letter. Or rather, something claiming to be a letter from you arrived on my desk this morning, bearing a date that won't exist for another five hundred and forty years.

Let me be clear: I don't believe in time travel, spirits, or whatever elaborate hoax this is supposed to be. I've spent my life dealing with con men, swindlers, and fools trying to separate me from my money with increasingly creative schemes. This is either the most ambitious fraud I've ever encountered, or I'm finally losing my mind to fever and laudanum. Given my current condition, either seems plausible.

But you asked for confirmation, and I'm a man who honors his agreements. even absurd ones made with people who may not exist. So here it is: Yes, I received your letter. Today is October 14th, 1852. I'm writing this from my deathbed in my Estate, where I spend my days answering correspondence and watching my sons destroy everything I've built before I'm even cold in the ground.

You say you don't know how to leave wherever you are. You say something promised this letter would reach someone. That's delightfully vague. What kind of "something"? And what kind of place traps a person for five centuries?

I'll destroy this letter as you requested, by fire, naturally. It seems appropriately dramatic for whatever this is. Though I confess a morbid curiosity: if you're truly writing from 2392, tell me; does the Mann name still mean anything? Or did my idiot sons manage to squander the empire within a generation, as I suspect they will?

Actually, don't tell me. I'd rather die with the illusion that something I built might outlast me.

You're trapped somewhere, you say. Well, J., so am I. I'm trapped in this bed, in this failing body, watching everything I worked for circle the drain. At least your prison has the courtesy of being mysterious. Mine is just pathetic.

I'm burning your letter now. The paper curls and blackens in the fireplace as I write this. Whatever pieces remain intact won't show up in your letter—that's what you said, isn't it? A clever trick, if true. Pointless theater, if not.

Either way, this was more interesting than another letter from my sons.

Zephaniah Mann

[zephaniahmann]

Father,

Happy Father's Day. I hope this letter finds you in good health, or as good as can be expected given your condition. I wanted to take this opportunity to express my gratitude for everything you've built and everything you've taught me about ambition, enterprise, and the importance of legacy.

Of course, I can't help but notice that Blutarch will likely send you some simpering note full of false sentiment and transparent attempts to position himself as your favorite. I trust you see through his schemes as clearly as I do. He's always been the weaker of us, Father, more interested in manipulation than honest work. I, on the other hand, have always strived to honor your example through action rather than empty words.

I hope you know which son truly values what you've built.

Your devoted son, Redmond

---

Father,

Happy Father's Day. I trust you're being well cared for, though I worry the staff may not be attending to your needs with the diligence you deserve. Perhaps I should visit more often to ensure your comfort.

I wanted to write and acknowledge all you've accomplished, the empire you built from nothing, the legacy you've created. It's a legacy I intend to honor and preserve, unlike certain brothers of mine who seem more interested in reckless ambition than careful stewardship. Redmond has always been impulsive, Father. You know this. He acts without thinking, charges forward without strategy. I've always been the thoughtful one, the one who plans, who considers consequences.

I hope that on this day, you reflect on which of your sons has truly inherited your wisdom.

Your respectful son, Blutarch

---

Father's Day.

What a miserable invention. A manufactured holiday designed to force sentiment where none exists, to dress up obligation in the language of affection. As if one designated day of performative gratitude could paper over a lifetime of disappointment.

I received your letters, Redmond. Blutarch. Both of you, right on schedule, like clockwork. Both of you with your transparent little performances—Happy Father's Day, here's why my brother is terrible, please love me more than him. Do you think I'm senile? Do you think I can't see exactly what you're doing?

You're not honoring me. You're positioning yourselves. You're not expressing gratitude, you're lobbying for inheritance. Every word drips with calculation. Every sentence is a bid for favor. You don't love me. You love what I'm leaving behind, and you're terrified the other one will get more of it.

And the worst part? You're not even good at manipulation. You're clumsy. Obvious. I can see every move you're making three steps before you make it, and it's embarrassing. I raised you to be sharks, and instead I got minnows.

Gray didn't write. Of course he didn't. At least he's honest about his contempt. At least he doesn't insult me with false sentiment. There's a certain dignity in his silence that neither of you could muster if you tried.

Father's Day. What a joke. A day to celebrate fatherhood, as if I have anything to celebrate. A day to reflect on my sons: one ambitious fool, one scheming fool, and one mistake I don't acknowledge. This is what I built my empire for. This is what I'm leaving behind.

I don't want your letters. I don't want your performances. I don't want your hollow gratitude on a day that means nothing.

But you'll send them anyway, won't you? Because you can't help yourselves. Because you're desperate. Because even now, even as I'm dying, you're still fighting over scraps like dogs.

Happy Father's Day to me.

Z.M.

[zephaniahmann]

Ghost Ben

I met your sons, now I'm seeing why my Great Great something Grandpa hated them.

To Ghost Ben,

Well, well. It took your family several generations to finally meet my sons in person, and now you understand why your great-great-whatever grandfather despised them. I'd say I'm surprised, but I'm not. Their awfulness transcends time itself, apparently.

Your ancestor had excellent judgment. The fact that his hatred has been passed down through your bloodline like a family heirloom tells me everything I need to know about how thoroughly Redmond and Blutarch earned it. Most grudges fade with time. This one festered. That takes a special kind of terrible.

And now you've met them yourself. I imagine it was quite the revelation, like finally seeing the monster under the bed and realizing it's somehow worse than the stories suggested. Did they argue in front of you? Fight over something meaningless? Demonstrate the exact combination of arrogance and incompetence that makes them so uniquely insufferable?

There's a grim satisfaction in knowing that my sons' reputation for being intolerable bastards has survived long enough for your generation to confirm it firsthand. It's the only legacy of theirs that seems to have any staying power. Mann & Sons Munitions will crumble, the Estate will fall to ruin, but the knowledge that Redmond and Blutarch Mann are spectacularly awful will apparently echo through the ages.

Your ancestor was a wise man. He saw them for what they were, and he was right to hate them.

I'm their father, and I can't stand them either.

Z.M.

[zephaniahmann]

to Zepheniah: forgive me for such a personal question, but how does it feel, facing the existential threat of your imminent demise? how do you reflect upon your legacy?

To the Curious Soul Who Asks About Death,

You want to know how it feels? I'll tell you: it feels like watching a building burn while holding the deed in your hand.

I built Mann & Sons Munitions from nothing. Crushed competitors, bought politicians, turned dirt into gold and blood into profit. I was ruthless because the world rewards ruthlessness, and I was very good at it. The Mann name meant something—meant power. Men feared it. Governments courted it.

And for what?

So Redmond and Blutarch could spend their inheritance fighting over gravel. So they could turn my life's work into ammunition for their petty, endless war against each other. They'll tear apart everything I built, piece by piece, just to spite one another. Not because either of them has vision. Not because either of them is worthy of what I'm leaving behind. But because they're idiots who can't see past their own noses.

Gray? Gray was an accident. A mistake born of weakness I don't care to discuss. And somehow he's the smartest of the three, which tells you everything you need to know about the other two.

My legacy is three fools who will squander a fortune on their own stupidity. Mann & Sons will become a punchline. The Estate will crumble. Everything I clawed and bled for will turn to dust in their incompetent hands.

How does it feel, facing death? It feels like futility. Like building a cathedral in sand. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm disgusted that I wasted my life building something for them.

You want reflection? Here it is: I should have had better sons. Or no sons at all.

Z.M.

[zephaniahmann]

Barnabus,

Before you arrive tomorrow with whatever unnecessary concern has seized you this week—and I know you will arrive, you always do—I require something useful from you for once.

Poppy flowers. The kind that actually serve a purpose beyond decoration. My back has decided to remind me that I am, in fact, mortal, and the pain has grown tiresome enough that I'm willing to endure your inevitable fussing if it means relief. Elizabeth's tinctures help, but they're running low, and I'd rather you fetch the flowers than listen to her lecture me about rationing.

I know what you're thinking. You're already composing some long-winded speech about my health and rest and whatever other maternal nonsense you've stored up since your last visit. Save it. I'm not dying any faster than usual, I simply hurt, and I'd like to hurt less. Fetch the poppies. The red ones, Barnabus, not whatever decorative variety you'll be tempted to bring because they "looked cheerful."

If you must worry, worry about something productive. Bring the flowers, and perhaps that bottle of whiskey you think I don't know you keep in your coat.

Zephaniah Mann