Every single comment ever made about you has been logged in your mind, most compliments forgotten and every insult or slight retained. When you mess up, when you hear someone say something about you, it becomes an obsession. Like a single drop of dye falling into water, something that everyone else will forget about in an instant becomes a fixation that spreads through you like poison. 

Every obsession in that fashion ultimately comes down to this one fact.

After all, you’re pretty weak and pathetic. Your stamina and physical strength is laughable. You’re slow on the uptake. You’re not good at making and keeping friends. You’re clumsy and butterfingered. You get anxious over stupid things easily, and you can’t look people in the eyes when you talk. You have no viable talents. You’re ugly, your proportions are all messed up, and some days you don’t want to go out because you can’t bear the thought of living with your own face. With your own body. Hell, you’re not even a guy like you claim to be.

You don’t have anything that makes you special. If you do, it’s something that makes you the circus act—the laughingstock, the one getting booed off the stage. 

…So why? Why did you have to end up with… all of these other people? 

Everyone is so much more unique than you. So much more vibrant. So much kinder, or dedicated, or capable, or confident, or good-looking, or talented. They’re all something, compared to your nothing. You’re all from worlds that aren’t this one, but they’re all so much more than you could ever hope to be. So much closer to “perfect.” Even the ones who are just from Earth, even the ones who are the same species as you.

It doesn’t sit quite right with you, to be lumped together with everyone else. If you had to make it an analogy more digestible for your own incoherent thoughts, it would be like putting a useless NPC with the cast of main characters. 

You simply aren’t good enough to belong. 

But the feeling is so strong that it overflows into your thoughts about others. It’s exhausting trying to get along with these “perfect,” “better” people. You’re bitter about being so obviously inferior and you hate the fact that you are. If you have to put up with another day of pretending to like people you don’t, you think you might just lose your mind and quit.

(You won’t. You won’t, and you know it.)

But you’re so tired of this. It would be so nice, to let loose. To be able to tell someone that you hate them. That you’re praying for their downfall. Except—that’s not quite right, and that’s not the “nice” or “situationally correct” thing to do. Besides, it won’t do anything to them. Everyone has friends and supporters, people who would choose them over you in a heartbeat.

They won’t lose anything. You will. Because they’re “perfect,” and you’re not. 

The thought of it pisses you off. 

What can you do about it, though? When you hold this anger in your chest, so hot it runs cold, do you really think you can let it out? Will you simply cry it out futilely, like a child? Or—

Without thinking, your body moves of its own accord. The aged wall gives way under your fist, crumpling and cracking around the edges. Classic Ramshackle dust attacks your senses as you retract your hand. The pain waits to set in, and then your knuckles sting. The joints of your fingers complain from being clenched so tightly.

Sure, it hurts. But it feels good, at least for a moment—to hurt something, to break something, because everyone else feels so untouchable and invulnerable. 

And then the “moment” wears off, and you stare at the hole in the wall in horror. 

        On an endless plane of aquamarine bright particles listlessly waver about, and a person comes into view; a man! Brunette, not too tall, with a hint of scruff to his chin, clothed in garb fit for an adventurer you suppose. At your manipulation, the man transforms into a myriad of manifestations; a petite dragoness, a 6’9” hulking mass of musculature, a pint-sized gentlewoman, or perhaps… a cat?

        The current ephemeral setting strikes you as inappropriate, and at the mere thought suddenly you find yourself standing atop a windy cliff near the ocean - no, in the middle of a desert road. The sunlight is hard across the form’s shoulders, and a feeling of empathy takes you to the intimacy of what seems to be an inn room, dim flames flickering in their sconces and casting light about the wood panel walls. You believe this will do.

        You set about molding the appearance of the figure to your preference, such as clay in the experienced hands of a skilled artisan. Hair style and colour, skin tone, face structure, blemishes. All that which you wished you could choose from birth just as this being can; a part of you might even envy that. They experimentally vocalise, trialling a variation of pitch and cadence, motioning to themselves dramatically much like an actor on a theatre stage. They rage, cry, smile, and dance; you particularly enjoy the smiling.

        Satisfied with your handiwork, the form is rendered with a variety of weapons with accompanying attire, each suited to a diverse range of roles. Upon choosing one, you’re astonished to find you can even choose when they celebrate the day of their birth! As you feel yourself nearing the end of this experience, you are requested to name this new life, much like a parent might name a child. With a flourish the form is given a moniker, and they show their joy with a cheer, knowing no greater happiness than coming into existence; you might even envy this as well.

        It’s with this flourish that your creative work comes to an end. The form — the avatar — gives a warm gesture of farewell; there’s that parent and child feeling again. You wonder what awaits them, what adventures or trials they might encounter. You feel like it’s farewell, but for them it’s hello.

           The blood of a recently fallen town member stained the ground, etched into the delicate outlines of the pale bricks below the town’s feet. The corpse, still dressed in a tidy black suit and dress pants, was thrown onto the ground earlier that morning by the town’s medic. Tied around his neck was a brown bag now stained deep red, which presumably contained his head. Imprints of handcuffs lined his wrists, which were now lifeless and cold.

“Garrett…” The victim’s name escaped the lips of a few of the townspeople for the last time, in shock, in horror, in relief.

“Garrett Hyde was found dead in his home last night,” announced the medic nonchalantly, “he was executed by the Jailor. His role was the Godfather.”

Most of the townsfolk let out a sigh of relief or silently cheered to themselves. Hooray, the Godfather was dead! One less man to torment our lives and end the lives of those who we hold dear to our heart! However, on the opposite end of the town square, Jett’s world slowly fell apart.

“Boss…” was the only word he could manage to push out of his throat, and in his hands he wrung the tie that hung loosely over his white dress shirt. He couldn’t accept the fact that Garrett—no, his only father figure, was dead. And to think that he was killed by the kind of weak townie they usually swept through like nothing, that he was killed by the person they laugh at over dinner! Jett’s sullen eyes looked through the faces of all the townspeople until he spotted the face of his Blackmailer friend, her hand covering her mouth and her eyes widened in fear.

He then realized that Miriam was the only other Mafia member left with him. He was in charge now.

Jett spent the rest of the day in his own world. Everything was blurry and soon he stopped understanding what the others were saying, the other corpses he couldn’t bring himself to identify. All he could think about was what Garrett told him the other night.

“I don’t trust anyone more with the title of Godfather than I trust you, Stark,” he had said, his eyes serious as they held a firm focus on Jett. “Sure, Miriam is a great gal and I think she’d do great as Godfather, but I believe that with her blackmailing and your gunmanship you can lead this mafia to glory.”

“But…boss,” Jett had objected, “I’m…I’m not used to this gun thing. I’m better at analyzin’ and all, being a consigliere is what I’ve been training for all my life! I…I never thought I’d be havin’ to do the dirty work.”

Garrett placed his hands on Jett’s shoulders, sending shivers down the consigliere’s spine.

“Listen, Jett. I saw you out there training with your gun. You don’t take enough credit for your skill. I truly believe you can do it, you’re a sharp shooter.” Garrett was silent for a few seconds. “…I never wanted it to come to the point where you’d have to do the dirty work, buddy. But y’know, things happen, and sometimes the time a fellow mafia person has to step up and become Godfather creeps up on them faster than they think.”

“Wh…What do you mean?” Jett’s voice expressed concern.

“What I mean is that if the time ever comes, I just want you to know I believe you can do it. Don’t be afraid of taking my place. Take it as a chance to live on my legacy. And for the love of god, keep Miriam and all future mafia folk safe, alright?”

Jett nodded frantically. “Yes sir,” he said.

What Jett didn’t know was that this would be his final order from his Godfather. Garrett knew his time was running out.

Before he knew it, the day was over and the sun was slowly setting.

“Jett?” A familiar voice appeared near Jett, a hand reaching for his shoulder. Jett turned to the source—it was Miriam. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“…I’ve been ready,” Jett replied in a whisper. “Get the doc tonight. I’ll take care of things.”

“That’s it? No meeting or nothing?”

“That’s it. I have things to do tonight.”

Jett retreated into his home and breezed into his office, the one with paperwork and parchment notes cluttering the desks and floors. He shoved papers and notebooks off the top of his desk, mowed everything off of it until it was empty and everything was scattered on the floor in a big mess. He forced open a stubborn drawer and pulled out a black case that looked like it could contain an instrument, slammed it onto his desk. It took him a moment of nervous hesitation before he inhaled deeply and clicked open the case.

Resting in red velvet was his new gun, passed down by Garrett.

He took it in his hands, felt it, and remembered how it was like to fire it. His eyes lit up with anger, determination, a need to avenge his fallen mentor.

Fury guided his steps as he bust out of his house, gun tucked in his coat and hat tilted low to cast a shadow over his face; he headed towards the Jailor’s house with malice in his chest and a goal set in his mind.

When Reeve finishes throwing up, Veld is on the phone. “…still in the building,” he’s saying. “Tseng has taken the twins to a secure location; I’ll question Tuesti and see if he saw anything useful.”

…what?

Veld hangs up without a farewell, and his gaze immediately lands on Reeve. “Yes, you’re still alive,” he says. “You’re not a killer, Tuesti. Tell me what happened.”

There’s clear evidence to the contrary, but when the mental image helpfully presents itself, Reeve nearly vomits again.

Veld waits patiently for him to control himself, which is about when Reeve notices that the president’s body has been covered up with Veld and Tseng’s jackets.

Reeve takes a deep breath. “I… he discovered Regina and Rufus swapped places for the event tonight. His views on such things are— obsolete.”

Veld nods. “You’re not a man of violence, are you? You like to help, to make things.”

Confused, Reeve nods. He wonders what that has to do with—

“The old president was not a pacific man,” Beld continues on. “And as you noted, his views on the places of men and women were obsolete. He lashed out because Rufus was in his sister’s gown?”

Mouth dry, Reeve nods. “He’d already struck Regina for not— they’d managed to frustrate his matchmaking goals by sticking close to me. When he realized they had switched— it was too fast for me to stop it, Rufus was just— it’s a miracle he didn’t hit his head.”

“Tseng will remain with the twins while we wait for the paramedics to arrive,” Veld tells him, fairly gently. “Rufus has been placed under a Stop spell for the time being. Otherwise, the nearest medical facility is in Professor Hojo’s labs.”

Isn’t that illegal? Reeve almost asks, but stops. He’s only been to the labs briefly, a swift tour to help him understand the layout of Shinra Tower and how best to balance the lab’s power and mako requirements. He’d as soon never return, and the idea of either of the children there makes him shudder. Stasis is probably the best choice.

“Precisely,” Veld says, as though he’s divined Reeve’s thoughts. He examines Reeve for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. It’s more than long enough to make Reeve anxious again. He killed the president. Veld should have shot him then and there, and instead…

“Not an assassination,” Veld says, finally. “Too sloppy. An argument in front of the twins, perhaps, that got heated. You were ordered to take them out of the room. As they reached you, the assailant grabbed the president’s gun and shot him. He panicked and fled, striking the twins aside.”

It’s one thing to know that the Turks craft any story they please about the bodies inevitably left in their wake. It’s another thing entirely to know.

“But if Regina is questioned—” Reeve begins, only to be cut off by a raised eyebrow.

“Reggie will occupy herself at her brother’s side for the next few hours. More than enough time for the news to break about President Shinra’s death, and the capture of his attacker. Or at least the discovery of his body.” Reeve swallows  hard, uncertain if Veld means to produce a random body — or his own.

   “Constantin!” You shout, scrambling finally to your feet, but Constantin d’Orsay doesn’t answer you. He’s even smaller than you are, at this age; sheltered and fragile. His pale complexion, flaxen hair, and expressive green-gold eyes have always left you with the impression of a doll.

   There is nothing doll-like about him, now.

   Crouched atop your earlier assailant, Constantin’s arms are a frenetic blur. Wild and ineffectual though they might be for the most part, the boy beneath him has been given little recourse under the assault but to endure. His arms are raised up to protect his face, though you think you see a thick smear of blood trailing from his nose.

   “Constantin⎼!” Again you call him, and again he ignores you. By now you’ve got your feet beneath you well enough to close the distance between you.

   “If you so much as look at⎼!” Constantin warns, his voice cracking with the ferocity of the words that he rips from his throat, but you set a firm hand on his shoulder and he can no longer dismiss your call.

   “Cousin!” You insist, and your grip is firm on him as you loop your arm through his, tugging him to stand on shaking knees. His enraged expression faulters immediately as he meets your eyes with his, seeing the way your own features have twisted with concern. For more reasons than one.

   “I don’t know what came over me, I⎼” He stammers, colour draining from his face as realisation begins to dawn. You can see the way his gaze grows distant, his mind doubtlessly turning to thoughts of his father. You release him gently, though he protests at first, trying to cling to your ruffled doublet. A reassuring squeeze of his shoulder serves to placate him well enough to let you go.

   You turn and approach the boy who’s now been laid out. He seems to be recovering his wits much as you had earlier, and despite Constantin’s enthusiasm, his injuries are not severe. You’ve little experience in assessing these matters, but to your eyes it seems his nose might be rather more crooked than it had been when the day began, explaining the thick trail of blood leaking from his nostrils. Otherwise, you think perhaps blows may have clipped his cheek and chin, but they seemed superficial and would likely not even bruise.

   Withdrawing a handkerchief from your pocket, you extend it towards him.

   “My lord,” you say cautiously, as he flinches away from the motion, “if you would permit me⎼”

   “Stay away from me!” There it is again; fear. Bright and obvious in his eyes as much as it is in his voice, and you lower your arm, resigned. You weigh your options. With your white flag rebuffed, much as you would have preferred a peaceable solution sooner rather than later, given hard feelings like these left to stew, you already know you’re left with only the option to withdraw. You’re keenly aware of the eyes on you⎼and on Constantin, in particular⎼so let it be said that it was not you who departed with hostility.

   “As you wish,” you say gently, and you turn to Constantin with all the poise you can muster. It almost fails you when you see the look on his face. He’s afraid, and while you know he isn’t of you, to see it mirrored in his expression nevertheless makes you pause. He must have seen something reflected in your own features (you haven’t mastered the art of a courtly mask yet, either, as much as you would like to think you have) because he all but bounds back to your side, an eager smile swallowing all his doubts.

   “Let us away, my dear cousin,” his eyes flick to your lips, and your tongue laps reflexively at the gash within, “it seems we’ve all wounds to lick.” His hand closes around yours as he hurries the pair of you away from the courtyard, away from the prying eyes of the court, and away from the young man they’d left sitting on the cobbles.

***

   You run hand in hand through corridors, past startled staff, and down too many flights of stairs to count until all that lights your way down the dark, cramped hallways are candlelit sconces. Constantin takes a sharp turn and drags you with him, throwing open the heavy door that had been nestled around the corner. It startles the singular clerk who had been sifting through the archives, her strangled yelp causing both you and Constantin to break into brittle, nervous laughter.

   “Leave us, if you would, good madame,” He declares, the pompous affectation in his voice completely ruined by the way his chest heaves with his effort to catch his breath. He sweeps you behind him and out of the way with the same arm he uses to gesture the clerk out the door.

    “Your excellencies--” She sputters, and it’s easy to see she’s flustered and confused at the sight of the pair of noble children clearly having been up to some troublemaking given their mutual state of dishevelment, and the small matter of blood on your chin. You offer her your most charming smile, though your lip twinges in protest, from over Constantin’s shoulder.

  “We are but playing a game, madame. Tell no one you have seen us, lest you cause us to forfeit the sweets we were promised for winning!”

   You watch as her hesitation gives way to resignation; she could no more deny the children of d’Orsay and de Sardet than she could deny their parents. Let those who should have been minding them take responsibility for their mischief; she would not.

   “As you say, your excellencies. I wish you the best of luck with your game,” she dips her head politely, collects the ledgers she had been perusing, and sees herself out of the room. You wait until you can no longer hear the shuffle of her footsteps before closing the door, and you let out your breath in a sudden rush; you didn’t realise you’d been holding it in.

    Echoing your heavy sigh of relief, Constantin sinks into the chair the clerk had vacated, and he meets your gaze as you turn around and lean weightily against the door. A grin tugs on his lips, eventually lighting up his youthful face as a laugh escapes him, and you feel one of your own bubbling uncontrollably out of your chest. In an instant you’re laughing along uproariously, dispelling the anxious tension that had threatened to grow between you.

    Yours ends abruptly with another wince as your teeth catch the gash they had opened in your flesh, and your split lip pulses in the wake of a grin that had pulled it too wide. Your fingers touch gingerly to the sore, flakes of blood that had already dried coming away with a fresh splotch of crimson on your fingertips. In the time it’s taken you to investigate your wound, you’re aware that Constantin has risen from his seat and made his way to you.

    “My dear cousin,” he says, his hand extending almost as if to reach for your face, but you turn your head to shy away, briefly mortified at the idea of having your blood on his hands.

    “Whatever am I to do with you?” His hand still hovers between you, and it’s then that you realise his knuckles are reddened and abraised, though thankfully only one had split. The one that had broken the young Guillaume’s nose, no doubt. Your concern softens your affront at his words.

   “With me?” You repeat, incredulous nevertheless. Your unsullied hand snatches at his wrist and waves it gently before his eyes, “Constantin, he was near to double the size of you!”

   Constantin scoffs dismissively. “My father would have had his head had he dared lay a hand on me.” You can see straight through his feigned indifference as his voice warbles gently at the slightest mention of the Prince d’Orsay; you both know there will be consequences for these events as much as your cousin seems determined to deny it, “And he impugned your honour, I could hardly let it stand!”

   “My honour,” you start, but the rest of the words catch in your throat as your eyes meet. His is an intense look for all his youthful features, and you realise, suddenly, you’re treading on precarious ground. He’s waiting, you realise, for something specific, and for once his expressive face gives nothing away. The feeling of teetering on a precipice from which there was no return sends you scrambling back for a common ground between you.

   “Oh, Constantin,” you sigh, your affection⎼albeit exasperated in the moment⎼plain in your voice, “whatever am I to do with you?” He searches your gaze, and whatever storm had been brewing behind his greenish gaze subsides. 

   “First, we must make a merry plan! Raid the pantries, the closets, the barracks! We must make ready to abscond into the night ahead of my father catching wind, you see.” He dances away from you to gesture theatrically with his words, mischief creeping back into his expression;  you can still see the shadows of dread that remain in his eyes. You open your mouth to jokingly suggest you make for Thélème⎼perhaps the father that frequents court, Petrus, you think, can be convinced to smuggle the pair of you from the city⎼but the door rattles behind you and sweeps inward, forcing both you and Constantin to step out of the way before you’re caught by it.

   “...Monsieur de Courcillon!” You exclaim, your eyes going wide. Instinctively, almost, your steps have placed you protectively between your professor and Constantin.

   “I do hope I misheard you, Excellency.” His voice carries a tired note of inevitability.

   “I take full responsibility for this, professor,” the words are spilling from your lips without you missing a beat. Your head lowers as your gaze falls to the floor, but Sir de Courcillon’s hand rises to grip your chin lightly, turning your face that he might examine your injury. You see what might be a flicker of pity in his gaze, and your cheeks warm with shame, your eyes sliding from his.

   “Your mother worries for you, my young student. Please, go to her posthaste and relieve that burden on her heart.” De Courcillon’s gaze shifts to Constantin, and you don’t need to be looking at him to know he shrinks beneath it.

   “Your father has likewise requested your presence, your excellency.”

   “Of course, monsieur.” To his credit, Constantin masters his anxiety and steps past you, though he turns to glance your way once he’s through the door.

    “Until tomorrow, dear cousin!”

    “Until then,” you say, mustering an encouraging smile that you can only hope reaches your eyes. Your professor gives you a nod of seeming approval and turns to escort Constantin to the Prince, leaving you in the silence of the archives.