#character exposition

June, 1996

Ruck took the stairs slowly with his cigarette clenched between his teeth. At the bottom, he shifted his gig bag and backpack on his shoulder and stared into the wet morning fog. 

His life unfurled ahead of him; a flat, unbending, and featureless road.

There was no sidewalk, so he walked in the overgrown bluegrass. He headed west, toward the Styx River, because why the fuck not? It felt as if he had been borne into this world just then, disconnected from the brief and meaningless past before Decatur. He had nothing now but his baggage, which guided him like a migratory instinct toward one of the last places he had been besides home.

THEME

When Jupiter collides with autumn, a single moment is born between two entities. Equal harmonies with balance, dancing along a fine line of too far and too near, of brightest and dimmest, of perfect alignment. People say that on an equinox, the sky divides into two parts, golden light and silver darkness.

For Damian Wayne, it meant heading to the rooftop instead of sleeping peacefully in his bed, staring at the sky, but not seeing anything. His eyes would remain blank as they stared up at the twinkling stars almost covered by the rancid smog. He learned at too young of an age that life was not about myths and fairytales, but of monsters in the form of flesh and bone which held their smiles on their face and their daggers in your back.

The equinox meant facing the demons of his past.

He always knew he was never the best person. He wouldn't ever be as selfless as Dick, he wouldn't be as level-headed as Tim, or even as passionate as Jason. He wouldn't have his father's ingrained need to help the dying cesspool they lived in, and he would never have Alfred's heaven-bound level of patience. There would always be that selfish, rash, cold-hearted, narcissistic, impatient prince lying inside of him, waiting to rear its foul head. It surfaced every second he held a blade in his hand, at every mob member terrorizing innocents and criminals alike, every abuser, every villain. A voice inside him purred to rid the world of their filth, of their moral grime. And every single time, it grew louder and louder and louder and louder.

Each time a criminal escaped through his grasp was another chip in his fortitude.

Each time an innocent civilian broke a smile at him, only to die minutes later from an explosion was a stab in the wall between morally good and vengeance.

For every stabbing heart, for every gutless cry of a mother who lost their child.

Wouldn't it be so much easier to erase them before they could commit such barbarisms?

The cold kissed his cheeks, so much like a viper's poison, and he shook his head, banishing the thought from his mind. Ah, she's still inside my head.

Maybe symphonies are built on a beautiful melody. However, the melody would never work if they worked on different concepts. The one his father blasted into his mind was a righteous march, darker in tone than most melodies, but an overarching victory for Good reigned. It taught him patience, morals, ethics, light against darkness.

But, his mother taught him the cellist's devil nature. The darker tones, the echoing, vibrating puppet master giving the audience the illusion that the melody is in control, but in reality, all the melody can do is fall victim to the villainous, tragic whirlpool of misery, murder, and fascist brutality. She placed the blade in his hand, had him earn her love through feats of glorious atrocities, built him up from the ground up into the perfect weapon, too jagged and unpredictable to be used for Good, but whittled down, rusted and corrupted for far too long to be remolded into something useful.

Now, he didn't know where he belonged. Did his melody rise above the dark cello nurtured in him? Or will the melody drown under the alluring, tempest bass driven through his heart, buried deeper than the center of the Earth?

The wind, maybe sensing his demise, could do nothing but blow harder to calm his feverish head filled with questions he could not answer. The somber cold stung the sweet chapped lips all too used to the desert's ice and fire of his childhood, but it stung more bitterly as the North Atlantic ocean blew in the new change in season. Gotham was an outlier. A ghost town of improbabilities and plausibility all clashed together to create a cesspool of madness, hate, and impossibilities.

He wondered why his father, or his ancestors before him, would ever want to stay in a city like this for the rest of their rich, detached lives. Why they would ever choose to spend their lives in this miserable landfill, giving what they have to make the ever-draining city a better place. Why they gaze at the buildings and streets with fond gazes. Why they find it so easy to smile at a Gotham native without feeling like they will get a knife's edge poking their sternum the moment they show their backs.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he cursed God that he was not given this ingrained sense of belonging and mercy to Gotham like all of his family before him.

Pages rustled on in the breeze, and, by miraculous luck, the cover tipped open. Blue light shone through the darkness beyond his closed eyelids, but he did not notice beyond the salty river squeezing through the crevice.

"S'il te plaît, ne me dis pas que tu pleures." Please, don't tell me you're crying. Soft French carried over the quiet din. "I never know what to do when you are crying."

He pried his eyes open, and a vision filled his eyes. A girl, no older than he was, but with a more youthful smile cracked in sorrow, dressed in a midnight blue evening gown glowing in the darkness, blowing in the wind to its own rhythm as it reflected the stars ten times brighter than Gotham Fair's lights. She floated over the torn book of ancient Tibetan magic he brought with him that night, just like he did every solstice, her legs crossed underneath her in an informal squat. Cheeks blossomed like dusky luminescent wisteria, and constellations made of stars brighter than Rigel lost across the bridge of her nose. Her blue crown of hair burned a halo around her, framing bluebell eyes that looked older than a thousand of his lifetimes staring deep into his own green eyes.

The only word he could say was, "Marinette."

Her grin made his heart's symphony subito pianissimo. "Hi, Damian. Happy Autumn Solstice."

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not me wanting to make this a full fic ;v; (hence the chapter title "theme")

Some researchs of Anya’s and Leaf’s clothes. (For Artbook)

Leaf is also an Ethnel, like the other Leaf (that name is really popular in their society)

The black clothes means Warrior, the blue Adventurer, the orange Artist, and the green Ethnel.

Anya is black, blue and orange. She’s an incredibly skilled warrior, part of the most reknowned team of adventurers. She dance in her spare time.

Springer was something different. He wasn't even from the same reality. Yet he was made up of the stuff of nightmares, even for them. What should he do? What could he even really do? He throws a piece of slag metal into his crucible. Shoving it into the heat of his forge. Watching it with slumped pauldrons. Primus he felt crazy. Jackie was beautiful- more beautiful than nearly any other mecha he'd met in his home reality. The confidence, the power, the competence... that smirk would drive him up a wall with desire. The smallest glance could make him weak. The playful barbs made his spark warm. The times Jackie looked at him like an enemy though...? Like a threat? He thumps against his chest with a fist. The torque and pain in his spark casing nearly unbearable. Springer pulls the crucible out with his tongues, then pours it into a waiting mold. Giving the slag purpose and shape. That's what Springer wanted. That's what he had been... 'designed' for. To learn. To grow. To be something new and different. Something - something- Springer didn't even know. What WAS he? Prowl and Tara had given him the idea but at the same time. He had left their sight and their servos. His growth was uncontrolled. His nature unchecked. The 'experiment' had gone wild huh? He dumps the metal from the mold while its still malleable. Starting to hammer away at it. Just the motion helps. The repetition is soothing. The way it vibrates his frame is calming. The control helps his processor. He is totally in control of this moment, of this object, of his own actions here. What could- or could not be. He had no control over that. He could not control others. He could not control reality. Springer could only control himself: action and reaction right? Springer could and would control himself. He would continue to be himself. If he was anything less, it would be lying. Springer couldn't lie to someone like Wheeljack. Not only would it destroy Wheeljack's fragile trust, it would destroy Springer from the inside out to be something he was not. Then it would all crumple apart. The metal lays paper thin on his anvil now. Wafer thin even, his finger tips pinch it, drawing it with care and patience from where it lay and moving it to his detailing table. Smoothing it out with careful presses. Then weighing the corners with glass weights. His stencil etches out the designs. Then he lays an acid washed dagger over it. The metal of the damask undulates with the forging pattern. Once the thin metal is adhered on each side he carries the blade to the forge. Thrusting it in briefly, experience guides him here. Then pulling it out to quench it in oil. Humming as he pulls it free. 'Semper Fidelus' - " Always Faithful " One word on each side of the blade, following the ridge line down. He sits down to begin the careful buff and sharpening. Feeling... not better. But settled again in his frame. He could only be Springer. His loyalty, his faith, his very being... Springer would not change it. He could not change it. So he would keep it on his pauldron. He would stay until Wheeljack sent him away. Even then, he would stay in his orbit unless Wheeljack made it clear that Springer was truly unwelcome and unwanted. Only then, only then would he give up.

Money doesn’t buy you happiness, but it can easily buy you companionship and excitement. And that’s all Li Jie wanted. Happiness was some idealistic concept, while adrenaline was tangible. Gambling was a rush, fighting was moreso, and manipulating the collapse of his “close” circle of friends, turning them all against each other or trapping them in socially destructive situations they couldn’t escape, that was fun. That was rewarding. Plus, he could always buy more friends, and buy the ex’s silence. As long as he had money to spend, people would be inevitably drawn to him. His looks didn’t hurt either. He’d once been told by a (very flirtatious) bartender that he was “just the right level of masculine, with a pretty, disarming face”. He thought that was an oddly poetic way to describe anyone. He was just good-looking. He had worked to tone his muscles sure, and he knew he was also naturally gifted with pleasant features. He understood that he was attractive. But everyone kept telling him, describing his body as if he didn’t already know what he looked like, as if he didn’t see his reflection every day. You’re so pretty, with your strong eyebrows and soft jaw, I wish I had a face like yours. Your eyes are a striking dark brown, they look almost black- I feel like you can see into the deepest parts of my soul. Your teeth are just shy of too perfect, your shoulders are broad and emphasize your waist, your dark tan skin is so even, you’re so tall... It became annoying after a while, honestly, but people who liked him for his looks were easier to find (and manipulate) than those who liked him for his personality. 

He’d been using used his looks to his advantage since he was just a little heir-to-be, not even 4 and his father had already taught him a multitude of ways to get what he wanted. (So proud of his little heir, his little copy-paste son.) Then came the teenage years, the inevitable pushback to his dad’s authority, and suddenly all the little things his father had taught him were used in (comparatively) undesirable ways. After a few years of rebellion, his father doing everything he could to “set him on the right path”, Li Jie realized that as long as he didn’t completely ruin his public image, he was still going to inherit everything. He had good business sense, was skilled at tempting others with deals that only seemed too good to be true, and was one of the few people privy to the more unsavory deals his father’s company had made. And he was his father’s only son after all.

Later on, Li Jie would realize he had become too complacent, he’d been having too much fun out in the world within his own circles and wasn’t paying attention to his father’s social antics. But in those few weeks, he was just grateful for the unexplained ebb in his father’s constant pestering. Then, at a large company function just a few months before Li Jie’s 22nd birthday, his father, wearing that disarming smile he wore when watching a client sign a contract, called for attention. He announced publicly that his son, Li Jie, heir to his company, had fallen in love- and was going to marry the beautiful daughter of his closest friend and business partner as soon as he was legally able to. The applause was genuine, his father was not. Li Jie stood up (smile matching his father’s), turned to the lady who’d been sitting to his left, kissed her hand, and decided he hated them both.

Li Jie was trapped. He couldn’t expose his father’s lie without discrediting him (and therefore the company he still hoped to inherit). He couldn’t call off the marriage without damaging his ties to the company’s closest ally. No matter how he thought about it, he couldn’t see a way out, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to find one. Unfortunately, his father seemed to realize just how far he was willing to go to avoid the marriage. Before Li Jie could prepare any sort of revenge or counter-plan, She moved in. The family’s house was big enough to house her in her own wing, but his father obviously thought his son would give in with enough pressure, as her things were put in the room immediately adjacent to his own. But never let it be said Li Jie’d go down without a fight.

He couldn’t count the amount of girls he’d brought home, only to “accidentally” leave evidence of his forays strewn about for his fiancee to find. He didn’t sleep with all of them, he didn’t really want to, but he made sure to make it look like he did. He hoped that his openly cheating would throw her off. It turned out she was just as stubborn about this marriage as his father, but she still made it abundantly clear she didn’t appreciate his childishness. He left his room in shambles every night he could, clothes not his own thrown over his bedposts, half drunk beer littering the floor, and leave the door open, hoping she’d see. Hoping she’d just leave. Then she’d send in a maid to clean up an hour before sunrise, and by the time he finally woke up for work, she’d be smiling in his doorway, glass of water and painkiller in hand, asking about his night. It was as infuriating as it was passive-aggressive.

He spent less and less time at home, heading out immediately after work, moving from one bar to the next until he was barely sober enough to hail a taxi back before he’d pass out until business began the next day. He was losing his touch, with people and with reality. He distanced himself from a few friends before he meant to, and he didn’t pay some enough to keep their mouths shut about his drinking habits. His father eventually told the house staff to keep him at home when he wasn’t working. The house’s bar was stocked well enough anyways.

He felt trapped in his own life. His room was infuriatingly clean every morning, his business activities were repetitive and aggravating, and his nights were filled with alcohol-fueled rages against the people who’d outwitted him, betrayed him, left him behind. When his thoughts strayed to the irony of it all, how he’d wrought much of his torment himself, those were the nights he drank most of all. And through this all, the wedding approached.

When Li Jie felt it, the passage, the opportunity, the escape, he decided he’d rather leave than deal with his life as it was. He spent the night sober for the first time in weeks, planning how to best leave his life behind. Should he fake his death? Too dramatic, he didn’t want his father to turn it into a publicity opportunity. Release the records of every illegal deal his father had made? No, knowing his father, he’d find a way to blame hackers or an unhappy ex-partner. He decided on a middle ground. He sent off the records, encrypted of course, to the people who’d stuck with him the longest, telling them they’d be able to decode it in due time. He told them there’d be an email with the key sent out in a few weeks, a few months, a year, and when they got it to sell off the information to the highest bidder. Don’t take less than ten times the first offer.

The next morning Li Jie was still up 2 hours before sunrise, meticulously and quietly destroying everything in his room, ripping the pillows, cutting the mattress open, pouring the wine he didn’t drink the night before over the name brand clothes piled in the center of the room. He left his laptop intact, throwing it underneath the remains of his mattress. That thing needed to stay hidden at least long enough for him to leave. Then his father could tear apart the room looking for him, for signs, trying to find why his only son had left everything he’d ever given him. Then he’d find the laptop. He’d read the only file saved on it, read it and try to understand his runaway son’s feelings. Then he’d regret everything he’d done. At least, Ji Lie hoped he’d regret it. He hoped his father would care at all.

Li Jie escaped his house through the garden door, strolling with purpose and silent footsteps past the marble sculptures he’d longed to touch as a child, past the ornate wooden doors and archways that led to parts of the house he never cared to visit. He carefully threaded his way through the colorful flowers and out-of-season fruit trees until he got to the fence, climbed over, and traced the outer wall of his ex-home until he finally saw something that didn’t belong to his father.

He followed the main street for a while, conspicuous in his high collared black trenchcoat, but he’d rather be noticed than recognized. He headed towards where he knew it was, turning left down a small alley, and stopped underneath the uncharacteristically raised ladder of the fire escape behind one of his old haunts. Eyes darting about, he spied a few cardboard boxes piled in the corner, one collapsed from the water dripping onto it from the gutter above, but the others appearing sturdy enough. He dragged them where they needed to be, carefully stepping up, and leapt as high as he could- barely managing to grab the lowest rung. He was grateful his muscles hadn’t degenerated too much despite his recent less-than-healthy habits, and pulled himself up.

When he reached the roof, he saw it. Or rather.... he felt it? It was invisible, but he could feel a sort of a heat emanating from the far edge of the building, and there was a definite distortion of light in the shape of a vertically stretched oval. It was reminiscent of a large lens, with the image showing through it seemingly twice as close as it should be. Li Jie thought it fascinating, zig zagging to watch the image showing through it stretch as he approached it, before he realized he’d have to walk through it. No, scratch that, he’d have to jump. There was no way about it; although it had appeared to be on the roof when he first peeked over the top of the fire escape, it was definitely hanging suspended in space at least 2 meters away from the furthest point Li Jie could reach. Shit.

He considered going home for all of 5 seconds before he reminded himself he’d already sent out the emails. Sure he could cancel the ones yet to be sent out, the ones with the keys, but the files were out there- and they would be cracked eventually, with or without his help.

There was no going back.

He breathed deeply, stretching his legs, cracking his back, and stepped back a few paces. It shouldn’t be too difficult, he encouraged himself, he should be able to reach it easily, he’d done similar stunts before when he was still allowed outside. But the thought of jumping off the roof with absolutely nothing to catch him if he missed.... well at least his father’d suffer socially from losing a son to suicide.

He laughed frantically, the familiar and sorely missed fight or flight kicking in. This was crazy. He was crazy. He dropped his coat to the ground, relishing in the feel of the cool air on his sweating body, the freedom of being out of the house on his own again, the adrenaline coursing through his limbs, his brain, the rush. It had been way too long. He’d almost forgotten how great it felt to live. He took a running stance, left leg behind him, lined up, and pushed. His feet hit the cement below rhythmically. Go faster. Left. Right. Left. Faster. Right, left, right left right left-

I have been resisting writing this post, as has my companion. But Voldraq and the others say it needs to be done and they are demanding that we write it since we have the most experience with him.

Let’s get this over with then.