[fic] [yst] Other Side | gen, PG for language
just wrote this out on a whim. alternate universe: kaos dies after trapping arago, but not before sealing away the armor and improperly planting the virtues in the streams of blood and time. hence, the troopers' virtues are corrupted, making them completely different people, prone more to their dark sides than to their light.
there is a part 2 of this, where their armors recognize them as soon as they prove that they are capable of embodying the complete opposite of their virtues - meaning as soon as they realize that they are, in fact, evil little fuckers. and arago appears.
but i don't think i'll write that out. i don't want another novel on my hands right now.
Other Side
rei
Some would say grace is a natural result of contentment. Some believe grace only happens to people who are lucky enough to have everything - good looks, talent, love, money. Especially money.
So no one really knew what made this boy, the luckiest boy in the world, turn away from it all. He had so much, and he just said "screw it" and ran.
Perhaps it was simply an unfortunate combination of teenage hormones and his family's strict upbringing. But those who knew him would not be so certain. He was always so unhappy for no reason - always so angry.
He would live for the chase, the rush, the artificial high; drugs, alcohol, violence, sex, you name the vice, he's tried it all. He would test his own limits in everything, from patience to courage, from endurance to speed. Two hundred miles per hour down all the roads he finds, never stopping, never slowing down, as if afraid he would lose sight of whatever it is he pursues.
Still, he finds himself with friends, or people who call themselves his friends, without caring that he doesn't give a shit about them. People who worship him without knowing why. Minions might be a better term for them - or hangers-on, groupies, whatever you call those in love with a person on whom society's rules have little hold. Though he never notices, everything about him is mesmerizing. They will follow him to the ends of the earth for a smile, a pat on the back, a stray "thank you," which will never come. And they know it.
They see him plunging headon into a knife fight laughing as if he can never die. They see him alone on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind that would finally knock him off his feet and launch him into the darkness below.
They follow him anyway.
chi
No one ever actually thinks to use the word "mad." "Mad" is not the word to be used to describe him. Cold, perhaps, and unfeeling, but never insane, never not deliberate.
At the age of 9, he discovers the cure for a new strain of flu virus by testing a homemade serum on his own hometown - whose water supply he infected with the strain in the first place, though it is suspected but never proven. At 11, he discovers that fiber optic technology can simulate the intricate motions of a small bird's wing, which he discovered after ripping off the wings of a sparrow that had the misfortune of landing on his windowsill. At 14 he is in college, debunking theories and devising new theorems and sending the scientific and mathematical communities into an uproar on a nearly regular basis. He is now 16 and about to graduate, and keeping his plans for the future for himself.
Everyone knows he will take over the world when he is older. It is only a matter of time. He can speak five languages, has memorized an entire encyclopedia set, has won every academic contest he has joined since he was born. He could find the cure for cancer if he wants to, but he doesn't want to; he says there are other things to study that are far more interesting.
After all, death is just the world's way of keeping the ecology balanced. He tells you that you are nothing more than a heavy bag of atoms and this means your life is no more precious than a plankton's or an ant's. The existence of the soul cannot be logicaly proven, and therefore it does not exist. As he speaks, he looks straight into your eyes.
People never say "mad." They say, instead, "lonely." Left alone too many times, left to his own devices. Unaware that there are things he is not, should not be capable of doing.
Without joy, without feeling anything at all, he knows, and he shows it. This is how you turn the world on its head. Look. Look how easy.
gi
He was never much of an older brother. They wonder if it was because one of his younger siblings was killed when he was small, making them five when they should have been six. Since then, it seems, he has changed.
His laugh, for one thing, is different; it used to be so infectious and carefree. Now it simply is.
He keeps to himself, holding people at a distance. Not even his family can reach him, or love him much where he has placed himself. He takes what he wants and laughs at you if you try to take it back. He can hurt you, and badly, if you get in his way. It is perhaps a good thing that very few people dare to get in his way.
You see, he is strong. Stronger than a lot of other people, certainly tougher and more frightening if he wants to be. And he seldom wants to be. He just doesn't care much, and he'll say so even if you ask him. There's nothing to care about.
At 16 he knows about the world; there are things you can no longer tell him. Go on and try. Tell him he's being looked up to and he can use his strength for good. Tell him that when something goes wrong, it's not always anyone's fault. Tell him that baby sisters shouldn't die because drug addicts grab them while they're playing in the street, hold them hostage, and stab them repeatedly when one of the police negotiators makes the mistake of taking a step forward.
He will laugh at you. He will leave you to your delusions. And if you call to him for help, he will shrug and turn away. So what if he's needed? So what if it's not fair?
Too bad, small fry. Nothing's fair.
shin
He was born with dark green eyes and a smile that could disarm nations. No one can remember now when it began, but all anyone knows for sure is that at 16, there isn't anyone in his immediate vicinity he hasn't swindled out of something or other - and some, he's even ripping off on a regular basis.
No one can hate him for it. How can they? Lying is an art he has perfected. Those dark green eyes will look at you unwavering and tell you anything you want to hear. And anything you want to hear is whatever he wants to say to you.
He seldom opens his mouth, but when he does, it seems the whole world falls away. And it's just you and he and the message he wants to get across, the reassuring music of his voice. You have really pretty lips. Has anyone told you that you look like that movie star? Oh, is it all right if I take this? Hey, would it be okay if you paid this time? I'll pay you back. You know I'm good for it.
People laugh and say it's just that he's a born salesman. He'll get far in life, for sure, with that talent.
But no one knows about the kindergartener he'd conned into stealing church donations - whose family had to move away when he was finally caught. Or about the lonely old lady he visits, who gives him money for spending five minutes a day with her, just talking. Or about the fact that he's skipping class and failing all his high school exams. Any fix he gets into, he either gets away with, or talks himself out of. Give him an hour with his teacher and he'll have those failing marks reversed. Give him a moment, officer, and he'll prove to you he has no idea who this woman is, and why she's dragging him around town, taking him to establishments he's still too young to enter.
Listen to what people tell you about him. Learn all his names: dream stealer. Horse dealer. Heartbreaker. Don't trust him. As long as you have anything to give, he will take.
jin
It was because his parents weren't around while he was growing up, people said, and no one ever taught him the value of things. As if not having a conscience was a natural offshoot of not having parents around to make sure you have one.
Life is just not valuable to him. In the long run, what is life anyway? You're born, you reproduce, you die. The strong eat the weak. The weak huddle together for warmth and share resources not out of kindness, but out of pure need to survive.
In the end, life is just this: things without value. Without permanence.
Sheep. That is what he calls the people who tried to take him down. That is what he calls the lost youths who follow him, this dark heartless boy who uses them without care. If he told them to charge at an armed enemy with their bare fists, they would. If he told them to kill each other, they would. For such is their nature.
A natural bully, he's been called: strong, savage, magnetic.
No one calls him a "gang leader", though that is what anyone would call someone else in his position. He does not lead; he is followed. He has no responsibility to the youths who find comfort in huddling together in his shadow, who find some sort of pathetic purpose in joining his fights as if they were their own.
At an early age he dropped out of school and left home - but "home" was mostly empty anyway. His mother was dead and his father never looked for him. And no one wondered why.
He thrives on cruelty. He lives for it. For all that he believes everything in the world is fleeting, everything has an end, the bloodlust and the pleasure he derives from watching something else suffer makes each moment of his own existence matter.
It sets something off in his head: something loud and urgent. At times it feels like he himself is screaming.
there is a part 2 of this, where their armors recognize them as soon as they prove that they are capable of embodying the complete opposite of their virtues - meaning as soon as they realize that they are, in fact, evil little fuckers. and arago appears.
but i don't think i'll write that out. i don't want another novel on my hands right now.
Other Side
rei
Some would say grace is a natural result of contentment. Some believe grace only happens to people who are lucky enough to have everything - good looks, talent, love, money. Especially money.
So no one really knew what made this boy, the luckiest boy in the world, turn away from it all. He had so much, and he just said "screw it" and ran.
Perhaps it was simply an unfortunate combination of teenage hormones and his family's strict upbringing. But those who knew him would not be so certain. He was always so unhappy for no reason - always so angry.
He would live for the chase, the rush, the artificial high; drugs, alcohol, violence, sex, you name the vice, he's tried it all. He would test his own limits in everything, from patience to courage, from endurance to speed. Two hundred miles per hour down all the roads he finds, never stopping, never slowing down, as if afraid he would lose sight of whatever it is he pursues.
Still, he finds himself with friends, or people who call themselves his friends, without caring that he doesn't give a shit about them. People who worship him without knowing why. Minions might be a better term for them - or hangers-on, groupies, whatever you call those in love with a person on whom society's rules have little hold. Though he never notices, everything about him is mesmerizing. They will follow him to the ends of the earth for a smile, a pat on the back, a stray "thank you," which will never come. And they know it.
They see him plunging headon into a knife fight laughing as if he can never die. They see him alone on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind that would finally knock him off his feet and launch him into the darkness below.
They follow him anyway.
chi
No one ever actually thinks to use the word "mad." "Mad" is not the word to be used to describe him. Cold, perhaps, and unfeeling, but never insane, never not deliberate.
At the age of 9, he discovers the cure for a new strain of flu virus by testing a homemade serum on his own hometown - whose water supply he infected with the strain in the first place, though it is suspected but never proven. At 11, he discovers that fiber optic technology can simulate the intricate motions of a small bird's wing, which he discovered after ripping off the wings of a sparrow that had the misfortune of landing on his windowsill. At 14 he is in college, debunking theories and devising new theorems and sending the scientific and mathematical communities into an uproar on a nearly regular basis. He is now 16 and about to graduate, and keeping his plans for the future for himself.
Everyone knows he will take over the world when he is older. It is only a matter of time. He can speak five languages, has memorized an entire encyclopedia set, has won every academic contest he has joined since he was born. He could find the cure for cancer if he wants to, but he doesn't want to; he says there are other things to study that are far more interesting.
After all, death is just the world's way of keeping the ecology balanced. He tells you that you are nothing more than a heavy bag of atoms and this means your life is no more precious than a plankton's or an ant's. The existence of the soul cannot be logicaly proven, and therefore it does not exist. As he speaks, he looks straight into your eyes.
People never say "mad." They say, instead, "lonely." Left alone too many times, left to his own devices. Unaware that there are things he is not, should not be capable of doing.
Without joy, without feeling anything at all, he knows, and he shows it. This is how you turn the world on its head. Look. Look how easy.
gi
He was never much of an older brother. They wonder if it was because one of his younger siblings was killed when he was small, making them five when they should have been six. Since then, it seems, he has changed.
His laugh, for one thing, is different; it used to be so infectious and carefree. Now it simply is.
He keeps to himself, holding people at a distance. Not even his family can reach him, or love him much where he has placed himself. He takes what he wants and laughs at you if you try to take it back. He can hurt you, and badly, if you get in his way. It is perhaps a good thing that very few people dare to get in his way.
You see, he is strong. Stronger than a lot of other people, certainly tougher and more frightening if he wants to be. And he seldom wants to be. He just doesn't care much, and he'll say so even if you ask him. There's nothing to care about.
At 16 he knows about the world; there are things you can no longer tell him. Go on and try. Tell him he's being looked up to and he can use his strength for good. Tell him that when something goes wrong, it's not always anyone's fault. Tell him that baby sisters shouldn't die because drug addicts grab them while they're playing in the street, hold them hostage, and stab them repeatedly when one of the police negotiators makes the mistake of taking a step forward.
He will laugh at you. He will leave you to your delusions. And if you call to him for help, he will shrug and turn away. So what if he's needed? So what if it's not fair?
Too bad, small fry. Nothing's fair.
shin
He was born with dark green eyes and a smile that could disarm nations. No one can remember now when it began, but all anyone knows for sure is that at 16, there isn't anyone in his immediate vicinity he hasn't swindled out of something or other - and some, he's even ripping off on a regular basis.
No one can hate him for it. How can they? Lying is an art he has perfected. Those dark green eyes will look at you unwavering and tell you anything you want to hear. And anything you want to hear is whatever he wants to say to you.
He seldom opens his mouth, but when he does, it seems the whole world falls away. And it's just you and he and the message he wants to get across, the reassuring music of his voice. You have really pretty lips. Has anyone told you that you look like that movie star? Oh, is it all right if I take this? Hey, would it be okay if you paid this time? I'll pay you back. You know I'm good for it.
People laugh and say it's just that he's a born salesman. He'll get far in life, for sure, with that talent.
But no one knows about the kindergartener he'd conned into stealing church donations - whose family had to move away when he was finally caught. Or about the lonely old lady he visits, who gives him money for spending five minutes a day with her, just talking. Or about the fact that he's skipping class and failing all his high school exams. Any fix he gets into, he either gets away with, or talks himself out of. Give him an hour with his teacher and he'll have those failing marks reversed. Give him a moment, officer, and he'll prove to you he has no idea who this woman is, and why she's dragging him around town, taking him to establishments he's still too young to enter.
Listen to what people tell you about him. Learn all his names: dream stealer. Horse dealer. Heartbreaker. Don't trust him. As long as you have anything to give, he will take.
jin
It was because his parents weren't around while he was growing up, people said, and no one ever taught him the value of things. As if not having a conscience was a natural offshoot of not having parents around to make sure you have one.
Life is just not valuable to him. In the long run, what is life anyway? You're born, you reproduce, you die. The strong eat the weak. The weak huddle together for warmth and share resources not out of kindness, but out of pure need to survive.
In the end, life is just this: things without value. Without permanence.
Sheep. That is what he calls the people who tried to take him down. That is what he calls the lost youths who follow him, this dark heartless boy who uses them without care. If he told them to charge at an armed enemy with their bare fists, they would. If he told them to kill each other, they would. For such is their nature.
A natural bully, he's been called: strong, savage, magnetic.
No one calls him a "gang leader", though that is what anyone would call someone else in his position. He does not lead; he is followed. He has no responsibility to the youths who find comfort in huddling together in his shadow, who find some sort of pathetic purpose in joining his fights as if they were their own.
At an early age he dropped out of school and left home - but "home" was mostly empty anyway. His mother was dead and his father never looked for him. And no one wondered why.
He thrives on cruelty. He lives for it. For all that he believes everything in the world is fleeting, everything has an end, the bloodlust and the pleasure he derives from watching something else suffer makes each moment of his own existence matter.
It sets something off in his head: something loud and urgent. At times it feels like he himself is screaming.