Author Note: Hey guys! How are ya'll? I'm excited to finally get this fic off the ground! I recently fell in love with first person, so I decided to do this fiction that way. I think it works well. The whole thing will be from Axel's point of view, because, well, he's my favorite.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts, or any of its characters therein.
Warnings: There is some language, namely variations on the word ass. If that bothers you, I'm sorry.
If there is one thing in life I hate more then anything, it's ass-kissing. There's nothing worse then having to bend over backwards for some half-wit who doesn't know what he wants. I've always hated taking orders. I like doing things my own way.
That's not how the world works, though. In the real world, you have to do whatever it takes. Ass-kissing included.
I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I could tell you about the beginning of my life, which was anticlimactic, the middle, which was depressing, or the end, which actually several kinds of awesome.
Begin with the end in mind, I always say.
I think the best place to start might be mid-January. I'd just turned 21, which made my boss very, very happy.
"Now you can take clients out for drinks," he told me in his office one Friday afternoon, "Legally."
"I hate to point this out to you, Mr. Vargas, but, I'm a pyrotechnician. Not a PR person," I pointed out sarcastically, leaning back in one of the many plush chairs that littered the office, "Why don't you get someone like, I dunno, Rob to do it. He's nice. You know, personable."
"No, you don't get it," he said, standing up and pointing at me with one of his fat fingers, "I can't have him do it. Rob has the style sense of a soccer mom who's forgotten it's not 1985. I need you to do it because you…seem to have somewhat of a grasp on what's cool and what;s not."
"So?" I said, standing up. This was ridiculous. "The obvious answer is to get a new PR agent. Not get your already underpaid technician to do it. For the love of God, even Russel would be better suited to this job then me."
"I can't afford to lose Russel. And new PR is coming in on Tuesday. In the meantime, if you want to keep your job, you're going to do a favor for me," Vargas spat, his chins jiggling, "Unless you want to go back to living in a dumpster."
"Fine. How many of these suckers do I have to entertain?" I asked, crossing my arms, as if that covered up the fact I'd admitted defeat.
"For now? Just one. His name is James Hagerty. He's got that nice, mellow sound. He's likely to bring the company lots of revenue, so make sure the little bastard is happy, okay?"
If there's anything you ever learn from the story of my life, it's never be a part of the music business. I could have been one of those fireworks guys at Disneyland. Instead, I held the illustrious title of Pryo Freak for Vargas recording studios.
I had to admit, Vargas didn't waste time. He gave me the job on Friday, and the following day I was standing at LAX, bored, with a sign that had 'James Hagerty' written across it. In addition to my already standing title, I was now Vargas's official ass-kisser. It was infuriating. Not that anger was an unknown emotion in my life. In fact, I got angry a lot. So when a short, brown haired punk came up to me and introduced himself as James, I snapped.
"What the hell do you want?" I barked, crinkling the sign in my hand by accident.
"You're the person from the studio who's supposed to help me around this dump, right?" Hagerty said, squinting at me through his emoglasses, "Why not introduce yourself, instead of yelling at me."
"Oh. Yeah, names Axel," I said, sticking a hand out at him.
He ignored my gesture of goodwill. "Axel what?" he asked, confused.
"AXEL. A-X-E-L, Axel! Got it memorized, ass?" I spat.
"I meant your last name. Geez, I ask for some help and they send some freak," he groaned, shaking his head.
Freak. It was a pretty good way to describe me. From my near-fire-engine-red hair to the emerald green eyes, to my snarky attitude, I was pretty much a freak. Vargas once said it was like I'd just popped in LA out of nowhere. And he was pretty much right.
See, it wasn't my fault I'd forgotten my last name. I never had one to begin with. It all has to do with the fact I woke up in an alley when I was 17, alone, soaked with rain, with no memories and just my first name and a freaky black coat to go by. That's the story for another time, however. With Hagerty, I just gave him the name I gave everyone else: the first one that came to me.
"Uh...Smith. Axel Smith," I mumbled, stuffing the ruined sign into my pocket, "Sorry for being an ass, but I don't usually do PR. So, what the hell do you want to do?" I asked, snatching up his bag and motioning for the door.
"Axel Smith. You expect me to believe that. Sounds made up," Hagerty questioned, following behind me closely.
"Maybe it is," I said, smirking to myself.
Hagerty just gave me a suspicious sidelong glance. It wasn't until thirty minutes into our taxi ride that he decided to say something else.
"So, where are we going?" Hagerty asked, looking out the window idly.
"Vargas said to set you up in a hotel and then take you out on the town," I explained, staring out the opposite window, "Though, I think he assumed you'd have an entourage."
"I will…some of my college friends are going meet me tonight. I just wanted to know where we were going," he said, tone relaxed.
I must have said something right. Usually when I talked, I'd mess up the tone or something. I wasn't very careful when it came to what I said, or did. Vargas seemed to be picking up more and more emo, whiney singers who got upset at the littlest things. I had no idea, at this point, if Hagerty was going to follow this trend. All things considered, he actually seemed to be tolerating me, and that was enough.
It took a grand total of an hour to get Hagerty set up in his room. It surprised me how easygoing he was; perhaps I had wrongly labeled him. After all, I had just assumed he was an overpaid prick with an attitude. At least I knew I was a prick--if severely underpaid.
Hagerty's club of choice happened to be a popular place, the line stretching out from the door and around the block. Of course, his friends left something to be desired. They were all thin and lanky like him, most of them with the same glasses and haircuts. It was like looking at the Beatles, only much, much more depressing.
"So, need anymore help?" I asked, taking a nonchalant glance at the line we were about to tackle, "You know where your hotel is and everything, right?"
"How are we supposed to pay for drinks if you're not here? I was hoping the company would pay for something, considering they dragged me out here to do the recording," he replied, smiling, "Of course, you look like a fun guy. Why so serious?"
"Yes, Axel, why are you being so serious?" One of Hagerty's posse drawled, great lengths of his grey-blue hair covering one side his face.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Your head looks like you fell into a cotton candy machine," I chucked back, then turned back to Hagerty, "If you want to me to stay, I have to. So, lets get this party started."
The bouncer let us in without a second thought. Inside, several girls with the same kind of disheveled hair and thick glasses came up and started talking vehemently with Hagerty and his emo following. Everyone trickled onto the dance floor, except for me, and, much to my dismay, cotton candy head. I tried my hardest to evade him by scooting over to the bar, but I was followed. The bastard was pretty sneaky.
I sat down on one of the hard, lacquered bar stools and ordered some coke. I never was one for alcohol. It doesn't mix well with me; it goes through way too quick, and it burns at my insides, and not in a good way.
Cotton Candy sat next to me several minutes later, as though he didn't know I knew he was watching me. I saw right through it.
"What the hell do you want? I might be Hagerty's babysitter, but I sure as hell ain't yours," I hissed, stirring the straw of my coke.
"You don't like to dance?" he asked. His voice was surprising; there was no hint of emotion or inflection. It was almost frightening.
"No, no, I do. Its just, I'm not into the crowd," I said, swiveling my chair to face the floor like he was, "Nor the women, if you really wanted to know."
That always worked. Most people like him got all choked up on the sex thing. Acting gay just made their feathers more ruffled.
"That I had gathered a very long time ago. You're not acting like yourself, you know? Do you remember what you used to be like?" he asked, voice still cold.
Something inside of me snapped. Because I did remember what I had been like before I'd landed in LA four years ago, albeit vaguely: A heartless jerk. While I still acted like that, at least I had some shred of sympathy for other people now. The question wasn't if I remembered; it was if this bastard was actually referring to what I thought he was.
"What the hell are you talking about," I growled, "You can't possibly know anything about me!"
What came next surprised me even more. He laughed. Threw back his head and laughed ,liked he'd never seen anything more funny then the stupid look I had on my face.
"You're right," he said, "I don't know anything about you. I mixed you up with someone else."
With that, he slid off of his stool and started to walk off into the crowd. What came over me next was something I couldn't recognize; something that must have spurted from my unconsciousness.
"Whatever, retard! It's not like anyone listens to you anyway, Zexion!" I screamed across the bar.
He turned around abruptly, his eyes gleaming with emotion this time: surprise.
"So, how do you know my name, Axel?"
End-note: If Axel is my favorite, then Zexion comes in at a close second. Please Comment!