Mimi
Count Blumeire Bleck had never intended to become a parent. It had snuck up on him. Well, perhaps that was not entirely true. He had thought about it, but in the way everyone thinks about it. As if it was a far off possibility, an attainable dream. A dream that was shattered after the death of his fiancé.
Despite his intentions, though, it seemed he was destined to be a father.
It had all started out innocently enough. He had been walking through town with Nastasia, headed to a meeting or something along those lines, when he heard sniffling sounds coming out of an alley. Turning around, he saw a young girl stuffed inside a cardboard box, quietly crying her eyes out.
He approached the girl softly, ignoring his secretary's protests. "Excuse Count Bleck, but are you alright miss?"
The girl's head snapped up, fear evident in her dark brown eyes. Her blonde hair was filthy, and her dress was in tatters. It was evident she had been without shelter for a good long while now.
The Count kneeled down next to her, making sure to sweep his cloak out of the way. Nastasia hated having to go to the tailor's.
"Are you alright miss?" He asked.
Slowly, the small girl shook her head. "M-my sisters are all gone. I tried dancing like they do, but I couldn't do it. Nobody would toss m-me even a penny. I thought I could be okay on m-my own, I promised I would be! But I-I just can't!"
She burst into tears again, these much louder. Blumeire felt his heart melt. There was no way he could just leave her here. He beckoned to Nastasia.
"Cancel all of Count Bleck's appointments for the rest of the day." He told her.
Nastasia didn't say anything, which was probably some form of protest, but he heard her pencil scratching, which was all he really needed.
Focusing back on the young girl, he decided then and there that he would do anything he could to make sure she was alright.
"What is your name, little one?" He asked.
She raised her head again. "M-Mimi. M-my sisters called m-me m-Mimi."
He smiled in a way that he hoped was reassuring. "Well, Mimi. Why don't you come with Count Bleck? We can get you cleaned up and give you some food to eat. How does that sound?"
The girl blinked at him several times before leaping into his arms. Her tears continued flowing, but now he was a bit less sure what emotion they were communicating.
He scooped the small girl into his arms and started back for his mansion.
"What do you mean it is not that easy?" Blumeire shouted into the receiver. "Just give the paperwork to Count Bleck!"
"I'm sorry sir," The woman on the other end apologized. "But there are some reasons why I can't do that."
"And what are those?" the Count growled.
"Well for starters it's against the law." The woman told him, sounding rather non-plussed.
Blumeire dragged his hand down his face. "Of course it is."
He had been trying for days to get his hands on some adoption papers. He had taken initially tried to take Mimi to the nearby orphanage, but the seven year old had flat out refused to leave him. Not only that, but one look at the condition the small building was in and the Count himself refused to leave her there.
So now, here he was, trying to get the paper work to adopt a child he scarcely knew. It was ridiculous, really. Nastasia had already told him he wasn't thinking this through, and she was right. However, something deep inside him absolutely refused to let this poor girl go on suffering. And if that meant she would have to be taken in under his wing and live under his roof, so be it.
"There is one possibility, though." Blumeire straitened. "You could become one of our listed foster parents. After we go about this properly, I can give you the paperwork and you can adopt her. Assuming, of course, that you are capable-"
"Yes, yes. Count Bleck is more than capable of such things." He mused on the idea for a while. "Exactly how does one become a foster parent?"
O'Chunks
"And now we do your hair!" Mimi grabbed her brush and roughly dragged it through O'Chunks red hair.
Blumeire had to hand it to the eleven-year-old, he had an incredible amount of patience. Not many children could put up with the Count's recently adopted daughter. Especially if she was in the mood for dress-up.
Mimi had put the red-head in a purple, polka-dotted dress, dusted his face with her entire case of makeup, and now she was trying to wrangle his hair into what looked like a double bun on the top of his head.
"There. Now you pretty." The young girl declared.
O' Chunks stood from his place on the ground. He looked in the mirror and even did a small twirl so he could see the back of it.
"Ah donna 'f goes w'th mah 'air, 'ut th' dress 's 'ery nice." He decided.
"Nastasia?" The Count whispered to his secretary. "Would you mind getting a photo of this?"
A light flashed before Nastasia whispered back. "K, all done, sir. I also got those papers you asked for earlier."
Blumeire smiled to himself. He really was turning into a sucker for small children.
((This is a warning. Mentions of heavy abuse and murder. This is as dark as I'm getting here folks. Buckle up.))
Two years earlier…
Darby O'Shill stood protectively in front of his younger sister's crib, ready to fight whoever came close to her. Their father had come home a few hours ago, along with three of his friends and a whole lot of beer.
As of yet, they hadn't strayed from the dining room, but Darby knew it was only a matter of time. Especially in his father's case. He'd never hurt little Emmy before, choosing to beat the brains out of his idiot son instead, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.
Sure enough, he heard heavy footsteps heading towards the bathroom. Darby tensed. A shaggy haired man stumbled in, scarcely opening the door before he staggered through. He looked bleary at the six-year-old in front of him.
A heartbeat of time passed, then the man's eyes became inflamed with an unknown fury. ""Ow Dare ye?!" He shouted in a thick Scottish accent. "Ah 'ome in to use th' 'ot, 'an there ye are, ye we devil!"
The man slapped Darby smartly across cheek. It burned, but he'd learn to take it.
"What th' bloody 'ell are ye doing in 'here?" The man asked, slapping him again. "Wha' th' 'ell are either 'ne of ye doing 'ere? 'Ow 'ome yere 'ere an not 'er?!"
The blows had started. Darby willed his mind to be somewhere else. He glanced at his sister. 'Please.' He begged some unseen force. 'Please don't let her get hurt.'
The news the next morning told the story of a Scottish immigrant murdering his one year old daughter before committing suicide. How his son had been found nearby her corpse, unconscious and beaten nearly to death himself.
The therapist told Darby O'Shill that his memory was lost due to repression. That the memory was so traumatic that his brain simply couldn't handle it and so it switched off the memory.
Darby didn't care about any of that, really. All he knew was that he'd failed in the one mission he'd ever assigned himself. And now, he was alone.
He was put into the system. No one wanted him. He talked funny and didn't know always know how to control his strength. The adults didn't know what to do with him. The kids avoided him.
After his third home the bullying had started. The most consistent piece of mockery his muscles being mistaken for fat. Obese, chubby, portly, or, worst of all, chunky were the most common ones. Eventually he just did as his therapist suggested.
He absorbed the name that hurt him the most into his identity. He hated his father's name anyway. After his fifth home his first name dissolved into his new one, until only O'Chunks was left.
It wasn't until he met a monocled man with a strange name and his young pigtailed daughter that he truly felt he belonged somewhere again.
Dimentio
Dimentio glanced nervously at his case worker. After his last foster parents had taken him to see Frozen, he'd dubbed the severe-looking woman Hanna, in honor of the character he felt she was closest to. She was pencil thin with a back like a ramrod. Everything about her was pointy, personality not excluded.
Dimentio often wondered how and why she'd gotten into child services in the first place, because it was obvious she didn't like children. Or maybe it was just him she didn't like.
"So…" he started, trying for his usual bravado. "Where exactly are we heading again?"
Hanna glared at him. He grinned back.
"Can you blame me for being as curious as a cat on a windshield? I'm simply dying to know!" He gushed.
Hanna rolled her eyes. "We are heading to your new foster home. That is all you need to know."
If grating cotton was a thing, Dimentio felt that'd be what her voice would sound like. He slumped back into his seat, thoroughly annoyed. Why couldn't she just give him a straight answer for once? He only wanted to know where he'd be staying for the next… eh. He'd decide how long later.
He absent mindedly started braiding his hair. The long blonde strands had gotten longer than he normally allowed. Now quite bored, he let his mind wander. Soon his vision clouded and the day-dreams took over.
He was in the park they'd just passed. He was sitting on a picnic blanket, food spread out all around him. Cherry blossoms bloomed in the nearby trees, in direct defiance with the snow gently falling from the sky.
A young woman was seated next to him, her blonde hair just a shade or two darker than his own. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
She started to talk to him, asking how his day had been, if he had seen the new issue of "Young Mages Monthly," whether he liked the snails or bear claws better, and by the way she'd seen a beautiful hat in a store that would go just perfectly with his favorite poncho.
Dimentio answered every question enthusiastically. This woman wasn't at all like the other adults. She was talking about things that mattered. Important things, not how many homes he'd been through or whether or not he was a "troubled kid."
Best of all, she was nice to him. All the other grown-ups took one look at his smirking face and unsettlingly colored eyes and automatically deemed him "trouble." But not this woman. One look at her, and Dimento knew she loved him.
And that was all that every mattered, really.
Slowly, a darkness overtook the park. It crawled into every vestige of this little sanctuary, clawing it away piece by piece.
The woman opened her arms for Dimentio, calling out to him over and over. He called back.
"I'll find you, Mom! I promise I will! I'll find you!"
"Dimentio!"
"Dimentio!"
"Dimentio, get out of the clouds! We're here."
Dimentio blinked, the daydream slowly fading. Dimly, he registered Hanna's snapping at him. He snagged his suitcase and hurried after her.
His jaw dropped the moment he stepped off the bus. The house was massive. Pearly black marble, highlighted by a startling white. The sconces alone were enough for the place to be labeled as a villain's manor.
Dimentio grinned. It was just his kind of place. Though, he might have added a bit more color. He tugged his worn black gloves down and strode up to the door, a grin fixed on his face.
It took Dimentio a day to settle in, two days to explore the entire mansion, and thirty seconds to decide O'Chunks was the biggest, most brainless brute he'd ever met.
All the eight-year-old had wanted was a cheese sandwich. Unfortunately the larger boy was already sitting at the counter, having a sandwich with what looked like all the leftovers from the fridge.
The Scot garbled something unintelligible at Dimentio. The blonde raised an eyebrow.
"And a how-de-do to you too, Chunky!" he grinned.
He tried edging himself to the fridge. While character evaluation was important, and oftentimes necessary, Dimentio preferred to do it on his own terms, when the deck was unevenly stacked in his favor.
Quite unluckily, though, O'Chunks managed to swallow before he made it.
"'Mentio!" He beamed down from the high stool. "Ah was 'ondering 'f ah'd 'afta find yeh. 'Anted to 'ave a chance teh talk with yeh."
"Oh?" Dimentio asked cautiously, curiosity peaked. "About what, may I ask?"
O'Chunks rubbed the back of his neck. "Listen. Do whater you want teh me, 'ut 'f yeh hurt Mimi, ah'm gonna 'ave to be 'retty mean teh yeh."
Dimentio felt his face twist into a grin that probably didn't look reassuring. A pressure point. That was something he could work with. An advantage at long last.
"Of course not, Chunky!" He gushed. "Why, harming Mimi would be like harming an innocent butterfly as it flew gently through the meadow on a soft summer breeze. I couldn't dream of doing something so callous!"
O'Chunks blinked at him, utterly confused. "Right. Glad 'e 'ould 'ome teh an understanding…"
Dimentio's grin widened. Dumb and had a soft spot for the girl. Now this was a pawn he could use. All he needed was Mimi under his thumb and he'd have both of them. What a cakewalk!
He nodded to O'Chunks, who'd returned to his sandwich, and left the room. He hurried to Mimi's room, stopping right outside her bright green door.
Cautiously, he pressed his ear against the painted surface. Hearing nothing, he knocked quietly, then obnoxiously. Nothing. He opened the door and went inside.
He'd never seen a poofier, pinker room. Dimentio would have pegged Mimi as more of a green kind of girl, but he supposed he guessed wrong. There was a full, canopied twin bed in one corner, with the opposite corner housed a sprawling doll city. In the center of the wall opposite the door stood a large vanity, much larger than Dimentio would have thought necessary for a six-year-old.
On the other hand, it made his search easier. He walked over to the vanity and was unsurprised to find it entirely covered in makeup. He opened all the drawers one by one. He grinned as he finally laid eyes on what he was looking for.
Reaching into the bottom left drawer, he pulled out a slim book, bound in green leather, the words "Mimi's Journal" written in a clear, gold script.
He flipped through it quickly. Soon though, it was made clear to him that the girl didn't really have much in the way of secrets. Most of her entries consisted of what dress she had gotten or new makeup design she'd created. He supposed he shouldn't have expected much more. Also her handwriting sucked.
His eyes suddenly landed on a particularly interesting segment.
'Deer Diary. I acidntly brok a vase 2day. I didnt tell any1 beecase I didnt want to get in2 troble. When Nassy fond the vase she was vry mad, but I still didnt tell. U r the only 1 who nos diary. Pleas dont tell on me. –Mimimimimimimi'
Dimentio grinned. Perfect. The breakage of a vase was a small offense to most adults. Often overshadowed if you owned up to it. But hiding the fact that you broke a vase? Lying about it? Those were a big deal. If he played his cards right he might could even inflate the possible consequences in Mimi's mind. Make it seem even bigger deal than it would be.
"What are you doing in here?" A shrill voice demanded.
Dimentio whirled. Mimi stood in the doorway, trembling with anger. The anger, of course, only grew when she saw what was in his hands.
"That's mine!" She accused.
Dimentio gave her his best Cheshire Cat smile. "So it is!" he declared. "And may I say, you've been a very bad girl, Mimikins."
Mimi went slack, face paling a bit. "Wh-What are you talking about?"
Dimentio turned his head back to the diary. "Breaking a vase?" He clicked his tounge. "Naughty, naughty, naughty."
He mimed skimming a bit further down, then made a show of gasping.
"LYING?" He looked back at her, putting on a mask of betrayal. "And here I thought you were a good girl."
As he expected, Mimi panicked, completely forgetting the invasion of privacy.
"Please don't tell on me, Dimmy! Nassy would be so mad if she found out I hid it from her. Please don't tell, I'll do anything!"
He smirked. "Anything?"
"Anything." She confirmed.
Perfect. Simply perfect.
"Well, for starters, you can't tell anyone I came in here." He waited for her nod. "Second, if I ask you for a favor, you've gotta do whatever I say, deal?"
"Deal!" She agreed quickly.
Dimentio grinned again, even wider this time. "Glad we could come to an understanding. Well, Ciao!"
He slipped past her and out the door, snickering to himself. Six-year-olds were incredibly easy, girls doubly so. Mimi, though was easier than most to manipulate.
Dimentio decided then and there that this was the place for him. Living with two other kids, both of them under his thumb, was akin to a castle among a field of shrimpy cottages. All he had to do was get the Count to adopt him and he was set for life. He'd be on top, and the grown-ups would be none the wiser. Not to mention he'd have this big mansion as a playground.
He couldn't do anything yet, though. If he started laying ground work too soon, people would get suspicious. He'd learned that lesson in his fifth home. He could wait. He could wait…
A month later he knocked on the door to the Count's office, making sure not to knock too hard, or the whole act would be ruined.
He was rewarded by a soft voice telling him to come in. He entered. A large oak desk took up the majority of the room, with big, soft-looking chairs on either side. Count Bleck was seated in one of them, behind the desk.
The Count looked up at him and smiled reassuringly. "It is alright, Dimentio. Did you have something to talk about, asked Count Bleck?"
Dimentio gave a small smile back and walked up to the desk. He clambered up the seat, making a show of struggling to climb up it. When he faced Bleck again, there was a very bemused look on the Count's face.
Dimentio wrung his hands. "Well um, you see sir, I uh. Well I really like it here. None of the other homes were ever as nice as this."
A spark of interest lit up in the Count's eyes. "Is that so?"
Dimentio nodded. "Yeah. You've been really nice over the past month. Everyone here has. And your house… it's like… it's like a beautiful oasis in the middle of a Gommba infested desert!"
The Count blinked. "A what?"
Dimentio faltered. Darn. It was always the metaphors that got him in trouble.
"I-uh… It's very nice sir." He bit his lip, calling up some tears. "I-I wish I could stay here longer. But I guess I'll have to leave soon…" He trailed off, letting a couple more tears leak into his eyes.
"What exactly did you want to talk about, Dimentio? Asked Count Bleck."
Ah, an opening. "Well, uh… I just wanted to say…" He inserted a lengthy pause. "Never mind. Just forget it. Thanks anyway, Count."
He hopped off the chair, then scurried out the door. As he closed the door behind him, he couldn't keep the grin off his face. He pressed his ear against the door. Sure enough, after a few moments he heard the Count talk to someone over the phone.
"I'm going to need some more adoption papers." There was a pause. "I am not adopting all of them." Another pause. "Ah yes, sarcasm. How original. Look Nastasia, I've had a total of… thirteen kids come and go through this mansion. If I want to adopt three or four of them, well it's not like I can't afford it!" Pause. "Thank you, Nastasia."
Dimentio walked into the hall and pumped his fist. Sometimes adults could be easier than six-year-olds. Give them a little push, make them feel in the right places, and they were putty in your hands. Count Blumeire Bleck was no exception. In fact, he was almost sure at this point that the Count was actually easier than the other adults he'd met.
He was down the hall, quite pleased with himself now, and started looking at the paintings. He'd never really paid a lot of attention to them before, but he figured there was no better time to pay attention than when he was in a good mood.
He grinned up at them, looking from one to the other. Suddenly he saw one that made him stop dead in his tracks. It was a portrait of a beautiful woman. She was wearing a shimmery white dress and her blonde hair was pinned up by a triangular butterfly brooch. Blonde hair that was one or two shades darker than Dimentio's.
No longer smiling, he ran to his room. He threw open the purple door and anxiously crossed to his sock drawer. He yanked it open and pulled a piece of paper out of the bottom. He sprinted back to the painting.
His hands shook for real now. He nervously held his paper up to the painting. No doubt about it. The faded, worn picture in his hands matched the painting perfectly.
Well rather, the woman inside them both matched. The woman in his hand was caught mid-laugh. The woman in the painting, however, had obviously been posed, but it was in a way that didn't diminish her beauty at all.
Dimentio swallowed hard. What was a picture of his mother doing in Count Bleck's mansion?
At the sound of footsteps, he shoved the picture in his pocket. He whirled and saw the Count's raven-haired secretary walking down the hall. Though normally he would hide and admire her fashion sense, (pink streaks? Awesome!) he had a more pressing matter.
He stopped her in the hall. "Nassy! I-uh…"
He flailed. There wasn't any time for his usual dance of bravado.
"Um, who's that woman? In that painting there." He pointed.
Nastasia's impassive face flickered for a moment, an emotion he didn't have time or patience to read. "That's, like, Lady Timpani. Count Bleck's fiancé. She went missing about five years ago. Why?"
He swallowed again. "Uh, just curious."
He looked back at the painting, barely registering Nastasia's leaving. Words floated around his head.
His mother. Lady Timpani. Fiancé. Five years. He was eight, turning nine in two months. Eight. Five. Eight. Five. Eight. Five. Eight. Nine. Five. Nine. Eight. Five. Five.
His head spun. His mother was the Count's fiancé? She was missing? She had been for five years? But he was almost nine! Did that mean the Count was his father or was it someone else? Why had she abandoned him? For the Count?
Who else could it have been? His mother had left him on a doorstep and gotten engaged to a Count. That was the only explanation. She'd left him with a small picture and faint dreams.
Something inside of him broke. He didn't cry. He never cried anymore. But he was close, oh so very close.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and jolted. Mimi stood behind him. He didn't know how he'd missed her coming up.
"Dimmy?" She asked carefully. "Are you okay?"
He stared at her for a long moment, then shrugged her hand off.
"'M fine. Go away."
"But Dimmy-"
"I said buzz off!" He snapped.
She backed up, shock written on her face, then she ran for her room. Dimentio shrugged off the tiny feeling of remorse in favor of his inner turmoil, squashing it under his rioting feelings.
His mother had left him for a better offer. And who could blame her. If forced to choose between a stick of a son who only got by on his wits and card tricks or a rich and handsome young man with everything to offer… well the choice was obvious, wasn't it?
He felt sick. He'd promised his mother. After every daydream, he had promised her he'd find her. But now it seemed she didn't even want him. He wondered why he'd ever thought she had. Maybe if he could offer her what the Count did…
That was it! He'd just take everything the Count had and make it his own. It would take a long time, but he was certain he'd be able to do it.
True, she had left the Count as well, but he felt confident that faced with her long lost son and the Count's fortune she wouldn't be able to refuse.
Mr. L
The Count nearly leaped from his bed, started out of his slumber from a combination of a hellish nightmare and the sound of a child crying. Groaning inwardly, he a got out of bed and started towards the source of the noise.
He wasn't very surprised when he found himself outside Little L's door. The green capped ten year old always seemed so quiet, it was sometimes hard to believe he was capable of making such a racket. Cautiously, he opened the door.
The small boy was sitting in the exact middle of his bed, head buried in his knees. Blumeire couldn't see the tears from where he was, but the child's racking sobs made their presence apparent.
The Count quietly made his way over to the boy's bed and say down next to him. He took the small child in his arms and rocked him for a bit before trying to ask what was wrong.
After Little L had calmed down a bit, the Count retracted his embrace a little.
"So what brought this on, hmmm?" He asked. "Nightmares agian?"
L shook his head timidly. "I was thinking about my brother again."
Ah. That explained it. L had had a brother who was adopted shortly before Blumeire took L in. Before their separation, the two had only had each other.
To top it off, L suffered from short term memory loss. He couldn't even remember his name most of the time, which was why Luigi had been shortened to L. The one constant in his memory was his brother. For whatever twisted reason fate had, every memory of L's brother was perfectly untouched.
Blumeire tightened his grip on Little L.
"He-he promised." L hiccuped. "Malleo promised he wouldn't leave for very long this time. But he didn't come back. Why didn't he… Come back?"
The small boy was now sobbing into Count Bleck's pjs, crying for his brother to come back.
"I don't understand. Why wouldn't he come back? How could he jus-just leave like that? Why… Why…"
The Count didn't say a word. He just held the small boy until he quieted enough to talk more.
"Count Bleck knows what it is like to lose someone you love, L. Believe me. It isn't easy, especially if you feel they left you. You wonder if it was your fault, if there was something you could have done to make them stay. But listen to me, L." The boy twisted to face him. "It was not your fault. It wasn't Mario's either. These things happen sometimes. They aren't fun, but sometimes people just have to go. Even if we don't understand, we have to let them fly on their own for a bit. Only then can they truly come back to us.
"You aren't alone, child. I will never leave you, understand?"
The boy nodded. "An you stay here tonight, Count?" L asked softly. "I don't want to forget again."
Blumeire nodded and shifted into a more comfortable position. He slowly rocked L back and forth until the ten year old had fallen asleep.
"Remember, L. No matter who else leaves, Count Bleck will always be here for you."