So...this was very random, very confusing, and I honestly have no idea where it came from. Slightly LaviOC
Disc; Don't own DGM, otherwise this would be published instead of on fanfic, right? Only own Karen.
.Control.
Lavi was the rabbit. Lavi was the cold, indifferent soldier. Lavi was the cheerful idiot. Lavi was Lavi. Lavi was the Bookman Junior. Lavi was the forty-ninth name. The forty-ninth alias. The forty-ninth life. Different faces of one person, buried within the lies and personas of a single name long forgotten, discarded to take on the life of someone only known as "Bookman." Each face a different name, different persona, but all the same person.
Until the one called Lavi came along. "Lavi" became someone else, a different life altogether. The mask called "Lavi"–the many masks beneath him bubbled and brewed and pounded against the forty-ninth. One day he would be "Lavi," another, he would be Lavi. But "Lavi" and Lavi are the same, yet not all at once. "Lavi" soon became Lavi and the rest buried deeper and deeper until only one remained, that forty-eighth face.
The face that looked so much like the forty-ninth yet completely different at once. The forty-ninth was a failure. He was not fit to be the one called "Bookman," not anymore. Because "Lavi" was Lavi and no longer "Lavi." Why was it that the forty-ninth was so different? Why was it that the supposed forty-ninth–fiftieth, if the one who no longer lives is accounted for–life had acquired a heart?
No. A heart meant failure, and the forty-eighth knew that all too well. The forty-ninth had to be deleted–he would take control once more.
Do you understand, the mirror asked, you'll no longer be you. The forty-eighth grinned a cruel grin that chilled the forty-ninth to his very core. You'll be gone, and we'll take control. I'll be the one in control. And you'll be gone. Gone, gone, gone.
Yet Lavi could only shake his head, covering his ears though that in itself he knew would make no difference. Ignore them, he told himself, Ignore them all. They are me. They are me. They are–
The forty-eighth laughed such a cruel daunting laugh, emerald darkened to the point of ebony. We are you no longer. Try and fight as much as you wish, our dearest forty-ninth. I'll put you in the darkness, suppressed by all those you deleted–you shall be at the forefront no longer. His voice grew louder and louder, echoing off the blackened walls of this space in between nowhere and everywhere, circulating, swirling, ensnaring–
"–Lavi!"
The mirror's lips tugged down, ever so slightly. Lavi looked up, that single voice echoing, echoing, echoing, until all he could hear was her voice. Don't listen to that worthless piece of ink! And they were face to face, mirror and forefront, punches and kicks and blood and–
"–Lavi!"
Let me go! Lavi cried, wincing as pain ran through his arm, just as his fist connected to the forty-eighth.
You really are a failure, he murmured. I am you, you are me–but you are no longer completely me. You'll fail. You'll disappear.
Shut up!
You'll disappear and I'll be the one in control.
"Lavi!"
And the darkness was gone, leaving the forty-ninth in the vast expanses of blue. The blue of the deepest oceans, swirling, calming, shading sapphire; the most beautiful pair of sapphires–the only jewels to ever catch his eye.
The forty-ninth's expression changed–his lips slowly forming into the genuine smile it had become accustomed to whenever she was around. Not the same smile he had worn when first coming to the Order–that same smile adorning the mirror: cold, amused, distant–never, never reaching that single emerald eye. Never.
"Mornin', Hana-chan!"
But the girl did not smile back, nor did the expression change–her mask flawless. It wasn't only he who kept the secrets of himself hidden away from the world. Though the methods differed, it was all the same.
She's just ink on paper.
No.
"Something wrong?" Everything–wrong, wrong, wrong, how could anything be right? "Hana-chan?"
"You've been out for two days." What? –Looks like I've kept you longer than you thought. –Shut up! "No one could wake you. Bookman said to just leave you alone."
Lavi grinned, goofy and so, so, fake plastered on his face. "Were you worried?"
And finally there was a spark of emotion within those omniscient depths: just a sliver of annoyance, those azures turning darker, just a bit. "No."
You see? She doesn't even care.
That doesn't matter.
"Why are you here then?" She said nothing and he smiled. "Why were you calling me?" The girl turned away –she doesn't even want to look at you (shut up!)–and murmured something he could not hear. "Hana-chan?"
"It sounded…like you were heaving a nightmare." It was so much more than that. "You were screaming…" He was? Yes, you idiot. "So I…"
Lavi sat up, wincing–that's what you get for attacking yourself–and reached over to his precious–she is ink, fool!–flower, turning sapphire to face emerald.
"Thank you, Karen."
And he was graced with the minute traces of the smile that was, like his, becoming as real as she was. He wanted to keep that smile on her face, no matter how much he knew he couldn't.
At least you know that much.
Lavi ignored the forty-eighth, ignored that man with the same face standing behind her with that cold, indifferent, calculating expression, and rested his forehead against the crook of her neck. Just as she could only feel safety within his arms, he sought solace in hers. And solace–comfort, relief, welcome–was what could keep the mirror at bay.
Not for long, forty-ninth.
–x–
Bookman knew something was wrong. Every time those beaded eyes gazed onto his apprentice, he was a different person, even if he hadn't moved from that very room for days. The eye of the eighteenth, the fourth, the twenty-first, the thirty-seventh–all of them different aliases, different personas, different lives of his apprentice. But the one that stood out the most, the one just before the current, the eye of the forty-eighth–his eye was the most vibrant, the most calculating–the one most determined to gain control.
The mask that covered the one called Lavi was going to break, and along with it, the lock that kept the doors of that endless hallway broken, allowing all those that were left behind to come forth and seek their revenge on the one who had gained a heart. This was why Bookmen were to cast their hearts away, never to stay with a single name, a single life for long, for the human heart was like a leech, wanting to keep all the bodies' nutrients and attention all to itself. An annoyance. A burden. That is a heart.
And a heart was just what the forty-ninth was regaining. The current Bookman knew it was a mistake to stay this long. Now it was up to his apprentice to keep the doors locked. One identity was trouble enough; yes, Bookman remembered the forty-eighth all too well. That persona was the closest to the cold-hearted Bookman a Bookman should be.
–x–
"Are you sure you're feeling all right?"
"I'm fine!" No, no, I'm not. "Why would you say that?"
But Karen gave him a look that made his skin crawl, made him want to spill everything to her, to want to tell her everything and make it all go away.
Wishful thinking, wouldn't you say, "Lavi"? Shut up.
"Lavi?"
"Huh?"
Warm, tender hands, soft yet worn from fighting, placed themselves upon his cheeks, pale from lack of sleep and mental exhaustion. Such an expression of concern within those sapphires was enough for any words to die on his lips. "Are you really?" she whispered, voice so kind. It made his nonexistent heart clench.
No, no, no–
So weak, forty-ninth. You'll be gone soon enough. Just go to sleep. I'll take care of our body. I'll take care of your precious flower.
Stay away from her!
"I'm fine."
Maybe you have some potential after all.
–x–
"Are you sure it was a good idea putting him on a mission so soon, brother? He just recovered yesterday."
"I know that, but what other choice do I have? Kanda and Allen are on a mission, the others too, you are still injured…"
"Ka-chan can take care of herself, why not send her alone? It seems a simple enough mission."
"With Noah sightings around that area, no, I will not let anyone go alone."
"Noah?"
"Rhode Kamelot."
–x–
Stop fighting me, "Lavi." You cannot win. Look at yourself. At this rate, I'll take control without even trying.
Shut up.
You know I'm right.
Shut up, shut up.
Or should I just ask that bottle of ink?
I told you to leave her alone!
She is merely ink, "Lavi," don't forget that. You are bookman–discard that heart!
I…
Petite hands encased his fist–when did he even clench it?–and all possible answers flew to the stars. No. Discarding what was once found (again) was not as easy as it was the first time, especially with the cause of it all keeping the forty-ninth firmly in control.
Firmly in control? Don't make me laugh, "Lavi." You're slipping and you know it. Just embrace it. A heart…is nothing more than a burden. And those meaningless string that always accompany the heart–emotions–that shackle and bind you to weakness. Aren't you tired of it all? The…heartache, the pain? They are all going to leave you. She is going to leave you. She is an exorcist. She'll die in this war.
No, that won't happen.
Stop deluding yourself in your emotions. It's really starting to get annoying.
"Lavi." A whisper so soft, barely heard in the rumble and tumble of the moving locomotive. "Are you sure…you're okay?"
How could he continue to lie like this, straight to her face? –Yes, how can you to your supposed special flower? –Leave her alone!
And yet try as he might, the forty-ninth lost and the forty-eighth took control, grinning a grin that did not reach his eye (leaving her so, so confused). "Don't worry about me, Karen."
Karen frowned, her brows knitting ever so slightly in that way that made Lavi want to scream, to escape that cage he was thrown into. Don't touch her! Don't touch her–don't touch her!
Be quiet, forty-ninth, and just relax. Stay in your room like a good persona.
Deak, Lavi growled, eye flashing in the rage boiling within him, the lock on the door within the forty-ninth's room within that elongated hallway filled with his many lives, the infinite confines of his mind, rattling, rattling, rattling. The one called "Lavi" was the one in the forefront, not the one called "Deak." "Deak" had his turn–his person was deleted, locked in that room engraved with the Roman numeral 48 on the door's surface, never to take control–merely a memory of sorts within the forefront's subconscious.
But I'm here now, our dearest "Lavi." And as long as I'm around, you'll never be completely in control. Never again. Stay inside your room where you belong.
This is my body!
Not anymore.
"You're not Lavi." Both personas for once in their many lives looked at the girl before them with the same expression, surprise, surprise, surprise. "Lavi…doesn't say my name like that. Who are you?" And for once, Deak had to admit, he could understand why the forty-ninth was so drawn to the endless sea of her irises–such an entrancing color one couldn't help but drawn into their depths. But she was ink, just like all the rest, no matter the physical attraction.
She's more than ink.
I thought I locked you up.
I am in control–you have no power over me.
It was an internal struggle, so much so that even Karen could tell that the one in front of her truly was not her redhead, not completely. "Lavi–"
"Ohh, did I come at a bad time?" What wonderful timing the Noah of Dreams had, that pumpkin smile stretching ear to ear. "How fun." And with nothing more said, the train was gone, the floor a checkerboard and the exorcists surrounded by nothing but the infinite blackness of Rhode's dreams. "Meet the many faces of the Bookman you call 'Lavi,' Pretty-doll."
"No!" Yet at the sound of his own voice, somehow filled with the near the emotion called desperation, the forty-ninth himself was faced with yet another emotion, one that was introduced so long ago. Fear. Spread out before him, surrounding him and Karen in an endless circle like predator to prey, stood his past forty-eight lives. Faces that were him, but not him, stared at him with blank eyes–eyes empty of emotion–the eyes a Bookman should have. Single eye or not, blank and empty a Bookman should be. Not the kind of eye that shone within the forty-ninth, so vibrant–happy, content, hurt, determined, angry, the list could go on and on and on.
Rising up behind the rows upon rows of past lives, alias, personas, Rhode sat atop the platform upon her draconian throne, oh so highly amused. "I wonder…how will you survive this time, Bookman?"
"He won't." The forty-eighth stepped forward, the others fading, fading, until they were nothing but wisps of memory and shadow, surrounding the three who were left to stand in the middle of the playing field. "He'll lose to me."
Only on instinct did Karen step forward, in between the forty-ninth and the forty-eighth. "I don't know what is going on," she said, her voice echoing in the darkness, "but you stay the hell away from Lavi."
Deak grinned a grin so reminiscent of the first time Karen laid eyes on the one called Lavi. "Weren't you listening, girl? I am Lavi."
"Cut the crap."
The forty-eighth shook his head, obviously delighting in the Noah of Dreams' interference. He could freely move about in this realm, not limited to the depths of the psyche. "Didn't your dear 'Lavi' ever tell you about me? About what happened that day in the Ark so long ago? What happened to him in this place?" He spread his arms wide, throwing his head back to let out a laugh that forced a chill down her spine. It wasn't Lavi's laugh. Nothing like it at all. "Didn't he ever tell you he's been telling you nothing but lies?" Because lying is all the Bookman know how to do. Live by lying, recording only the history as it happens and nothing more. Dawning on a new persona, a new life and name, just to suit this purpose…it is nothing more than lying to everyone that you have met. "Isn't that right, forty-ninth?"
"Shut up!"
"Are you still going to lie to her in front of her face?"
"I'm not lying!"
"Ah, ah, you're doing it again, forty-ninth."
It was the same voice, same face, same gestures, everything was the same–yet the forty-ninth was so different from the forty-eighth, the difference solely on their eyes. Lavi's showed his emotions, this…imposter, showed absolutely nothing. This person could not be Lavi, could not possibly have been part of him. Was him.
"Shut your mouth!"
"You're telling yourself to shut up? Keep that up and you'll seem insane."
The forty-ninth growled, took a step forward, pulled his precious flower behind him, and fully faced the person he had once been. And although he wished that Karen wouldn't put up a fight just this once, he knew that Karen wouldn't be Karen if she didn't. Just as he thought, as soon as he pulled her behind him, petite hands grabbed his arm and refused to let go. Without words, that single action voiced her defiance.
"Hana-chan, please," he managed to hear himself whisper, words unbidden to himself. Because now, in this world that the Noah of Dreams had created, in the same dimension where he had nearly lost himself to the persona in front of him, his emotions were free to be as erratic as they could possibly be. "Stay back this time. He…will hurt you in this world."
And if his persona laid even one hand on her, just a finger atop her raven head, it would be as if Lavi himself had struck her. That was something that the Bookman Junior could not take.
"Bookman Junior? You're not fit to claim that title."
Lavi growled. "Stay out of my head."
"But he's you, 'Lavi.'" Rhode laughed. "He can't get out of your head because it's his own."
"Shut up!" And before Lavi could stop her, his precious flower sped forward, toward that ever grinning child whose smile stretched from ear to ear in the most inhuman way possible.
"Hana-chan!"
Mirror to mirror, the forty-eighth blocking the forty-ninth's path–he himself was stopping himself from going to her side. "You're playing with me, Forty-ninth."
"Then you're all mine to play with, Pretty-doll."
"Hana-chan!"
–x–
Fire, punches, knives, blurs–pain. Pain, pain, pain. Every punch reflected, kick returned, fire enveloping.
"How can you stand fighting yourself while your flower is getting hurt?" Because Rhode was still that sadistic little girl, always wanting to play with her toys. Screams and laughter, attacks and giggling–echoing and echoing. "You're a failure even as a human with a useless heart. Give up."
"Shut up!" Though try as he might, Lavi could not get past the one who bore his face with that same smile he used to wear, those eyes that saw everything but see anything. "Let me through!" Yet every punch thrown, every attack, everything was doubled to himself, none to the mirror.
"Stop hurting yourself, 'Lavi.' I'll take care of your flower."
Panic wrapped its tiny little claws around Lavi's darkened, supposedly nonexistent heart that was just starting to rekindle that spark that was so natural in humans, just as the forty-eighth disappeared, reappearing behind the figure of the one who lit his life. "Karen!"
I told you, I'll take care of her. No need to sound so worried, so scared, forty-ninth.
"No, no, no–"
"Don't be so scared, Pretty-doll!"
I'll take care of her for you.
"Karen–"
Rip her apart–physically, mentally, inside and out…wouldn't that be a lovely sight?
"You won't make it, Bookman~"
"He is not fit for that title."
Faster, faster, faster–
–too late.
–x–
"It's sad, really, how much she's had to endure already. And you just had to come along and make it even worse." Amused emerald looked onto the one who had caused so much trouble for him. The one who held a mask so similar to what a Bookman was supposed to wear–the one who gave life to a once dead heart. She'll pay for what she had done to return that spark to someone already gone.
Shut up. Shut up.
A grin. You know it's true. Just look at her now. Shut up. She will never recover. Shut up. She's dead.
"Shut up!" Broken to the point of never being put together again.
"You broke my doll."
My sincerest apologies. "Uh huh." What now, forty-ninth?
"Give her back!" There's nothing to return, don't you see? Pick up those pieces all around her, if you think it will help–giveherbackgiveherback–you'll just miss a few thousand pieces. "Leave her alone!"
Amusement gone, apathy regained, recording all with that single eye. Bookman Junior. Forty-eighth. Forty-ninth. Bookman. "Why?" The lookalike–real–grinned a grin so foreign–normal–and turned shimmering emerald to the one so, so broken. "It's her own fault for loving you."
–end.
[.022311.]