Hello everybody! I'm Cynthia, and I'm here today to present to you my first fanfic! Yeah, don't have high expectations, I'm a fairly crappy writer... I just really wanted to post this story though. My goal is to at least update every Sunday, and if I get enough chapters done, I'll maybe update on a Wednesday too! Soo... Yeah! Enjoy~ ^-^
Before notes: Cross is actually gonna be a sorta good parent in this, just with some drinking issues. Neah is Allen's uncle and was a good guy. There will be some side Laven but it's barely going to affect the story line. ANYWAYS, onward! :D
Allen Walker looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowns. He pushes back his stark white hair and stares into his gray eyes so hard that the rest of his features blur. "You know what I heard?" he says. "That what you see in the mirror isn't what you really look like. That since mirrors flip everything, you're looking at a flipped version of your face. Like, the exact opposite."
"What?" says his best friend, Lenalee Lee. She walks into the bathroom armed with several bottles of hair product, plastic gloves, and a towel. "Where do you get this stuff, Al?"
Allen shrugs, pushing the tip of his nose to one side, then the other.
"Some radio talk show hosted by a guy named Jerry." he says.
"Seriously," says Lenalee. She elbows Allen away from the mirror and lines up the bottles on the sink. "Cross needs to get you guys a TV."
"Right, like that'll happen," says Allen. "He won't even get me leave-in conditioner."
"And so, my gift to you," says Lenalee, spreading her hands to present bottles. "Happy early birthday!"
"Thanks, Lenalee," says Allen, turning the bottles so that she can examine the labels.
"Well, honestly, I hope this is the right stuff," says Lenalee.
She takes a moment to adjust her own high pigtails of dark hair. "I tried to describe your hair to the lady at the store, and she was all, 'Is this boy albino?' Which I thought was kind of a lame thing to say."
"What did you tell her?" asks Allen.
"I said you weren't albino for the zillionth time and said you were British or something but I didn't really know for sure. And she was all, 'What do you mean, you don't know?' and I said you didn't really know either and why's she so hung up on the labels anyway and she just kind of gave up and shoved this stuff at me."
"Yeah, well it definitely can't make things worse."Allen grabs a fistful of his hair. "I can't even try dying it again, or else all of my hair might fall out. It's like a giant pile of pure white snow on my head."
"So did you really ask Cross to get you something and he said no?"
"Yep," says Allen. "He gave me this look, you know, like I was asking for some bizarre extravagance."
"Oh my God, I can totally see it," says Lenalee. She scrunches her face into a frown and glares at herself in the mirror. "Allen. . ." she says, in a pretty good imitation of General Cross's, deep voice. "Allen, money is tight. Do you really need these things?"
"No, you're right, Cross," says Allen in a chipper, squeaky voice. "It's actually really convenient that my hair is white and my skin is pale. In fact, everybody at school calls me Beansprout! Maybe I'll end up in your dinner and poison you!"
Lenalee breaks into a laugh. "I would pay you so much money to say that to him!"
"Oh yeah, 'cause that would go over really well," Allen says.
"Whatever," says Lenalee , turning away from the mirror to look at her friend directly. "What's he going to do, take away your allowance?"
"Ha, what allowance? I work for my money!"
"Exactly! So stand up to him for once."
"It's just . . ." Allen stops and looks down at his hands, opening and closing them. "Whatever. It's no big deal. . . ."
Lenalee raises an eyebrow. "It's just what? You're scared of him."
"No!" says Allen. "I mean, sort of. Look, he's all I've ever had, you know? And when I piss him of, he totally shuts down on me. And it's . . . it's really lonely."
"You know I get that, Al," says Lenalee. She sits Allen down on the toilet seat and begins to work the conditioner into his hair.
"I feel the same way about my brother. It's always just been me and him against the world. But that was when I was a helpless little kid. Then I started growing up and we went through this bad period where we were always fighting. But we got through it, and now we have respect for each other, you know?"
"Cross actually respecting me?" says Allen. He winces as Lenalee's fingers catch a snarl. "I'm pretty sure that's never going to happen."
The next morning is September 13rd, Allen Walker's sixteenth "birthday". Since Allen was an orphan, he celebrates his birthday on the day he was taken in by Cross because he doesn't know his true birthday. He climbs out of bed and nearly trips over the pile of clothes on his floor.
Not that he has many clothes.
Not that he has much floor. In fact, between the twin bed, the dresser, and the desk with his ancient computer, there's just enough room to turn around.
He pulls out his school uniform from the pile of clean clothes: a white dress shirt, a navy-blue pair of slacks, and these god-awful looking dress shoes.
He heads down the narrow metal spiral staircase to the bathroom on the main floor. The house used to be a one-bedroom ranch with a storage attic, but at some point the landlord converted the attic to a second bedroom. His room is tiny and drafty, and it sucks to go down the twisting staircase in the middle of the night to pee, but he loves it anyway. Because when they moved to this house two years ago, he and Cross each got their own room for the first time.
Downstairs he checks his hair in the hallway mirror.
The conditioning treatment Lenalee put in seemed to work last night, but his hair still feels as stripped as ever this morning from the constant dying. He gives it a few halfhearted scrunches, then sighs and heads for the kitchen.
He pours himself a bowl of generic cereal. Cross is convinced that it tastes as good as the brand-name stuff. Of course, Cross doesn't eat it. He only drinks the finest wine around. He's already at school, contemplating how best to bore the students of St. Teresa's High School with obscure points of Church history. Next year, Allen will have to take his class, and he really can't imagine anything worse than that—except sharing a bedroom with him again.
But the only reason he can afford to go to St Teresa's is because the children of faculty members don't pay tuition.
He sits down at the kitchen table and starts to slurp up the cereal, which has already turned to mush. Then he notices a yellow Post-it note stuck to the center of the table. In Cross's blocky, all-caps handwriting it reads "Come home right after school. We have to talk."
Allen peels the note of the table and stares at it for a moment, fighting the hot, heavy feeling it creates in his stomach. He'll be damned if he's going to let this rattle him, today of all days.
"Oh yeah, and happy friggin' birthday, kid," he says aloud. Then he crumples up the note, drops it into his empty cereal bowl, and dumps the whole mess into the sink.
St. Teresa's High School looks like it belongs in some grimy, low-income neighborhood in New York or Boston rather than next to the cute, craftsman-style houses of northwest Portland. Allen finds that kind of endearing. He doesn't really fit in either.
He crosses the school parking lot and weaves his way through the brand-new SUVs and sports cars owned by unappreciative overprivileged students who will probably wreck their vehicles before they graduate. He pulls up the hood on his blood red sweatshirt and jams his gloved hands into his pockets as a prickle of jealousy climbs up his throat. He turns sixteen today, and whatever the "We Have to Talk" note that Cross left is about, he's positive it's not "Let's Talk About Getting You a Car!"
Allen hops up the front steps and through the main doors.
Then he hears "Sir Walker!"
It's Father Link, the dean of discipline. He stands just inside the front door, where he stands every morning so that he can smirk at every student every day as they arrive at school.
He's commited like that. The harsh fluorescent lights glare off his shiny, greasy hair. He takes a slow bite of an apple. As Allen listens to the crunching sounds, he notices little white flecks of apple bits trapped in Father Link's small prickles of a mustache.
"Smile, Sir Walker," he says.
"Yes, Father." He plasters on a fake smile.
"We want to present a happy, composed appearance, don't we, Sir Walker?" A few flecks of apple land on the floor next to Allen's black leather buckle shoes.
"You bet, Father," he says. "I strive for composition at all costs."
Father Link munches his apple and frowns at him for a moment, like he's debating whether to nail Allen for his snarky tone. He is not a fan of sarcasm. But then he just shakes his head and says, "Get to class."
"Yes, Father."
He picks up his bag and walks down the hallway past a long line of dark mahogany doors with frosted windows until he gets to his homeroom. Most of the students are already in their seats, scrambling to finish last night's homework, chatting with neighbors, or texting on their cell phones. Ms. Anita, the geometry teacher, sits at her desk at the front of the class, shuffling through some quiz papers. Her short dark hair is shot through with streaks of gray, and she wears flowy earth-tone cottons and a bright purple scarf. It's that Earth Mother look that's so popular in Portland. It can look frumpy, but Ms. Anita somehow pulls it off.
Allen makes his way to his desk at the back of the classroom.
As he sits down, he hears "Hey, Moyashi!"
Lavi Bookman has called him "Moyashi" practically since they met. He claims it's a term of endearment even though Allen knows better.
"Hey, Lavi," he says.
"Happy birthday," Lavi says, giving him that crooked grin he does so well.
"Thanks." Allen almost mentions that Lavi's the first person to wish him a happy birthday today, but decides that makes him sound truly pathetic.
"So," he says, "are you doing anything cool for your bday?"
"Oh yeah," says Allen. "I'm having a pizza party. There will be a sack race, a water-balloon toss, and fabulous door prizes.
Wanna come?"
"Uh . . ." Lavi says, giving Allen a slightly baffled look.
Lavi is a total airhead skater boy, complete with his redhead bangs and an effortless sunny smile. In Allen's experience, those types are usually incapable of talking about anything other than sports or video games. But Lavi is also some kind of math and history genius, and he hasn't figured out how skater boy and historian fit together yet. Not only that, but Lavi is fairly popular and there are rumors that he's as straight as a curly fry.
"Joking, Lavi," Allen says. "Just joking."
"I knew that," he says, a little defensively. "So what are you doing?"
"Nothing."
The PA system crackles.
"Good morning, students," Principal Louis Fermi's voice announces over the speaker. Everyone calls him Principal Oz because the only time students see him is at graduation. The rest of the year, he's just a scratchy, metallic voice over the PA. "Please stand and join me in prayer. Our father, who art in heaven . . ."
He drones on with the Our Father while everyone gets to their feet. His voice is barely audible over the squeak and groan of chairs, and he goes so fast that he's done by the time most people fold their hands.
Everyone then switches to the Pledge of Allegiance.
"One reminder," the PA says after the Pledge is finished.
"Don't forget that fifth period will be canceled tomorrow for All-School Mass. That is all. Thank you and have a good day."
Chairs and desks squeak and clank as everyone sits back down.
"Really, Moyashi," says Lavi. "You should do something for your b-day."
Allen thinks about the "We Have to Talk" note again.
"Trust me," he says. "Doing nothing on my birthday is way better than some of the alternatives."
"Like?" he challenges.
"Like on my eighth birthday, when Cross put me in the car and told me we were moving from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to Asheville, North Carolina. Immediately."
"Asheville? Is that where you lived before you moved to Portland?"
"No, I lived in Cincinnati before I moved here."
"Got it. So were you born in New Mexico, then?"
"No, I was born in England."
"Okay, wait," says Lavi, "So you were born in England? And then you moved to Albuquerque, and then—"
"No, I lived a few other places before we moved to Albuquerque."
"A few?" Lavi squints at him, like he just can't even conceive of it. "How many places have you lived?"
"You know," says Allen, "I've never really counted."
"Why did you move so much? Was Cross military or something?"
"He was a monk," Allen says.
"Um . . ." Lavi rubs his temples. "I'm totally lost now."
"That's okay," says Allen. "I've pretty much been lost my whole life."
Lavi grins at him. "So, okay, let me see if I've got this right.
First, you—"
A voice cuts in. "Mr. Walker and Mr. Bookman."
It's Ms. Anita. "Whenever you're ready, we can begin geometry class."
"Sorry, Ms. Anita," says Lavi. "I got it. Lock and load."
And just like that, Lavi is completely engrossed in the wonders of geometry. Like someone flipped the switch from chatty skater boy to math geek and now nothing exists but angles and algebra. Allen is always amazed at how he can change focus like that. It's irritating, sure, but there's something about it that he also finds impressive.
*Later in the school day*
The buzzing fluorescent lights work their drowsy magic on Allen as Monsignor Leverrier drones on about the life and times of Jesus. The Mons, as students refer to him, is an annoying but nice old guy, more or less the exact copy of Father Aaron in Allen's opinion.
Allen isn't sure what someone has to do to go from "Father" to "Monsignor." He just knows it's some kind of honorary thing that the bishop gives out. But even though the Mons is "so nice" and "so holy", or maybe because he's "so nice" and "so holy", Allen also finds him incredibly boring.
"For Jesus had said to him," the Mons reads from the Bible, "'Come out of this man, you impure spirit!' Then Jesus asked him, 'What is your name?'" The Mons looks around the class with a slight smile on his face, as if to say, Oh boy, here comes my favorite part!
Then he continues. "'My name is Legion,' he replied, 'for we are many.'
And he begged Jesus again and again not to send them out of the area. A large herd of pigs was feeding on the nearby hill side.
The demons begged Jesus, 'Send us among the pigs; allow us to go into them.' He gave them permission, and the impure spirits came out and went into the pigs. The herd, about two thousand in number, rushed down the steep bank into the lake and were drowned."
Allen keeps his face neutral, but internally he cringes.
He'd rather listen to Ms. Anita ramble on about the Pythagorean theorem or Mr. Reever drone on about the periodic table than sit through this Bible stuff. Geometry and chemistry are kind of boring, but the religious stuff gets way too personal, especially passages like the one the Mons just read. Allen's begged Cross a bunch of times to let him go to public school. Portland Public isn't that bad, and some of the magnet schools are really great. But he says Allen needs to be in an environment like this.
Like taking medicine to prevent seizures. He's never said what he's afraid would happen if Allen didn't go to Catholic school.
Allen's never had the guts to ask.
"Mr. Walker" The Mons's gentle voice breaks into his thoughts. "Why do you suppose that Jesus cast the demon into a herd of swine?"
"Uh . . . because the Jews don't eat pork anyway, so it wasn't really a waste for them?"
"Is that a question or a statement, my child?"
"It's a statement," he says.
"Then believe in what you say," he says. "Make it sound like a statement."
"Okay, Monsignor."
"And, as always, Mr. Walker, your answer is extremely insightful. The Jews do regard pigs as unclean animals. But when we discuss demons, the answers inevitably reach deeper than we first think.
Consider this: We know by the name
"Legion" that there are many demons within this man.
So the evil in a single human being fills two thousand of the most unclean animal. What might this suggest? Miss Lou Fa?"
"That a man is more evil than a pig?" asks the skittish girl.
Lou Fa always claims that she will become a world-renounced scientist who proves that Jesus and everything he did exists. Allen can't understand why someone would tell people that, even if it's true."Indeed," says the Mons. "You are on the right track. Perhaps you are all too young to truly grasp this idea. During my time as a missionary in Peru, I often came face to face with the true darkness that lies within humanity. I had a small parish in a tiny neighborhood in Iquitos called Belen. An interesting place. Tropical storms caused the area to flood so frequently that the natives built their tiny houses on stilts. Half the year I had to use a rowboat to get to my home. But they were thankful for the flooding when it prevented the the Shining Path, a murderous band of the communist guerrillas, from reaching their homes during a raid."
He looks at them with his gentle gray eyes and it's the kind of sad wisdom that Allen has only seen before in movies.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Shining Path did terrible things to the people of Iquitos. Things no human should be capable of." Allen tries to hold back. Cross has told him over and over again that he can't draw attention to himself like this. But . . .
"Monsignor, I don't get it," he blurts out. "Are you saying that the communist army was possessed by demons?"
"Very astute, Mr. Walker," says the Mons with a gentle smile. But then his face grows serious again.
"Yes, I'm afraid it was nothing less than corruption from those most base and vile creatures." He scans the room gravely for a moment, then his smile breaks through again. "But take heart. The miracle of this passage in the Bible, and what I want to impress most upon you, is that with God's will, we can exorcise those horrible demons and send them back to the darkness from which they came."
It's hard to hear the sweet old Mons go on about this kind of stuff. But of course, like most people, he doesn't know the truth.
Allen's uncle is a Noah. As a Noah, he can control these demons. His uncle actually used demons to try to take over the rest of the Noah "family" to stop the horrible deeds caused by them. In reality, demons are just empty shells that follow their master's every beck and call.
The Mons turns his kind old eyes back to Allen. "Does that make sense, Mr. Walker? Do you understand?"
"Yes, Monsignor," said Allen.
"Everybody knows all demons are evil."
Note- If the format looks REALLY off... It's because I typed this completely on my phone. Don't hate.