Chapter 1: Laughing Lion

Craig Moreau always hated his name. Moreau, French for 'dark-skinned'. He was anything but dark, with hair the color of dirty white wool and pale, waxy skin. He hated the name more than anything at the moment, because actually being dark-skinned would have helped him hide in these alleys from his pursuer. Oh, Moreau can see him alright, the other being as white as him, but their current roles in this game prevented him from being anywhere close to relieved.

He hated his bulk, too. Years of recession had slowly caused his businesses, both legal and illegal, to fail and build up his debt even more. He was already at the mercy of the notorious mafia—not the flimsy imitations that had sprung up elsewhere in the world, but the original, ancient Italian organization that breathed down the necks of shady power holders like him, no matter how big or small that power is. The mafia kept the police hounds at bay for those who dabbled in the black market for extra cash; in exchange, you paid them nearly 30% of your profits. A small price to pay for the partnership of the goddamn devil.

He heard a small stone rattle against the cobbled street. He cursed his belly and ran faster. That monster was only mocking him.

But it had been months since he made his last payment and he watched his income plummet, like a flying goose with a bullet between its eyes. Throughout the process he downed far more than one shot of whiskey each night, which culminated the growing bulge in his abdomen. In fact, had he been a woman, he would have been admired for being so healthily—and so heavily—pregnant.

Funny how he even had time to think of things like that, Moreau thought bitterly to himself as he gasped his way across the dark French streets. He knew the mafia's wrath was inevitable—especially when his failure to pay them was obvious for so long. So why was he running? Maybe the slip from their detection provided him with some strange, false hope.

And yet it was unnatural. He was surprise at their delay. Those he had known in the past who suffered his fate were usually punished within, at the latest, a week upon the discovery of their lack of payment. Then why did they choose to send one of their demons after him now, after all this time? Why had he been kept alive, like a pig for slaughter? Did he have something they wanted? No, all they wanted was his money, which was now all gone. What was more valuable than money?

Moreau turned a corner…and ran straight into a wall. For a moment, he sat on the garbage strewn earth, dazed from the impact. And then he uttered a long stream of oaths under his breath.

For he had run into a dead end.

Of course this would happen to him. The lambs that failed to pay the price would always fall prey to the wolves that watched over them. Or in this case, he thought as he recognized the figure that approached him, the lion.

"I'm quite surprised you've made it this far, Monsieur Moreau," the man murmured. His fedora, accentuated by a silk lavender ribbon, dipped low over his eyes, but Moreau knew the killer could see him.

Moreau narrowed his own eyes, determined not to let the powerful voice draw him in. He had heard stories of this one, the one who could captivate his victims with a couple of words, and wring whatever information he wanted from them before erasing them forever.

"What is it you want, Signor Chesire?" Moreau replied. He knew Chesire was no more than a false name. More like a nickname, to be exact, an old joke from long ago. Or maybe not. You can never tell with a man like him.

The man chuckled. "Please, monsieur, I was raised here. I am no more comfortable with the title than you are."

"Then Monsieur Chesire." He did not ask for his true name. What good would it do to die with a lie in his ears?

The man broke into a grin, baring clean, white teeth that stood out against the darkness of the night. Chesire, thought Moreau. The nickname couldn't be more accurate.

"Now, mon bon ami…" Chesire tilted his face, just a centimeter, as if he were trying to get a better look at Moreau without having to look up entirely. "You are confused."

Tight-lipped, he nodded. And then: "Why?"

"Why what?"

"You know what I mean! Why have you mafia kept me alive all these months? What is it do they want? Obviously not money because that would me—" The touch of cold metal on his sweaty brow and the click of the safety going off froze the words in his throat.

"It is not them who wants," the man replied dangerously. "If it hadn't been for me, you would have been strewn up like a big-headed cock at the butcher's, if only for your fancy plumes. You know something that I want to know."

"The secret to my business? My passwords to my files?"

"Tell me where Carthage is."

The command caught him off-guard for a moment. "I-I-I do no—"

"I know you do. Don't lie to me."

"…but how? That…that has been France's biggest secret for decades…no one should know…"

"You don't know me the way I know you."

"What do you want from them? Their profits?"

The man struck him with the gun. Before Moreau could recover, Chesire placed an expensive shoe on his neck and pressed. Over his gurgles he said, "Do not mock me. I am not like the rest of the mafia, with their petty greed for wealth and whores. Tell me now, or else…" He cocked the gun again against, this time placing it in between his eyes.

"A-alright! Just don't tell them it was me. Don't shoot me. I'll do anything!"

The smile returned and his foot lifted from his throat. "Of course, Monsieur." The gun remained, however, and there was no hint of its removal.

Moreau looked around nervously, then said, "Not in the capital. It would have been too obvious if Carthage was there. If you had found any notes on its whereabouts, or even its creation and purpose, they're probably all false. By now, they've moved its location: an old, abandoned factory that was destroyed nearly a decade ago. Not far from a school—crazy, I know. But the school is a private one, and the principal is controlled by them. No one is allowed off campus, as far as I know."

Moreau noticed a change in Chesire's composition. The slender—almost scrawny man, though he wouldn't dare tell him that— had a sense of pride and self confidence before, but it seemed to have thinned a little. He looked…deflated, somehow. Hurt. Like an unwanted memory coming back after years of storage. And indeed, a shadow of pain flickered across what face Moreau could see…but as quickly as it came, it left.

And when he spoke, a new anger strengthened his voice. "Those who have caused Carthage's creation—the blasted French government and its MIB—have hurt me and those I loved long ago with their selfish desires, and I fully intend to show them the extent of their damage. I know they have continued something that should never have been created, something that forced a good man to commit evil and suffer wrongly for it, and the very something that changed the world of my friends and I forever. If they keep this something, the world may very well be nuked for all I care. It would have been a better ending for the rest of us than to know what the French government could cause. It would be irreversible and we would be better off dead than be controlled by…him."

He lowered the gun and Moreau, still laying on the floor, looked up at him. "Why…why are you telling me this, Signor Chesire?"He had forgotten to call him Monsieur.

Chesire smiled. "Because you need to know the truth. Not that you'll tell anyone else, anyway." And before Moreau could ask him, the man stomped on Moreau's throat so hard it turned to pulp beneath his leather shoe and separated his head from his body.

The brain that was once Moreau's could just barely function as it forced its eyes upon his killer.

Chesire stroked his wisp of a pale goatee before clapping his hands, as if he just got an idea. "As thanks for your cooperation, I'll tell you my real name," he said. And he bent down and whispered it into the ear that was once Moreau's, and the eyes widened in fear as the brain registered the name only known and infamous in the darkest corners of the underworld, before the light in its eyes finally faded and stared blankly at Chesire before him.

No, not Chesire, the brain that was once Moreau's corrected faintly.

Odd Della Robbia.

And as Odd Della Robbia strode away, humming an age-old lullaby, the breeze tipped off his hat, revealing blond hair carefully gelled back and down against his neck, and several short, purple locks that were left untamed and hung against his forehead.

He snatched the hat back with almost inhuman ease, swept back the purple strands under the hat, and continued on his way back home. He checked his watch. November 10, 2019. Perfect timing.

Twelve years since then.

They would meet in the alcove where the entrance had been, with all they know.

Home, where the warriors once reigned.

A/N: What am I doing, writing this oneshot that will probably turn into a multi-chapter story that will probably end up collecting dust like everything else I wrote.

Forgive me for turning Odd into this but this is my own interpretation. Any future characters will be treated the same; after all, it's been twelve years and living with a secret and a task like that, I wouldn't be the same. I have no time for flames so don't waste your breath…although they are amusing to read.

Also, if you are a past reader of mine, feel free to kill me now and spam me with death threats

Because I did not finish my past stories

Nor do I have any intention of finishing them any time soon.

Consider this story practice for those.

Although this doesn't really have a specific plot…I'll wing it.

Like my name hahahaha /dead

…

Thanks for reading!

~Wings