The first part of my submission for the DGM Big Bang 2018 event. Also posted on ao3, with illustrations by Ennael. Feel free to go and check it out!

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"It is said that there are five stages of grief…"

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"Denial is the first. We become numb in order to survive, because we are not yet strong enough to overcome it."

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"Anger is the second stage. Anger is like an anchor. Allow yourself to feel it. Allow it to cleanse you."

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"Bargaining is the third. You keep thinking "if onlys" and asking "what ifs". And then−"

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"And then−"

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"And then−"

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−An Akuma is born.

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Chapter 1:

A Blackmailing Brat

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"No… it can't be…"

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"W−why?! Why would Leo be an Akuma?"

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"He's my friend! We agreed to protect this city together!"

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"How could he possibly−? How the hell could he possibly−?"

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"What kind of proof do you have?!"

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"Please…"

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"You gotta save him! Aren't you a hero?!"

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Officially speaking, yes. Yes, he was a hero, and a hero with a proper licence at that; not that he had actually had a whole lot of choice in the matter, much like he did not seem to have a whole lot of choice as far as this was concerned.

And this, this was just what he didn't need right now.

He sighed. "Really, Jan? Really?"

On the screen was a boy in an aviator hat, wearing a mischievous smile. "But it worked, didn't it?" he boasted, pushing up his goggles to show off equally mischievous eyes. "How else was I supposed to get your attention, C2?"

Clutching a highly incriminating photograph in his hand, Allen supposed it was a fair point. Still− "You do realise this is blackmail, right?"

"Yup!"

There was not even the slightest bit of hesitation. No shame either for that matter.

Allen supposed he should be proud. Still, those photos− "Fine. Are you home alone?"

"Yup!"

No shame. None whatsoever.

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It was perfectly reasonable to assume that the Russel family had to have quite a bit of money to its name; the well-kept garden was big enough to be mistaken for a park, and the large fountain in front of the absurdly large and symmetrical mansion did little to contradict such an impression.

Even so, the house itself had always struck him as empty; lacking as far as human presence went. Sure, there was the housekeeper that came by during the day, but other than that, it was empty save for Jan Russel, the boy's research and a steadily growing number of prototypes.

As a result, certain parts of the mansion were starting to look remarkably much like the lair of a mad scientist, and it was likely not entirely unintentional, given how Jan's face had lit up when Allen had first commented on it.

"Yeah, yeah, it's cool, I know. Anyways, I'm gonna head to the kitchen and put on some coffee. You want anything, C2? I think I might have some teabags lying around here somewhere…"

Allen wanted a lot of things, really. The negatives to those photos, among other things. Even so, he declined and waited until Jan had left before stepping any further into the darkness of the lab.

The only illumination was the dim moonlight streaming in from the large windows. But it was no trouble, really, because Allen had excellent night vision, courtesy of years of practice. In fact, he very much preferred the darkness, because being suddenly exposed to the bright lights of Jan's lab would likely only have added to his emerging migraine.

Migraine aside though, Allen was undeniably curious as to what Jan's absentee father would have thought of his son converting the larger study into his own private lab. Not that Allen was planning on telling him or anything, but…

The cabinets lining one of the walls, which had previously housed a number of old tomes, now housed an impressive, not to mention alarming, assortment of chemicals.

"I sure hope there's enough ventilation in here," Allen muttered, stepping over a bunch of discarded wrenches and journals lying scattered on the floor.

The armchair over by the only remaining original bookshelf looked fairly comfy, but Allen stopped short of it, eyes drawn towards the single picture frame hung on the wall.

Even in the dim light, he easily recognised the people in the picture; two boys, making faces at the camera: the brown-haired and brown-eyed Jan, wearing his signature hat, and a fair-haired, grey-eyed boy in a blue jacket.

"Please… You gotta save him! Aren't you a hero?!"

Allen reached out, his gloved fingertip almost brushing against the glass before he moved his hand to the side, plucking a notebook from the shelf instead.

The notebook contained neat writing along with sketches of what Allen recognised as a Talisman, a battery-powered barrier generator. It looked like one of the earlier versions, sure, but fact remained that the notebook had about as much business being here as Allen did. In fact, Allen should probably confiscate and destroy it. He wouldn't though, not now, because like the rest of the books, it was covered in dust, and this fact alone made it very likely that Jan had indeed obeyed Allen's instructions to stay the Hell away from the research that had put him into the danger that had brought them together in the first place.

And speaking of danger…

Allen shifted his gaze to the side. His faint reflection stared back at him, mask and cowl at all. "What are you doing?" it seemed to ask him, wasn't that was an absolutely excellent question?

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"So…"

"So?"

They sat across from one another by the table Jan had seemingly appropriated as his new desk. They could likely have made more comfortable arrangements, but Allen had not really come all this way to chat; he had come all this way to deal with a certain problem.

"Is this all of them?"

Jan grinned and pulled out a thick envelope. "Nope."

Allen felt like rolling his eyes, but with the mask in the way and his eyes shielded by lenses, it wasn't as though Jan could see it anyway, even in the light of the small desk lamp. "Is this really how you treat someone who's saved your life… twice now, at the very least?" Allen asked instead, and the grin only widened.

"Only when they forget my birthday," Jan responded, making himself more comfortable in the swivel chair. "It's February 3rd, the same date as every year."

Really. "I didn't forget," Allen explained. "I got caught up in something."

Jan didn't seem all too keen on listening though. "I must admit that I was a bit bummed out at first, but I got over it, really," he said, fanning himself with a few of the photos. "Buuuut, if you really feel bad about it, then there is a good way to make it up to me."

Really. Of all idiotic− Still− "Would it make these pictures, any copies, and all negatives disappear?"

The response was as delighted as it was quick. "Definitely!"

Right… "Is it illegal?"

There was a dismissive wave at that. "Nah, it's just a small favour. Knowing you, it should be easy!"

And that sounded decidedly troubling. "Right…"

Jan was positively beaming now. On one hand, it was a great thing that the boy seemed to have made it safely though all five stages of grief, not just stage one, two and three. On the other hand, though− "But no testing."

"No testing," Jan affirmed with a nod. "Only a small delivery."

A delivery. "It's not some unstable chemical, I hope?" Or drugs for that matter.

"No, no." Jan shook his head, still with a big smile on his face. "Wanna see?"

Not even waiting for a response, Jan scurried off to rummage through his things, excitement evident in his movements as he pulled out a pair of− "It's my latest version. I've upgraded them a bit since last time."

Upgraded. "They look small."

"They're not for you," Jan snorted, turning them over in his hands. "They're for…" he trailed off, looking briefly towards the envelope with the incriminating photographs before averting his eyes in a seemingly bashful manner.

It did not take a genius to connect the dots. Really. "Fine," Allen agreed, getting to his feet. "I'll deliver the goods, but only if we purge every single one of these plus negatives beforehand. Deal?"

Jan looked momentarily disappointed. He recovered nearly instantly though. "Deal! Let me just go and get my flamethrower!"

Allen was halfway through a nod by the time the words finally registered. Flamethrower. In the hands of a twelve− No, thirteen-year-old. "Jan, we're doing it outside. And discreetly!"

"Aw, come on, C2! What's the point of having a flamethrower if you can't use it?"

Now wasn't that a fair question. Still− "Not indoors. Remember that botched chili bomb of yours?"

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Simply put, Jan and Allen had history. Or, to be specific, the people with a history were Jan and C2, Allen's hero alter ego, seeing that they had never actually met outside of work. Mind you, neither Allen nor his alter ego was supposed to be here, but−

"It's such a damned shame! I worked hard for those photos."

Allen just hummed slightly in agreement, looking on as Jan crushed the ashes underneath his boot. "Be happy you get to keep a few."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm happy alright." Jan gave a dismissive wave at that. "And you should be happy that I didn't take them with a digital camera or anything."

And Allen was, truly, because digitalised files could end up in dangerous places. "I am happy, especially since you're not running around looking for trouble anymore."

Then again, saying that the boy had stopped looking for trouble entirely might just be an exaggeration, because the boy still seemed keen on running around looking for trouble, even if he had stopped running around looking for Akuma.

"Honestly, I've learned my lesson; there's no need to rub it in, because I'm not stupid or anything…" Flamethrower slung across his back, Jan put his hands behind his head, shooting Allen a pointed look. "Besides, considering how I, a thirteen-year-old civilian, managed to snap those pictures with you none the wiser, I'd say you're the one who hasn't learned your lessons yet. I mean, I'm a genius and all but still."

That stung. Still− "If you agree to never bring it up again, then I promise to get you an autograph."

Jan visibly perked up. "Really?!"

Allen nodded, nearly getting his breath stolen from him as he was tackled and pulled into an unreasonably enthusiastic and slightly awkward hug. Because flamethrower, that's why.

"You're my hero, C2! The best hero ever!"

Hero? Sure.

The best? Eh…

-o0o0o-

Coming to think of it, what were heroes supposed to be anyway?

Even after meeting many and venturing down the path himself, Allen had no clear image of what a true hero really was. Or, to be completely honest, he had started out with a general idea in regards to what heroes were supposed to be and had been forced to adapt his definitions over time.

Heroes were supposed to save the day, defeat villains and always win at the very end. They were supposed to be the good guys, but−

But sometimes, they were arseholes; some were even arseholes more often than not.

Case in point: Judgement.

If Allen were to summarise his old mentor in a basic profile, then it would have gone something along the following lines:

Name: Cross Marian

Alias: Judgement

Age: Unknown

Class: General (Pain in the Arse)

Nationality: Unknown (from Hell?)

Blood type: AB (allegedly)

Height: 195 cm (ridiculously tall)

Weight: 80 kilos (estimated)

Likes: women, Romanée-Conti, (overindulging, forcing other people to pay off his debts…)

Dislikes: dirty bastards, children (and playing fairly)

Status: AWOL (unconfirmed)

In Allen's opinion, anyone who had spent more than maybe ten minutes with either Judgement or with his civilian persona ought to be able to tell that the man was a fucking bastard; a bastard with some redeeming qualities, granted, but a bastard nonetheless. But, for some utterly mystifying reason, a lot of people − most of the women, as a matter of fact − failed to see that.

Then again, Allen supposed it was not all that strange; people, especially civilians, seemed capable of turning a blind eye to just about anything. And as for the things they did notice, it was typically posted online in a snap, with little to no consideration of any future repercussions.

As such, Allen had to be very careful about what he said while out wearing the cowl. In fact, he had a habit of not speaking much at all, given how voice recognition software had evolved as of late. Then again, there usually wasn't a lot of reason to talk, unless he was working with a team or trying to talk some sense into some reckless civilian. Still−

Fans and publicity could make or break a career, and as such, certain things just had to be endured.

"Crown Clown, please give us a comment!"

Technically, it was Crowned Clown, but someone had fucked up when they had put Allen's personal data into the system and Allen was not the sort to stress over such small details.

What did stress him out a whole lot more however was having about five microphones shoved into his face as soon as he stepped out, because really, he had only just taken out a Level-Two, and reporters were already swarming the scene like sharks drawn in by the scent of blood.

At times like these, Allen was immensely thankful, not just for the cowl and the domino, but also for his poker face. Smiling broadly, he tried not to think about how close the lot had come to walking into lingering pockets of poison gas. It was almost as though these people had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever, really. "Yes?"

Logically, he realised he should humour them and all, but−

"Yes," a female reporter immediately responded, thrusting her microphone even closer to his face. "Where is Judgement, your mentor? What is he doing these days?"

Ideally rotting, but probably just living life, racking up even larger debts. But yeah, that was no longer Allen's problem, was it? "Sorry, but I cannot provide much information," Allen said, managing to keep his smile from faltering, even if his eyebrow twitched underneath the mask. "Judgement is currently out on a long-term mission."

"When will he return?" another reporter prompted while the rest listened intently.

Ideally never, but Allen was by no means naïve enough to believe that. Instead, he just shrugged mildly. "I don't know," he offered simply, and his cloak flared around him, causing them all to take a step back. In turn, this allowed him just enough room to make his escape. "Goodnight."

Allen shot out his threads and then flew off, not really bothering to look back. They called after him, sure, demanding additional info and all that. But Allen had already humoured them about as much as he had to, which left him free to make his escape from their voices and prying eyes. Because really, Allen didn't get paid enough to deal with this shit.

Taking down Akuma and villains was fine for the most part, but dealing with the public and dealing with journalists and all that bureaucracy was just− No, actually, dealing with all that would have been bearable, had it not been for that damned womanising debt-making bastard of a−

"Focus," he quietly reminded himself as he got ready to leap from one rooftop to the next. "You're still on call…"

Yes, but only for another two to three hours or so, and after that, he could head back home. Heck, if he was lucky, then he might even catch two or more hours of sleep, after eating and showering. But it was okay, as long as it was not too often. Or rather, it would have been okay, if not for one, tiny little detail.

"Honestly, I specifically asked for weekends, and where do they put me? Wednesdays! Freaking Wednesdays…"

Allen had a bunch of reasons to dislike his current schedule, even if he could technically understand why they had put him down for the Wednesday shift as opposed to the weekend; they likely wanted to allow him some additional time to recover after all the crap that had gone down. Because nothing major ever happened on Wednesdays; it had the only graveyard shift that was actually fairly dead. There was some Akuma activity, sure, but rarely anything that required more than one, maybe two people on duty.

They had obviously thought of him when they had set the schedule for the patrol; Allen knew that and he appreciated it. Still− "Have some bloody consideration for my economy next time, Chief…" he muttered to himself. "Those who don't work don't get to eat, but if I don't get to eat, I can't work either now, can I?"

Then there was rent of course, due Monday. But after tonight, Allen was fairly confident that he would make it because he had managed to take down five(!) Level-Twos in a single night and singlehandedly at that, which obviously meant that there was a slight bonus headed his way.

Besides, maybe that would show them that he was ready to resume the weekend shifts. Because really, Allen would much rather have been somewhere else, notwithstanding present company of course.

"Tim!" he called out. "We'll be heading back soon, so don't stray too far!"

His trusted companion Timcanpy, flying freely tonight, joined him up on the rooftop. The golem had a tendency to hide itself inside the folds of Allen's cloak, hitching a ride when it felt like it. Allen didn't exactly mind it though. In fact, he generally preferred it if Timcanpy stayed close, given the golem's unfortunate habit of getting eaten by stray cats.

Frankly, Allen had a fair idea in regards as to why he had to save Timcanpy from the jaws of felines so damned often; Timcanpy's tail and flapping wings made him look like a cross in-between golden golf ball and a fat canary, and the former aside, the latter simply begged to be eaten.

Still, Timcanpy was Allen's friend, knew how to keep secrets and was just about the only good thing that had ever been created by Cross Marian. Well, in Allen's humble opinion at least.

"Tim, still got the package?"

Timcanpy gave the golem equivalent of a thumbs-up. Allen nodded before turning his eyes to the surrounding landscape.

By now, he had dealt with all the Akuma within a five-kilometre radius of his current position; he had basically managed to clear out all the central parts of the town, which was not a bad result, not a bad result at all. Still−

A sudden ping brought his thoughts to a standstill, and he quickly stuck a hand inside his pocket. He retrieved his earring communicator and clipped it in place, cursing internally that he had forgotten about it again. "C2 reporting in. Five Level-Twos taken down, no Akuma within a five-kilometre radius of my current position."

Some static followed his statement, but it was very brief. Still, it made Allen wonder whether or not he should find an alternate solution to letting Timcanpy eat the communicator whenever Allen needed to talk to people without the risk of someone listening in.

"Good work, C2. We expect your full report in the morning."

Ugh. Paperwork. "Roger that. C2 out."

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Intermission:

A Sleepless Night

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Allen woke up in a cold sweat, head and heart both pounding furiously. 'Not this again,' was the only thing he thought while making a beeline for the bathroom. Fortunately, he did manage to stave off the nausea just long enough. Once he had reached his goal though, there was little stopping it.

Allen stayed in there for a good number of minutes, way past the point where he had any food remaining in his stomach. It was such a waste, really. Such a damned−

His vision blurred, tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked them away, uncaring of how they ran down his cheeks. Then he closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, willing the tears to stop, because he would rather not deal with a stuffy nose right now on top of everything else.

Distantly, he became aware of rapid wingbeats; they were irritated at first, then worried. "I'm fine, Tim," he murmured, keeping his eyes closed and his head tilted back. "I'll be fine in just a minute."

Maybe five. Maybe ten. Maybe fifteen. Maybe twenty. Maybe−

His leaden head fell forward and he clutched his head, digging his fingers into sweaty and dishevelled white hair; he should probably go and take a shower or something, seeing that he was already in the bathroom and all. "Get a grip," he urged himself. "Don't forget why you became a hero. Don't forget why you− Don't−"

'Destroy them,' something inside of him urged. 'Save them.'

The quiet voice kept insisting, even as he got up, washed his face, rinsed his mouth and dragged his arse back to bed. Some part of him wanted nothing more than to indulge it, to head back out into the night to hunt and hunt and hunt. Another, more sensible part of him realised that he would only wear himself out that way, and once he had crashed and burned, then he wouldn't be able to help anyone. And then−

He closed his eyes, starting to fade back out again. It took a few minutes, sure, but he was finally beginning to doze off. But then− "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

Allen flung his hand out, grabbing the buzzing phone from the nearby windowsill. The screen was much too bright, bright enough to be actively hurtful to his eyes. As such, Allen did not bother squinting at the screen to check the caller ID. Because this was his burner phone, so it could really only be a handful of people calling him anyway.

"Yo, off your shift yet, Cheating Boy A?"

And there was but a single guy who ever called him that. That guy. "For fuck's sake, you're not calling me at−" Allen squinted at the screen just long enough to make out the time. "−Five a.m. to ask about that."

The response was entirely too cheerful, entirely too carefree. "You're normally up around this time anyway. So, are you off your shift or what?"

Oh, for the love of− "I already told you that I wasn't gonna show up."

"You did? When?"

Having absolutely zero patience to deal with this kind of shit, Allen just scoffed and ended the call.

But obviously, the phone began buzzing again in a matter of seconds, because that guy didn't know when to quit, really.

Allen found himself torn in-between a surfacing urge to 1) throw the phone across the room, 2) drop it into the glass of water or 3) politely ask Timcanpy to just suck on it for a while. Fortunately, a more sensible part of him argued that he should not intentionally damage his burner phone; lord knows he had already managed to do so by accident more than a few times already. Had it not been the old, sturdy type of phone, then it would likely not have survived that fall from a skyscraper back in March. That said, Allen should probably buy himself a new one. At some point. "Go fuck yourself, Tyki."

"Rude."

Rude? Rude? "Die."

"It sure sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed…"

Really. "I woke up on the wrong side of six a.m. The least you can do is make this worthwhile."

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