Author Note: This ended up more introspective than I intended... Oh well.
1st Iteration
The rain should have tipped me off.
Allen realizes this in hindsight.
But the first iteration, his mind's not on the Holy War, not on the akuma, not on the Earl and the Noah lying in wait so far away (yet close enough to crush them all at a moment's notice). His mind's not on his friends, all of them healing, scarring, from their battle with the Level 4 in the old HQ, the ruined HQ. His mind's not on the flurry of activity in this "new" building either, with its too clean halls and unfamiliar shadows and its windows that reflect too much for Allen's comfort.
No, Allen's mind is not on anything it should be on—not even the creeping, crawling shadow of the 14th in his every mirror image.
His mind's on his idiot Master, on Cross Marian, on the broken glass and the bloodied frame and Judgment, left abandoned on the floor. His mind's on Timcampy's frantic race to Master's room, a race that ended with Allen in the midst of Komui and Leverrier and a blank, bloody space where Cross Marian should have been.
One minute, Cross Marian was telling him he was the 14th Noah—the next, his Master was a phantom, assumed dead. Killed by an unknown agent that could still very well be walking the halls of the supposedly new and improved Order HQ. And Allen has no clues to this assassin's identity—not one—and even if he did, the odds that Leverrier (or Link, the man's first line of defense) would let him pursue an investigation…
The situation is slowing driving Allen mad. He feels trapped in this strange, new space, his every move scrutinized by Link, by Leverrier, by the Crows that often haunt the corners. He wants nothing more than to get out of this place, away from the shiny, polished floors and the rooms that smells like chemical cleaner—he misses the old building sometimes, with its musty closets and scuffed tiles and memories of a better time.
God, what Allen wouldn't give right now to go on a mission. Any mission.
Komui's promised him a new Innocence will show its face sooner or later, promised to put Allen on that retrieval mission, regardless of Leverrier's opinions. And Allen didn't even have to plead to get that promise. In fact, he didn't have to say a word. Komui knows what he needs. The man always knows—he's a hell of a lot more observant than he lets on.
Although Allen is sure he didn't do a particularly good job hiding his feelings that night in Master's room; his needs were probably written all over his face.
Even so—the new mission can't come soon enough. Not for Allen. Not when he's standing here, in the wee hours of the morning, watching a downpour through an open window in a deserted corridor, listening to nothing but the sounds of heavy drops on hard stone and the screaming pressure of his own fears inside his head.
No, from this point on, Allen knows, no mission will come soon enough. They won't come frequently enough either. Nothing will ever be quite enough to make Allen forget his troubles, to let him focus on his one goal in life, to keep walking forward—not while the world itself seems to be trying to drag him backward.
Thunder rumbles across the sky, and Allen starts, backing away from the window. He shakes his head, pulls himself out of his daze, and takes one last, long look at the sprawling grounds of the new HQ, now thoroughly doused and partially flooded by a downpour that won't seem to end.
When Allen finally pulls his gaze from the gloomy landscape, he turns on his toes and ambles off aimlessly down the hall. He pointedly refuses to look at any of the closed windows, the ones with the overly reflective glass panes; in fact, he turns his head just so, to cut his peripheral vision off, preventing him from catching even a hint of what he knows will be in his reflection. He sees it often enough.
Sometimes, he needs a break from his fate, same as anybody else.
He sighs loudly, his breath echoing off the vaulted ceilings until it fades away in the distance. This hall and its adjoining rooms are completely empty, one of the sections of the expansive building not yet "colonized" by the Order's staff. (They don't have enough members now, to fill such a large space so quickly. They lost too many in Lulubell's assault. Far too many. It'll be a while before they've grown enough to fill the same space they used to.)
As such, Allen hasn't seen a soul since Link left him alone (a blessing in itself) to go deliver a mountain of morning reports to his shifty-eyed boss. "I'll be done in half an hour, Walker. Meet me in the cafeteria," Link had said, back straight, shoulders stiff, lips pulled into a thin frown, before he marched off like he was going to war instead of a half hour talk with his own superior.
Then again, Allen has no clue what delivering reports to Leverrier is like—nor does he care to find out.
All he cares about is his brief window of freedom before Link glues himself to Allen's shadow again.
A window that's coming to an end shortly, judging by the booming bells ringing from a distant tower somewhere in the building.
Seven o'clock. He needs to be in the cafeteria in five minutes.
Allen does the buttons on his uniform coat, adjusts his gloves, and sighs one more time before turning back the way he came, aiming for the cafeteria. He carefully mapped his entire walk from his new quarters—that is, he used a piece of chalk he snagged from Komui's office to mark the pillars and walls, to keep track of where he was going—to make sure he didn't embarrass himself by getting lost. Again. So he follows these marks, small, white crosses on the dark stone, through the twists and turns of the empty wing, until he reaches more familiar territory: the wider main corridor that leads to the communal areas of the building. Like the cafeteria.
Allen never forgets where the cafeteria is. His brain is at least smart enough not to let him starve to death.
He snorts at that thought, a chuckle building in his throat at the image of himself crawling on his hands and knees, moaning for food, as he's lost in the…
He turns the last corner back to civilization, and the laughter dies in his throat.
I should be used to this by now… He thinks that every time. Every day. Every morning.
But, truth be told, Allen doesn't think he'll ever get used to the way that people swerve out of his path the moment they glimpse him now. How they form a bubble around him, like he exudes some kind of miasma. How they glance over their shoulders at him after they pass by, like they're worried he'll stab them in the back. How they whisper in a way that isn't supposed to quiet.
Oh sure, Allen pretends he doesn't notice. He's damn good at pretending he's oblivious to behavior like this—he's spent his whole life being a freak, so that comes with the territory, second nature, the straight-face, unaffected mask.
But the way the Order treats him now, especially the Finders and Scientists, the way they tiptoe around him, muttering prayers, like they think he'll go off at a moment's notice…it hurts in a way it hasn't hurt since Allen was very, very small. Since before he even met Mana. Since he was Red.
It hurts because, at one point, Allen got the impression he was a freak among an army of freaks—because let's face it, the Order is a weird bunch, a band of oddities and strange personalities at every level. He got the impression he'd finally come home, to the place where no one could point a finger at him and call him weird without being hypocritical.
It hurts because Allen is now aware that there's a level of freak even the Order is afraid of.
That level is Noah, and Allen now qualifies.
And the only thing between him and the pitchforks and torches is the fact that he still appears to be the same Allen Walker he was before Leverrier's very public announcement that he was a danger to them all. So…
Allen shoves his hands in his pockets, throws up his brightest smile, and makes his way down the main hall toward the cafeteria. He waves at the people he knows, says good morning a few times, and nods to anyone he recognizes but whose name eludes him. Most of them reply in kind—about half of them hesitate first—and a few of them even dare to ask him how he's doing this fine, rainy morning. He throws out his standard answers in his standard happy, happy tone.
The mood in the hall palpably changes in response to his normal behavior—the word must go through the crowd that Allen hasn't snapped. That they have at least one more day before he turns into a raging, homicidal maniac and—
Allen runs face first into someone's chest. He rebounds a few steps, yelping, and the person he ran into promptly takes a tumble, hands over her head even though she lands on her butt. Allen shakes his stupor away, annoyed with himself—I need to stop letting my thoughts distract me—and bends down, offering the person a hand.
And that's when he realizes who it is.
Miranda.
After realizing she hasn't fallen on her head and cracked her skull, Miranda lowers her hands and glances up. "Oh! Allen! I'm so, so sorry. I was trying to read these instructions, and I wasn't paying attention, and…"
Allen holds up his hand and waves off Miranda's apology. "Nah. It was my fault. I was thinking so hard about my breakfast order, I wasn't even watching where I was going." He offers the hand to her again. "You all right?"
"Oh." Miranda pats her arms and legs like she's checking for injuries. "I think so. Just bruised my confidence again, I think."
What confidence? Allen almost mutters to himself. Then he mentally smacks himself upside the head. Because that's not a fair comment to make about Miranda anymore. Neurotic she may be, but she's just as courageous and bold as the rest of them. The depressed Miranda with the grandfather clock, caught in her own time loop—that woman has been replaced by an Exorcist. And a damn good one.
(He's heard the story from Lenalee and Lavi—Miranda keeping that ship together, keeping people together, for days on end.)
Miranda takes his hand, and Allen helps her up. He notices the bundle of papers in her free hand, now crumpled from her fall. "What're you up to today?" he asks. "Got a new assignment from Komui?"
"Oh, this?" She gestures to the paper. "Nothing official. Nothing like that. Nothing big, of course. The Science Division is restarting all their experiments, that's all. And they asked me to help them test out some theories, regarding time distortions or something. They think my Innocence will be useful, since it's the Time Record, you know? So, I'm just on my way there now, for some preliminary stuff, and I was just reading up on the experiment when I ran into you. So…"
"Ah, I understand." Allen releases her hand. "Sounds interesting. Beats unpacking boxes at least, right?"
Miranda giggles. "Well, I can only hope…"
Allen steps out of her path and motions for her to pass by. "Don't let those guys go overboard now, Miranda. You know how they get!"
"Oh, yes! I know." Miranda peeks back over her shoulder at him and flashes him a nervous smile as she skitters off toward the Science Division. "I'll try my best."
Allen gives her a brief wave, and his own laughter finally emerges from his chest as a quiet snicker. At least some things haven't changed, he thinks.
He regrets that thought not five minutes later.
When he reaches the doors to the cafeteria. When he pushes one of those doors open. When he steps inside and spots Link, stern faced, waiting for him at the end of the order line, the words You're late on the tip of the man's tongue. When he notices Kanda in the corner, almost finished with his breakfast, and Lenalee, tray in hand, who's about to sit down across from the brooding samurai. When he catches Lavi a few seats away, telling Krory some story that involves exaggerated hand gestures. When he pretends not to notice how half the room quiets the second they realize who just walked in.
When he lets the heavy door go, lets it close with a soft thud…
…and when, three seconds, four steps later, an Ark Gate forms before that door.
And out of oblivion emerge seven Level 4 akuma.