Note: Oh look, it's WandererRaen!

But of course. I'm really not sure if I've ever had as avid a fangirl as you, you funny, funny thing.

Lucie's alienation was something that I felt was integral; I've never understood this whole 'suddenly popular' fanfiction phenomenon. Because, well, that's not how it works in real life.

Can you honestly imagine trying to join a school like Ouran? A school in which your socialization has more to do with who your parents and grandparents are than who you are? Where the existing social cliques have full-on histories and internal politics? 'Cause yeah: That's what you'd get. Ouran's graduating class has had its friends for years and its acquaintances for generations. The window to that particular social circle would be decidedly shuttered to newcomers. (Especially non-beneficial newcomers. Let's be realistic.)

Lucie's not even their countrywoman. What could they possibly talk about with her?

Also: I will gladly accept that paper bag. (But I'm not so sure you'll want it back. You're not that dedicated of a fan, are you?) Taking into careful consideration the temperament of the other original character in this, I can decisively attest that Tamaki's dramatics are only going to get worse.

So much fucking worse.

Edit: PetraPan! Good to hear I got Tamaki right; I was a little worried. My original characters tend to be a little… darker than our 'King', haha.

Double-Edit: So happy! Hello, KissedByMoonlitNights! I'm glad my characterization is good- hopefully it stays that way!

Triple-Edit: I've forsaken you to listen to Disney soundtracks. Forgive me.

Quadruple Edit: I'm terrible at this timely updating thing and this chapter has more French in it. Translations in the end note!

Rating: Mature because I swear like a motherfucking sailor and so do some of my characters.

Synopsis: Devils. Kings. Puppeteers. Younger brothers; Family politics. Two years later, the Host Club persists- and Tamaki insists on visiting. But this year, Ouran has adopted a new pet- and she comes with more than instant coffee. Spoilers! TamakixOC, KyoyaxOC

Disclaimer: Hatori Bisco is the sole proprietor of the Ouran High School Host Club manga series; Viz Media claims partial ownership of the Ouran High School Host Club animated series in North America. I am not affiliated in any way with either party.

Dolls and Despots

Episode Two:
Lithotripsy - Cracks in the China

Kyoya Ootori was an opportunist by trade, not nature.

He couldn't comprehend choosing to be anything else; there was nothing else as lucrative. He'd considered other options; weighed them, measured them, and found them wanting; and, in the measuring and considering, he'd already been an opportunist, because opportunism was, by the nature of the philosophy that it employed, the ultimate business policy.

'Shadow King, eh?'

It wasn't as though he was secretive about it.

People just provided him with so many opportunities.

And, when there were none evident, he made opportunities for himself.

So that was what he was doing.

Kyoya Ootori was making opportunities.

Kyoya Ootori was protecting his investments.

Kyoya Ootori was utilizing the misconceptions of others.

The greatest- and most profitable- of these being the assumption that he was competing with his brothers for the title of successor to Ootori Medical.

This was, in fact, a misconception.

The actions of Akito and Yuuichi concerned him very little.

Akito, the middle son; a nepotistic traditionalist lacking the ambition to benefit he who was foolish enough to attempt usurpation.

Yuuichi, the eldest and heir apparent; power enough to appease the patient, but to pursue his position was to miss the greater opportunity.

Kyoya, the youngest son; opportunist by trade.

Kyoya Ootori was pursuing the only compelling opportunity available to him, competing with the only true competitor he had been provided:

Yoshio Ootori, elder, patriarch, and economic powerhouse.

His father.

Kyoya had always resembled his father- and not just physically.

Their minds worked, clicked and whirred, stacking and filing and weighing and measuring and being lucrative. Just the same. His father had years of experience. Kyoya was younger; more attractive.

There was something to be said for that.

There was something to be said for misconceptions.

What he needed now was a father's misconception. Difficult. Very difficult. Too similar. Too much the same.

In that sameness, he saw- heard- felt his father's changing focus.

He saw Fuyumi, his sister, disappearing from the grounds at nights; saw to it that she was discreetly recovered. Recovered without his father knowing.

Kyoya Ootori protected his investments.

Lucrative or otherwise.

Fuyumi's divorce had been sudden, seemingly unheralded. The family had been thrown into an uproar; relations between Ootori Medical and Shido Industrial were strained, possibly beyond repair.

Allegations, calmly delivered, calmly received; boardroom divorce talk, so much like tennis. Allegations, batted back and forth with intense focus and leisurely style. Cold, impassive allegations. Unprofitable relationship. Interpersonal incompatibility. Subtext: No heir.

The Shido family had needed an heir; Fuyumi had taken too long. Without an heir, a mixing of the bloodlines, the contract was still tenuous.

His brothers had been shocked; disbelieving.

His father had been furious.

Ultimately, only he had seen it coming, and he'd kept his mouth shut.

Always notable but rarely noticeable; the youngest Ootori.

He'd seen her aimless and haphazard eagerness to be a good wife. He'd noticed the increasing frequency of her appearances at home. He'd noted the increasingly marked distance between husband and wife; noted the mild-mannered and non-physical affection.

He'd known about her commoner outings with Tamaki; knew she'd looked at him and Haruhi and longed.

He knew. He'd seen it. He'd watched a little spark of something unrecognizable die in her eyes when she'd sat with Tamaki after there simply was no more Haruhi and Tamaki; he'd watched her hold his hand gently between hers as the blonde stared at the floor, too numb for his usual dramatics.

Like the Suoh heir, Fuyumi had never measured, had never calculated, had never considered. Fuyumi Ootori did not operate with profit in mind. Fuyumi just… did. She obliged, and worked her way around her obligations.

And now, the fire of the Ootori – Shido controversy had cooled.

Fuyumi was no longer a liability.

Fuyumi was an exchangeable asset once more.

He saw the click; heard the whir; watched his father's eyes flick surreptitiously from his daughter to another profitable match.

To another obligation.

A foreign obligation, this time. No need to make the same mistake twice.

Subtext: Outsource. Remove liability by incurring it. Profitable but invisible. Most lucrative. Most sensible.

It was a high-risk investment; a potentially lucrative gamble rooted in Fuyumi's disgrace.

He did not support this course of action.

Kyoya Ootori protected his investments.

Kyoya Ootori's investments were best protected nearby.

He and his father had a conflict of interest. His father couldn't be made to see that. It was a threat to his son's aspirations. Kyoya needed a father's misconception.

Difficult. They were too similar.

A couplet of jarring vibrations. He had his phone out and open before the lesser parts of his brain had even processed what the vibration was.

Text message. Tamaki's happy-go-lucky rambling hiragana. Host Club nostalgia.

Kyoya Ootori saw an opportunity.

He was, by trade, an opportunist.

(Dolls and Despots)

Roses. Roses, in multitudes. Fine lace- delicate silk, luminous sateen, here and there a touch of lush velvet-

Lucie was very happy.

It was Monday evening in the Host Club, and the costumes of the hosts were no less intricate than the ostentatiously scalloped pink ceiling or the complex, glittering visual crescendos of the many chandeliers.

She wasn't certain if the theme was meant to be Edwardian or Victorian, if it was meant to reflect some sort of fairy tale world, or if there was even a theme at all.

What she was certain of was her enjoyment of it on several levels.

Lucie liked to sew. In the few instances that she'd had the time, she'd made duvet covers, curtains, even, on occasion, clothes. She was intimately familiar with fabrics of all kinds- familiar enough to notice and appreciate that the Host Club used only the best of all kinds.

She enjoyed seeing Tamaki Suoh's lean frame resplendent in cream and navy silk twill- enjoyed the line of pearly buttons from throat to belt-buckle, standing primly in place of a usual tie. She enjoyed seeing his face, free from a shiny head of golden blond hair smoothed elegantly back. She enjoyed sitting on elegantly carved wood and soft pink cotton sateen, drinking aromatic tea with him and her schoolmates, for once- for the first time- really feeling like a part of Ouran.

She enjoyed that Tamaki gave her special attention.

She was aware that it was beginning to bother the other girls- his quick slips into French, fast-paced excitable chattering and high-flown expressions of adoration- but did nothing about it.

Lucie could be a little bit selfish. She knew that. She felt distantly guilty, but immediately euphoric.

She felt special.

No one had made her feel special in a very, very long time.

As much as she loved her roommate, the very reasons that she loved her were the ones that left her feeling decidedly grounded. Feeling normal.

Jordan wasn't one to be swept away on the tides of romance- never one to panic or swoon, never one to back down, and never one to turn a blind eye when things were going right or wrong, she was a woman firmly grounded. It wasn't that she lacked an imagination- far from it.

It was that the grips of her imagination had a far more potent hold than the petty interferences of everyday life; Jordan was much too used to drawing the line between fantasy and reality. It was something that could be, and often was, very helpful, but it was also something that stole the magic out of the ordinary.

Jordan solved problems; unfortunately, she sometimes mistook fantasies for problems.

Lucie had kept her discovery of the Host Club- of Tamaki- to herself for that very reason.

She knew it was impossible. She knew it was stupid. She knew it was probably going to hurt her in the end.

She didn't care.

She felt special, and she wanted to keep feeling special.

She hadn't felt special in a very long time.

Warm, lively blue eyes flickered towards her. A stunning smile. A rose, seemingly from nowhere. A distant "Vous êtes perdu dans les pensées de moi, Princesse?"

It all looked so genuine. She could almost believe it. She wanted to believe it.

She smiled, looking down automatically- she hadn't broken that habit yet- and said something vague. She felt warmth rising to her face; heard the uncomfortable titters of the other girls.

Watched Tamaki turn, lightning-fast to appease them; knew, with an oddly dreamy jolt, that he was, on some level, aware that he was being unfair to them.

It was a strange realization in and of itself; Lucie was not a highly observant person. She could be, if required, but she'd made a habit of taking things at face value. She didn't notice things she wasn't looking for. She'd been accused of gullibility on many occasions.

She was usually happier for not noticing. For not knowing.

She wasn't sure how she felt about knowing this.

The feeling of absolute conviction had passed, leaving the thought tenuous and debatable, but the promise and danger of it wasn't lost on her; if Tamaki knew he was favouring her, than things were different-

But different in a way she couldn't quite grasp. It was almost… too promising. Too encouraging a thing. Dangerous.

It was all too easy to get attached to someone who just seemed attached.

Her stomach twisted. She looked down again, distantly noting that the nail polish on her left thumbnail was chipping up the side.

Suddenly, a long finger under her chin, pulling her face up. Too close; bright eyes and blond eyelashes over an almost coquettish smile. "Ne pas aller là où je ne peux pas vous suivre, Princesse. Qu'ont-ils là que je ne peux pas vous offrir?"

Another twist, more painful than the last.

'Oh, no. Don't do that. Don't say that.' She forced a smile at him. He bought it without question.

She was suddenly irritated; helplessly so. It seemed wrong that he could promise so much while understanding so little.

She resisted the urge to look down again, instead glancing over at the other tables. At her underclassmen, sitting at separate tables but somehow still a unit; at a bespectacled face full of angry, anxious reproach; at a short crop of dark hair and a laughing mouth. At the gingery heads of the twins, bowed together in confidence; at a sly glance in her direction; at a sudden, devious smile. At Haruhi Fujioka, elfin drag-king of class 3-A; at a small group of girls who knew but simply didn't care.

Momoko Tamiya was one of them.

Lucie looked at the Host Club.

She was irritated at herself now, too.

She could almost hear her roommate's exasperation.

It was a host club; she was sitting in a host club.

With a host.

She'd actively sought out the insincere affections of a host and promptly allowed herself to be swayed by them.

I'm really sorry, honey, but you kind of asked for it. Wait- actually, you literally asked for it.

Low and expressive words, spoken wryly.

She grimaced without meaning to; Jordan's voice had come to her so easily, and so clearly, that the blonde may as well have been shaking her head at her from the other side of the table.

The other girls jumped, presumably from her sudden change in expression.

Abruptly, there was Tamaki, his face arranged in an angelic look of ever-deepening concern. "Vous sentez-vous-"

He stopped, staring over her shoulder.

She looked up at him, startled, and then turned.

The first thing she saw was a sharp flash of light on eyeglasses.

The second was dark, meticulous hair over a dark, meticulous suit.

The third was that thinly-veiled look of displeasure.

Lucie could only shiver with panicky confusion as she tried to understand why the dark eyes behind those glasses were settled on her.

(Dolls and Despots)

One Lucie Charlotte Oake, nineteen years old, five feet and two inches or one-hundred-and-fifty-seven-point-five centimetres tall; mesomorphic somatotype, typified by wide shoulders, wide hips, average to low body fat; generally, a woman with a pleasantly rounded physiognomy.

French doll facial proportions, circa 1850. Notable.

Artistic sensibilities, professionally inclined towards musicality; unofficially, a taste for aesthetics, most notably those involving textiles. Socially inhibited; relatively quiet, reserved nature. Strong desire for approval. Demonstrable naivety; extreme susceptibility to romanticism, tempered by anxiety.

Canadian citizenship; a Quebec bilingual now pursuing trilingualism.

Kyoya had hit a potential snag, and despite the fact that it looked French, spoke French, and loved roses, it wasn't Tamaki.

He hadn't anticipated this.

He'd banked on Tamaki's continuing pliability; following the discontinuation of his relationship, the Suoh heir had sunk into a state of quiet resignation regarding matters of love. It wasn't something that Kyoya enjoyed seeing in him, but it afforded him a potential resolution to a problem that he couldn't afford to ignore.

Whether fortunate or unfortunate, Tamaki had started to rise out of his slump; it wasn't attachment yet, no- but it was budding preference, and he couldn't allow that.

He saw a tiny sliver of something steely in that quiet girl; the music department's foreign pet seemed to carry with her a very small streak of possessive noncompliance. He'd seen it in her posture; the slightly distant way she communicated with the other girls; the low flashes of jealousy when the object of her attentions turned away from her, recognizing that he had once again neglected the others. It was nothing major; an underdeveloped sense of entitlement, at worst. But it was there, and it boded ill for his plans.

Like the Snow White who smiled and simpered before ordering her step-mother forced into hot iron shoes, he suspected that Miss Oake needed only a slight and a knight to bring that steely undercarriage out full-force.

She was still without a knight, but if he was unlucky, the always-chivalrous Tamaki would gravitate towards that niche.

A slight-

That he could provide her.

(Dolls and Despots)

It was Thursday evening.

Lucie was feeling a little rough, for lack of a better word.

She wasn't sleeping well.

She tended not to sleep well when she was under stress.

She couldn't understand how or why things had changed so quickly- in an instant, her life had gone from steadily improving- almost content- to-

Well, sinister.

It was the only word she could think of describe it. It wasn't dangerous- she really had no reason to feel like it was.

It wasn't hostile. Not quite.

It wasn't menacing.

At least, not openly.

It was just sinister.

Her school life was shadowed by an oppressively sinister presence formally known as Kyoya Ootori.

Every attempted visit to the Host Club was interrupted by the silent and sidling introduction of a thin-lipped and insincere smile. A slim hand would shoot out between her and Tamaki's table, quietly redirecting her- those glasses would flash-

He seemed to come from nowhere; she'd check the room for him before coming in and he'd just be there anyway.

Lucie Charlotte Oake was well and truly creeped out.

She couldn't even feasibly complain about it; he hadn't actually done anything but separate her from Tamaki.

Be overly accommodating.

Smile too much.

Speak cryptically.

When it came to the last one, she was terribly afraid that she just kept missing the point.

He tended to talk with inappropriate crispness about things that were otherwise completely mundane. About travelling. About the difficulties surrounding passport renewal whilst in a foreign country. About the differences between North American and Japanese culture. About the trouble those differences caused. It was always the same; his voice cold, his smile warm, his subject… bland.

Sometimes, she thought she had it- almost got what he was saying- because Jordan talked like that sometimes- usually when she had play nice with someone she disliked. It was the similarity of tone and expression that made her nervous.

But Kyoya wasn't speaking English. Unlike Jordan, who spoke in clipped sentences and smiled insincere smiles and clenched her jaw in Lucie's native language, Kyoya spoke in clipped-smiling-clenching Japanese and she couldn't tell what was cultural and what was not.

He would say a word; she would remember one meaning, but know that others existed.

She never knew if she was actually hearing what he was trying to say.

Or if he was trying to say anything at all.

She glanced towards Tamaki's table longingly. The dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-suited- generally, just dark, she thought apprehensively- young gentleman beside her deftly poured her another cup of tea and threw her what was either a reserved or insincere smile; she just couldn't tell with him.

"You've checked the expiry date of your passport, I assume?" A crisp smile behind crisp words. "I believe we were agreed on the necessity of averting potential disaster."

She had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

She smiled awkwardly.

She thought his terse smile looked vaguely annoyed. She wasn't quite sure.

A pair of voices resounded behind her. She flinched.

This was the part she hated the most.

The twins had had nothing to do with her when she'd first started to attend- on both the Friday and the Monday, she'd caught them glancing in her direction, but they'd never approached; they'd done nothing, said nothing.

With the sinister mood had come the twins.

She didn't know what their relationship to her dark companion was, only that they seemed intent on making her life hellish- playing their games, switching from bright, insincere sweetness to off-hand cruelty and disdain in an instant- and every time Tamaki came dashing to her rescue, Kyoya would interfere.

Like meagre candlelight battling pervasive darkness, Tamaki's vehemence always flickered and cooled into petulance under an assault of clipped, crisp logical reproach.

"Is it not rude to interfere when the twins are obliging a new customer, Tamaki?" the mouth that reprimanded would ask. "The hierarchy of the Host Club is primarily dictated by individual designations; you cannot feasibly expect there to be no competition between hosts."

She didn't understand.

It sounded like something Jordan would say, but Jordan said things like that when she was absolutely serious and when she was talking her way out of trouble.

Or into trouble.

Two heads of red hair poked over the carved wooden back of the loveseat, smiling identical mischievous smiles, flashing identical white teeth.

She struggled, looking back and forth between them, trying to keep up the subtle shifts in expressions passing between them, with the nigh-telepathic conversation they seemed to be having- seemed to always be having.

"Our toy is awfully boring today, Hikaru," the one to the left said.

"Mm. I hate boring things, Kaoru," the one to the right said.

They turned bright eyes on her- drifting ominously closer- speaking in unison.

"And how is our toy today, hmm?"

She smiled nervously, slouching lower into her seat in a vain attempt to distance herself from the wickedly bright smiles closing in around her. She could hear a low voice, deceptively soothing, cutting through higher, louder protests; Kyoya, disarming her rescuer, just as he had yesterday and the day before.

The twins weren't smiling anymore; It was a look of bored contempt.

Suddenly, on one, and then other, a bright flash of terrible inspiration. They leaned in again, towards her, went to speak-

"Why is everything in this room pink?"

Low, dulcet, decidedly unimpressed.

All three of them looked up.

White light reflecting off of pink walls turned white blonde hair and yellow skin deceptively rosy, but the expression was unmistakeable.

Jordan Eleanor Earthy looked spectacularly revolted.

Lucie gawked.

Jordan looked back, her repulsed expression beginning to give reluctant way to amusement.

"How- When- Why are you here?" she babbled, bolting forward in her seat, concerns forgotten. The blonde laughed and twisted her eyebrow wryly and made a dismissive little gesture with her index finger.

"A little birdy told me that there was a room at Ouran Academy where roses and candy flow like water and effeminate boys wax poetic, and I thought, gee, I wonder if Lucie knows about this? Come to think of it, I wonder where she's been going for hours after school…?"

Lucie felt the heat rush to her face.

Jordan tapped a mockingly speculative finger against her chin and smiled; her eyes began to wander.

Embarrassed or otherwise, with the curious faces of the twins directed away from her and an unreadable intense dark host casting those cold eyes elsewhere, Lucie found her own gaze meeting that of a puzzled but resiliently cheerful blond.

He smiled warmly at her.

For no reason she could express aloud, Lucie was suddenly incredibly relieved.

(Dolls and Despots)

Quantification was automatic.

Female, between twenty and twenty-five, five feet and four inches or one-hundred-and-sixty-two-point-six centimetres tall; atypical ectomorphic somatotype, wide shoulders, thin hips, low body fat; long, narrow bones made irregular by an unusually sinuous profile- in commoner's terms, a 'Barbie Body.'

Androgen-impacted- or androgynous- skeletal structure; estrogen-impacted body fat distribution.

Rare curves on the physiologically curveless.

He knew what he was seeing. He didn't have to quantify.

Fastidious attention to detail; an immediate and definite taste for symmetry and measured asymmetry; a recognizable, openly advertised perfectionist.

Hair, bleached- deceptively dark at the roots, but still within the colour range; short, almost skin level at the base of the neck, short at the crown, shaped around the ears, graduating to a longer fringe- textured and styled, parted precisely at the left peak of the hairline; this was meticulous, wilfully androgynous hair.

He already knew; he knew what this was.

Makeup, fastidious- mathematical in application, a purposeful series of downwards-moving symmetrical lines in flesh colour and otherwise; pale skin made paler by carefully applied foundation, flushed by carefully applied blush, luminous by carefully applied highlighter, striking by carefully applied eyeliner- precise, symmetrical black wings under precise, symmetrical black lashes, continuing that pointed motion down a long nose towards a mischievous mouth- a long, defined jaw- a pointed chin- a long, thin neck.

Cat's eye was the term; cat's eye makeup. Sharp, flirtatious, coquettish, and imperious. Paradoxical, on a face like that.

Wilfully alluring, pointedly watchful.

The sharp, immediate look of interest she sent him from under those winged lids informed him that this was not a woman simply who did not get the point.

He'd miscalculated.

Lucie wasn't looking for a knight; she was looking for a prince.

This was Lucie's knight.

(Dolls and Despots)

End Note: Still not ecstatic with how this turned out, but it's alright, I guess.

"Vous êtes perdu dans les pensées de moi, Princesse?"means "Are you lost in thoughts of me, Princess?"
"Ne pas aller là où je ne peux pas vous suivre, Princesse. Qu'ont-ils là que je ne peux pas vous offrir?" means "Do not go where I cannot follow you, Princess. What do they have there that I cannot offer you?"
"Vous sentez-vous-" means "Do you feel-"; Tamaki's in the midst of asking her if she's alright.

No Evidence Available will see an update soon, by the way! (Don't murder me!)