"The next card, the Magician, represents action and initiative… but also immaturity."
Edogawa-sensei, Persona 3.
A screech pierced through the haziness of morning. Stocke groaned against his pillow, his arm shooting up to fight the source of the noise. His foe was an elusive one, and his hand failed to connect with its mark again and again despite his best efforts. Finally, with one decisive swipe, he hit his target, and the alarm clock went deathly silent. Stocke sighed. For a few moments, he considered throwing the damn thing against the wall.
Propping himself on one arm, Stocke peeked through the drapes on his window. The sky was a dark grey and the tree in front of his room was furiously whipping back and forth as rain poured outside. He buried his face into the pillow, sighing yet again. There was no time to set out for the bathroom, and so Stocke paused only to look at the door leading to his mother's bedroom; he noted with a bit of dry amusement that he could hear the dissonant melody of her snoring over the shrieks of her own alarm clock coming from her room. As usual, Sophia Stocke, attorney-at-law, was a hard one to rouse.
One look to the empty bed in the room next to hers told him it was not the case with his little sister. Of course, Stocke knew Eruca was already up and about. When he got to the top of the stairs, he could indeed hear the sound of the bacon sizzling on the stove and the chatter of the radio from below. Eruca, the ever-dutiful daughter, prepared breakfast for their little family every morning (not to mention their mother's much-sought first cup of coffee). Stocke was barely halfway through the stairs when the lovely aromas of Eruca's cooking floated up to his nostrils. His mouth watered at the delicious smells.
"Good morning, Ernst!" Eruca wore her new uniform not without some pride. The middle school they'd both attended was rather small and much less prestigious than St. Noah's, and so she had fretted all summer long about the start of the semester. "Did you sleep well?"
Stocke offered a shrug in response and made for the stove to help her. Eruca immediately began chattering about inconsequential things—she asked him how he slept, what he wanted for breakfast—which was rather unusual. As he flipped one pancake over, Stocke noticed she kept fiddling with the silver wristwatch Mom had given her for her last birthday. He gave her a fond look, although she didn't seem to notice. She was still nervous, Stocke surmised.
He was munching down a bit of bacon, frying pan in hands, when their mother finally came down the stairs, yawning her head off. She made straight for the cup of coffee Eruca had put on the table.
"Morning, Mom," said Stocke.
Sophia's reply was a plaintive groan. "Why, oh, why does he have to come and get you so early? Why did I think that was a good idea?"
The siblings glanced at one another, Eruca hiding a smile behind her hand.
"You could always have slept in a little more," Stocke said. "You're your own boss. You didn't have to get up the same time as us."
Sophia took a great gulp of coffee, then grimaced. "I had to. My only daughter's starting high school, after all." Her lower lip wobbled a little. "My baby! Starting high school!"
The tips of Eruca's ears went red and she tugged at the bracelet of her watch again. Stocke couldn't help but shake his head and smile.
The doorbell rang before any of them could place another word.
"Must be Uncle," Eruca said. "Go get the door, Ernst, I'll handle the cooking."
Sophia buried her face in her hands. "Mmh," she agreed feebly. "Get the door. Let her handle the cooking." She then slumped over the table.
Stocke sighed and walked up to the door, unable to summon much enthusiasm. He swung it open, and it was with the longest face imaginable that he greeted the man who was standing outside, umbrella in hands. He was a good head shorter than Stocke, with greying brown hair that stuck out everywhere and glasses that seemed about to slip off his rather long nose. The man's face broke into a grin, and he raised a hand in greetings.
"Good morning, neph—"
Stocke slammed the door in his face.
Eruca and Sophia both gave a gasp. Stocke drew his mouth into a thin line, let out another sigh and opened the door once more.
Uncle Heinrich was fuming on his spot. "You ingrate child! What was that all about?"
Stocke squinted down at the man. "You seemed too happy for someone who had us get up so early on a Monday morning. It's indecent."
Uncle scowled. The expression was oddly petulant and rather out of place on someone his age. "I'm doing this out of the goodwill of my heart, you know? You can always suffer the joys of public transport, if that's what you prefer."
Stocke wouldn't have minded taking the bus, but he kept that particular information to himself.
"Oh, stop it, you two," came a voice from behind. Sophia was soon at Stocke's side, her coffee mug still in hands. "Hello, Harry, dear. I do appreciate what you do for my babies." She directed a pointed glare in Stocke's direction. "Even if half of them clearly don't."
"I have to get my stuff," Stocke only said.
Sophia pinched his cheek. "Oof. Stop mumbling, sweetie. Try to articulate a little." She swatted his arm playfully. "So grumpy. So stand-offish. The girls are gonna pounce on you this year, I know it."
"Mom—"
"—if they haven't started already, that is."
"Mom—"
Uncle Heinrich pushed his glasses up his nose. "Leave the poor boy alone, Sophie." He then said under his breath something that suspiciously sounded like, 'he's too young for that kind of things anyway'.
"You guys!" Eruca called out from the kitchen. "We're going to be late!"
"She's right," Sophia said. "Scoot along, sweetie, go, go, go!" She pushed Stocke towards the stairs and the latter rushed to his room. He paused only to give a scratch to Eruca's cat Musket, who had greeted him upstairs with a little meow.
Stocke's grin dissipated at the sight of his room. He just hadn't found the time to tidy up the place lately. His school stuff had been left in a haphazard pile on his desk. Stocke glared at the stack of manuals and notebooks, and threw it all in his bag without any attempt to sort it out.
When he came back downstairs Stocke realized with mounting horror that his mother had whipped up a camera from somewhere. Before he could make his escape, Sophia had seized him by the scruff of the neck; she stuck him next to Eruca and gave an inhumanly high-pitched noise.
"Don't I get a picture?" was all she said. Her eyes were big and shiny. "The two of you, all dapper in your school uniforms?"
"Well..." Eruca began.
"Do we really have a choice?" Stocke said.
Sophia giggled like a little girl. Stocke glanced down at Eruca; his sister was the picture perfect of poise, but her eyes were a little glazed over.
"You two look so smart!" Sophia said. The camera flashed over and over. "Although, would it kill you to smile a little, Ernst?"
Stocke nodded gravely. This did prompt a little chuckle from Eruca.
"Fine, then, be a grouch," Sophia said. "I guess I should really let you go, now." She turned to Uncle and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "Don't worry, Harry, I'll make you some copies."
"I don't need any pictures," Uncle Heinrich said, eyes narrowing. "Why do you think I'd want any pictures?"
Stocke could only exchange a look with Eruca at so big of a lie. His office at work was littered with pictures of the two of them.
Sophia finally brought both of her children into a hug. "You take good care of my kids out there," were her parting words to Heinrich. "And you two have a wonderful day!" She gave a peck on the cheek to each sibling.
Soon, Stocke and Eruca followed their uncle as the man all but ran up to his car, muttering curses about the cold and the rain.
"At least she didn't cry this time," Stocke said as he opened the passenger door for Eruca, shielding her from the rain with the jacket of his uniform. "She cried the day I started high school, remember?"
Eruca laughed. "I remember." Her smile grew impish. "Uncle did too."
The man in question was already seated behind the wheel; they saw his head poke out of the car window. "I did not," he said, scowling. Eruca only chuckled louder in response.
"Don't worry, we'll never tell," Stocke said as he took place beside him.
"You better," Uncle Heinrich growled.
The car started up with a low purr, and Heinrich drove them out of the driveway without another word. Stocke had to squint to see up ahead; the rain was so intense he could barely make out the outlines of the other cars, only their headlights flashing in the gloom.
The weather only worsened when they got onto the boulevard that would lead them to downtown Alistel. Heinrich's scowl noticeably deepened, and his fingers began to drum against the steering wheel. The traffic was thicker than usual, the cars all but forced to a crawl. Stocke sighed, and rummaged through his bag for his headphones and portable music player. He frowned as he passed each of his textbooks. There was one he didn't recognize; the book was thick, with a rigid, intricate cover. A complex mosaic of gold lines—made of real gold, Stocke was startled to find—were etched in the leather, and vivid green jewel-like objects were embossed at each of the four corners. Stocke stared at the thing, dumbfounded. What in the world...?
"I hope I'll fit in," Eruca was saying from the backseat. "Perhaps I should try to get on the school council?"
Heinrich grunted in response. He gave Stocke a surreptitious glance.
"You'll be fine," Stocke said at his uncle's prompting. "Keep a good attitude and no one's gonna bother you."
"You sure?"
"School council seems like a good idea," Stocke replied, shifting in his seat. He really was bad at this. "That, or join a club. It'll help break the ice, I guess."
"I see," Eruca said. She seemed halfway satisfied with Stocke's answer.
The car came at a stop. The red traffic light blazed ominously in the mist. Soon, it switched to green, and the droplets of rain scattered the vivid colour against the grey gloom. For a moment, Stocke's bored gaze followed the sparkles of green, his eyes settling somewhere over his uncle's shoulder.
He heard the other car before his eyes could even comprehend what was happening.
Tires screeched against wet asphalt. Stocke hadn't realized it, but his hands were gripping his uncle's arm, his fingernails digging into the fabric of the man's sleeves. A high-pitched scream tore through the air. Someone's arm encircled Stocke's form, and there was the shriek of metal being twisted and ripped apart.
A hot, thick liquid splattered in Stocke's face. His eyes and ears gave way afterwards. He was only aware of pain, pure, undiluted pain, before the nothingness finally came to claim him.
The ringing in his ears was the first thing Stocke noticed.
"...date of birth... so that'd make him thirty-nine and..."
"...any address? Phone numbers?"
"...what about the... found... yet?"
The voices were faint, almost too faint for Stocke to hear. His sight was blurry, and a glaring white light pulsated somewhere to his right. Something cold drizzled down his brow. Stocke grit his teeth together; with this seemingly simple movement came pain, at first diffuse and faint, but then it grew stronger, piercing at his chest with long, thin needles. Soon, his whole being was enveloped by a white-hot sense of burning. Muffled screams scraped at his throat. His chest heaved, his limbs shook. The effort tightened his throat, making it impossible for him to breathe.
"...the boy! He's come to his senses!"
Dark silhouettes stood out against the light. People were encircling him.
"How many... you see...?"
"...your name? Can you tell us...?"
Stocke thrashed in place. Something was binding him to the surface he was laying upon. Moans of pain filtered through his mouth.
Two oval blurs the colours of human skin were hovering over him. Their mouths were moving, red and white fissuring the flesh-coloured shapes. They began to move him towards the blinding light; the sounds of wheel scratching against the ground came to his ears. Stocke fought against the bindings that tied him down. The sounds of screams and of a long screech—tires scraping against the road—were blaring in his ears.
Voices came from his right. "Found it! Eruca Stocke-Heiss... age..."
"...fifteen? God... younger than my son... must have started school today..."
Stocke's vision was beginning to settle. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a long black bag being loaded on a stretcher. His heart began to thump painfully against his chest. To his right, a few human-shaped blurs were gathering around a dark item on another stretcher. A long pale thing—a human arm—hung out of the black bag. The silver wristwatch caught the glint of the morning sun, scattering bits of light everywhere.
Stocke's breath caught in his throat.
"...can you tell us your...?" the voice above him said. "...age? ...contact your parents..."
Stocke couldn't speak, couldn't draw another breath. He trembled from head to toes, the tremors sending waves of bitter pain to stiff, unresponsive limbs. He choked on his words. Something warm and thick bubbled out of his mouth instead. He tasted the bitter, coppery tang. A thump-thump-thump pounded in his ears, nearly drowning the shrills that still rang within his eardrums. Liquid fire seemed to flow in his veins.
"...calm down! Calm down, kiddo!"
"Hold him down! Keep him still!"
White flames invaded Stocke's eyesight. Something was pressing down his thorax, perforating his lungs with needle-thin claws. Fire burned through his chest, and when he opened his mouth to scream, only blood invaded his mouth. With the last bit of air in his body, he managed to breathe out the names of the two who had been with him, the two who surely couldn't be—
And darkness swirled over him, devouring the harsh white light.
Stocke opened his eyes to a world of blue.
He was sitting on a plush velvet chair. Stocke's fingers brushed against the soft blue fabric, and he startled, almost as if he expected to find another texture under his fingertips. He swallowed a gulp of air—the movement was strangely painful—and looked to his surroundings.
The chair in which he was sitting appeared to be on a platform of some sort. Other platforms of grey slate floated in the void that surrounded him. The empty space itself wouldn't have been strange to his eyes—it appeared to be a starry sky of some sort—except a starry sky wouldn't be so intense of a blue. The hue was electric, and so bright it was almost painful to look at it.
"What the hell?" Stocke managed to say, rubbing sore eyes with his knuckles. "Where am I?"
"You, dear boy, are in the Velvet Room," a voice came from in front of him.
With a start, Stocke whipped his head towards the voice. A table stood only a few paces away from his chair—how had he not noticed before? Behind the table, Stocke counted three people with long, pointed ears. The two children who stood at each side of the table were dressed in robes the same shade of blue as the starry, alien sky. Their amber eyes were fixed on him in a way that was rather unnerving. Still, the strangest of the three was without a doubt the old man seated in the intricately carved wood chair just behind the desk. His bloodshot eyes bulged out of their sockets, but what was most eerie was his grin, showing two long rows of perfectly white teeth under a nose of impossible proportion. Stocke shrank back into his armchair, staring back at the man with suspicion and a bit of apprehension.
"Where are my manners?" the strange old man said with a chuckle. "I am Igor." One of his bony arms swept over, motioning to their strange surroundings. "And this is the Velvet Room. Welcome."
Stocke gripped the arms on his chair tighter. He kept his mouth shut.
"What is your name?" one of the children—the girl—said. Her light brown hair cascaded down her back. "What shall we call you?"
Stocke swallowed, glaring at the bizarre trio from under furrowed brows, and managed to croak, "Stocke. I'm Stocke."
The other child—the boy—pulled a parchment from thin air. "That won't be enough," he said. "We need your full name to complete the contract."
"Contract?" Stocke said in a hiss. He half-rose from his chair. "What's that about a contract?"
The old man gave a little laugh as the two children exchanged a look. Stocke grit his teeth together.
"Your use of the White Chronicle brought you to us," the girl said. "Still, before you can fully awaken to all of its potential, we need you to sign the contract. Otherwise, the Chronicle's powers will be nullified and you'll go back to your... unfortunate circumstances."
"What?" Stocke growled. "What Chronicle? What are you talking about? Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"I am Igor," the old man said once more, his eerie eyes never blinking. "My master has tasked me to help people in situations such as yours. And my two young companions are the twins Lippti," he gestured to the girl, who gave a slight bow, "and Teo." The boy just continued to stare at Stocke without so much a change in his expression. "Their masters have graciously lent me their services."
This time, Stocke did jump to his feet. His head swam, and his heartbeat rose to an alarming rate, but he couldn't find in himself the will to care. "What's that suppose to mean to me? Where am I? Why am I here? What's that about a contract?" Another question burned at his tongue, but he couldn't find the strength to say it aloud. Something had happened a mere moment ago – the memories of the event hovered at the edge of his mind, making cold sweat trickle down his brow—and someone had been there with him. Who was it? And where were they now? Stocke clutched at his chest—his heart seemed about to burst out of his ribcage.
"You don't know?" the girl called Lippti said, blinking. At the very same time her brother said in a decidedly more deadpan tone, "...he doesn't know."
"Well," Lippti started once more, hesitating. She turned to the old man; his face-splitting grin had dissipated. Instead, he seemed lost in thoughts – somber, even. He steepled his hands together in front of his mouth, frowning.
"There is no gentle way for us to break the news to you," the man called Igor said. "You, my boy, are, well, dead."
Author's notes: I have no idea how to write Igor. Dude's awesome, but...
Anyway, thanks for reading! (and personal thanks go to quicksilver-ink for betaing this chap).