Irony and karma go hand in hand just as well as gasoline and a match or Romeo and Juliet. This is to say pray to the unholy mother of hell that they aren't left alone in a room together. Some idiot's going to mess something up, light the match if you will, and cause some form of ridiculous disaster. An outcome of the usual fiery explosion, a cheerful vile of poison, or something sharp and pointy becoming acquainted with the general cardiovascular region. Basically, such lovely partnerships usually end in catastrophes of incomprehensible proportions. Perhaps irony and karma go less elementary girls clutching each other's hands while they prance through a field of bloody flowers with stems of bone, and more like a sleazy bastard opening the door for the conniving bitch.

Irony comes first, providing an oh-so graceful opening for karma to slip in and slit the throats of those who deserve it. As per with most bitches, such retribution, such avengement, such karma the red-hot slap of their frigid, boney hands is most definitely expected. The scarlet palm mark is a badge of shame or a target for teasing among some friends. It comes in one-part since the doubling of any vengeance just renews the cycle of retaliation. She is a pretty blood-dressed lady. The one that shifts from lover to lover. The abused, broken child covered in the deplorable grime of the world. Fiery women; volcanoes slowly building under the pressure of society. And the men as well… refused, denied, gore-filled eyes and green in the face with jealousy.

Most think themselves above the frivolities and flirtatious promiscuities of karma. It's better to think of them as blinded by the shade of her blush and glamour of her smile and dress. They never notice the knives hidden beneath the corset until recent events have perhaps become a little too personal, the blade striking too close to heart. Some would find sadistic pleasure in watching the donning look of horrified realization fluttering across their faces as sharpness slips past ribs and poison reaches the blood. While the subjects of karma don't always die, is there truly any way to deal with the soul-shredding consequences? Target, reciprocator, and unaltered whiteness placed aside. Obviously yes. There are plenty of ways to deal with emotional trauma. Most protagonists just chose not to deal. Of course, there are also many ways to go about–

Booze.

Hem. There are many ways to go about rectifying such–

Alcohol.

There are many ways–

Liquor.

–to go about–

Spirits

–rectifying such–

Grog.

–emotional strife.

Rotgut.

Hmmm! Fine! Just toss back a couple of cups of wine, brood out your sorrows away, and act fabulous despite being hungover. Because that won't develop numerous personality issues! It is almost guaranteed that everybody will at least meet one of that kind of person at least once in their life. The glorified assholes with problems as deep as the sea and an almost hateful skill when it comes to dressing finely. Morally ambiguous. Deplorable philosophy regarding their fellow human beings. Always a little too smooth. Perhaps they even have an obscene amount of debts they like to throw around willy-nilly. Hrm. This is most definitely Cross Marian. A man previously immune to all things ironic and karmic no longer.

Cross had never really realized that one day he would pay for previous actions or even just his own persona. Sure, he had gotten his own fair end of the teasing spectrum through those despicable twins. He had even been subjected to demeaning nicknames and scolding for his nasty habits via one of his more precious and terrifying friend. Unable to do anything while his friends were in need, useless as the picture frame fell to the ground and shattered. He lost one to madness, another to death, and the remaining one to his own carelessness. Cross Marian understood his karma. He accepted and excepted it. However, regret towards his friends and his actions aside… Cross didn't want to deal with such familiar, now child-like, steely grey eyes. The brat was too reminiscent for comfort and too young for him to correctly deal with the situation. It was all the same. Red hair, eyes, polite with hidden emotion personality, and that god-forsaken nickname.

"Mari!" A deceivingly innocent voice sounded from behind him.

The gunshot sounded loud in the muted, run-down bedroom of some seedy inn he'd managed to secure temporary residency in. Cross continued to choke on the fine wine that his lungs had decided they wanted a taste of. He side-eyed the disturbingly polite grin his apprentice was sending him. The brat was creepy on the best of days. Always knowing things he most definitely shouldn't. Perhaps it was a side effect of the conflicting memories currently repressed within his small body. The hidden recollections of both a top-tier scholar and a rather knowledgeable magician. Two willful people smashed into one… It would surely cause suffering later on. He supposed that it was rather karmic that the brat would have occasional, astounding spouts on knowledge.

Cross awoke to something slamming harshly into his head. In the wake of sleep, his sense of past and present mixed for only a second under the familiar aching pressure of his skull.

"Fucking hell Allen!" He had growled.

The book slammed into his skull once again and Cross let another string of profanities.

"What have I told you about taking care of my books Marian." Allen chided him.

It was then that Cross paused. Time appeared to freeze only for a second. Allen was gone. He would never return and his only legacy would soon be destroyed as well. None of this was real. Looking up Cross took in the pouting form of his recently appointed apprentice. A half-destroyed book was clutched protectively against his chest. Cross let out a sigh and ran a hand down his face.

"That's not your book stupid pupil." He deadpanned.

A glazed look appeared to overtake Allen, a clear aura of confusion almost palpable.

"It's… not?"

Cross brushed wrinkles out from his clothes.

"No, it's not."

Allen clutched the book tighter and stuck his tongue out Cross.

"Well then, since you clearly can't take care of it properly…" Allen grinned, "Then it's mine now!"

Cross shook away the remains of such memories. The past would forever remain in the past. Collecting himself, he turned to glare at the little heathen. Timcanpy sat on his head with an identical grin. That little traitor…

"What do you want idiot pupil…" He sighed.

Cross was beginning to get the feeling that this conversation really wasn't going to end up anywhere favorable. Allen pulled a packed travel bag over his shoulder. Yep. This was definitely not good. Cross had thought the brat had grown out of his escape faze.

"I don't want anything! I was just being polite and telling you where I was off to." He supplied with a smile.

Cross Marian was not a fan of children. They were emotional, grubby, and annoyingly whiney at the best of times. However, he would prefer them to this eleven-year-old who wore the mask of Allen just as well as the original.

"And just where do you think your off to?" He questioned exasperatedly.

A strange and not all that unfamiliar gleam entered the younger Allen's eyes.

"The Black Order."

Cross jerked at that answer. Everything was progressing much too quickly. Mana hadn't shouldn't have 'died' as soon as he did. Allen should not have figured out the Millennium Earl's identity so early. Only a year with Cross and he had already decided to go off to the Order. Central had only just removed its dark and dangerous claws as Komui rose to the position of Supervisor of the European Branch. Even then, he was quite sure not all of the Crows had left their nests yet.

"What makes you think that I'll let you go?" He questioned darkly.

It wasn't long before the dreaded demonic smile spread across Allen's face. The boy shrugged offhandedly.

"Hoh? Apparently, you forget that your apprentice currently has knowledge of your current position, places in which you owe a fair amount of cash, and the location of the Order which you hate oh-so-much." Allen continued with a smirk, "Force me to remain by your side and who's to say what might happen?"

A moment of silence.

"It's about time you got out of my hair." Cross finished flawlessly, "I'll write you a recommendation letter. Take the little traitor… Timcanpy with you."

With a nod his apprentice left the room. Cross Marian stared at the murky green bottle across from him. His eyes flickered towards the wine glass next to it.

"Screw this…" He muttered.

Cross grabbed the whole bottle.

Author's Note:

I'm gonna be honest... I don't know how long I slept last night, but it was not enough. I'm not one of those people to get so stressed I can't sleep, I wouldn't even call myself a particularly anxiety-ridden person... I've noticed that over many years of consecutive, awkward conversations that I think faster than most people. This does not mean I am remotely smarter or better at computing things than the average person. My thought process is just... well, faster. Because of this, I have a tendency to cling to bigger ideas and think about everything there is to think about them. I do this at night... instead of sleeping. I'm pretty hyper regardless of how much sleep I get (hint hint never give me caffeine), but I don't particularly like thinking obsessively over the email I sent to my math teacher four hours ago, how I worded it, that one comma I missed and counting the second until she replies back. Which, by the way, wasn't until around 7 (am). I really didn't mean to write all this, I just felt like it was something I needed to get off my chest. Well, mostly I don't want to think about it again tonight and this helps.

I wrote bitch so many times in this chapter that my feminism got riled up... I'll bore you with that mind-bending lecture in another chapter.