The study is dark.
Outside the windows is also dark. It's night.
The carpet is stiff against the bare soles. It makes no sound. One step, two, then three, towards the center. At the center is a desk. It's a solid block of shadow, taking up most of the floor. Starting from the left corner, the hand trails right. Wood, more wood. Finally, it hits something metal. Fingers grasp it, a drawer handle.
First drawer. Nothing. Second drawer. Sticky with dust. Next. There is no clock on the wall, and no methodical ticking. There isn't much time left. This handle's rough, it'll mark the skin for sure. It has to be here, in this place.
Something grabs your arm.
It pulls itself up from inside the drawer. It reaches eye-level, before falling, right on top, on four legs. In the darkness, in the carpet smell, there's a sound of something opening. A sound of a maw. "I finally found you" says the maw right above. It holds both hands on each side. They grasp, entwining their fingers with the rest. In this nothingness, the jaws above move, in the only direction they can, downwards. The fingers becomes tangling, melting, fusing-
"I finally found you." From the black of nothingness, there's a familiar voice. A familiar face, a familiar expression. There's nothing on her person, but that's when she was at her worst. She stares, looking down at the now single you. "Our mission, our destiny, I will sever it all with this light." With hand encased in brilliance, she raises her arm. One strike, to the neck. You stare. "Perish, beast."
She swings-
'We will be arriving at Le Creusot station shortly, passengers please...'
Awoken by the reflection in the window. It trembles, along with the wall he's been leaning against. Outside the see-through plastic is the same old sight that's been repeating for the 100th time; trees, houses, sky. The vehicle hits a rough spot on the tracks, and the entire compartment jolts. He checks the time. A hundred and ten minutes since boarding, 140 if counting the transfer time. Ash clicks his tongue. Trains. You think they would be faster.
He swings his legs onto the empty seats. There's no one else in the compartment, so why not? It doesn't offer any room though, so he gives it up. The steadily growing reflections upon the vanity mirror weren't just a trick of the light after all. Well, no need for uncalled attention, in his position. Do train officials have contact with the police? Are runaway youths even under police jurisdiction? Ash doesn't know, and he doesn't care to find out.
There's not a lot of baggage. In fact there's none at all, save for a handbag. In his mind, that makes him look less like a runaway...probably. From its place on the floor, it doesn't show any sign of being moved, but it ends up in his hands anyway. There's not much inside. Passport, two tickets here, a spare headband there, and money. He thumbs over the bills. Un, deux, trois...cinquante. All five thousand Euros from the study accounted for.
It's called a study, but the only person who ever used it no longer exists. The new leader of the house has her own office, and the important material have been stored somewhere else. Thus, it's a dead room. Greyed with no purpose, along with the rest that's left there. Maybe that means this money is proof of graverobbing, not stealing. He blows a little on the fingertips, ridding imaginary specks of dust. It doesn't matter, either way. Five thousand is nothing but a single grain of salt compared to the rest of the house's fortune, and the dead will never have mouths.
The train slows down. From the window, the platforms come into view, simple blocks of concrete. The rumbling turns to footsteps, sounds of metal-grinding wheels. Voices worm their way past the gap of the compartment's doors; shouting, talking, laughing.
He keeps his gaze straight ahead. Looking at the direction of the doors strangely bitters his tongue, and there's nothing in the window besides a stare of the mirror. The tip of his bang curls around the index finger, a habit. People are all the same. Wherever they are, they announce their presence all too loudly. A loud mess of noises, here or from school; it's all the same-should be. Somehow, this one feels different, just a little. Maybe it's excitement. They all sound lively enough. The hair drops back down with a snort. Like there's anything to see in a nowhere city like Le Creusot. Now Paris, on the other hand...
Ah, not like he's ever been, of course.
In the loud volume, the air settles down, gaining an extra kilogram or two. Maybe, a weaker person might choke on it. He fixes his hair by the window. It's a nice hairband, shame to let it go to waste. If the police did come in blazing, would they take it away? 'How did it feel to steal from a dead man,' they might ask. Why, it felt rather nice, he would reply; before making a dashing escape. How does it feel, they'd give chase, How does it feel to be born evil? Well-
A bump. Finally, the train starts to move, pulling out of the station. Again, Ash checks the time. A hundred and twenty minutes; so two more hours left until Paris. Groaning, he places his legs on the opposite seats. It's a bad fit. Surely France can't be that big of a landmass to warrant this.
In that span of two hours, it had started to rain. It doesn't stop anyone, except for him. He dawdles, just barely inside the Gare de Lyon. Through the downfall, the squares of buildings and streets are visible, sprawling. Ash frowns. It's...much blockier than he thought. The wet air brings a certain smell, something more than plain water. It can't quite be placed, but it stops the drizzle from completely blurring the border into an ugly swab of grey. Paris, huh.
Well, nothing gained 'less ventured! A bold stride, all the way to the ends of the crosswalk, waiting until the green light, then striding again; all the way into the nearest place with a roof. Hm. Yes. That's enough venture for now!
The place turns out to be a restaurant-no a 'fast food joint'. A fast food joint… The place is packed, coats of all colors filling the tables and front of the counter. Judging by the line, he supposes he has to order there...How quaint. The glaring menu says there's something called a breakfast menu, so he gets a 'hash brown', with some juice to boot. Their prices are absurdly measly, and immediately the appeal of these places are clear.
The glass of the window side is cold to the touch. It's not a bad sensation, even though he was just outside. Maybe other than making him a little hungry. He pokes at the golden brown oval. Ouch. Hot. Is this thing supposed to be meat? A bite, and the resulting answer is a resounding no; just potato. Very, very hot and oily potato.
From inside, the sight of the city is a lot more inviting. The glass seems to freeze the rain in place, leaving the far-off shapes in the fog much more solid. They give weight to the cityscape. Sterner. Rougher. More real.
Real. The mouthful of grease goes down like a lump of coal. This here really is Paris, and this really is, real. Through the blouse's thin fabric, the leather strap of the handbag chafes against his shoulder. The plan. There was a plan. What was next? What was he supposed to do? At where? In which direction?
A phantom itch flares across his right cheek. Flicking the cheap orange juice down his throat, Ash closes his eyes.
The sun is back to normal, blazing overhead. There's plenty of shrubbery here in this garden, but they do nothing useful, like providing cover. Holding the small plastic bottle in a way it won't slip, he gives the bench a little push, making it swing.
"I finally found you." Ash doesn't have to look to know who it is. Tall and sharp, from her haircut to the riding crop on her waist.
He turns anyway. "Hi Betty! Can we keep this short? I'm a little busy at the moment."
The new head of the Blanctorches crosses her arms. "From what, exactly? You graduated from school a month ago." Coincidentally, she also happens to be his older sister, but now, that's not very important, is it?
"Details." He puts the plastic stick close to his lips, and blows. Bubbles, of many sizes, scatter. "Besides, highschool does start after summer."
Her arms remain crossed. "Why go to school in the first place? We have perfectly fine tutors here."
Whisking the bubble mix again. "Well, it's boring, for starters."
"Ash." Ooh, name call. First warning. "Tell me the truth."
He gives her a full look this time. "Why would I be lying? Staying here, having to look at the same five old raisins-"
"Those people have been in loyal service to the Blanctorche family for decades."
"The same five old raisins," he bravely continues "every single day makes for a dull scenery."
She cuts the reply short. "I wouldn't be talking about school if you've also kept up with your training."
"I have been keeping up!" This time, the new batch of bubbles are tinged with a sheen of emerald. Under the sun, they dance beautifully. "See?"
"Enough." She uncrosses her arms. Back to her sides, her right hand is dangerously close to the handle of the riding crop. Her patience is running out earlier than usual. "Why have you been sneaking into the old study?"
Ah, that's why. "Oh? Didn't know there was a rule saying I couldn't."
"Answer the question."
"Aww, come on. You're always so mean, pushing me around." The stick makes a point as he waves it around. "All I did was try and get some new reading material. Found nothing, of course, not even a single bible." It's actually the truth, a good chunk of it, at least.
Betty seems satisfied with the answer for now. She joins him on the bench swing. It creaks under their combined weight. "Lately, I feel like you've been trying to avoid me" she speaks frankly. "Did something happen, maybe in school?"
A snort. "Like I care what those idiots think."
She keeps pressing. "Then was it here? I told you to tell me if any of the staff keeps treating you poorly."
"Again," he tosses the still-full bottle of soap-mix into the somewheres of grass. Its, along with this conversation's, value of entertainment had dropped quite a while ago. "I could care less about what those people think."
"...Is it what you said earlier, that you think this place is boring?" There's a familiar tone of superiority and pride in Betty's voice, one that's only reserved for 'important' things, and for a moment he mistakes the acid pooling in his mouth is the bubble mix. "I know you're restless, but you know why everything's like this. Why we have to stay here."
A laugh. "Do I? I must have forgotten." Hand subtly placed at the tip of the chin, eyelids scrunched up in an absolute show of effort. "Oh! It's coming back to me! Something, something about a mission."
"Ash." Ahaha. Second warning!
"The details are so fuzzy though... what could they possibly be?" Laughing, one more time. How far can he push this limit? "Well, it doesn't matter, right?"
Crack. Ah. There it is. Of course, the expectation doesn't in anyway lessen the impact. "Our families are dead." Her voice does not tremble. Neither does her hand with the riding crop. If you concentrate, you can still see the white light encasing the hard leather. "They died, believing in their mission to their last moments. As the last heir of the Blanctorche family, I will not allow you to sully their, or the Crimsons' name."
Ash rubs his cheek. That crop would have left a mark for sure. Oh well. "You're right, they're dead. So?" With a little hop, he leaves the bench. "That doesn't have anything to do with me, now does it?"
"You-"
"They're dead. That's it. So what?" It's a weapon; the fact that he doesn't even remember the accident. He'd only been five after all, but it's still a rusted sword anyway. He spins around. The grass crushed under foot gives off a heady scent. If you close your eyes, you can almost mistake this entire scene as a dream. "Why should I care about what they thought? Not like I chose to be born here. Not like I'm the one who set that fire either." That last lie is thrown in, purely for his own twisted satisfaction.
Her lips part in a breath of surprise, and that satisfaction only twists further. (See, you don't know anything at all.) "No one thinks you caused that fire. Why would you ever say that?" She's standing but the lie's done its job, halting her where she stands.
"Hm. Who can say?" He finds himself tugging on the edge of his bangs yet again, and stops before a frown can surface. Time's up. "Well, I'm off! As I said, I'm a little busy at the moment."
"Ash!" Too late for a final warning.
"Stop with the nagging please...it's annoying." He calls out, but doesn't care to look back. Everything is already done with, the money taken, and essentials packed. Nothing left to do here, except to catch the next morning train.
'We'll be seeing each other again' the Devil's low words ring in his ears. He spits. The memory of blood mixes badly with the remaining acid. We'll see. We'll see about that.
There will be no more dreams, not anymore.
The lock on the window melts like butter, and within seconds, he's in. No big deal. It's only the third floor.
It's the middle of the day, but the lights are turned off. So this house should be empty. Ash looks around. It's quite small, but not bad, in terms of design. Unlike Betty, he has very lenient standards. A temporary base until things 'settle', at least as much as Paris could afford to. A new start, in the City of Light! He'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited.
There's nothing to unpack, but just as he opens the handbag, the front door swings open. A young woman stands in the doorway instead, her lips parted in an 'O'. "What."
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle!" A little bow. "Mind if I crash here for a week?"