They're up before the sun is even close to rising the following morning. Gurimo is clearly an early riser, but Alister is used to staying awake past the time he makes them get up. Raphael wakes easily enough, but he's not talkative and keeps most of his responses to monosyllabic sounds. Valon is the last of them to rouse, as he turns out to be a hard sleeper in spite of his background; the kid's half-asleep and irritable, and not even Raphael is able to curb Valon completely.
The airport is nearly empty as they make their way through it. Dartz is letting them use one of Paradius's private jets to travel, though he's already warned them not to get used to it; there will come times they need to travel using public transport, or they may be forced to fly their own way.
Once they board and have their gear put away, there's a brief argument about their seating arrangement. The jet has four seats and a table inside, and one of them will end up next to Gurimo or in a window seat. Alister and Valon don't want a window seat; Valon is claustrophobic and can't tolerate being trapped, but Alister is not a fan of heights and wants nothing to do with the window seat. Their bickering threatens to turn into a fully-fledged fight, all the way until Raphael heaves a gusting sigh and drops into the seat.
"You two aren't five. I don't care who sits where," he says gruffly, a tired edge to his voice, "but figure it out."
The younger Swordsmen exchange glances. Valon slouches into the aisle seat next to Raphael without another word. Alister storms off to the seat next to Gurimo, equally as silent but no less angry.
The flight is full of tension. It takes eleven hours to fly from Florida to France, and the hours drag slowly. Alister's mood hasn't improved from the night before. Whatever good will has been generated since he collapsed is gone. He's particularly cold towards Raphael, and while the man manages to keep neutral Alister knows some of his sharp comments hit their mark. Valon feeds off the mood of his older peers and he's also short-tempered, and that within itself is a poor combination.
By the time they land, there's a definite strain between the three of them. Gurimo's own voice carries an irritated edge as he leads them through the airport. Even the weather seems to mirror their moods. They're using a company owned car to drive to the safehouse and escape unwanted attention, but Alister would have preferred their motorcycles. The car they're in forces Alister to sit next to Raphael, and he spends the ride in frosty silence glaring out the window.
The safehouse Dartz has arranged for them to stay in is a small but comfortable townhome, located in the Neuilly suburb west of Paris. It's set between La Defense Business District and Paris itself; Paradius's European headquarters is about a twenty-minute drive from their route, while Paris is an equal distance by vehicle. There's a motorcycle parked in the garage, presumably for Alister to use while on his assignment.
Gurimo doesn't let them settle in. He only allows them to drop their bags off in their rooms before he hustles them back out the door, already determined to check in and get their assignment going. Alister knows tempers are running short on all sides, but for once he's in agreement with Gurimo. He wants this over and done with.
Dartz sent the shipment the day Alister got sick, and by all rights it should have arrived by now. But they still need to do inventory and then repackage it for distribution. Dartz hides his Orichalcum stones within glass-patterned mosaics, and beneath those are prototypes for what Dartz is calling Chaos Duel Disks. It's based on a stolen blueprint from Kaiba Corporation, hence the need for secrecy. Dartz guards these items jealously, so there's only one large crate they need to track down; it's hidden amongst the others that Dartz sends out to maintain the illusion of owning conglomerate corporations.
It's going to be tedious work, and no one is exactly enthused by the prospect. Their moods aren't improved when they get to Paradius's European headquarters and learn that the crate in question isn't in the correct location—while it's confirmed the shipment arrived safely, no one seems to know where it went. Gurimo turns them onto the task of locating the single crate while he starts searching the manifests.
It takes them hours to find the right one among the thousands in the on-site warehouse distribution center. When they finally do open the crate, it's to find that the mosaic broke apart during transit. There's no way they're going to find all the missing glass pieces and Orichalcos gems without removing everything and repacking it. Valon tries rummaging in the crate for the gems and ends up with a cut hand.
Gurimo's annoyed, but for once his irritability is not directed at the Swordsmen. "I'll notify Master Dartz," he says, surveying the broken mosaic with a scowl. "This is the fourth time this has happened. It's why he wanted us to oversee this delivery."
"A little late for that, isn' it?" Valon mutters. He's currently holding a towel to his still bleeding hand.
Gurimo seems to ignore him, but they can see a muscle in his jaw twitch. "It's hardly my fault you're careless enough to reach into the crate without knowing what you're sticking your hand into," he says without looking at him. "You were raised in Australia. Surely your sense of self-preservation is better than that? It's like your parents didn't even care when they were raising you."
Gurimo seems to have hit a nerve. Valon's face darkens almost immediately after the man finishes speaking, blue eyes stormy and furious. There's an undercurrent of hurt that disappears quickly beneath the anger. He starts forward. "You—"
Gurimo hasn't missed Valon's movement. If anything, he's stepped back and out of reach. He's not openly scared, though there is a nervousness in his body language that wasn't there before. Raphael catches the boy by the elbow, his grip enough to stop him but not enough to hurt him. "Don't," Raphael warns, his voice quiet but stern.
Valon looks away, teeth grit and fists clenched. Alister files the reaction away for later—whether Gurimo meant it to hurt him or not, Valon's not taken kindly to the taunt. He doesn't know why, and right now he doesn't particularly care , but it never hurts to know any weaknesses.
Raphael looks up at Gurimo. "We're all tired," he says, his voice a controlled level. "We're all on edge. Gurimo, I think it best if we regroup in the morning to figure out what needs to be done for this shipment. We can't be efficient if we're too tired to focus."
Gurimo relaxes and finally sighs. "I suppose you're right," he admits grudgingly. "Fine. You three go back to the safehouse. I'll remain here to update Master Dartz. I trust you know how to find your way back?"
"It's been a while since I've lived here, but I still know where to go," Raphael says. "We won't get lost."
Valon blinks. "Wait, you used to live 'ere, Raph?" he asks, his anger at Gurimo seemingly forgotten. "'ow come you didn' tell us?"
It's Raphael's turn to look away, not immediately responding. Alister's eyes narrow as a wave of disgust and irritation forms. Raphael's act is back again, and Alister's not going to stand here and let the man lure them into a pity party. "You aren't going to answer him? Funny," he says, letting his voice take on a mocking edge. "I thought you liked oversharing details about your life."
Raphael's expression flickers and his eyes flash. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks. His voice is a semblance of level, but there's a darker note under the words.
It means you have a bad publicist. Alister bites the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting it out, but it comes close. Instead, he meets Raphael's gaze with a challenging one of his own. "I don't know, Raphael," he says, and he feels his eyes threatening to narrow. "Why don't you tell me?"
Raphael is scrutinizing him now, trying to gauge what Alister knows. He knows that's what the other man is doing, because it's a look Alister also has adopted more than once. But unlike Raphael, who can't ever seem to manage being fully impassive, Alister may as well be stone.
Ultimately, Raphael turns away. "Valon, let's get your hand taken care of before we go," he says, his voice a controlled level. "I don't think that needs stitches, but I don't want to take any chances."
Valon knows something's up, but like Raphael he can't voice what it is. Alister's not giving either of them anything to go off. He follows Raphael quietly, and after giving them space Alister steps in behind them.
He ignores the looks Raphael keeps giving him all the way back to the safehouse.
Dinner passes quietly, all of them too tired to hold conversation. Gurimo hasn't come back yet, and Alister suspects the man would rather remain in Paradius headquarters than with them. Raphael is clearly weighing the conversation that he had with Alister earlier; he's been tense and distant, and it's enough to feed into Valon's mood. The Australian is on edge, even as quick as he is to hide that tension behind a smile.
The moment the dishes are cleaned and away, Valon stretches and yawns. "I'm goin' to bed,'' he says with a groan, starting for the door. "The first person who gets me up before noon is getting my foot up their ass."
"We have to be up early tomorrow," Raphael replies quietly. At the look Valon gives him, he arches an eyebrow. "We have work to do, you know that."
Valon grumbles under his breath but continues on his way towards his room. Alister is fixing to leave as well when Raphael moves in front of him.
"What, Raphael?" he asks, a tired snap in his voice.
"You're mad at me." It's not a question.
Alister sets his jaw. "I'm mad at everyone. What else is new?" he bites out, his eyes flashing. "Get out of my way."
Raphael does not. "You've been avoiding eye contact with me for the past hour, and you've been biting my head off all day," he says. Even as he tries to keep his voice patient, Alister can hear the irritation underneath it. "I don't know what I did, but I think I deserve the chance to correct it."
"Have you ever considered that just existing is a good enough reason?" Alister retorts.
"I'm not doing this today." Now there's a definitive snap to Raphael's voice. "If you have a problem, spit it out. Otherwise, lay off."
Alister's temper flares. "Oh, that's rich. You, asking me to be honest when you can't even do that much? How about you solve your own problems first before you ask about mine?" he asks hotly, trying to shove past Raphael.
But the man doesn't move and is a solid barrier preventing Alister from leaving. "What's that supposed to mean?" Raphael asked, brows knitting. "Alister—"
The last shreds of Alister's patience slip away. It's out of him before he can stop himself. "Did your family ever teach you to mind your own business, or did you even stick around that long before you abandoned them?"
Raphael freezes. The color drains from his features, his eyes rounding as he processes what Alister says. He's trying to keep his emotions in check, but he fails. "What?" he asks at last, his voice soft with disbelief.
There's no taking it back now. Alister lifts his chin and levels a glare at Raphael. "You heard me," he says coldly. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out about your family? About how you left them because you just had to be the center of attention twenty-four-seven? They were your family, and you turned your back on them."
Raphael is at a complete loss for words, and he doesn't make any move to argue. It only stokes Alister's fury, and he steps forward. He shoves Raphael hard, and the man staggers back with little resistance.
"Maybe if your damned publicist did right by you the first time, you wouldn't even be here and you'd be living the good life in your little mansion, surrounded by your oh-so-adoring fans," he hisses. "But he didn't, and so we're stuck with you. I have no respect for people who abandon their families for something so petty as not being the most popular person on the planet , and who profit off the dead. You're little more than scum to me."
He's ready to keep going. Alister's temper is legendary when he's pushed hard enough, and once those fires have been ignited they're hard to put out. There's years of frustrated, helpless, bitter fury and pain that he's constantly shoving down, and he's always a hair-trigger away from unleashing it. But when he's about to speak he happens to look at Raphael's face.
His words die in his throat.
Raphael's mask has completely shattered. His eyes are full of distress, pain and betrayal etching every line of his features. There's a wounded fury starting to show as well, his mouth setting in a hard line as his jaw clenches. His posture is stiff and ramrod, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. It's the most emotion Alister's ever seen out of the older Swordsman. Alister realizes he's about three seconds away from getting punched.
But Raphael doesn't move.
His expression clears so suddenly, it's as if a switch has been flipped. His shoulders slump, whatever fire that's started burning abruptly extinguished. His fists uncurl, fingers hanging limp at his side. Only his eyes have any sort of emotion in them now, a deep hurt and resignation in them that Alister has never seen before.
"You've been listening to my aunt and uncle."
Raphael's voice is low and exhausted. He doesn't need to yell to let Alister know just how many emotions he's forcing back.
But Alister doesn't back down. He has never even seen Raphael's family, but it won't make a difference if Raphael knows that—the story he's heard is always the same. "What if I have?"
Thick silence falls between them, broken at last by Raphael clearing his throat as he lifts his head. His eyes are too bright, the skin around them flushing, and Alister sucks in a soft breath when he realizes Raphael's close to actual tears.
"For all your intelligence, Alister, you've still managed to be the stupidest person I've ever met," he says, and every disappointed word drops on Alister's head like a brick.
Raphael turns away without another word, and in three long strides he's out of sight. From down the hall, a door slams shut. Alister is left alone, his chest and throat suddenly tight.
There are several long moments that drag onward, Alister's eyes locked on where Raphael retreated. There's a strange emptiness that's settling in his thoughts, a ringing in his ears.
He's won this argument. Raphael's the one who retreated. Alister's still here. This would have come up sooner or later. Alister's just doing everyone a favor by drawing that line in the sand, and he's not here to make friends anyways.
He finally retreats to his room and closes the door, unpacking a pair of sweatpants and a cutoff t-shirt to sleep in. He throws himself into the file Dartz gave him, studying it forward and backward and practicing his voice until it matches down to the very inflection. It keeps him occupied, anyways, and if he's busy he doesn't have to think about the argument.
( You didn't win anything, Alister , whispers a soft voice in his thoughts.
Alister hates that this voice sounds so much like his little brother's. He tries not to picture a younger face with the same disappointed and hurt expression Raphael had.
He fails.)
When Alister wakes, he keeps his thoughts solely on Dartz's mission.
He gathers what he needs, making sure he has all the components for crafting his disguise stowed away into a small backpack. The man he's impersonating has similar features to his, so mostly it's just shaping prosthetics and styling fake facial hair and a wig. There are other adjustments to be made, but that can be done when he's closer to his assigned location.
Once he has everything, he moves to get ready for his day. He doesn't need to waste time, and he's always been fast with showers—a childhood spent growing up in a warzone has taught him how to be quick and efficient. He wears the disguise beneath a baggy sweatshirt, tucking the rest of the outfit into the backpack.
Gurimo's awake and so is Raphael when he gets into the kitchen. Gurimo looks up as he enters; Raphael does not, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Alister stops only for a second before he steps in, keeping his expression impassive. He's not going to show that he's bothered by what happened last night.
"You look as if you are going somewhere," Gurimo says, a question in his voice. Raphael still doesn't turn around, staring into his coffee mug.
"I am," Alister says curtly. "Master Dartz's assignment to me. It needs to be completed today."
Raphael looks up at that. Alister keeps the flinch away even as the hollow gaze meets his. There's nothing friendly or even neutral in it—Raphael's eyes are dark and empty . Then he looks away again, his gaze on his coffee.
Gurimo doesn't notice. "Fine, fine," he says. "But be quick about it. You're still needed at Paradius to assess the shipment and help repack it."
"He's not." Raphael's voice is soft and as cold as falling snow. "We can manage without him."
Gurimo frowns. "This is meant to be something all three of you need to—"
"I didn't stutter, Gurimo." His voice doesn't rise, but it's icy and biting. Alister feels a chill drop down his spine. "We don't need him."
He doesn't look once at Alister as he speaks. His eyes are on Gurimo, and for once the older man doesn't argue back. Raphael rises to his feet, and as he passes Alister he brushes his shoulder. The movement isn't enough to knock Alister aside, but it's enough to make him take a step to balance himself.
Raphael doesn't even look back or apologize. He passes a sleepy Valon, who comes alert as his older teammate strides by him. He watches Raphael leave before he turns back to Alister. "Raph looks ticked. Wha's going on?"
Alister doesn't understand where the sudden frustration he feels has come from, but he channels it into his reply. "Use that single brain cell of yours and stay out of it," he snaps.
Valon scowls. "Oi now—"
But he doesn't want to waste any more time here. Alister remembers what Gurimo said yesterday and he sneers. "Oh I'm sorry, did I ask too much out of you? I don't think your parents bothered teaching you how to think. It's a miracle they even put up with you when you're this exhausting to be around."
It's the opening he needs. Valon freezes, his expression going frighteningly blank, and Alister shoves past him. The other biker does recover, however. As Alister leaves, he hears a snarl. " Fine! Piss off! Not like I want you around anyways!"
"Gurimo, I'm going. I'll be back later," Alister says without a backward glance. He's on the motorcycle and out of the garage before anyone can stop him—not that they would at this point.
Alister's alone now.
(He ignores the wave of hurt that's growing ever stronger, ignoring the way the sudden loneliness squeezes his chest. This is what he's wanted from the beginning.
It feels like a hollow victory.)
His target, one Josue Lavigne, is not a member of a larger media conglomerate. He's a freelance journalist who sells his stories to the media outlets. His office is a rented space located along the Rue du Louvre, not that far from the Louvre itself. He's nondescript in both appearance and in his career, not truly standing out from the crowd or his journalist peers.
Alister thankfully gets to his destination just before the tourist crowds have begun to build. He parks his motorcycle down the street from it and finds a vacant public restroom to finish donning his disguise. He enters and locks the door once he's inside. It won't do to have someone walk in on him disguising himself.
He feels the tension ease away as he approaches the mirror, letting out a slow exhale. Even if it's only temporary, he always takes a certain pleasure in crafting his disguises, and right now the distraction is a welcome one.
The rest of the world fades as he starts on his face and works to apply the prosthetic to his nose. He blends the prosthetic with makeup, eyes narrowing in concentration as he applies the mustache, and hides his hair beneath a wig cap; he's completely focused as he pulls on the black wig. He frowns in concentration, using a can of hairspray to coif the wig. As a finishing touch, he adds a pair of blue contacts to change his eye color.
After studying his reflection, he steps back with a satisfied hum. He's much younger than Lavigne, but he's successfully aged himself. He tucks the rest of his clothes into the backpack, unlocks the door, and steps out just as another man passes him to enter the restroom. He starts on his way, choosing to walk the rest of the way to his destination; as he goes down the walk, he discreetly slips on a pair of gloves. The office faces the street, with tall windows allowing a clear view into the building.
The man he's impersonating is gone for the weekend. He's supposedly in the Loire Valley with his girlfriend, not expected to return until that coming Monday. The lease Lavigne has for the office will be up by then, so Alister needs to make his move now.
It's laughably easy to pick the lock, and Alister slips inside before he's noticed. There are supposed to be two others sharing the space with Lavigne, but neither of them are in when he gets inside. He takes a moment to orient, and then he turns to face the space. It's a cozy office, small but not crowded; behind one desk is a television with a VCR, and Alister knows that's Lavigne's desk. He makes his way over and sits at the desk. There's a locked file cabinet underneath the table, and within a few moments Alister has the lock undone.
According to Dartz's file, he's looking for three videotapes, a video camera, and a tape recorder. There's one video tape missing, but he gets a bonus when he finds a laptop at the bottom of the cabinet. This man must trust that no one would break into his office; based on Alister's research, he's never really written anything that would garner this sort of attention. "Too bad for you," he mutters, placing it inside a leather briefcase he finds.
He packs the rest of the materials into the briefcase before he starts searching for the third tape. Finding nothing, he gives a low growl. Dartz won't like this, but what's Alister supposed to do? Conjure up the cassette with magic? He's not that good. Dartz will just have to settle for two out of three.
He's just about finished and getting ready to leave when there's a knock at the door. He stills, his eyes going to the entrance. There's not supposed to be any appointments. His target has a key, so there's not any need to knock. Maybe they're here for someone else?
"Monsieur Lavigne?" comes a man's voice from out the door. "Es-tu là?"
"Un moment!" he calls, slipping into the voice he's been practicing all night. He sets the briefcase down and rises to his feet. In three quick strides he crosses the room and opens the door.
It's a couple he's never seen before. The man is tall and slender, with chestnut brown hair and a full mustache that puts Lavigne's to shame. It's neatly trimmed, and his hair is combed back and styled. He's in a tailored business suit, one that's clearly expensive. The woman beside him has blond hair that's pulled back in an elaborate twist, wearing a deep blue turtleneck dress paired with a crème-colored coat and matching gloves. There's far too much makeup on her face and the flowery perfume is overpowering.
They both wear looks of haughty pride, and their appearances scream of opulence and classic refinement. Alister hates them on sight.
"I'm sorry, but I'm busy," he tells them in French. "Come back later."
"I don't think so," the man says severely, also in French. He pulls out a video tape and waves it with a short and impatient gesture. "We hired you to do a job, and you'll do it. It's bad enough you insisted on us watching this, rather than do your own work and put it together on your own."
That catches Alister's attention, and his eyes are drawn to what's in the man's hand. That's the missing tape. He recognizes Lavigne's handwriting on the spine of the case. "So I did," he says, thinking quickly. "Come in, come in. I don't have long, but I can make time for you."
"That's more like it," grumbles the other man as he steps inside. The woman eyes him before she passes him, a small sneer crossing her features as she passes. Alister wonders how rich people practice refining their holier-than-thou attitude. A part of him thinks it's just a part of their genetics.
He feels eyes on him again, and he looks up to meet the other man's impatient gaze. It seems he's found the people who hired the real Josue Lavigne. He takes a minute to remember their names; Dartz had listed them in the file, and Alister is thankful for a sharp memory.
He's now met Pierre and Edith Allard. Pierre comes from a family of well-established stockbrokers, while Edith's own family has a connection with fashion couture. Why they're so interested in Raphael, he has no idea. He doesn't really care, either—he's only going to get the tape from them and go.
(He feels he's heard the name Allard before, but he can't place where. The feeling won't go away, and he ignores it as best as he can.)
"We reviewed the tape you put together," Pierre tells him. "It's…sufficient, but Edith and I wish to supply our critique of your little project."
"I've had something come up, I really can't—"
"We won't take much of your time," Edith adds with a small laugh, cutting over the start of Alister's protests. "We don't have all day to be here . We have appointments in better company to keep, after all."
Alister curbs back the retort, knowing fully well that he can't say what he really thinks of this whole situation. "What would you like to critique?"
"You said we needed more footage of him acting out, and after reviewing the tapes I realized how to remedy it. Do you still have the original tapes?"
Alister reluctantly goes to the briefcase. He has no idea what the hell his target is even working on, or who this him the couple are referring to could be, but he's a master at improvisation and so he'll roll with this. "I was planning on doing more editing this weekend," he says as an explanation, pulling them out. "It's not quite done."
Thankfully, Pierre doesn't seem to question the response. Edith waltzes to the desk, studies the tapes, then lifts one and holds it out to Alister. He doesn't understand what he's supposed to do until she clears her throat. "I'd rather not touch your equipment. The dust, you see," she explains with a fake laugh, waving the cassette at him.
Alister takes the tape, forcing himself to smile as he moves for the VCR. There's absolutely no dust in here, she just doesn't want to be made to do the work. He pities Lavigne—no wonder he's taking a long weekend.
Pierre moves over to him as Alister inserts the cassette. He fast forwards the tape, eyes on the device, and Alister realizes the man's looking for a timestamp. A minute passes in silence before he seems to find what he was looking for. He turns to Alister as he pushes play. "Here's some prime material to pull from."
Alister directs his attention to the television—
—and nearly jumps out of his skin when a wail pierces the quiet of the office around them.
He knows the sound of a child in distress. The cry causes an immediate wave of anxiety that rises on almost-forgotten instinct. Even as he knows there is no child in this room, the urgent need to protect roars to life for the first time in years. He comes dangerously close to breaking character before he remembers the sound is coming from the television. It takes a large amount of effort for him to curb his emotions, and only when he's sure his composure is restored does he make himself look at the television.
He doesn't know where the video was taken. The room looks as if it's a well-decorated and lavish living room, but Alister doesn't examine it too closely. His eyes are drawn to a sofa, finding the source of the cries: a young boy who's barely into his teens. He's backed into a corner of the sofa, hands jammed over his ears and gripping his long blond hair almost too tightly as he sobs. He's in clothing that's torn and almost too small on his lanky frame, and he's barefoot; he's a jarring contrast to the polished refinement of the room around him.
"Non! S-Stop! J-Je ne veux plus faire ça!"
The voice is hoarse and shaking even as it rises, and it's not just from sobs. The French is halting and so is everything else the boy is saying; it's almost as if he's unused to speaking. But Alister understands it all the same, even with the voice muffled by his own body.
He also hears the beginnings of hyperventilation, and this time the boy's words come in English: "I d-don't…I don't want this!"
As the head snaps up, Alister catches sight of tear-filled blue eyes.
He feels something pull taut in the bottom of his stomach.
The face is younger, the hair much longer, and the raw emotions on the child's face are a stark contrast to the controlled ones of his older counterpart, but there's no mistaking who he's looking at now.
"You'll have to forgive us. We tried to get him civilized by the time this interview happened, but you know how troubled Raphael was after he came back," Edith says with a sigh, pillowing her chin on her hand. She's unperturbed by the sight of the sobbing boy. She has the gall to look bored . "My nephew always pitched such tantrums whenever he didn't get his way."
Alister rips his gaze away from the television and stares at her, his disbelief palpable and his anger growing by the second. That's not a tantrum. That's nowhere close to what a tantrum being thrown by a spoiled child looks like. This boy—no, Raphael —is seconds away from having a full-blown panic attack , with not one person coming to help him. Why did they film this? What purpose does this—?
"Has anyone reached out to the Allards in this troubled time?"
"No, they have enough on their plates as it is," one woman says, her mouth set in a thin and disapproving line. "They lost so much to begin with, and then their nephew…"
Alister sucks in a soft breath as the dinner party from two nights ago suddenly replays in his mind. Edith just said Raphael's her nephew. That makes the Allards—these people —his family.
"Monsieur Lavigne?" Pierre is watching him, and Alister looks over to the other man. "Is something wrong?"
Alister has to count silently to three before he responds. He pulls his face into a smirk that he doesn't feel. "I see what you mean about pulling this footage," he hears himself say. "It's certainly effective in catching attention."
Pierre nods, seemingly satisfied with the response. "You said there needed to be more, ah, emotion to support your report. I feel this is the best example to pull from. Silly boy broke down simply because he was asked a question. Don't let him fool you. He was bored of how the interview was going, and so he pitched a fit."
The video is still rolling, and Alister's eyes catch movement. Pierre is stepping into view on the television, grabbing Raphael's arm and pulling him close. From here, it looks like he's hugging his nephew to try and comfort him.
But Alister doesn't read what's obvious. He picks up on subtle details, always has, and it's what he pays attention to now. Pierre's muscles are tightening beneath the suit he's wearing, and in the brief glimpse of his profile he can see pursed lips and a clenched jaw. The man's grip on Raphael's arm is enough to inject a brief note of pain in the now muffled sobs. Pierre's head dips, his mouth barely moving, and Raphael actually flinches when the man finishes speaking .
Alister doesn't need to be in that room to hear whatever it was that Pierre just said.
(The same protective fury that came to life at the sight of Valon's blood has returned in full force.)
"Ah, see, he always drew comfort with me near," Pierre says, stopping the tape and staring at the screen. The words sound hollow and plastic. "Yet he grew into such a spoiled brat. I can't imagine how he went astray…I'd blame his upbringing, but it's hardly fair to blame the dead, especially since Edith's sister was his mother and her other children didn't survive the wreck…"
He looks at his wife as he speaks. She doesn't even react to Pierre's words, as she's too busy reapplying her lipstick while looking into a compact. "At least she can't see how terrible he's become. A small mercy," she says distractedly.
It's frightening how quickly Alister connects the dots then, the pieces of a puzzle snapping together in rapid succession.
Raphael is the lone survivor of the Harmonia 's tragic sinking, but he was a child when it happened. He wasn't traveling alone on that cruise—he couldn't have been. His family was with him on that voyage.
(Raphael isn't an older brother, he realizes with a sudden twist of nausea. He was one.)
Pierre sighs, returning his attention to Alister. "Enough reminiscing. Do you think you can use—Monsieur Lavigne? God, man, what's the matter with you today?" he asks as he finally registers the look on Alister's face.
You'll get caught. You'll blow your cover, you'll get arrested, and then you really will lose your one chance to get your revenge. He can't lose it here, not for a teammate he barely knows. "Forgive me, I'm distracted. Yes, I can use this," he lies smoothly. "Is there anything else you need, Monsieur Allard?"
"No, good man, I expect that's all I need to do." Pierre steps past him, taking Edith's hand. They start towards the door, and Alister walks with them. "I also expect to have this airing by Monday. Ah, and one more thing. Going forward, do try to have my wife and I uninvolved as your editors, hm? I mean, what am I paying you for if you cannot do your job?"
"Not nearly enough," Alister mutters under his breath.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing to worry about," he replies, forcing a smile. "Go on and enjoy your day. Leave all of this to me—I'll get started right now."
Alister doesn't bother letting them reply. He shuts the door firmly in their faces, ignoring the muffled and indignant replies from behind it. His clenched hands are shaking, and they don't stop until the couple's voices finally fade as they leave. He starts for a nearby chair, and by the time he reaches the seat at Lavigne's desk he's barely able to focus. He uncurls his fingers, staring at the bleeding crescents in his palms left from tightly clenched fists.
His eyes return to the VCR. He's already engaged in a fierce internal debate as to whether he should continue watching the cassette. He's caught a glimpse of something that by all accounts should remain private. He can't stay here, either, as he has no idea if Lavigne's office mates will be coming in.
It isn't his business, he tells himself firmly as he shoves the tape into the briefcase. He goes for the door, stopping just shy of it as his hand hovers over the knob. It isn't his business, it isn't his business, this isn't my business!
"For all your intelligence, Alister, you've managed to be the stupidest person I've ever met."
Alister flips the lock, pulls the blinds, and returns to the VCR.
"...appreciate you making time for me to have this interview, Madame Allard. I know this is the first one you've allowed since he returned home."
Edith's smile is supposed to be sad. It comes off as sickly and fake. "Non, dear. Thank Raphael," she says, gesturing to the boy sitting on the sofa beside her. She takes a moment to smooth the skirt she's wearing. "He insisted on this."
Raphael's expression is wary and pinched. His blue eyes dart to his aunt, confusion lighting his features. His expression alone indicates Edith's statement to be a lie .
There's a movement, and a woman with brown hair pulled back comes to sit beside him. Raphael immediately shifts away from her, shoulders tensing as he watches her. The woman attempts a smile that Raphael doesn't return.
"My name is Mallory Lucet. I host the show called 'Let's Talk'," she says, holding her hand out to him to shake it. Her smile becomes plastic and forced when Raphael doesn't move, her brown eyes shifting to Edith. "Um…"
Edith sighs. "Oh, it's all right. The accident has left him addled," she says, her voice lowering to a stage whisper. "We have him in therapy, but he's still…not all there, if you catch my drift. The therapist says Raphael is struggling to remember how to speak. Personally, I think it's possible he's dealing with some brain damage."
Raphael's confusion melts into raw hurt and betrayal. There's no lack of intelligence behind those blue eyes. He knows exactly what she just said.
Edith clears her throat. "Raphael, this is Mademoiselle Lucet," she says, her voice loud and deliberately slow. "She is here to interview you, remember? In-ter-view?"
She sighs when Raphael doesn't respond. "Do the best you can, Mallory," Edith says. "He's slow to process, but he can still answer basic questions."
The reporter paints on a fake smile as she returns her attention to Raphael. "So…Raphael," she begins, holding the microphone up to his face. Raphael's head tilts back to avoid it. "How has it been adjusting to civilized life?"
"...f-fine." The voice is soft and hoarse, and one clearly not used to speaking. "I am not s-stup—"
"Good, good," Mallory says as she cuts him off. "I'm glad to hear you're well. I appreciate you taking time to talk with me. My viewers have so many questions, and I was hoping we could answer some of those today."
Raphael hesitates, then shakes his head. Edith nudges him. "Manners, Raphael," she chides. "This nice lady has come all this way to speak to you, and she's very busy. Show her some respect."
Raphael winces. He's looking more and more caged. More than once, his eyes dart to the camera; his attention isn't on the camera itself but something behind it.
Mallory doesn't seem to notice. She's pulling out note cards. "One of my viewers is asking why you haven't changed your clothing or cut your hair. It also seems you haven't put on shoes yet," she says, reading it out. Her gaze briefly shifts to Raphael's bare feet before returning her attention to the young teenager. "Does going without such things bring you comfort?"
Raphael's eyes slide to his aunt as he emphatically shakes his head.
Edith gives another sigh. "Oh, he won't let us," she says. "It's not for lack of trying, but we think he's used to it. The clothes he's wearing might be ones he salvaged. There clearly must be something sentimental to them."
This time, there's no hiding the growing frustration Raphael's feeling. His jaw sets in a familiar motion, eyes flashing. These people aren't talking to him anymore—they're talking over him, as if they're gossiping over afternoon tea rather than interviewing him.
It seems he's going to protest but he doesn't get the chance. Mallory has pounced on Edith's answer. "Salvaged? As in, he pulled supplies from the wreckage that would come ashore or…"
Mallory's voice lowers, shock coloring her voice. "Non, surely not. He didn't take those clothes from a body?"
Raphael freezes. Edith leans close. "Most likely, but the boy won't say," she says in just as low a voice. "He does get awful night terrors, especially during storms. Who knows what he saw on that island? His therapist says that Raphael claims that the trading cards he had were alive and helped keep him safe, even sometimes seeing them in person."
"What trading cards?"
Edith laughs. "It's some child's game. I don't know what it is. He got some cards from his siblings for his birthday, and he held onto them all that time on the island."
Mallory's expression shifts briefly. "The poor child must have held onto them because they were all he had of his family," she says. Some of the tension eases from Raphael's shoulders at her tone, only to return when she adds, "It's so sad he had to make believe they were real to cope with how horrifying his situation was."
Raphael's eyes are widening, another flash of betrayal crossing his face. His breathing is starting to quicken. He's actively shrinking in place.
Mallory's attention goes back to Raphael, and her smile seems more edged. "It sounds like being on the island was truly terrifying. I can only imagine how difficult it all must have been, and how scared you had to have been. You weren't always guaranteed to survive every day, so I can understand why you had to imagine things to cope."
Raphael's arms are locking, gripping his knees tight enough to blanch his knuckles. He's not looking at either of them, his eyes focused squarely on the floor.
"Hmm, but that does make me feel like I should ask. Raphael, were there bodies? There had to be, it was such a large wreck…oh you poor baby, did you see your family's bodies wash ashore?"
Raphael's head immediately shakes, his hair now acting as a curtain to hide his features. The boy is trembling in place, his breathing growing louder and more ragged.
"Raphael," comes Pierre's voice from off camera, and the boy stiffens. "Remember what was discussed prior to the lovely Mademoiselle Mallory coming today, hm?"
Edith does nothing to comfort her nephew, nor does she seem to take any offense to what's being asked. "The crew said Raphael had dug a couple graves, but that none were of our family thankfully," she replies, sipping delicately at a glass of water. "I didn't catch those people's names, but I'm sure someone's alerted their families."
Mallory nods, her attention still focused on Raphael. He's visibly shutting down. The body language of the boy alone should be a clear indication it's time to end the interview.
She doesn't.
"Let's go to the night the Harmonia sank," she says. "One of the questions from my viewers asks whether you are able to share anyone's last words to you."
Raphael's breathing hitches again, his head snapping up. His eyes are full of open horror.
"There are so many grieving families," Mallory continues, as if she isn't watching Raphael falling apart in front of her. "As the only one who survived, some believe you have a responsibility for those who lost their own families in the wreck. I know this must truly be difficult, but surely you can offer them comfort. Was there any act of heroism you witnessed? Did you try to save anyone?"
For the first time since this interview started, Edith actually looks uncomfortable. Her gaze lingers on Raphael before she speaks. "He wakes up screaming for Sonia and Julien," she says to answer for him. She clears her throat and clarifies. "His younger siblings. They were on the deck with him when it happened."
Mallory turns to Raphael as Edith finishes speaking, as if remembering that he's the subject of her interview. After another moment, she makes eye contact with him and speaks.
"You poor dear. You must hate yourself for being so helpless. Do you wish you could have saved them?"
Her question seems to have been made out of sympathy, but it most certainly reads as an attack. The room goes deathly silent, the seconds stretching onward.
"Raphael?"
"Answer the question, Raphael."
"Raphael, enough of your silence. We're wasting time and—"
Without any warning, Raphael crumples right where he sits and starts sobbing into his hands. The starts of a wail begin to rise—
Alister viciously jabs the pause button on the VCR, ejects the tape, and throws it across the room. The tape shatters on impact with the wall, some of the pieces bouncing on the floor. Alister glares at its remains even as nausea twists uncomfortably tight in his stomach. His breathing comes in harsh and jagged rasps.
This is what Raphael left behind. This is why the man's always so carefully neutral, why he masks how he feels and when he's vulnerable. This is why Raphael says he has nothing left. He didn't abandon his family, he escaped it.
How the hell has Raphael managed to hide so much of his past, when it's clearly been broadcast for the entire world to see? If Raphael's own history is this bad , God only knows how bad Valon's is. How could Alister have missed so much?
(He already knows why: because Raphael and Valon are not Kaiba. )
Alister takes in a breath. Then another. After the third one, he stalks to the remains of the cassette and sweeps it into the briefcase. He storms out of the office, going down the street to the public restroom to shed his disguise. By the time he makes it back to his motorcycle, there's a new emotion mingling with the anger and nausea he's feeling, one that's foreign but not unfamiliar: guilt.
Alister's been forcibly reminded that he's not the only one of the Swordsmen who's experienced loss and pain. He's been wrong about Raphael and Valon, and while he's not in this for friends he's been too hostile with people who have lost just as much as he has. He needs to make this right.
Alister knows where he's going to start.
Expect the next chapter by September 2!