Most capable hands, huh? Shun doesn’t hide the quick look-over he gives him; it’s a swift inspecting glace up his body that clearly says: a child like you is one on the best medics around? It sounds like their adults aren’t as intelligent as believed if a boy close to his age can claim such things.

Or maybe he’s wildly exaggerating. Judging by his… everything–his personality (too cheery for their camp) and appearance (too bright for their camp, does he want to die?)–he’s wild in anything he does.

It’s only been less than five minutes talking to the boy, but Shun believes he may have found the worst inhabitant in the base so far. He’s too odd.

The boy hanging from his shoulders giggles incessantly into his clothes, and the other children begin to complain why they can’t climb on him, but Satomi can. Shun doesn’t answer their whines, keeping his narrowed eyes locked on the stranger and the children huddled at his side.

If the kids saw him as trustworthy, he shouldn’t be too bad… But standing in his general vicinity makes a shiver race up his spine. Nothing seems right here.

“… What?” What had he said? Ruri–how does he know her?

He quiets down as the boy continues to speak. About how he’s worrying her, smothering her, keeping her locked up like some bird in a gilded cage.

Unsurprisingly, when he finishes Shun is close to outright snarling at him. The uncomfortable shiver has evolved into blaring red alarms in his head.

“Don’t talk as if you know me,” he starts off, and the heat in his voice causes Satomi to send a worried glance up to him. Shun doesn’t want to scare him, but this kid. “And don’t act as if you have any right to question me about anything. I have no clue why she’s decided to discuss her feelings with someone like you, but you should keep your complaining to yourself.”

He’s lucky there are children around. Believing that he has any right to say anything about either of them–who does he think he is?

He’s going to have to talk to Ruri about her choice in friends.

“Who are you, anyway?” he demands; he has to bring him up to her in some way, and the best option would be with a name. Although he’s sure just mentioning his outfit would immediately tell her who he means. 

It doesn’t matter if they’re friends, either. If something is going on, he’ll get what he can from her–and if any of it seems bad, he’ll make it stop.

His grin just about blinds Shun with its intensity.

He leans back ever so slightly, putting a tiny distance between the two of them as much as possible with the children clinging to his body, and examines the boy once more.

He does seem familiar, in a unforgettable annoyance sort-of way. About as tall as him with wild orange hair, and his voice is loud enough to make it easy to point him out in a crowd.

Shun doesn’t feel the least bit happy about chatting with such a loud-themed person.

Flicking his gaze down to return to the playful children, Shun repeats a part of what he heard from the explanation. “The horrors of the night?” 

Horrors of the night. Back when he was a child–an actual, oblivious child with no knowledge of the pains of war–such things only included foolish tales like the Boogeyman. A made-up figure who hid under the beds of misbehaving kids and punished them for their wrong-doings.

Nowadays, Shun knows who the real horrors are. Unfortunately, they don’t have the common courtesy to only show themselves during the night.

But.. what does teaching them about horrors have to do with life outside of their base? It would only frighten the children more than they are. Unless they’ve begun to grow a thick skin to the terror of the outside world, but–

Shun grunts, shaken out of his thoughts as an adventurous boy tries to actually jump on him like he’s a piece of playground equipment.

“Stop that,” he scolds again, but all he gets in response is another jump that successfully allows the boy to hang from his shoulder. He actually weighs close to nothing, but Shun has to bend his back to stay properly standing.

Unable to do much else except to reply to he stranger while he’s being used as a climbing toy, Shun decides to reply.

“I don’t have time to play with these kids. I need to head home.” Where his sister is waiting and where the stress only somewhat begins to ebb out of his shoulders. “And you should take them back to their families. It’s too dark out to play around any longer. If they get hurt, the blame is on you.”

His new charge really is a heavy sleeper, Zarc muses quietly from the doorway.  The sun is already sinking beneath the horizon and drawing a blanket of clouds over the sky. His face is once again smoothed in sleep, looking just like any other innocent his age should.

He looks so small.  He remembers the affront on his face when he had rebelled against Zarc treating him like a child. Screaming that fourteen was close enough to adulthood.

The memory of it is almost enough to make him smirk from nostalgia.  Fourteen. He’s sure he felt the same at that age. So convinced he was ready to go toe to toe with the ones who owned the world.  But he had been so very young.  So naïve and untested.  

Would the him from five years ago recognize himself now? He doesn’t remember being a wide eyed innocent.  He remembers desperation and hunger; an all-consuming need to claw his way up to the top.  And he did.

Power, fame.  A lone, dull existence as a performing monkey.  But the king of apes is still a king nonetheless.

He draws closer, feeling the air ripple as he does. Two shadows sit on other sides of the boy’s bed, still and wary as they watch over him.  He’s almost envious.  Perhaps if his own dragons had come for him sooner.

“I have no need to tell falsehoods,” he says quietly. “He won’t be harmed here. But tell me. Does he really have no pride as a duelist? Does he see you as pawns? And… Why do I feel like I know him?”

Just who is Dennis Macfield?

If Dennis had looked, he might have seen the pale flush that suddenly graces his cheeks. Gold eyes widen ever so slightly as his brain slowly registers the quiet murmur of gratitude. Come to think of it, he had thanked him for breakfast too, hadn’t he? Zarc had been too worked up and eager to notice it.

But now, an odd warmth spills into his chest and spreads through his veins. A heady sensation that he can only liken to the thrill from standing before a crowd all cheering his name. He freezes, a hand going up to clutch at his chest. Is he getting ill? A fever?

After replaying the last couple of minutes in his head, it finally occurs to him that this is the first time he can remember being thanked. Honestly thanked and appreciated for something he had gone out of the way to do for someone else.

And it had felt… good. Liberating.

He shakes himself, scowling hard as he rakes his fingers through his hair. Ridiculous. There’s no way something he could be affected by something simple and mundane. There’s no way this child’s opinion or gratitude meant anything to him. He’s only here because Zarc wants something from him. Something so intangible and undefined that even he isn’t quite certain what it is.

He stalks over, wordlessly collecting the dishes and squashes the satisfaction of seeing that Dennis hadn’t left behind a single morsel.

Before he exits, he lays a card down on the desk. A keycard, actually, with Dennis’s credentials. He isn’t cruel enough to deny him the right to wander the penthouse, even if it won’t get him through the stairs or the elevator.

And if he should decide to attempt to force his way out through physical means? Zarc would welcome the break in monotony.

Zarc settles against the door, watching his charge’s face as takes his meal, scrutinizing his expression for a hint to what he is thinking. Come to think of it, this will be the first time he has ever had anyone else try his dishes. There’s a strange fluttering in his belly, almost like the feeling he had when he stepped upon a stage for the first time. It’s concerned and anticipatory as unformed questions fill his mind.

Do you like it? How does it taste? Is there too much nutmeg? Do you have any allergies?

The last question makes him rather concerned. It would be a terrible pity to accidentally poison the one he is trying to take care of.

To his disappointment, the child doesn’t say a word, chewing mechanically like a wind up doll. But as the boy hasn’t upended the tray in disgust, he decides that his dish was only passable. But he’s working with an entirely different palate after all.

There are many things he wants to say, to ask and it’s another novelty. He has never taken any interest in another person before. But now that he has a captive, he ironically can’t think of anything to say.

So he says nothing. He settles for watching him with that piercing, unblinking stare.

Mix together a quarter teaspoon of ground cinnamon, half a cup of maple syrup, dark brown sugar and nutmeg; whisk until smooth.

Zarc hums quietly under his breath as he carefully finishes brushing the golden glaze over the ham before he returns the pan back into the oven.  He wanders over to check on the creamy stew, stirring the ladle clockwise a couple of times. Almost perfect.

There is something soothing about the preciseness and predictability that comes from slowly building a masterpiece.  All the little pieces and fragments coming together.  Nothing at all like the frantic rhythm of dueling.  No screaming fans, no roaring dragons.  Just him and the little wisps of steam gently curling over a bubbling broth.

In the city of excess and greed, there is little time to appreciate the simple pleasures of life.  Zarc had grown so tired of all the repetition.  But perhaps it is because he is cooking for a different palate for the first time in his life, he finds the chore far more enjoyable than he ever has before.

Although, he has doubts about how much Dennis would appreciate his efforts.  He had inhaled his breakfast so quickly that he would be surprised he even tasted it at all.

But it is no matter.  

He kills the flame and begins to plate, noting that several hours had already passed without any movement from his charge.  Cream of mushroom soup to start, with maple-glazed ham served with a side of fresh garden salad and homemade croutons.  

Just judging from his complexion alone, the child needs something nutritionally balanced.  

He balances the tray on one hand and pushes open the door once more as it looks like Dennis has no plans to move.  

“Eat.  You’re far too thin.”

Zarc stills just enough to turn back with a mocking tilt of his lips. But his eyes are cold and dispassionate, looking through him like he doesn’t care to see him.

“If you don’t like it, then defeat me.”

He lets the door slide shut over the child’s angry screaming, not bothering to react any further and the apartment turns blissfully silent. The walls are all soundproofed for privacy.

It doesn’t matter. The weak never got a say in anything in their lives. But anger is good. Better than sniveling and cowering. The insults don’t bother him. He’s heard far worse and a man doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of insects. Dennis would either come around or he will finally lose his temper and throttle him.

The problem now is that he himself doesn’t know what he wants from his new charge. There is no plan. No rhyme or reason. Only that first instinct and the conviction that the two of them must share a connection. No more, no less. His instincts tell him that Dennis Macfield is important. That one day he will change his world.

The anger finally recedes. Sighing to himself, he takes stock.

He has a stray cat in his bedroom. A boy who has the potential to topple his reign and finally put an end to his solitude… but has no interest in fighting him or understanding him.

What is he to do? He can’t let him go. But is there any sense in keeping him?

But whether Dennis likes it or not, he’s his now, ever since Zarc had made the decision to keep him. It wouldn’t be very responsible of him to throw him out because he was defective as a duelist.

Zarc finds himself wandering over to the kitchen and discards his gloves. He absently pulls an apron over his clothes as he starts to sharpen his butcher’s knife.

Before they know it, noon will be upon them soon and the meagre breakfast surely won’t be enough for a growing boy. Dennis is much too thin for his age.

All disappointment aside, he has to admit that the boy does add a splash of colour to his drab surroundings. It’s almost… nice. Energizing. Zarc can’t pinpoint the last time he’s felt this… purposeful.

Wanting attention, he can understand.  Zarc too thirsts for the stage like a man needs water.  To be seen and acknowledged. 

But wanting to be famous just because of money? Using his precious magicians like tools? He can’t understand such an impure motive.  Or accept it.  There is a sour taste in his mouth like biting into a fruit only to find it full of worms.  He had completely misjudged him.  And it hurts. 

He isn’t a duelist.  He’s a thief!  Born with abilities that he does not deserve.  With a few careless words, he had robbed Zarc of possibly the only person in the whole world that stood a chance of understanding him. Of being his true equal!  Not a duelist?  Nothing could be any more insulting.  Someone without a duelist’s pride doesn’t deserve his gift. He doesn’t deserve to duel.   

Zarc laughs. He isn’t worth fighting either.  After all this effort, all this hoping… he’s going to be plunged into despair once more. A darker, deeper despair than he’s ever tasted.  To have everything you wanted just in your grasp before it’s cruelly snatched away. 

“I have no need of someone who won’t duel,” he says quietly, slowly rising to his feet.  The light in his eyes are starting to fade, turning them back into flat, hard disks of gold.  His hands twitch as fanciful visions of individually wrapping his fingers around the throat of his greatest disappointment fills his head.  It would serve him right.  It– 

He takes a deep breath.  It would be against his creed.  He doesn’t butcher children.   He’s still young.  His path is still in flux, constantly shifting between possibilities.  Still moldable.   There is still hope. Gritting his teeth, Zarc pulls himself back, spinning on his heels to stalk out of the room.  He can’t look at him now or he will really do something he’ll regret. 

“… not a duelist?” Zarc repeats slowly, confusion settling clearly over his features.  It makes him look unexpectedly young, like a child unable to grasp a complicated concept.  "But you have a deck.  And you won every match.  How are you not a duelist?“ 

Is he saying he’s a showman who just so happens to duel?  The entire idea is over his head. Out of his expectations.  What would anyone be doing in a tournament if they weren’t aiming for the top?  To be the strongest and beloved by all. 

And how exactly is Zarc supposed to communicate with him if he’s like this? How exactly is he going to convince him to stay? 

No, he won’t accept it.  He won’t accept a worldview that doesn’t make any sense to him.  

He’ll show him through his duels.   He’ll make him understand.   He just has to let his cards do the talking. His eyes sharpen as his resolve returns. 

 "If you won’t duel me, then I will take it to mean you have no interest in leaving, then,” he says with a negligent little shrug.  "I was not planning on using solid vision.  It will he a test of pure skill.“

At least the odd kid seems to have calmed down a bit.  Giving him back his deck seems to be working wonders for his nerves, even though he is clutching at it like a lifeline. Zarc is more than pleased to see that his spirit seems to be recovering.   Perhaps taking his cards away had been too much.  If someone had taken his dragons, he would have torn them limb from limb. 

The streets are still too dangerous for a youngster.   

Is the illusion of freedom so attractive that he would voluntarily give up safety and security?  What an odd child.   But perhaps this is why he caught his attention in the first place.  But he is wrong; freedom does not belong to the weak. Only the truly strong had that right. Otherwise the strong trample the weak. 

“Then how about we settle this?” He asks, wandering over to the center of the room and taking a seat on the ground.  "If you are certain you’re strong enough and do not need my help, then prove it to me.  Duelist to duelist.   If you can defeat me, you may leave and go wherever you choose.  Otherwise, you will remain here with me.“

Zarc frowns, cocking his head to the side as he regards the child critically.

“I found you.  Asleep behind a dumpster in a back alley,” he says slowly, like he’s speaking to a toddler.  “And judging by how you did not even stir as I transported you back here, how do you think you would have fared if I had been someone with darker intentions?  Is that your definition of strength?”

Confusion rings clearly through his voice and posture.  The kid had been dressed in rags and had practically inhaled his breakfast.   He had fed him, given him clean clothes and a roof over his head.  So why is he taking issue with it?

“I am offering this place to be your home.  I will take care of your necessities; there will be no need for you to work on the streets.  You will have shelter and whatever meal you desire so you can concentrate on what truly matters.  If you want to entertain, is it not better to seek a wider audience?  You enjoy them watching you, don’t you?  You need to be seen.  To be acknowledged.”

Zarc sighs and shakes his head with disbelief.  Stalking and kidnapping?  Must he be so dramatic?  At most, what Zarc had done was bring home a stray kitten.

“When I first attempted to speak to you, you ran off. And when I found you again, nothing seemed to wake you.  If anything, you’re the strange one.”

Dennis’s uncooperativeness is starting to get exasperating.  Once again, Zarc finds himself debating if this child is worth all this effort.  Perhaps he hadn’t given this enough thought.  To be fair, his plans hadn’t been very fleshed out beyond securing his asset. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting.  Perhaps an instant connection.  An immediate understanding from someone who by all means should be one of his kin.   

He hadn’t expected to be babysitting. 

The boy looks scared out of his mind and is too busy denying his gifts than to even listen to him.  It makes him feel furious and betrayed. He was supposed to be perfect.  He is perfect but he’s refusing to understand him.  To accept him! 

No one gets to deny him.  He’s already been defied first far too long.   

The rage bubbles up to the surface of his skin but once again, he has to stop himself from doing something he may regret. He has to believe this is all worth it. That this is his reward after being alone for so long.

“Stop,” he says.  "Don’t panic.  You have nothing to fear from me.  Look at them.  They’re not angry.  Not at you. They’re no  different from your magicians.“ 

He sighs and gestures for his faithful dragons to retreat, at least until the boy calms down.  He walks slowly over his trembling figure and presses a familiar box into his hands.   

"You are special.  I can see it in your eyes.  You remind me of myself, all those years ago.   What I want from you is… your company.  I want you to survive – no, I want you to grow strong.  Strong enough to carve out your place in this world.  When I look at you, I see possibility.  Something I thought was lost to me.”

Nonsense? Perhaps it is. The world had long since stopped making sense to him. The only times he has ever felt alive – felt tangible and real – were when he was up on that glittering stage as the cries of the crowd and his dragons drown him in sound and bloodlust.

He hates them. He loathes those faceless masses and despises their selfishness and hypocrisy. He thinks of them as cattle. As swine.

But he needs them. He can’t live without their cheers because without them, he is no one and nothing. He loves them like one loves their food, their sustenance.

A complicated love.

“Even swine has their uses,” Zarc says with a dismissive wave. What he truly desires is something that would make his blood sing. Even a predator would tire of hunting unresisting prey. Then, there’s no challenge, only rote. Eating only to fill his belly while everything tastes of ashes in his mouth.

“Whether you believe me or not, inflicting pain itself does not bring me any joy.”

He pushes off from his seat and walks towards the windows, pressing a palm against the cold glass pane as he gazes down at the sleepy streets below. “They made me their king, after all. I have a duty to give my subjects what they want.” At least that was true at the beginning; there was always that fear they would strip him of his titles and leave him with nothing once again.

“But now… I have a new focus.”

Without warning, four shadows spring up around him, growling softly as they scrutinize the boy their master had brought before them. He reaches out and places a hand absently on Dark Rebellion’s snout.

“My dragons yearn for battle. The humans trapped their souls into cards and forces them to fight for their entertainment. I am only giving them what they want. What they all want. My opponents know full well what they are getting into. None of them are innocents. None of them are victims. Would you condemn me for fulfilling my role?”

The boy’s rejection shouldn’t sting, shouldn’t hurt but it does.  Zarc once again has to clamp down on his temper before he ends up doing anything unfortunate.

And Dennis’s words make something stir inside him.  Something from long ago that he had nearly forgotten.  He thought like this once, didn’t he? He hadn’t started out hurting people.

He remembers the tipping point; the sickening crunch of bones, the roar of his dragons and the screams of pain. He had been horrified, thinking, now I’ve done it, they’ll never let me back in, I’ll never duel here again, stupid, stupid…

But as his opponent was carted away on a stretcher, the crowd had been delighted.

Screaming out his name, grins painted on from ear to ear as they hailed him as their new champion.  They couldn’t look away, spellbound by the violence and the thrill.  Humans never changed, did they?  They were thousands of years away from the colosseums in Rome and yet they would never be able to shake their nature.

He had wanted to make them happy, once.

“You’re young,” Zarc says quietly.  “That’s why you think those swine are still worth your efforts.  That’s why you play the part of the pierrot, dancing to tune of an audience that would cast you aside in a heartbeat.  They are not the ones you need to please.”

But it still is a waste.  Someone like Dennis is meant to be seen. 

“Normal,” Zarc repeats, the word falling from his lips like a filthy curse.  “Normal like all the pathetic swine milling about?  Those hypocritical pieces of trash would sell out their own children at the earliest sign of hardship.  They’re all mindless, brutish sheep. Do you really think you’re anything like them? Do you think… we could ever be like them?”

His voice had ended up softening from a roaring tempest to something that could almost have described as soft. Fond.

He draws back to give the youngster room to breathe, sighing as he runs a hand through his unruly hair.  It’s not that he can’t understand.  He understands far too well what this boy is trying to do.  But as he suspected, he really is squandering his gift.

“When I said you had talent… I wasn’t saying you were just talented at dueling.”

He closes his eyes briefly, feeling for the other souls that are so intricately linked with his own. The reason for his power, the reason why he was peerless is because he can harness the power of the spirits.

“You’re the only other one I’ve ever met.  The only one who can understand just what has been done to them and give them what they truly yearn for.”

Zarc raises an eyebrow at the quick denial.  Too quick. Almost like it was based on instinct than any rational thought.  And the way his body flinches back like Zarc had struck out with fists rather than words makes his hackles rise.  

I don’t hear anything.  The words ring false, like a mantra used to convince oneself.

“You do,” he growls low, keen on shattering the pitiful illusion the magician had tried to cast on himself.   “You can hear them.  You can feel their pain. You are doing them a disservice to pretend otherwise.”

He finds himself rising, stalking over to the bed, only moments away from yanking off the bedcovers. But he stops himself just in time, sucking on a deep breath before expelling it slowly through his nose.  It isn’t the kid’s fault, really.  He can’t help but remember how it had been for him. Always seeing and hearing things that the rest of the world would not.  Or perhaps they could not?  Either way, it only cemented his unending loneliness.

Until now.

“You do here them,” he says instead, the hand that had been reaching out to hurt instead falls gently to the boy’s shoulder.  “They’re real.  They’ve always been by your side.  Perhaps they’re more real than anything else this world has to offer.  You should proudly display your gift, instead of denying it.”

arcofrp:

Ruri sat back into padded cushion so she could relax a little bit more; taking in every single word the Jester was saying. She knew he wasn’t performing so she did take what he was saying seriously, and to heart. Still, the fact he kept comparing her to her older brother was kinda…weird, and insulting? I mean the princess wasn’t the grump, cold hearted warrior her brother was. She was kind, gentle, and just as intelligent as the prince was. So why keep comparing them?

“You don’t need to compare me to my brother the prince. My expression Dennis isn’t something I got from my father whom passed it to Shun. Though, this expression is my parents fault. They…they keep making me go through these manor lessons on how to be a proper princess, and they prevent me form leaving the castle grounds. Shun gets all the freedom in the world and make his own path, but I’m stuck in the one my parents want! It’s just not fair!” With her last words, Ruri slammed her hand on the window; no cracks forming a result. Her expression then turned to horror as she realized what she just did and that someone could have heard her. 

“I-I’m sorry Dennis! I-I didn’t mean to snap like that! Forgive me!” She pleaded; bowing her head in shame.