Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

8 days into the enrollment

A solitary car, its engine still warm, is parked a mere few metres away from where two figures stand. The soft glow of its headlights casts elongated shadows that dance along the walls, imbuing the quiet alley with an aura of anticipation. The faint scent of rain lingers in the air, a reminder of the earlier drizzle that refreshed the pavement.

“Is that everything?” The man in the blonde goatee asks, gloved fingers prying open the brown envelope as he looks through the rest of the contents handed over to him.

Speaking through his scarf, the agent nods. “All the goods regarding the foreign minister’s corruption are present as promised,” his dark eyes drop down to his coat before producing a small leather pouch and tossing it over to the other man, who aptly grabs it, the objects from within jingling in the process. “I even have the negatives.”

The foreign minister is a matter of great interest for the two great nations of Westalis and Ostania. Two countries that have sworn off from war yet never stop pursuing their rightful duty to collect whatever dirt they can in case the other were to break the promise of peace. Amongst these dingy lands riddled with dirt lie such little mice that scrambled for gold. Never stopping. Slipping through mysterious dirty ways if only to get a little glimpse of the rotten carcasses that remained adamant even after a whole generation of the common people had seen enough death and destruction to get by. 

Both the men here are such mice.

"Lovely work,” The gentleman speaks as his fingers run through his beard, lips stretching with wrinkles marring his skin as he pockets the roll of film and proceeds to seal away the envelope with dainty hands. “With this…we can force him to resign.”

He holds out his hand politely. The agent accepts it, feeling the loose skin hanging around his palm as his client smiles and says, “Thank you for everything.”

Then he turns on his heels, looking behind his shoulder as he places the envelope in the inner pocket of his blue coat, and wiggles his fingers slyly in a curt goodbye.

“I look forward to doing business with you again.”

“Likewise, Anderson .”

The trench coat draped over the agent sways as the car’s engine purrs in the silence of the alley before wheeling out of the dingy premises. A trail of smoke immediately adds to the overall lacklustre location, with shadows cast in awkward angles. He brings his hand to fix his hat— a rather unassuming one— as he smirks through his mask. A job well done.

But what’s this?

“Hey! You came quite early!”

A pair of footsteps follow behind the agent, causing him to stumble as he turns on his heel and towards the source of the noise. 

He looks at the same man he had just watched entering his car. Wrinkled face. Blonde goatee that stretched from his cheeks to his chin with a scar at the side of his lips. A lazy posture. Even his speech slightly slurs in the exact same way as the previous one did as he stretches out his hand while also being accompanied by two henchmen dressed from head to toe in black suits. The one who currently held his precious findings had come alone.

To make matters worse, Anderson asks, “How about you hand over the goods now?”

The agent gasps as he looks between Anderson and the car that has receded away from the block by now. “No!” He palms his face in fear as he looks down at the ground mutely, sweat lining his forehead. “Fuck- I swear — ” He didn’t even realize the tell-tale signs. But it's obvious that the one before him is the real Anderson and— and the one before him—

But wait. His hand goes into his pocket, his fingers curling around a thin card. He pulls it out, revealing it to be a playing card. Its background, a deep and unsettling shade of crimson but at its very centrepiece stands the visage of the Joker, a figure of untamed chaos and unapologetic anarchy.

His trembling index digs a dent into grotesque makeup and sinister grin while his scarf collapses down to the dingy floor.

“He got me..!”

Lo and behold, the mystery of such a masterful charade! It was already too late and the agent was now grovelling on the stony floor, realising the error of trusting the wrong person. The person who is now in the very car that had passed two blocks north and soon enough, is completely out of sight.

The country roads cater to the smooth glide of the car, cutting through the air with ease as it joins the major traffic centred in one the busiest major cities of Ostania. The sleek black car owned under the name of Ethan Brown, goes under a bridge, the dainty yet downright scarred hands now wearing a layer of dark red leather with the thumb tapping against the curved ends of the steering wheel at ease.

Jazz pours in through the radio from the dashboard, a sweet hum that finally allows “Anderson” to reach for his goatee once more.

Scrittttch it goes as the fingers dig into the fake hair, further into the light-coloured latex and pulls just as vicariously,  revealing sterling grey eyes. The face mask is torn apart and is immediately thrown onto the back as the mole runs his fingers through his black curls coming from the blonde wig that had been long since disposed of the moment the car left the alleyway. Methodical. Sleek. A pair of blue semi-rimless glasses click open and are immediately pressed to the bridge of his nose whilst never looking away from the road or letting his right hand leave the steering wheel. 

Another job well done, he smirks to himself. Such is his life. 

The man with a hundred faces.

Codename: Joker. 

Not much is known about him. Some say he was the man named Dickinson, a great artist’s assistant who arranged a meticulous underground club and smuggled slaves between Ostania and Westalis. It could perhaps be that he was a Nortican student, who six years ago, attended the laboratory under the care of Doctor Oyamada and “revealed” their non-consensual experimental procedures. It is also probable that Joker could be a notable consigliere who worked for Bannonia, a famous crime family based in the outskirts of Westalis.

However, there is no evidence or a trail left behind to suggest that such claims hold any sort of semblance of truth to them.

This is an era where two countries, Westalis and Ostania, are waging a fierce yet quiet war against each other. All the information is just kept out of sight and such is the goal of this very man, a soldier who digs through the dirty depths of lies and deceit to provide what he can in a world where words are the greatest tool after a bullet. Information that is either reaped or withheld to prevent a devastating war from taking place again.

Such information is usually investigated under the table. Through illegal schemes or secret divisions working directly under the lawful authority of the government- the race for information and espionage had grown exponentially. Neighbours and friends snitched against any they found suspicious and most of the convicted never found themselves living beyond a couple of days of their arrest. Hiding in plain sight, The Phantoms were such an organisation that had based itself in the very heart of Ostania’s capital. Many westerlies spies that worked under them found themselves monitoring the different walks of life present in the enemy country.

Of course, suspicion didn’t slip off as easy as water slipped a duck’s back- which is why it was necessary to make sure that every piece of communication that transpired was draped in layers and layers of normalcy. Whether it were ciphers, public places or-

The radio switches to empty static, a dissonant chorus of crackles and hisses before it is quickly shut down to a hushed silence.

The channel is switched from one channel to another, the silence reigning a hold over the faint humming of the engine before the receiver stops on channel 4.

An upbeat tempo fills the air with a chirp. 

Channel 4. Tomorrow.

Joker hums as he takes a left, driving onward as the traffic thickens towards the junction, allowing his car to join the massive crowd and disappear in a haze of carbon and smoke. 

The train stations remain rather loud during the mornings. A triumphant whistle is heard racking through the otherwise bustling crowd of passengers of all sizes. Overhearing the announcements echoing across the platforms, whilst watching one of the trains leave through a series of click-clacks and clackety-clacks prove to be one of the most apt spots for sharing vital information. 

At 10:30 am sharp, Joker arrives at the 4th bench located to the right of the entrance of the platform whilst holding the “Express Times” newspaper in a quarter-fold. An old man sits there, cane placed to his right as he is reading the newspaper spread open then slowly closing it as he’s approached by the black-haired stranger.

He places his copy on the bench as he sits next to him, watching from the corner of his eye as the papers are swapped. Taking the man’s copy, Joker stares down at the common title and large headlines but notices the texts are jumbled to pure gibberish.

The old man proceeds to tip his hat with a quiet, “Meow” before grabbing his cane and getting up from his seat at the next whistle that echoes through the platform.

Must be Cipher C. 

As he is about to read up on his briefing, he hears the announcements once more.

“The train bound to Aohiya will be arriving shortly on track 3.”

Oh. Aohiya. Joker jostles his wrist as the sleeve of his black coat falls back to get a clear view of his watch. He has about half an hour to meet up with his date and, while he’s dressed pleasantly in a blue turtleneck and black jeans, he will have to make do with the briefing being at such an unusual hour. Normally, the Phantoms wait as he finishes up with his previous mission properly before getting to the next one.

His eyelids grow heavy as he realises what that could mean. They are trying to rush it through. It’s not something that could be easily overlooked considering it means that matters of national safety could be put in jeopardy because of this. But why? 

“Good day, or perhaps, good evening, Joker. We were pleased to know that your previous mission was successful and we pleasantly wish you the best of luck for its last phase.”

Click-clack. Click- clackety-clack. The train tracks tremble under the heavy weights of the train’s wheels whilst gaining momentum as it gets to its next stop. Over the bridge between two lands, the breeze gently slithers through the openings of the windows as it makes the end of the newspaper flutter. On one hand he grips the newspaper while the other clasps his coffee with cream and sugar, despite not having the penchant for sweet things in the first place. 

“Thanks to you we will be able to prevent any necessary conflicts with Ostania while keeping an eye on their foreign minister. Now then, we humbly ask you to prepare for your next mission. Move to page 17, section 4-c please.”

He sets down his coffee at the side table for a moment before flipping over the pages once more. He couldn’t deny the exhilaration of being assigned a new mission so quickly. Perhaps it stemmed from his usual tendencies to take dangerous matters into his own hands or to trick a large audience into doing his bidding but nonetheless, he only wished to perform to the best of his capabilities. It proved far better than sitting idle and remaining in hiding when there were no fresh cases to look at or were too flimsy for someone of his calibre.

“Your target is the leader of the United Future Party, Masayoshi Shido.”

The face of a bald man with a black goatee is printed on the paper. Possibly around his early 50’s considering the look of obvious arrogance in his eyes while also being resolutely apt in his field, unlike the usual haughtiness of a young politician. And the United Future Party? An authoritarian drivel-riddled gathering of narrow-minded individuals who only realised the greatness of their country? What could possibly go wrong!

“Shido is a great threat to the truce between the East and the West. Your mission is to get close to him and probe any insurrectionary activities.”

Gritting his teeth once more, Joker deciphered the rest of the code while taking in the huge amount of sugar that the barista apparently added. At this point, he should probably try to brew his own coffee but as of now, he would rather not try to get the slightest bit of attention from others about the fact that his coffee is absolutely shit and he needs the caffeine to get by so he will remain professional till the very end-

“In order to achieve this, you will get married and have a child.”

Joker immediately spat out the rest of his coffee.

“Excuse me!?” He cries out and finds himself, to his utter dismay, being the very target of three pairs of eyes staring at him and his outburst. Is he…reading it wrong? Did he decipher it wrong? There’s no way-! He shakes his head as he sets the newspaper down on the tray table before him that has another sealed single-use cup and brings his finger to the gibberish words to read over the words properly.

“You will get married and have a child.”

Rarely does he ever wish to be wrong and yet…

“Our CIs have already confirmed that he is a very cautious individual. No one can come close to him and he barely leaves his house without meticulous security. However there is an exception to this. He only appears at social gatherings held privately at the elite private school his grandson attends.”

“The principal, Kobayakawa, has private dealings and many informal get-togethers take place for the upper echelon of industrial and political leaders in this country. You will have your child enrol into the school…”

This is so ridiculous. 

It feels like he’s reading some plot from a piece of fiction or worse- from a comedy that would have a choppy conclusion at best. All the adrenaline that he had anticipated to take over his body had suddenly grown cold, rendering him ill as his face twisted at the coffee stains all over the newspaper. The train kept click-clacking in the background but it had reasonably slowed down. Well, no one would be paying attention to it anymore after he disposes of it. This makes no sense.

“...and through them you will infiltrate the premises. The enrollment deadline for the entrance test is drawing near, meaning you will only have a week to pull this assignment off.”

The nails of his fingers make their first tear through the sides of the paper.

“Welcome to Ebisu Station!”

Rippppp!
Perhaps it was the coffee that had soaked the paper wet and made it reluctantly yield to the ever-growing grip in his hands or perhaps it was the obvious anger raging in the raven’s head as he tears right through the poor newspaper. He clenches his teeth as he braces against the tray before him, his face staring down at the carpeted floor as the train stops but he doesn’t pay mind to it. Not with what was just thrown on his lap.

“You expect me to produce a child in seven days…!?” He didn’t think he would be so defeated and furious that he would be reduced to quiet mumbles. Mumbles that couldn’t even be directed to the board of directors who thought this was logical . 

Oh, the Phantoms have really done it now! How can he seduce his way into changing the biological nature of the universe around him?! Never in a decade into his career has he ever particularly dealt with a kid and the one time he ever really had to keep an eye on a minor was during the time when he was working as a grad student for a charity programme-

“Ethan?”

Joker blinks at the name, immediately meeting eyes with Finley. His date. And some of the other passengers who had started to get off the train at their current stop that he hadn’t quite realised because he was too busy with a far greater and horribly disturbing matter.

Fuck. “Oh hey~” He drawled out as he awkwardly shifted further into his seat, collecting the torn bits of the newspaper and shoving it into the front pocket. Finley shifts on her footing, rich strawberry-flavoured chapstick lacing her lips as she smiles awkwardly and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“Is…” She raises a brow at him. “Everything okay?” 

The mask flips, even if the twitch at the corner of his sweet smile gives him away a little. Running his fingers through his hair, the tension in his body is suddenly gone while he slacks against his seat. It's all a part of the job. Even with his mind raging. He could already feel a migraine coming which has never quite happened after a mission briefing, all Joker needs to do is pull through any adversity that comes his way.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ethan smiles through his pearly teeth as he holds out his hand. “I was just pleasantly surprised, that's all.”

Nothing about this is okay.

“Oh, you know-” She gestures over to him and looks elsewhere into his seat probably staring at his disposed of top-secret briefing. “You seemed upset.”

He heaves a hearty chuckle as he waves off the air. “Nah, I just spilled some coffee.”

“You’re such a klutz, Ethan…!” Finley smiles brightly as she takes his hand, freshly manicured nails interlaced with his.

Bringing a thumb to caress the side of her palm, Ethan shifts further into his seat to allow “his” partner to sit next to him before pressing his lips against her knuckles. Lavender. It's a gentle smell that alerts him almost instantaneously as he leans away before she can lean in closer. 

He can’t allow this date to end up with sex. Lavender was an obvious telltale for that. Even if it's something Finley wants.

Letting go of her hand, Finley turns towards him. “Okay so, you wouldn’t believe this but-”

“Iced latte?” Ethan interrupts as he holds out the untouched cup for her.

She perks up brightly. “Oh my god yes, please! This is exactly what I needed! ” She leans back on the seat and Joker gets back to attending to his horrible sugar and cream coffee that he decided was a necessary common factor between his persona, Ethan, to make things work with his target- Finley who continues to talk without having the slightest bit of clue to what was going on. “Anyways, my friend, Emma. You know her, right? Well, you wouldn’t believe what she said to me yesterday-”

“Mhm,” he nodded back as she went on to ramble over a topic she would most definitely regret sharing later.

Maybe looking at the scenery outside can help him clear his head.

It did not help him clear his head.

He doesn’t know what to do. Does he have to marry some widowed person who just happens to be pregnant? Oh no, the child wouldn’t be mature enough to prepare for an elite prep school in a few days. Regardless of the spouse, his main priority is a six to seven-year-old child who can afford to get into Shujin. This would mean that regardless of whatever past grievances or schooling history they might have, they will have to accept getting into a prep school with spoiled rich kids while the country collapses under crippling debt and exploitation of the working class.

That means his ideal family that could possibly work in his favour is to find a family whose child is still going through an extensive admission process (preferably Shujin’s), then look into the background of the parentals- find the one who’s the most naive and easily to manipulate than either court them while they are widowed or stage the death of their more perceptive spouse in the most inconsequential manner.

He is spinning something in his fingers. He doesn’t quite know but he can’t leave that headspace right now, not when he is onto something. Most of the parents of Shujin’s student body are most definitely into something political so it's safe to say that Joker won’t walk away with a completely guilty conscience.

“Ethan,” his soon-to-be former lover Finley spoke through the harrowing loudness of his mental monologue like nothing. “I think you should stop spinning the knife so much.”

The blade stops in his right hand, the sharp razor surface almost close to the pad of his thumb as he blinks down at it. He should have read up on the briefing later when he was done with all of this. 

And now he’s here, having lunch with the woman before him who’s scrutinising his wrist like spinning a utility knife in threatening manners is the most common behaviour exhibited during dates. 

“You know,” he parts his lips as he considers how to approach this situation, “-spinning objects on your wrist is a good exercise. I have been practising how to spin a pencil, which greatly helps with hand-eye coordination.” He continues on quietly, smiling confidently while looking down at his T-bone steak through his glasses and cutting right through his last piece for today.

“Uh-huh,” Finley reaches for her glass, squinting at him. “Does it help in reducing stress?”

“Tremendously.” That was the one truthful statement that has left his mouth today.

“Maybe daddy should try that,” she sighs as she fidgets with the fork in her hand, leaning forward to rest her chin on her elbow. “Apparently some guy he hired snitched to the wrong guy and he lost his money or something? Like what even?” She huffs with a pout. “ Ugh, I am so mad."

Ethan hums along and almost immediately senses her glare at him. “It's really unfortunate,” he comments with a frown before downing a sip from his glass. He couldn’t really blame her for it considering her boyfriend has been spacing out for the most part. Ethan is terrible. God, he’s being so terrible today.

“Will you marry me?”

Finley’s attention diverts as she straightens up and then turns towards the open corner of the dining area- finding a lady gasping down at her girlfriend while their friends clap behind them. She watches as the other vigorously nods.

Sighing to himself, Ethan finishes up with the rest of his plate. 

He imagines himself on one knee, holding a box that nestles a part of himself in shiny diamonds and treasures. He imagines a bright warmth creeping on his partner’s face and the world suddenly slows down all around him, leaving him breathless as he sets down everything- his feelings, his wishes, his wants, his needs and his desires just for this person to say yes to him. 

…To say yes to a world that would cruelly strip them bare at the slightest misstep.

…To say yes to a person who has never even been one in the first place.

Green eyes tilt towards him almost immediately.

She peeked at me, Joker clicked his tongue as he wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, I can’t delay this.

“So Ethan,” Finley smiles as she looks at the newly engaged couple with a soft glint in her eyes- “Do you think one day we’ll be able to-”

“I can’t keep this from you any longer, Anderson.”

He sets down his handkerchief- quashing right through her hopes as her relaxed stance stiffens. 

Her gaze twitches while her restless hands clasp together. “Wha-” Her facial muscles tense up as she shakes her head a little. “What are you talking about?” A strained smile pulls at her lips.

Joker doesn't return it.

“We need to break up.”

Joker shouldn’t have deciphered the new mission briefing on the train. 

The whole break-up was brief at best and messy at worst. He was distracted by a ridiculous assignment looping on the top of his head while attempting to leave the restaurant and abandon this place as a whole. He had only swiftly escaped before he swore that Finley would end up chasing him through the busy shopping streets. 

On 31st June 19XX, 14:00, some sources say that Joker was found walking through another neglected part of another dingy alley.

The ignited end of his cigarette hovers over the printed receipt, vapours dancing in the stagnant air. At the point of contact, a small glowing ember sends the warmth creeping into the tips of his bare fingers as the butt is once again placed between his parting lips. His name “Ethan Browns” curls up in response, as if recoiling away from the hands of a wildcard, a nobody.

The pictures and the evidence were all he really needed ever since he asked her out on their first date. Finley was the only daughter to the Anderson family and he knew if he got close to the head through her, getting eyes and ears to the private quarters was a rather easy affair. Beyond this, there was no use for her family which was known to be a consigliere to Ostania’s mafia families and their circle of private investigators.

What remains of the receipt and the last proof of his persona is a fragile, smouldering fragment.

He removed his glasses, staring down at them through his lashes in serene quiet. 

He will have to pick an easy disguise for the Shujin mission. No, scratch that- he will have to show his true face to the world if he wants his future family to believe him.

After all, he will have to attend to them 24/7. He won’t be able to live alone, he will be under constant scrutiny and most of all, he will be tricking himself into an innocent family (or not) into doing his bidding.

The frames that were once perched elegantly, entangle into themselves as they squeeze into the room of Joker’s closed fist.

This whole place smells like shit, the air feels suffocating and the world feels like a big joke. His jaw tenses as he disposes of the pair of spectacles into a large garbage dumpster. If one paid close attention, they would find a light flimsy prosthetic already standing out from his cheek —  like a part of it was peeled off — and it would make sense considering how much his skin has started to crease from all this tension. Clasping the thin layer of plastic and silicone, the skin under his left eye splits apart- gaping with adhesive before it's pulled out to reveal a beauty mark.

The mask is also thoroughly disposed of in the trash. 

He had forgotten about it in a while as if the imposing plastic against his skin had felt right. Perhaps it did feel comfortable to him which in itself was direct proof that he could never be a normal person. A normal person would be aware of the fact that their face was fake but Joker? He felt power in it. The warmth in his hands when he moulded the right mask that fit perfectly against his face and clutched onto him was everything he could have ever asked for.

That was the sole truth.

“Hold on..” he mumbles to himself — his voice slightly muffled because of the cigarette — as he reaches into the newspaper clippings safely tucked away in the insides of his coat. It was only torn into two halves so finding where the rest of the briefing was printed upon was thoroughly saved while the rest of the gibberish news had been brutally slashed through. On the plus side, it allows him to manhandle the paper with one hand instead of two.

Let’s get this over with, Joker yields. I have a train to catch.

“This is Operation Strix.”

“It is the only key that contributes to the noble cause of maintaining peace between East and West and perhaps, the rest of the World.”

“You are a hero that casts no shadow. The great deeds you and your fellow agents do shall never see the light of day. You will never earn any medals nor make it into any papers. Even so...

Never forget that the everyday lives that flourish around you day-to-day are the fruits of your labour. They are possible because of your blood, sweat and tears.”

He sucks in a breath, eyes held in a newfound stillness as he draws his final inhale. Fingers moving in practised ease as his exhale mingles with the air in a subtle wisp. The cigarette stub holds whatever remained of his confusion into a…sublime conclusion. A resignation from everything else.

As he accesses the pavement, he drops the cigarette and with a quick pivot of his foot, he grounds it against the surface as it releases a quiet hiss.

That was the point, wasn’t it?

Who is he to fret over relationships or having a family? Those terms of permanence can only latch onto an identity. An identity that he had sacrificed a decade ago in a pile of rubble, rotten bread, burnt flesh and crude bones.

A meagre group of three or four could never revive something that never lived in the first place.

The stained pages of a barebones newspaper are fervently placed into the safety of his coat once more. Joker tucks his hands back into his outer pockets, finding his folded red gloves and the glossy feeling of the borders of his train ticket for his destination, Shibuya .

Chapter Text

6 days into the enrollment

“This is one of our best single-family apartments,” the real estate agent continues. “The unit comes furnished, including central air conditioning and heating.”

“What about the kitchen? The listing mentioned they were recently updated but I am not quite sure about the brands and the features.”

“They're top-of-the-line sir! All stainless steel appliances come from a reputable brand. The kitchen underwent a complete renovation last year, so everything is in excellent condition.”

“And the maintenance?”

“It's professionally handled by our Homeowner’s association but um…sir?”

Grey eyes peer down at the bottom of a potted plant before glancing at the undisturbed portion of the apartment’s floor that it was initially placed on- making Joker release a sharp breath. He dutifully gets up, walks up to the windows and draws the curtains aside as the bright morning sunlight illuminates the living room with his harsh silhouette running down on the wooden planks under him. He taps his foot on it and a dull thump thump is all he hears.

No wiretaps. The floor isn’t hollow. The neighbourhood seems safe with reliable escape routes if something goes wrong.

The cold walls lift up almost instantaneously as the raven turns to smile at the confused agent, his eyes almost twinkling as he stands beside the window- the direct sunlight making the backside of his black hair turn into a shade of soft brown while the messy curls that frame the front of his face give him a rather unkempt appearance. As if he was another face in the large crowd.

“I’ll take it.”

------------------

Buyer: Akira Kurusu

Occupation: Psychiatrist 

------------------

This is my new life.

“Excellent, Mr Kurusu!” The man looks down at the documents as he bunches the papers together. “It seems that…most of the paperwork and the payment went surprisingly smoothly so you can move in with your family immediately.”

With a sigh, Akira brings his hand to his hair and fidgets with his curls- thumb and index against the strands of hair as he raises a brow at him, “Is that a first in your job?”

The agent laughs, “You could say that.” He nods slowly as he gets up from his seat, prompting Akira to do the same as he places the documents under his arm and brings his hand forward to shake. 

Joker greatly appreciates that the Phantoms had at least kept up with their impossible, proposed deadline.

He accepts the handshake, a firm handshake that is cut short rather casually whilst slouching a little. 

“Will you and your family move in soon then?.”

Well at least someone’s rooting for me. Akira grins, “Actually, my family life is rather questionable at the moment but I will keep you up to date.”

“Huh?”

When the soles of his shoes meet the puddle, there is a gentle splatter. Small ripples appear on the murky reflection of Akira’s face as he looks down at the centre of a pair of iron gates to take a glance at the entrance of the orphanage.

The two-storey building is coloured in a solemn shade of dull grey and even that has been rather downtrodden because the paint has started to fade. Nature has started intertwining with the structure as green vines spread across the lower half of the building like a parasite spreading with its minute tendrils across the pillars and architecture. He brings his hand forward to gently push through the iron gates, finding patches of rust and moss and natural creepers making their way up the bars. Akira can already feel the bit of grime in the insides of his gloves. It doesn’t particularly bother him, however, this means that his intel was correct. 

I am definitely at Havenwood Orphanage, alright. Akira wistfully fixes the collar of his shirt under his brown vest.

One of the worst orphanages the district of Berlint has to offer.

In the hush and quiet of what the orphanage has to offer, its construction has certainly taken away the overarching brightness of Ostania’s summer. The only hints that are present are the thin strip of harsh sunlight slipping through the thick leaves of unattended trees and other types of vegetation that have long since been forgotten about. 

The sharp trill of the doorbell is…apt for a place like this. He steps back from the threshold, hearing a step or two that come from the other side of the door through the translucent glass at its sides- revealing a figure through the cracks that are taped together or straight up ignored. 

Then it opens, revealing a stout man who nearly reached his shoulders. As Kurusu looks down at the man, he immediately recognizes the smell of alcohol through his slightly parted lips. “You wanna adopt?” He speaks through the thick bush of his moustache with a slurry bundle of words.

Akira almost frowns but he quickly picks his lips up to a smile. “Indeed.” He removes his hat from the top of his head. "After the tragic loss of my late wife, it's all I can think about-"

"Ragh whatever!" He grunts and turns around to go back inside, leaving the door open and gesturing inside. "Take your pick."

He desperately tries to ignore those words, figuring it would only be for the betterment of his obvious objective. Stepping into the orphanage, he follows behind the man whilst accessing his surroundings. 

It’s so hot and stuffy in here that he unbuttons the rest of his jacket. When he gets past the narrow hallway and into the main hall, he finds some young faces staring at him. Petite and quiet. Torn and dusty clothes that barely cling to their thin and malnourished bodies. Large eyes stare up at him and follow his every move as he awkwardly looks through the crowd for potential candidates. This whole place was pitiful nonetheless but it meant that it would be easier to adopt a child without leaving any evidence behind.

In this day and age, every individual leaves some sort of trace in the grand scheme of things. Orphans are the easiest of them all but if, due to unforeseen circumstances, he has to go into hiding, dropping that child in a far better orphanage (after experiencing the potential horrors of this place) would make them sufficiently more compliant.

But that is a dark way to think about it, isn’t it?

Even if he himself had been in the same position in another life?

He stops at the corner of the room with the kids still talking and murmuring among themselves. With one hand still holding his hat, he finds a kid reading some magazine…no, a comic, on the floor.

“Hey,” he greets the child who lifts her head away from the comic and he takes another step forward. “What you reading?”

Brown eyes widen in panic as the girl shrinks into herself. Her other hand leaves the book and clutches something on her lap. 

“Okay..?” Akira quizzically tilts his head at her, his fringes nearly getting to his eyes. He didn’t quite remember how he acted around kids when he was well…a kid. He didn’t even remember if he made any friends before the war.  Was he quiet? Was he an extrovert? After playing so many roles in the past decade- sometimes he thought he was everything at once. He is now a shadow that changed shape with each object but remained only that. A shadow. Someone who made others yield to pour their secrets with no regret or someone who could execute a person point blank with a smirk on his face. 

He knows he had a name. It would be unnatural not to. Just as it would be unnatural for him to cling onto it anytime soon.

Joker is everything. 

Whatever he was before might as well have their own grave inked next to countless other victims that had died in the numerous blasts aimed at their shelters. Then again, considering what type of background he even came from- his young self would not even have a gravesite dedicated to him. The poor were always buried in heaps of rotten bones and bare carcasses, dumped in large pits where the stories that those corpses carried echoed in the dark and deep chambers of earth itself before being consumed as a whole.

At least that’s what he was told when he was brought to a pristine facility with walls of stark concrete and steel.

He can feel the manager’s fierce gaze without turning back. It is obvious from the way the girl is looking down at the ground and has brought the same hand from her lap to her cheek- wiping away a crumb of chocolate

Akira decides to stand right before her and casually goes- “Do you like the chocolate I gave you?”

Brown eyes snap back at him, a welcoming aura gleaming in his grey eyes while his brows rise up in a quiet gesture to the man a few metres behind him, now nodding his head in approval.

“...Yeah,” she answers quietly as Akira squats down and rests his elbows on his knees. Like this, he can talk to her face-to-face and try to figure out why the fuck  she is pretending to read a book while she uses it as a shield to eat chocolate in secret.

This time she carefully brings out the chocolate bar, eyes squinting at him. “How did you know?”

“How about I answer your question when you answer mine?” He prompts instead, his index finger loosely gesturing at the orphanage. “Does he…not feed you?”

“Listen, I-” She stops herself then continues with an obvious stammer. “I don’t know. Please don’t tell him we got this from Arsène.”

His brows furrow. “Arsène who?” 

“Raoul?! Is that you again?!”

The yelling cracks the foreboding silence of the orphanage and the girl jumps, pressing her chocolate to her chest. Akira turns his head at the source of the noise- more specifically hearing grunting and sharp metallic clangs from another hallway originating from the common hall that he hadn’t been in yet. It seemed like it was the kitchen.

“What’s happening?” He asks her. “Who’s Raoul?”

“He said that’s not his name anymore,” she cries out as she looks down at her hand, her little fingers unfurling around the wrapper. “He used to live with us but then he got kicked out because Mister Garcia got sick of his pranks.” She drops the book from her lap, curling into a ball. “I- I told him not to come back!” 

“Hey it’s okay-” Akira gently brings his hands to her shoulders. “It's not your fault..!”

In the very stillness of the moment and the worried murmurs coming from some of the other orphans, a sound cuts through the air like a sudden crack. Jarring and unmistakable as Akira straightens up, lips pressed bitterly in obvious contempt.

It's none of my business. Joker reprimands himself. This was bound to happen. 

Despite this, he drops the hat from his hand and rushes over as if compelled by something beyond his duty to close his heart.

Skidding to a halt at the threshold, Joker’s widened eyes find a messy kitchen and an ajar door of a fridge. As he looks beyond the centre cooking table, he finds Garcia holding a small boy by the ear. He was about the same age as the rest of the kids with tousled dark brown hair, skin flushed off its youth but instead- smeared in dust and terribly weathered. He tries kicking at the man’s groin with his boots, his black cloak that tattered at the very ends wavered.

Yet he could only grunt when the man released his ear and grabbed him by the collar of his worn-out shirt. “You little shit…” he mutters as Akira steps in.

“What the hell are you doing, Mister Garcia?” He interjects as he holds out his hand, finding the man tilting his head back at him without releasing the boy’s collar. “Let him go!”

Garcia growls out loud, “He is a fucking thief!” 

“Gah-!” Arsène (Raoul?) grips the man’s arm with his two hands, trying to pry himself away but is cut short when his caretaker pulls him by the collar to close in on him.

“I thought I kicked you out for good,” his voice drops and for a second, the boy froze. “How the hell do you think I will keep this place running if the other shops start complaining about an unruly bitch like you? Huh? Tell me!”

Akira’s fingers curled up at his sides, eyes darting to the fridge. His nails dug into the insides as the clenched palm shook.

“Tell me!!” Garcia yelled, his spit flying in all directions in the rather dimly lit room. Then he lifts his left hand which curls into a tight fist.

Grey eyes close shut, face flinching away as he anticipates for the fist to land.

Akira strikes. He grabs the man’s left and pins it to his back. Garcia releases the other kid’s collar in surprise, a surprised “oomph!” leaving his mouth as Akira grabs his other shoulder and charges to the nearby shelf. It rattles, clinking sounds shuffling from within as the caretaker's face falls flat on the glass panes of the shelf.

“Fuck!” He yells out, bloodshot eyes high from alcohol taking a look at his peripheral vision to find the other kid shuffling back into the orphanage through the kitchen’s door.

Placing his lower arm across the upper part of the man’s back, he applies pressure just below the base of his neck. Garcia grunts, his eyes widening in panic as he sees a narrowed pair of sterling eyes reflect back on the glass where his face is squished. As the light pours through a window, the back of his messy hair contrasts greatly against the dark pupils that look like they are staring right through his soul. With some sick satisfaction, he feels the slight tremor run down Garcia’s spine as he tries to straighten up and snark back at him—

“You don’t know what the hell you are-”

“I know exactly what I am doing,” Kurusu cuts him off curtly. “You use the orphanages’ ration for yourself while the kids are starving back there, I took a quick look at your fridge to confirm that for myself.” He gestures at it with a quick nod. “And you are surprised that Arsène is stealing from other shops and your fridge to give  back to those who deserve it?”

Garcia tries to wiggle out of his grip, only to grunt out loud when Akira presses further onto his neck- “You will never get it…I have tried so hard ever since my spouse left,” he sighs as he presses his forehead on the shelf. “I can’t keep managing this place…!”

The agent doesn’t retract his grip, instead scoffing down at him with condescension. “Excuses, excuses…” his lips pulled into a half-smile that was anything but kind. 

He feels a presence behind him, causing him to step back and look down at a small hand on his vest. Arsène blinks his big grey eyes at him as if he’s looking at a mirror, a little taken aback but quickly covers with a hesitant smile- “Thank you, mister.” 

Akira chuckles to himself. “Don’t mention it,” he gestures for him to continue and well, for a lack of a better word, he does recover. Even with one side of his cheeks slightly reddened from the obvious abuse, Akira feels his smile collapse as he sees Arsène put his hat on his head confidently with a little flick on the visor to show off. It most definitely belongs to the spy. “Hey wait-” he reaches out a hand, releasing Garcia but to no avail.

That thief really just stole his hat, huh?

Arsène rushes over to a shelf of drawers, his other hand now clutching a bunch of things to his chest as he steps on each handle of a drawer and soon waltzes over to the top of the shelf. Akira watches him in awe, only barely catching the caretaker now trying to catch him by his arm. 

Luckily, he reaches the window sill of the kitchen easily. Kneeling down into the small cubicle-like space, he gives a two-fingered salute to Akira and…the other kids who have now gathered at the entrance of the kitchen. 

His fingers grip the handle of the panel and deliberately open the window. The soft afternoon glow gets filtered through the opening and Arsène doesn’t hesitate to jump out from it. 

“Woo-hoo!” “Let’s go, Arsène!” The kids holler and cheer while Akira can only shake his head in disbelief.

“Enough!” 

The room is suddenly hushed into silence as Garcia violently shakes off from Akira’s grip and this time he lets him. “Next time Raoul shows up, he will be handed off to the authorities.” So his name really was Raoul. Then why was everyone else calling him Arsène? “We will see how many people will cheer for him then.”

Akira rolls his eyes, remaining as expressive as he needs his persona to be, especially with the outburst he had just a few minutes ago. “I don’t really think you should involve the authorities in this…lovely place you have here.” He needs to play it cool if he even gets a chance at adopting-

“And you…!” The man points his index at him, eyes desperately trying to stare daggers at him. “Get out!”

For Akira, they feel like meagre forks. He raises his arms in defence, “Hey why don’t we start fresh-”

“I SAID GET OUT!”

The iron gates shut behind him, resulting in a loud clang that reverberated in his ears. 

Honestly, he hadn’t quite thought how he could persuade the caretaker in the first place.

Well, that’s one orphanage down. Joker releases a disappointed sigh, wondering what could have possibly possessed him to get into the matters of someone else. He had seen far worse in his lifetime and he had always stood behind the door, never pushing, never budging. 

Then again, perhaps it was better that he leaned down on his humane side through Akira. Unlike Joker, the psychiatrist doesn’t need to stand down and look at an institution abusing children. The only problem is that getting involved doesn’t improve their situation the slightest bit and he doesn’t have that much power to actually report the other man without getting caught or examined in the process.

But he couldn’t have just stood back and watched like a dumb man.

It didn’t matter in the end. Taking a few steps forward, he decides to dig into his pocket- figuring he might as well give the other orphanages a shot because he needs to adopt a kid by today. Perhaps he could-

Wait.

Akira’s brows furrow in confusion as both of his hands go in his pockets, fingers scrambling and pulling at the cloth to find them both empty.

Instinctively, he pats the inside of his jacket and, thankfully, finds the previous year's papers of Shujin Academy’s entrance exam but- his pockets?

“What the fuck…!?” A sharp curse leaves his lips as he rummages through his trousers for his keys, his wallet that had three identity cards and the encrypted briefing (his coffee-stained newspaper article) that are all gone. 

Then his brows crease, a minuscule expression of annoyance that threatens to rip him apart from the world itself. His eyes widen momentarily, the expletives now leaving his mouth in quick whispers turning into a chant of realisation-

He just got pickpocketed.

But how?

No, don’t panic. His fingers rub the lower half of his face as he bluntly reminisces on the whole scene. He had been on guard the entire time so- there’s no way unless-

Arsène. 

He was taken aback when Akira looked down at him the moment he realised his presence behind him, wasn’t he?

Fortunately, as if fate had dutifully decided to twist the odds to his favour, he catches sight of the back of his dark blue fedora peeking out from the wall before him. Someone’s shadow slithers onto the adjacent wall’s (the one to Akira’s right) covert, a horizontal image of someone leaning against it. The shadow is flicking through something…something like his wallet!

Oh okay maybe Arsène was just desperate for money but how could he, Joker,  get pickpocketed by some kid? He was around him for what? Like five seconds? Is it like osmosis?

Akira slowly steps forward, figuring he should sneak up behind him. The silence dawns as he gets a better view of the boy wearing his fedora and reading off from the newspaper with concentration.

If he gets caught and the authorities confiscate that, the very peace that binds the world can kiss itself goodbye.

Alas, the moment he gets closer, Arsène senses his presence.

His eyes widen at him with surprise as he grabs the hat on top of his head-

“Hey, just calm down we can sort this out-”

He’s cut off by the hat being suddenly thrown his way and his hand barely catching it by the visor.

Arsène books it.

“Fucking kids,” the spy grits his teeth as he rushes frustration showing on his face as he chases after him. The alleyway narrows down from the orphanage to pieces of grey asphalt and garbage lining each bend and every sharp turn. Arsène is fast, he will give him that but he couldn’t have possibly thought he could outrun an adult like him. 

The alleys expand further into the cramped insides of the city. Dingy places. Clothes hung on long wires. Akira runs past some shops, hand tightly gripping his hat as Arsène slips through the neighbourhood like nothing. He makes some woman drop her basket of flowers and Akira ends up stomping on a few. Luckily he gets away with her yelling, only to find himself nearing Arsène but also a running small town festival, apparently.

The people are gallantly dressed and there is a dazzle of noises and cheer. A horse neighs out loud as Arsène almost runs into it face-first, barely missing the rushing animal by a few metres. A distressing scream follows. With a sudden lurch, its front legs shoot upward- causing the carriage that carried its unassuming driver to cry out in surprise as the cart tilts at an awkward angle, swaying and jolting with each whinny.

With unyielding focus, he leans back and throws himself down- his momentum allowing him to skid through and right under the space created by the carriage’s lift. Dust flies as Akira clears out of the carriage’s way, the pads of his fingers rubbing against the gritty ground before giving them the pivot he needs to stop in the middle of the crowd.

Brushing off the murmurs of the other people, he looks around- eyes darting left and right through various strangers but no sign of the young boy.

“Damn it.”

He takes a sharp turn to another alley while his mind scrambles with backup plans. At worst, Arsène will just ignore everything else and dump it in some random nook or corner. He would probably try to steer clear from the police but there’s no telling if he did get caught. Then again, considering the way he had just stolen from him like the wind picking up some stray leaves, maybe he didn’t get caught so easily until he genuinely made some mistake on his end. Ah- he shouldn’t be complimenting his skills though! He’s the victim here!

When he meets the next turn, someone runs into him. A figure that practically skids into a hurried stop.

“Oh no no no!” 

It's Arsène.

Arsène bumps right into his leg and, the next second, he’s taking a step back when Akira takes another step forward. The boy turns on his heel.

“Just stop running already-!” 

His hand grabs the back of his collar, scruffing him like a wild cat as Arsène tries to break free while his cloak shakes erratically in various directions.

“Help! He’s hurting me!” The child’s voice bounces on the narrow walls of the alley. “This man is a pervert!” Arsène starts yelling at the top of his lungs, causing Akira to curse under his breath with a fervent shake of his head.

Are you kidding me?

“Help! Help- mmph-!” 

Akira covers Arsène’s mouth with his palm, his other hand still keeping a tight hold on the back of his collar. Shit, this whole situation is horrible. First, he gets utterly humiliated by a meagre pickpocket, is forced to chase a kid through a crowd, which isn’t suspicious at all, and is a second away from wondering whether all kids are like this. Poverty isn’t a subject he is ignorant of and he most definitely wouldn’t have minded if someone stole his hat and sold it considering it wasn’t crucial government information! Arsène might have been caught but he knew how to grab the victim’s foot and drag them into trouble as well if he had to! What kind of kids is Ostania making? Is he facing a severe case of a generation gap?

For a second he's worried Arsène might just end up biting him, but luckily the thief doesn't think that far- only violently tries to wiggle his way out of Akira's hands. 

"Aren't you a very lively child," he grits his teeth as Arsène finally settles down, now standing still with obvious unease. "Yeah that makes two of us, bud," he comments and eases his hold on his collar. "I am going to remove my hand now."

Arsène huffs into his palm, warm breath against his skin as the raven slowly drops his hand, instead placing it on his bent knee. 

"Thank god.”

In the very next second he sees the cloak jerk away, a light elbow being aimed directly at Akira’s face that he gracefully dodges with ease. It wasn't even well aimed, more like a quick flail of a limb. Maybe Arsène really could behave and, honestly, he doesn’t want to go through checking the kid’s pockets without making it even more weird for himself. 

Not like this whole situation isn’t weird already.

“Is your name supposed to be Xander?” Arsène looks over his shoulder. “Or Kurusu? Or Amaya?”

Right, the three identification cards. “Keep your voice down,” he snaps at him through a sharp whisper before clearing his throat. “Besides that, I think you mean Amamiya.”

“You are weird,” he continues judgmentally.

“Not as much as you Arsène,” he answers too quickly- face nearly twisting to give away his annoyance. “Or should I say Raoul?”

“That’s not my name anymore.”

“That just proves we’re both just as weird. ” With a final argument that declares Akira the winner of their little debate, he lets go of his collar- watching him immediately turn towards him. He hunches his shoulder, as if taking a defensive stance. 

Then Arsène proceeds to yell- “Show me your true form , find!” and runs at him with a raised fist.

With a deadpan expression, he catches his fist before it can get anywhere near him. “You mean fiend?”

Through a decade into his career, Joker has seen the most enigmatic forms of humankind. Whether it was to gain info about a rich man who had the strangest obsessions of balloons and horror dolls or deciphering code from a dog who happened to work as some sort of messenger between two enemy espionage organisations- he managed to pull through in the end. He made the impossible possible.

But this? 

He would have rather taken another mission that involved deciphering a bird’s chirps over this.

When he raises his head to stare down at the boy, all the fire is gone. Instead, his face contorted in a delicate struggle. The dam is filling up. Akira can feel it coming from the way Arsène wrangles out his hand from his grip. He carefully follows that hand, waiting for some sort of trick coming from the little demon who only digs his hand into his pocket and holds out the wallet. 

Carefully, he takes it and gets up from his kneeling position- slipping back to his usual slouch from a firm posture. For a moment, his eyes clinically analyse every aspect of the object that is flipped open. Three IDs, the rest of his money and other tickets or receipts he had kept for the sake of the whole adoption process. He releases a sigh of relief as he quickly pockets it in his once-empty pockets.

“Alright, all I need is the newspaper-”

He hears a sniffle.

Akira falters, the rest of his sentence dying instantly. Through the whole panic of trying to retrieve his possessions, he had almost completely forgotten why Arsène stole from him in the first place. 

Arsène’s chin quivers, the back of his hand pressed firmly against his nose as he hears him murmur something. Akira feels a crack in the walls of his heart, his own face twisting into frustration as the dam breaks before him. The boy’s cheeks flush before him, murmurs leaving his mouth that are too soft. Incoherent. Now when he has finally got the chance to observe him, his cloak is tattered to bits at the ends and the cold wind that brushes through the otherwise cheerful summer is a painful reminder of something that Akira wasn’t willing to dwell on.

He can’t.

A loud growl leaves Arsène’s stomach.

“Okay, okay listen-” he gets down once more, hands awkwardly opening and closing- as if hesitant to touch the child anywhere else for comfort. Does he even like physical contact? Obviously, he had never looked after a child before. Does he need some toy or- wait, no. That growl was because he was hungry which made him upset! He understood the problem.

Now what he needs is a solution.

In the end, he clasps his hands together, eyes almost pleading as he continues softly- “How about we get something to eat?”

Arsène is definitely forgetting something. 

Chomping down through the fifth chicken drumstick from the bucket, Arsène leans forward to take a sip from a glass of soft drink. The soda, as Mr. Kurusu called it, tastes weird. It tastes… jumpy. Well, whatever. 

He sets down the glass and goes for the plate of french fries- eating through the fry, not a single bit of hesitation as each centimetre disappears off the stick of potato and into his mouth.

“Don’t-”

He lifts his head up to look at the strange man sitting across him and having his own sip from a soft drink. His eyes widen, suddenly breaking off from whatever statement he wanted to make, then gestures at his face then at his own mouth. 

“You have too much sauce on your mouth.”

“Big deal,” Arsène rolls his eyes at him but does reach for the handkerchief dispenser to grab a tissue. “Hm…” he looks at the paper- then his plates. He could store some food in the tissue paper and save up for the next few days. Ugh, this man is spoiling him. Now he’s going to think about this day for the rest of whatever life he has left.

He takes a tissue, wipes his mouth then curls it up and throws it aside. He feels a waitress glare at him while he collects some extra french fries on the other hand. Grabbing some extra tissue, he places the fries in there and rolls up the paper. From the corner of his eye, he hears Mr. Kurusu mutter under his breath as he grabs his curled-up tissue paper from the floor and places it on the table.

“Don’t just throw stuff on the floor- are- are you storing fries for later?” He frowns, hand now disposing of the tissue on the tray table. “I bought you this stuff so you can eat, you know? The food will get spoiled!”

“Oh stop it-!” Arsène carefully folds the paper in a proper square-like envelope, except made of restaurant tissue. “You’re not my dad..!”

“Wow.”

They both narrow their grey eyes at each other, the lush environment of the family diner going in full force. 

His pupils dilate as his mind suddenly strays off from the rest of the world. Even as the rest of the environment goes freely, the corners of Arsène’s vision fade into a soft yet dark shade of blue. Like something out of a videogame, Mr. Kurusu stands out a little when Arsène really focuses down on him, a soft aura of green emanating that is not visible to the normal naked eye. Well, not that he himself is a normal kid anyway.

On a typical day,  he doesn’t get along with strangers. Any adult of sorts that looked at him suspiciously when he closed in on them tried to report him to the police so that he could be sent to Garcia and well, he would never allow himself to live in that place any longer. Like a third eye drilled deep within his head, adults like Garcia were painted in a red aura, as if destined to bring harm to Arsène in some way, shape or form.

He watches Mr. Kurusu sigh out loud as he grabs the straw of his drink to continue slurping the rest of what’s left in his glass. 

So why isn’t he red? 

He should’ve been red. Yet instead when Arsène was cornered, he was welcomed with a green outline. 

And green, if they are right, means the mister is safe.

Seriously, he has no idea what to make of him. On one hand he appreciated that he…fought off bad Garcia in the orphanage and gave him so much food to probably feel full for days on end but on the other hand- he read the newspaper article. Unlike the gibberish written in the ID cards, small portions of the newspaper made more sense than the whole thing.

“Then again…” the boy hums, clearly deciding to take the dad statement further. “You were there.”

He raises a brow at him. “You mean the orphanage?”

“Yep,” Arsène finally goes for the weird sandwich looking thing in his hands, except the bread isn’t smelly like he thought it would be, it is plush and soft, and had little dots which didn’t look like rotten green mush. The meat makes his mouth salivate in a way he has never thought was possible. “Anyway so-” he picks up the sandwich in one hand- only for the leaves to fall off from the pile.

“No no no,” The old mister sets aside his glass and reaches for his food ( His!!) - opening up the top bread and placing the green vegetables back on the meat, “You don’t hold a burger like that. Hold it with two hands.” As he speaks, he piles up the burger (apparently) and grips it on either side with his fingers. Then he holds it out, as if offering it to him as he squints his eyes at him suspiciously.

“You don’t hold a sandwich like that.” He decides to copy him anyway, finding his hands being too small for the not-sandwich.

“Have you considered that a burger has more stuff than a sandwich?” 

“What’s the difference?” 

“There isn’t,” Mr Kurusu chuckles, hand reaching in for the little packet that held his french fries. Arsène watches him curiously. “Burger is a type of sandwich.”

“Ohhhhh~” Arsène’s lip pulled in a o, brows knitted together as he nods while the other man comedically nods along, looking at him curiously. “I…don’t get it.”

The strange mister deflates. “What the hell am I doing here?” He palms his face, lips pressed in a tight line.

“Something about…Shujin Academy?”

And all hell breaks loose.

"What?"

The mister suddenly gets too close. Two hands planted on the table with rather loud thuds that made a few heads turn towards them, eyes widening in pure unfiltered surprise with his mouth hanging open to complete the look. "How do you know that?"

Crap. Arsène quickly starts chomping down on the burger, eyes widening from the burst of flavour and the juiciness of the meat in his mouth. Unfortunately, his revelation is short-lived by the obvious stare coming from Akira who settles back in his seat- muttering something about ‘standing out too much.’ It makes sense. He has been rather jumpy ever since Arsène and he crossed paths.

Through the food in his mouth, he continues, “Abou’f whaft?” leaves his mouth instead of ‘About what?’

The stare melts into something like annoyance. However it only shows for a few seconds before it fits back into stoicism. 

Dang, why is he throwing such a fit? Arsène swallows down on his burger. “It just seemed like a stupid news thingy..” he quietly comments.

Arsène jumps in his seat as the man across from him gets up from his own and proceeds to stand directly in the way of the boy’s only exit right out of the booth. “Are you threatening to steal my burger, mister?”

Fitfully, said mister shakes his head in surprise- “What?” His serious stupor breaking off as if Arsène’s question interrupted his train of thought. He proceeds to sit right next to him, left arm braced on the table as he turns to meet Arsène’s defiant gaze to his right. “I don’t care about that.”

“Sure you don’t,” Arsène huffs as he licks around the circumference of his not-sandwich anyway. “And now this has my saliva all over it..!”

The mister looks at him with scepticism. Then he really narrows his eyes at him and leans down while Arsène takes another bite, never breaking eye-contact. “You’re a weird creature,” Mr. Kurusu comments slightly- more so talking to himself rather than Arsène who angles a brow at him, clearly confused as to where he’s going with this. Then he brings his hand over to the messy nest on his head, pinching the ends of a stray curl. Arsène remains quiet, unsure as to whether or not he should try throwing the salt and pepper shaker at his face could deal him some time to run away. 

And yet, a part of him curls up unpleasantly. In the end, he doesn’t reach out for it.

The mister frowns as he looks around at the family diner before digging into his pocket then showing the folded newspaper article that Arsène had stolen from him along with his wallet right under the table. Opening the paper, he continues humming along suspiciously- “Someone like you shouldn’t be able to decipher this and yet…” Mr. Kurusu examines the paper then sizes Arsène up in an intense gaze. “You do?”

The boy sets down his burger on his plate, groaning at the needless phrases that don’t make any sense whatsoever. “What’s so difficult about it?” 

“Go ahead and read out this line for me then-” the mister rotates the paper which now faces Arsène. A pale finger ran down a single line through the muddled mess of words.

Otcxs owhgt kjpxl bcpd wnqdjrfkb kbtj owwswlm bxjwnwt kmwh usiiytj wlqcybdt sjwk-uswk pwr skf lsuoqm jclio.

Arsène blinks, clearly confused as the words jump in on themselves. The back of his head suddenly strains as the child rubs his hand on his neck to ease off the tension within himself. His skin burns as his fingertips brush against a set of numbers tattooed black under the mangled mess of his brown hair. Truth be told, Arsène only managed to read through half of the paper before he was interrupted by the strange man who chased him across town like a maniac. The more his grey eyes burned into the words, the more they muddle as if the sentence was a carefully curated set of words held by a weak string, only to snap apart and cause the words to collapse

N3ver forge? that the everyaDy lives that ?flour? around you day-to-day are the fruits of you-???????

“Never…forge?” The boy blinks rapidly as he reads through the rest of the sentence. “Something about everyday lives I think?” When he looks up at the mister, he has a strange expression on his face. Brows arched in confusion and lips parted by a tiny fraction. 

“There’s no way…” He stares down at Arsène like he is an extraordinary spectacle.

The tattoo on the back of his neck keeps burning  him. Words can’t leave his mouth as he pulls his dangling legs up and folds them into his chest- making the space around him a tight fit. Walls pulled up, as if entrapping him in a labyrinth. He needed this. When he shuts his eyes, distinctly, he feels the mister’s hand on his shoulder but he can't fight back. Not when flashes of isolating white walls and the distinct hum of the overhead lights start filling his ears. His little legs running between the narrow walls of a large maze while the very gap between him and reality grows ever more and the world around him is suddenly shrouded in red.

Men and women in white lab coats surrounded him from all directions. A flash of bright light suddenly entered Arsène’s senses, rendering him almost completely blind as tears started lubricating his eyes before the light slowly faded out, revealing Doctor behind a torch being suddenly put down. A soulless white bed. Old crayons. Numerous patterns of dots and lines flashing in nine squares.

He felt his shoulder jostle. “Arsène?”

Raoul. 

“Hey kid, you okay?!”

Stop slacking off, subject zero.

The world suddenly slips back. At the next blink, he finds his half-eaten burger staring back at him and then we turns to his left, he is welcomed back by the green aura of Mr. Kurusu. 

Safe.

A part of him wants to brush his hand off. His powers aren’t accurate all the time after all and yet, when he feels his body curl into a small ball- the mister’s warmth feel comforting. His back feels ease when he realises the man is rubbing it, his movements remaining rather unsure as the hand pauses once in a while. 

“You with me?” Arsène hears him and answers with a little nod. 

Arsène doesn’t have the guts to push his hand away.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Mr. Kurusu asks, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh.” He lets go of his shoulder at those words, palm raised up in a little surrendering gesture. “Right…sure.” Arsène eyes him suspiciously as he watches him stare down at the article. “It's just…surprising is all. You are a genius.”

Arsène still doesn’t get it. “Me reading that makes me a genius?” 

He could barely read his menu card before. The words were jumbled for him and at the end he had given up on ordering anything at all before the mister took charge.

It was a little worrying that he did trust the mister to some extent. He was already depending on him with his food and now, god he would never be able to forget the very relief coming from a dry throat when cold water ran through it, the sheer crispiness of a single French fry and most certainly the sauces accompanied with the burger. He should probably steer clear of him…mostly because he would rather this didn't end with Mr Kurusu showing his true colours to him if Arsène did something to piss him off. 

"What are you planning on doing after this, Arsène?" The man's voice pierces through his thought process once more. 

After this? "I might catch a nap in the park," he answers honestly. "Or watch my favourite TV show through one of the shop's windows."

"I see."

Mr. Kurusu taps his fingers on the table- five quick taps starting from thumb to his pinky then switching from his pinky to his thumb. Is he going to reprimand him about the obvious wrongs of sleeping in parks? Boring! Arsène finishes up on the rest of his burger as the man grips his chin in contemplation. 

As he licks off the rest of the tomato sauce from his index, he finds a pair of sterling eyes staring into him. The quiet is nice, like some sort of understanding was building between them. 

“Arsène,” Mr. Kurusu says after a while, “What if I told you that you don’t have to do that?” 

The child backs up on the plush backrest. “As in?”

“Well,” the man chuckles as he runs his fingers through his hair sheepishly. “I was supposed to adopt a child today anyway...” The corner of his lips twitches in amusement as he continues, “...Not get pickpocketed by one.”

Oh yes, that.

Now that his stomach is actually full, the events of the entire day suddenly transpire in his head. Immediately, he realises he is…actually freaking out about it! His palms curl in excitement as his eyes shine with a strange sort of ignorance that is only becoming of a young boy.

All of a sudden Arsène grins as he remembers the rest of what he had deciphered from the newspaper- even if he had only read the first part of it.

It was going on and on about missions. That meant the mister was doing something shady, wasn’t he? Or was he being like Agent Red Hawk, the hero of the night who went on secret missions and saved the day in the very end? 

This could be the adventure of a lifetime!

“Anyway as I was saying-” Mr.Kurusu waves his hand to dismiss off their awkward meet up. “A child like you shouldn’t be worrying about things like how to eat or where to sleep. You’re exceptional in ways that I think…would be really useful if you get the proper education for it?”

“Edu…what?” And he’s lost again.

“I am talking about Shujin Academy here,” the man’s brow twitches. “But more than that…I have always wanted to be a father.” This time Kurusu slows down, a soft smile on his face as he grabs his drink from across the table- the ice now melted from obvious neglect. “So what do you say?”

“Will you make burgers everyday?”

The man shoots him an unimpressed stare. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, also!” The boy turns excitedly towards the tall man this time- the back of his brown hair gleaming in a shade of auburn. “Is Shujin Academy full of bad guys, mister..?”

“Huh?” Kurusu grips his glass, eyes darting elsewhere as if looking through a catalogue of information that would make sense. “You mean like…well you gather skills and knowledge.” He frowns, “And to train yourself with this useful information, you are tested for it.” Then he snaps his fingers as the solution hits him, “Oh you mean like bullies?! Yeah, schools have that sometimes but as far as I have seen from the admissions, they don’t admit in unruly children but rich families tend to have some spoiled ones if that answers your question.”

“So its…like a intelligents race! Like that one episode of featherman!” Arsène points out excitedly.

“What kind of shows does Ostania make their kids watch?” 

Arsène clicks his tongue disappointedly at Mr Kurusu’s mutterings. "We haven't signed the contract yet, mister."

"You're putting me on the spot here…!" 

With a loud sigh, the man reaches out for the plates and piles them to his corner. Arsène’s head follows along with every deft movement coming from the other, grey eyes that, unlike his own, hold a certain conviction as the space before Arsène is cleared. 

What’s his play here? Arsène watches as the mister produces another piece of paper from god knows where in his seemingly secretive coat. Arsène remembers seeing the insides of the man’s coat shine in bright yellow- almost gold. Silhouettes of numerous papers, a rectangular wallet, pens and pencils on his chest pockets, knives (?) and even a gun on his waist. Through his third eye of course.That’s how Arsène knew where exactly his wallet and other prized possessions were at a singular glance. There is a reason he figured out that the man was really strange and perhaps even dangerous when he confronted Arsène earlier. 

His mind goes back to the television show called “Featherman: The Spywars!”; he had recently watched a new episode just a week ago in front of an electronics shop. He first started watching it on the very first day when he stepped into the orphanage (which had coincidentally been a good one) and noticed all the children that had gathered before a television to catch up on a daily tradition where an episode aired at 5 in the evening. Ever since then, Arsène found it easier to pretend to be Red Hawk, an agent who fought evil in the secrecy of the night like a shadow who signed contracts with his allies and outsmarted rivals and enemies alike.

So imagine his clear disappointed and loud sigh when Mr Kurusu, instead of presenting a contract to him where he would sign his catchphrase (because a true agent never writes his true name)- he is given a test paper.

He knew how to read to some extent but now he wishes he didn’t.

"Shuijn Acedamy. Previosu yrea ppaer 19XX-1”

“This isn’t a contract!”

The mister doesn’t take offence to his words at all, instead he merely says “I know” and grabs his stupid pencil from his chest pocket and holds it out for Arsène to accept. “I am just trying to figure out your level of education, that’s all.”

“I am literally seven years old.”

“Oh no,” Mr Strange said, shaking his head bemusedly. “I am not going to fall for that again.”

As silence reigns into their conversation, Arsène pointedly glances at the pencil as if it personally offended him before grabbing it anyway and turning to the paper with a huff. He feels Kurusu closing in on him by leaning close and resting his chin on his knuckles, expectantly waiting for him to fill out the papers.

He was patient with me. A part within him spoke. Who cares anyway? I can literally see the answers before me.

But not the questions.

Arsène recognizes the pattern of a singular line and four empty boxes under it. With another blink, the very periphery of his pupils glow a soft shade of blue as one of the boxes is suddenly highlighted. It feels eerily similar to the lab questions but…he swore he could at least somewhat read the questions. They were usually framed in a jumble of words that didn’t make sense but after a while, thanks to his powers of sight, the words fell back to make some logical sense.

“Chosoe the sentnece taht is wrtiten in pesent tese.”

However, no matter how much he tries, his normal reading skills are subpar. The questions on the paper feel like nonsense for the most part and he has difficulty trying to constantly rearrange every single word for it to make sense.

Despite this, Arsène has to give this a try. He sits down and highlights every single box that was coloured in his third eye’s vision. 

After the 10 questions however, he stops as he tries to read the next section that consists of actual questions and a small writing space. The last two questions make no sense since he can't even read any of it.

However the moment he pauses, he hears the mister gasp in shock as he looks at the answers he marked. Then he slaps the back of his hand on his mouth, seemingly shocked as he quietly remarks, “You got every single MCQ right…”

“The what?”

“But how…?” Mister shakes his head as he takes the paper and stares at it. “The essay questions are incomplete but I just need the child to pass anyway…” He stoically mutters to himself as Arsène fidgets with the pencil- feeling a little awkward. Waiting anxiously, the kid raises a brow as the man grips the paper, lips curling excitedly before he whips his head at him.

“You want to agree on a contract, right?” Mr Kurusu smiles warmly, the sun dawning down at him as Arsène’s large eyes glint in something like relief. “Well, we have a deal!” The man dismisses the paper as he claps his hand together into something like a plea. “You are amazing and precisely what I needed after all..!”

Arsène parts his lips, words caught in his throat as his fist curls up on the table.

Pfft, how strange. Arsène has never heard such words from a parent and yet, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable. He remembered the first time his lips pulled into a tight grin after he left the dark place that was full of the bad doctors and was welcomed into a home, only to quickly realise that he…wasn’t actually welcomed. In fact, he felt like he was thrown and passed around like a ball- told to be inadequate. Told to be too strange. Never getting along with his foster siblings. Being locked away for stealing when no one told him why he shouldn’t in the first place.

But now? He is staring back at a strange man named Akira Kurusu who he has pickpocketed to meagre scraps. The same man who keeps his distance from him but fails to contain his own sheer happiness as he instructs, “I just have a few more conditions before we settle on this deal.”

After he heard the creek of an orphanage’s gate welcome him for the sixth time, Arsène had given up on the prospect of being loved.

“Aside from calling you dad ?” Arsène tries to fill in the gaps.

“Yes but…” The sentence trails off as Mr Kurusu’s gaze switches almost immediately. It darkens, a stern edge slipping in under the guise of a supposedly carefree man who definitely doesn’t have something suspicious or shady going on. “Just listen carefully, Arsène. Starting today- if you become my son then that’s that but if anyone asks, you will tell them that you have always been my son.”

Arsène’s eyes widened.

Always been my son. A pit grows in the boy’s chest as he realises the meaning of those words.

“Can you do that for me?”

Son…was he ever someone’s son back in the lab?

Almost methodically, his lips pull into a bright grin anyway. “Yes, ‘dad’.”

He doesn’t remember.

Chapter Text

6 days into the enrollment

Arsène stares up at the brown door before him then back at the two adults who exchange conversation with each other.

The tall mister…no, "dad", looks as unassuming as ever as he smiles back at the old lady before greeting her with a quick lift of his hat. Arsène’s gaze follows the way his "dad"s’ hair puffs up through the gesture. He really liked the black design of that thing and when he wore it, he truly felt like a super thief. But whatever, that doesn’t belong to him unfortunately. 

Even as he  followed behind his "dad" from their little deal at the restaurant to this apartment complex, he  kept his guard up for the sake of making sure he always kept an eye on a quick escape. Till now, his vision hasn’t betrayed him.

“Well, aren’t you a cute boy…” the lady leans down a little as Arsène stands behind the man, remaining in the shadow of "dad’s” right leg.

“We’re the Kurusu family, “ Akira introduces the two of them to her. “We just moved in today.”

“My name is Arsène.” The boy adds with a light wave, “I have been my dad’s child for a very long time.”

That should convince her.

Arsène fails to notice how Akira’s lips twitch at the ends in obvious embarrassment. 

“Wait a second-” Her green eyes straight up scan the boy’s appearance from top to bottom. “Why is he wearing rags? What’s up with the torn up cloak?”

“Ah..!” Arsène hears the mister speak in obvious surprise as he meets eyes with him. He can practically see the gears turning in his head as his lips twitch in contemplation before switching back to normal. “You see…we are-” He gestures over at Arsène, “-playing a game right now.”

“A game?” The lady inquires as she stands up straight. “Aren’t you two just moving in..?”

‘Dad’ is in danger. That much is obvious from the look of  suspicion in her eyes. Is she genuinely nice? Arsène shakes his head and blinks slowly, his third eye reverting back to the lady. Her wallet is highlighted in soft yellow inside her purse and a gleam of red aura exudes from her.  

“I am dressed up as the young Red hawk!” Arsène says out loud, hand clutched to the man’s trouser shyly. “It's just like the one episode where he’s moving to his new base…for his secret missions..!”

The lady looks at him oddly, then raises her head to meet eyes with “dad.”

He hears him awkwardly chuckle out loud, “You know, kids nowadays,” he follows up with Arsène’s lie easily. “So into their little TV shows. Framing things like secret missions without realising the meaning of those words.”

What did he just say?

“ Ugh truly,” The lady sighs with a hand wiping the sweat off her brow. “They wouldn’t really realise why the enemy country is constantly infiltrating our great country with their pesky agents. They envy us so much after all. ” She throws a small smile down Arsène’s way, sending a chill down the boy’s spine. “Really sorry, dear. Your lovely costume surely fooled me!”

Arsène narrows his eyes at her as she steps back and towards the flight of stairs the two of them just came from. “Please continue having fun with your game-!” She quickly shifts to glance back at his "dad". “Congratulations on moving in, you two!”

“Thank you so much, Miss Reynolds.” The raven bows down at the lady then meets Arsène’s curious gaze. He snorts as he cups his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good save.”

"It's true though," Arsène comments with a little grin as he pinches the ends of his cloak. "I used a random blade in the alley to make it tattered just like Red Hawk's childhood..!" 

Unfortunately, "dad" doesn’t seem to find the matter interesting or funny as he straightens his back and looks down at Arsène in an odd way. "That's…dark."

"Oh it was…!" Arsène nods with a raised index, "But that was how he became a cool hero who works in the dark! Saving the world from eternal doom and everything…!"

"Huh…" Akira rubs the back of his neck, lips pressed together in uncertainty as he sighs and moves over to the next topic. "Come on, we should head back in." 

With that, Arsène follows right behind him- stepping right into his new home after a few clicks of the key turning into the lock– and his dirty shoes immediately stain the wooden floor. 'Dad' doesn't say anything in regards to the muddy footprints that follow from the very entrance to the centre of the living room- instead turning away from Arsène who ooohs and aahs at the sheer vastness of the apartment. The white pristine walls, the untouched carpet that Arsène doesn't dare step on just yet- instead walking on the tips of his toes. 

It's then when he notices the small black television adorned with a wooden panelling. 

Jackpot. 

His grey eyes shine at the sight of the object as he slowly approaches it before quickly turning to the table and triggering his third eye to fetch the remote instantaneously. 

He flops down in front of the screen that stretches about the same size as his own arm, diagonally anyway. He knows the show airs at 1:30 pm but he has no clue what a 1:30 pm really is so he just goes with his gut feeling. 

The channels switch with a quick hiss of static coming in regular intervals before he finds the familiar channel that was spelled out as "something kids" in the menu. His legs fold in a criss-cross position, hands clutching the big TV remote on his folded lap as his grey eyes reflect loud bold colours and the quick clap of sounds and synthesised audio. I am watching this for free , Arsène's grin spreads as the intro spells out the name of the show:

Neo feathermen: The Spywars! 

Pressing his thumb against a highlighted button with a little speaker symbol slowly increased the volume of the running theme song, allowing him to jostle his head left and right along with the instrumental tempo. He could hear the strange miste- "dad" mutter to something a few feet away. 

Probably on call with someone. 

"Oh! yes! yes!" He clapped along with the chorus as he watched Red Hawk and his friends escape a bunch of enemies, "Let's go! feathermen !"

"And we will probably have to- wait, hang on a second- " With one hand pressed against the receiver, Akira raises his head to look at Arsène from the dining table, "Arsène, can you turn the volume down for a second?"

"Okay!" Arsène calls over his shoulder as the volume slowly goes down. " Ugh… " He frowns as he realises this was an episode he's already watched and, almost instantly, his attention goes back to peek at his “dad” from the floor. He has his back turned on him and is still actively speaking to someone else. 

Turning the volume down even more, Arsène lets the show continue idly as gets back on all fours- crawling his way over to the sofa and taking cover behind one of the large cushions. His legs dangle while his cloak trails off in between as he positions himself carefully to take a glance at his ‘dad.’

"I will have to gather some goods of course,” Akira continues speaking into the compact rectangular phone with the little antenna methodically. The living room and the dining area lead onto a narrow hallway with the other bedrooms and the raven takes it as an opportunity to lean against a wall. “Not to mention I still need to forge an ID for- hm?” 

Dark brown curls bounce from the sheer abruptness at which Arsène sinks back into the sofa, his little peeking eyes now staring up front at the running episode while his back sinks further into the large cushion. How does he just notice me like that? The boy shakes his head as a sigh of disbelief leaves his mouth. Back in the orphanage too…

Oh, Arsène knew rather well the look of obvious suspicion when he saw one. Even when the mister was busy holding down that bad Garcia, it's like he sensed him almost a second later. Like he has super senses or something! 

“Yes…we will talk tomorrow.” Arsène hears his "dad" finish up with the call. Switching back to a kneel once more, his two little hands pull two sofa cushions apart to stare through the open space in between. He catches a glimpse of the man once again grabbing his coat and other files. 

Wait, where’s he going?

Akira goes for his hat hanging on the top of the coat stand and announces out loud, “I am going out for a bit, Arsène.” He raises a hand to wave at the boy who quickly gets off the sofa while making his way to the door. “Just sit back and enjoy your show in the meantime.”

The moment the poor man places his hat on his messy floof of black hair and reaches for the door’s knob, his leg is suddenly clenched tightly. A sudden heavy object weighs his left leg down immediately, slowing him in his tracks as he looks down in shock at what he sees. 

Arsène holds onto his legs like a monkey, his limbs wound around his poor leg as he gently swings it back a little. 

“Let’s go! I want an adventure!” The boy cheers out loud, voice still a little muffled from having his face buried into the cloth of Akira’s trousers. 

The man’s mouth hangs open in shock as he gently tries to jostle his leg a little to get the child off.  “I am not going on an adventure! I-” Arsène is literally latched onto him like a koala of sorts, giggling tremendously at the almost dangerous way the leg flails helplessly. Okay, it's a little too fast for him. How is he able to lift him so easily? Sure, he barely reaches till his thighs but Arsène’s surprised he managed to put this much energy in order to get rid of him.

“I am just going shopping! Get off me already!”

Fortunately for Arsène, his "dad" can’t get rid of him just yet.

“Your cosplay excuse will run dry after today,” “Dad” quietly comments as his one hand clutches a bag filled with clothes, his clothes technically, and the other fixes the collar of his shirt. “I hope you realise that.”

Arsène immediately misses out on the rock he was supposed to kick at, watching it sink in between the gaps of the bricks that lined the pavement next to the busy road on his left, along with the cheer and noise coming from the bustling shops on his right. The kid’s expression twists into discontentment as he narrows his eyes at Akira. Then after a bit of silence, he goes back to stare at the ground in search of his next Mr. Rock. 

“Go-splay…?”

“Cosplay,” Akira pressed. “You have to wear new clothes at some point. At least try to do that from tomorrow, will you?”

But… Arsène’s gaze falls down to the tattered ends of his cloak. His mind wanders back to a cold blizzard that had struck this town during Christmas Eve, his little body desperately trying to seek warmth from a long sheet of what seemed like disposed of fabric that he had found in a dumpster out of sheer luck. Through his groaning stomach and almost near dead fingers, he would be a fool to forget the way the night itself darkened under the white haze of unrelenting snow and ice threatening to steal away any soft of respite or will he had to battle his unfortunate circumstances. While he could still smell the roasted turkey from the lonely alleyway that traversed between lively and bright homes.

If he didn’t have this cloak on him that night, he found it hard to believe that he would be standing here.

Luckily "dad" doesn’t push further when he realises Arsène has fallen silent, instead diverting his attention back to a little list he has jotted down on a piece of paper. 

Whatever is written on it surely had his full attention and Arsène can’t just grieve forever, can he? 

While buses and cars run down the busy streets, occasionally stopping as people cross down the black-and-white strips that other adults called a zebra crossing- Arsène’s eyes suddenly shine once again. His grey eyes reflect away the liveliness of the neighbourhood as well as the large size of another Mr. Rock standing idly before a tram which whistles before stopping on the road. 

Arsène immediately rushes over and nearly trips on the bricked pavement, catching himself at the last minute as he hears a swift whoosh coming from the doors of the vehicle to his left. The boy squats down to stare at the rock. It’s big! Almost half the size of his own closed palm! Maybe he should keep it?

Suddenly a bunch of shadows overwhelm him as he realises that many people are getting on and off the tram while he gets nearly trapped in a squatting position. He stands up, head turning in random directions as he notices all the tall adults looking down at him, some scoffing at his appearance as they swiftly avoid the child before he can get trampled over.

Arsène’s eyes widen in shock as he realises that- 

“Dad…?” 

He looks around helplessly as the large crowd of people prevent him from even getting a good glimpse of where he was before.The murmurs constantly drill into his ears as his palms curl, slightly shaking. And, almost like a flash in time, he notices him. Between the advancing and retreating forms of people, he immediately recognizes the black-rimmed glasses and the fedora hat. The man  looks tremendously worried as well, now looking around before meeting eyes with him.

“Dad! Save me!” He yells out as he watches the mister slap his forehead in frustration. But Arsène doesn’t care..! He can’t just get outright rejected from a family simply because he got lost!

He feels someone’s hand on his shoulder and, in the confusion, he nearly jumps out. “Help!” A cry leaves his mouth but only falls silent at the sight of a young lady’s arm. His grey eyes fall on an expensive watch that practically sparkles under the sun. Whipping his face away from her wrist, he looks up at her curly light auburn hair reaching her chin and a pair of brown eyes that held an unbridled amount of kindness in them. He blinks slowly, triggering his third eye right away.

Green.

“Huh.”

“Now now,” her voice drawls as she comforts him and slowly leads him out of the crowd.  Arsène watches his "dad" rushing towards him, taking heavy breaths (is he panicking?) as sweat lines his forehead and his black hair looks even more dishevelled, the visor of his hat being a little askew as he bows down to the young lady. 

“I am so sorry for all the trouble,” he urgently follows as the lady releases Arsène, who makes his way over to Akira. He hears him mutter quietly, “Why do you have to bring so much attention to yourself?”

Arsène’s lips part in shock. “I didn’t know…!”

“It's fine..! I am just happy that you were around the area.” the lady assures him as Akira straightens himself again. He has been bowing a lot today.  “But still, you need to make sure to hold the little one’s hand so that you don’t lose them. I have a little cousin about their age and kids are curious all the time, after all!”

The man gulps as Arsène meets eyes with him, a look of pure discomfort arising in his face. Rude! Arsène’s cheeks puff up into two little balloons under his cheeks. Well, honestly- the boy isn’t down to just hold his hand either! 

His thoughts are swept back by the harsh screech of a car’s horn that stops at the side of the road just a few metres away from them. 

“Oh!” The lady cries out, her short hair practically bouncing as she waves at the two of them. “I will be going now. Make sure to heed my advice!”

Wow. Now that Arsène’s actually got a good look on her, she looks rich. He loudly groans at the sight of obvious yellow highlights practically outlining her body. If he had even the slightest bit of idea before, he could have  just got a small button from her that would serve him for days!

But I already have a "dad" who will take care of me, he thinks right after. I don’t actually need to steal anymore.

Akira watches the car switch to a different lane to avoid the tram for quite some time, eyes narrowing at the vehicle in heightened interest. Arsène wonders if he recognized the lady from somewhere or his "dad" just has something against this specific limousine model. As the car mingles with the general traffic, Mr Kurusu finally breaks out of his stupor.

“So…I am really doing this, aren’t I?”

A pair of grey eyes stare up just as its counterpart stares down in a silent battle.

Arsène nearly uses his entire palm to clasp his dad’s hand in his. Unlike his own firm grip, Akira’s fingers keep trembling occasionally whenever the boy either loosens or tightens his hold on the man- as if seconds away from backing out. It is a fragile connection and Arsène still isn’t quite sure why even stepped forward to adopt him at this rate. Sure, most of his other foster parents never dared to touch him unless they found it necessary to teach a lesson but this didn’t make him feel any better. This situation can be best described as if Akira was holding his hand close to a hot stove, the flames and the pad of his fingers nearly having the same gap as there is between the fingers of the supposed son and father.

With each step that Mr Kurusu takes, Arsène takes nearly twice or thrice the amount- his eyes constantly wandering to look at various vendors before suddenly stopping at the sound that suddenly entered his ears.

Tring tring tring!

Arsène stops, causing his hand to be pulled along a little further before the older man pauses- tilting his head at him inquisitively. “What is it?”

“Ice cream..!” Arsène raises his other hand to point at the stall.

Turning on his foot, he looks a little further down to the right of the sidewalk and observes the place. A few couples, many families and a far absurd amount of children are crowded around the little corner- some huddled on wooden benches to enjoy their ice-creams under the blaring heat of the sun dawning down on them at the very peak of July. The man feels his arm being pulled along in the direction of the stall. 

“W-what?” He trails off as his attention diverges back to the boy who is constantly pointing at the stall as if it will vanish if Akira isn’t attentive.

“Ice cream time!”

Arsene hears a sigh from his “dad” first before noticing the little smile on his lips. “Alright, it's ice cream time. Just be reasonable, okay?”

“Hmm!” With a loud affirmation and being given an almost firm permission, the boy further proceeds to pull him along before they stop at the counter. The ice-cream freezer was built like a large treasure chest and held an assortment of flavours. Arsène sniffs into the air and almost immediately is hit with the rich smell of freshly made waffle cones waiting at the nearby waffle iron. His stomach growls as he stares down at the numerous colours of ice cream displayed before him.

Well, he can’t see much at this height.

“So?” Arsène breaks out of his stupor as he looks up at his "dad", watching him stand casually before the stall and further gesturing towards the queue that they join. “Which flavour do you wanna get?”

Flavour huh? He frowns, “I don’t know…I have never had anything aside from chocolate and vanilla.”

The queue shortens as his “father’ hums along. “You wanna try something new?” The customer before Akira pays for their ice-cream and watches their cup being filled. Arsène hesitates as he realises that their turn will be at any moment.

His two index fingers press against each other timidly, a flush of embarrassment falling down on his face as the customer accepts their cup and walks out. Oh no I am running out of time, Arsene’s mind offers. I am going to look stupid in front of others, gain more attention from them- dad will get angry and say something like “You are no genius! I took the wrong child” and after that he will throw me in the trash! I will be a racoon! Living in trash!

The boy’s body nearly freezes over as the vendor peeks down at him. “A very good afternoon you two! What would you like to get?”

“I will just have vanilla with some chocolate syrup.” Mr Kurusu scratches his chin almost shyly then brings his attention back to Arsène. “Decided on anything yet?”

“Er, I…” He has never had any sort of flavour and he can barely see anything on the counter now that they are so close to it!

“Oh goodness,” he hears his "dad" sigh in resignation. No! Don’t give up on him just yet. He truly doesn’t know what to choose! He has never had any sort of interesting type of ice-cream! How can someone possibly put him on the spot like this!

Then suddenly the skin on the sides of his stomach jumps from some sort of physical contact. “You should have just told me that you can’t see the counter from here..! Anyways…” The hands lift him up from his armpits as the ground is away from his legs which now dangle. The glass practically reflects away the bright sunlight. “ Uppp you go!”

The flavours! The different colours! It shines like a rainbow!

This angle is so much better from here since he can actually see the flavours. His “dad” hold is so stable- like a rock- that he barely sways in his position. “Well, I am sure you already recognize the chocolate and vanilla. The light yellow one is supposed to be butterscotch and the blue one should be bubblegum, right? So that would mean…” The mister further names each of the flavours and well, it certainly puts things in perspective but there is only one problem.

He has no idea how these flavours are supposed to taste like. Isn't scotch something that Garcia used to drink all the damn time? Why Is it an ice cream?

His confusion must have been blatantly obvious when the vendor chuckles lightly and grabs a few plastic spoons placed next to the cups and the waffle cones- “It's okay! You can try some of them if you wish..!”

“Seriously?” Arsène’s eyes glitter as the man scoops a few samples on five spoons. “Yay!” Then his eyes fall down on the white-coloured ice-cream section, spelled “Vannila” which sounded close to Vanilla. The mister is seriously having that? “By the way,” he couldn’t help but voice his thoughts. “Vanilla? Really?”

“I don’t like or dislike any sort of ice-cream,” he casually answers back before proceeding to place Arsène back on the ground. “Is that really so hard to believe?” 

“But it's ice cream!”

“So what?”

“Bfwah!” An incredulous sound leaves the boy’s mouth as he looks at him like he just grew a second head. “ Dad is so weird…”

“How is that supposed to be weird..?!” Mr Kurusu rolls his eyes as he accepts the small spoons, six in total, as he hands three of them to the boy then takes his own small cup and pays for it with ready cash. Then he turns to gesture at the parent behind him to continue onward with their child. 

Arsène first tastes the peculiar blue ice-cream, humming along in anticipation as if waiting for some sort of twist. Tastes like normal gum but it has its perks. He stares at the butterscotch flavour, eyes narrowing rather suspiciously as he takes a small lick. “Huh…?” Well, it isn’t that bad.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looks up to see Akira nodding onward towards the seats as they slowly step away from the rest of the crowd. He still hears some murmurs being thrown his way but he decides to merely ignore it. So butterscotch and…mango. That’s the third flavour. He still doesn’t know which one he should really choose.

“Doesn’t seem like we have a winner yet,” Akira says gently, handing over the rest of the spoons for Arsène to try. “Just take chocolate or vanilla if you really want to play it safe.”

The boy frowns at the spoons he has carefully bundled in his other hand. “How do you decide on which flavour to get?” 

“Oh that’s rather simple,” the man smiles as he digs into his cup with another spoon that was perched on top of the large scoop, where the chocolate dripped down like a melting glacier. “Learn about your target and figure out their fav-” His face twists into a funny expression as he coughs out- “Er, I mean. Targeted moods. For you, anyway. I just like vanilla.”

For me? And what was that about targets? Like when he eats ice cream with someone else? Why would he cater to their tastes anyway?

“Arsène doesn’t get it,” he murmurs. “Adults like you should have something adult-y then, right? Like…” His eyes fall on the light brown ice cream on his wooden spoon. He really didn’t like this flavour. “Which one was this?” he gestures at it with a little shake. 

“It's supposed to be coffee I believe,” he answers. “But if I had the choice I would rather make my own coffee ice cream with my own brewed coffee.”

Arsène raises a brow. “You know how to make one?” 

“I do, yep. Can’t tell you about my teacher yet, though.” At that, the boy whistles in approval- taking him up for the challenge but Akira merely waves the air, “Enough about me. Did you like any of the flavours?”

“I kinda…” his lips turn upside down while he stares at the now licked spoons- eyes narrowing in deep thought as he once again turns to his third eye for help. Unfortunately, all of them are highlighted in yellow and as always, Arsène probably knows the reason why. The boy doesn’t actually care about the taste at all. Food is food and he already hadsway too many options to choose from. Perhaps he should just play safe and get chocolate…

“I don’t like or dislike any sort of ice cream.”

“Learn about your target and figure out their fav-”

“Say, Mr Kurusu- i mean, dad,” Arsène catches himself at the last moment, bringing the older male’s attention to him. “You don’t actually have any sort of favourites, do you?”

That question merely confuses him. “What do you mean? I told you I like vanilla.”

Huh.

“That’s just your safe option though, isn’t it?” 

He notices the crack forming in his expression. Just like him, the mister doesn’t seem to be particularly partial to anything. Instead, he  only passively allows himself to be molded by outside opinions. He has all the options before him but he chooses to be safe rather than comfortable. 

And then he has the audacity to ask him if he, Arsène, could pick a flavour he actually liked. 

Akira’s hand goes up to his hair, fingers fidgeting with his bangs as his eyes darken, hand pausing with the spoon now merely digging into the slowly melting ice cream within the cup but never being lifted up. “I don’t understand what you are getting at.”

Name: ??? Amamiya.

Name: ?????? Xander.

Name: Akira Kurusu.

Name: Subject 5

Name: Raoul Mayer.

Name: Raoul Ikeda.

Name: Arsène Kurusu

The familiarities hit too close to home. A lack of attachment to anything in circumstance. Numerous names. Secrets piled over in a ugly mush that they both don’t dare to share with each other while sharing the same name. The boy shrugs with a tight smile, “I guess I don’t like or hate any of the other flavours.”

What an odd father-son duo they are.

Even as his "dad" nods at him, he can see his mind wandering somewhere else. When he looks around, he notices how quickly the kids choose their ice cream without feeling the need to sit down to really think about it. Numerous couples that look the same age as the man sitting beside him on this bench don’t even fidget twice as they buy what they want. Some of them suit their very appearance and their overall first impression that Arsène had been cursed to observe even before he could truly walk.

The boy’s large grey eyes steel in pure conviction. His legs, that previously dangled from the bench, now jump and land on the ground, hands now curled in fists as he throws his sentiments out of the window. The action is so particular that even Mr Kurusu flinches a little, watching the boy with a bit of wariness in his eyes. 

So what if the Kurusus aren’t actually a family? So what if they themselves aren’t people in general?

“Arsène figured out what he wants to get,” he announces and then nods to himself as he starts walking towards the counter. He hears his "dad" make an indignant noise before following behind him, nearly finishing his cup of ice cream as they both join right after the queue is gone. 

“Hey mister!” The boy cries out as he points an index at the poor vendor. The man throws him a ‘oh me?’ look, clearly confused with the loud reaction. Arsène doesn’t waver. “Do you do special requests?”

“Oh um... it depends on the request,” the vendor helplessly looks at his ‘father’ trailing behind him but Mr Kurusu himself is too bewildered to really say anything against him. Good. This time, Arsène is taking charge.

“I want all of the ice creams!” Arsène follows as both of the men’s eyes widen at him. “Can you get small little scoops of each of the flavours, even the ones we haven’t tasted yet, and put them in the big cup?” 

“Huh? I don’t think that would taste very good-”

“Arsène!” Akira speaks out loud, taking away his attention from the counter to throw him a look of hilariously comedic shock. “Wha- you can’t just do that! Just get some flavour and get it over with, won’t you?”

“No no no!” The boy shakes his head at him, his curls bouncing from each swift movement. “I want all of them and I am not leaving without them!”

The man’s lips part in shock as he meets eyes with the vendor. “This is ridiculous, so ridiculous, ” he frowns, hand running through his hair as his expression twitches a little- as if showing some frustration- before he plasters it back to a poker face. “Can you really do that?”

“I- it's going to be a little expensive though,” The vendor chuckles awkwardly. “If you wish I can do three complimentary flavours together in a cone-”

“I want to have all of them!”

“Arsène…!” Akira’s tone holds pure disbelief. “I was not expecting him to be so stubborn all of a sudden,” he continues as he turns to look at the vendor with a wry smile. “Sorry about him, and for creating a scene like this-”

“Well, that’s just how kids are, sir,” the vendor shakes his head with a light smile. “I will try getting all the flavours in but I will charge extra for it-”

“Yeah yeah, money is not the issue,” the raven cuts him off. When he meets eyes with Arsène, he has his cheeks poofed like two balloons and proceeds to sit down on the ground, as if protesting for his rights if it came to that. Crossing his arms to his chest, Arsène blatantly feels his ‘father’ observing him. Like he’s some sort of sentient creature who has stepped foot on earth. However, is it really so bad to just eat all types of ice cream without choosing just yet? 

Mirroring Arsène’s actions, he crossed his arms and grips his chin in contemplation.

"This will be more difficult than I thought,” he murmurs to himself while the vendor is busy dealing with such an order. He can practically feel the way he’s staring at him. “Do they have manuals about kids? Probably not…but I have to understand these creatures before they become a problem.”

Arsène has no idea what he’s talking about right now.

“Okay…I think this should do,” the vendor rightfully brings up the cup with care considering all the different coloured scoops that had to be stacked and placed in the cup. The cup is practically filled to the top and three scoops are just scarcely placed in such a way that it can only remain stable through mere thoughts and prayers.

Despite this strange sight at which everyone zero on with either confusion or disbelief, Arsène is beyond excited. He managed to ask something so ridiculous and, well…out of the usual he usually has. Even as "dad" sighs, he takes the large cup in one hand and holds it down for Arsène who readily accepts it. The cup is a little too big and he can feel his fingers getting chilly just by holding it for a few moments.

The wooden spoon is placed between the crevice of two scoops consisting of another type of chocolate and a light pink one. If two days ago if someone informed him that he would have something so bizarre and in plenty, Arsène would have laughed at that person’s face. He could barely afford anything besides rotten bread and candy. But now… staring at the large multi-coloured mountain made just for him makes him tear up. Luckily he has his back turned away from Akira but the little twinge of pain in his throat isn’t something that could go unnoticed.

Whatever Mr Kurusu thinks about his choice doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t say no when the vendor made his impossible request possible.

“So…how much was that again?”

“About 1500 yen.”

“Oh my god.”


Well, at least not to his face anyway. He will take that as a win.

Arsène feels like his stomach and tongue are going to explode any second.

He hears the huff coming from Mr Kurusu as he holds his hand up with the nearly empty cup that had previously held various ice cream treasures for the umpteenth time. “No, you ordered all that after so much drama and now you are full, seriously?” The man sighs as they make their way over to the local bookstore. Honestly Arsène greatly appreciates the long walk otherwise he definitely would throw up in a matter of seconds. 

His hand is suddenly free from holding the cold cup and he can only take it as a sign for Akira to finish the rest. “Thanks…” he wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I think I had a month’s worth of ice cream today.”

“Ugh,” the other winces at the spoon. “Is that pistachio and bubblegum?”

Yeah, Arsène really doesn’t want to try those two together. The only problem is that they are practically the last batch present at the lowest level of the cup. 

“Well, those two are definitely out of the question when we get ice cream next time,” Akira shakes his head as he finishes up the rest of the ice cream batch. However, Arsène can’t help but pull his lips into a thin smile at what he just said. 

Next time. That means he doesn’t want to get rid of me just yet. He places his hands behind his back, thumbs twiddling against each other as he kicks at another small rock on the ground. The one he had found at the tram was safely placed in his pocket. He…feels a little empty. Not the bad type of course! It's just when the sun  starts to slowly advance towards the horizon he normally tries to get back to his little hideout. It isn’t much, honestly, just a little shelter constructed next to many of the garbage sites. If it rained or snowed, he normally sneaked into the orphanage and dozed off until Garcia woke up.

Will he truly never do that type of thing again?

A yawn leaves his lips as he realises that he usually takes a nap around this time. Just as his mind feels empty and light, the rest of his body definitely feels heavy as if it could collapse any moment. They have been walking for the past 10 minutes and with each long stride "dad" takes, Arsène has to take thrice the same amount to keep up. His legs are already getting tired!

“Just a little more, kid,” the mister’s words fall on his nearly deaf ears. “We should be pretty close- why are you tugging on my trousers again and again?”

His hand keeps a tight hold on the fabric as he brings his other hand to wipe off the weariness from his eyes. Rubbing his sleepy eyes with his arm, he quietly murmurs- “Tired. Arsène wants to sleep.”

“Hey you can’t just fall asleep here-”

The boy leans his head against Akira’s thigh. Maybe he can sleep while walking if it comes down to it.

Wait. Arsène tries to force his eyes to remain open but only falls short. A question lingers in his mind as he leans his entire weight against the man’s leg. The question that screams why. He knows better than to fall for someone’s kindness and he has fallen for this trick multiple times with other foster parents. In the end, it all comes to a single mistake and him being booted out of a place he never quite belonged in. Why am I expecting him to help me? His legs feel tired but he also knows that "dad" isn’tobligated to help him.

Shaking his head, he forces his eyes to look onward. He senses the man’s hand lifting and for half a second, he imagines the worst. He imagines himself being pushed or shoved- a gesture that would suddenly draw a line between what made him his guardian and a parent. A pillar of respect. The visage of righteousness.

His skin jumps as he feels his hand growing closer.

The fingers brush against his soft hair, patting him on the head.

Arsène blinks, confused at the gesture.

 The older man releases a sigh. “Just don’t pass out on the ground, okay?” he mutters indignantly but the underlying worry in his tone is obvious. For a second, the sleep vanishes as he leans away from Mr Kurusu’s thigh- head whipping up at him as he watches the man crush the cup in his hands then quickly make his way over to some trash can. Arsène follows behind him as the cup makes a dull thunk when it meets the bottom of the pile.

“I won’t pass out,” Arsène follows up a little too late- his left hand fidgeting with the ends of his tattered cloak. As he pinches it, some of the black fabric shows up in the inside of his palm. ‘Dad’ brushes off the dust in his hands with light claps, a tired look on his eyes as he presses his lips firmly before he steps in front of Arsène.

The boy narrows his eyes as the mister crouches down. Flickers of small shadows dote his back in a light pattern thanks to the overhead leaves of a tree right next to them. The sunlight makes the top of his dark hair shine in little flecks of white. Arsène can’t believe his eyes and, with a hint of silence, Mr Kurusu peeks behind his shoulder to raise a brow at him. “Well? Are you getting on or not?”

He can’t believe this.

Carefully approaching him from behind, Arsène’s fingers twitch hesitantly as he follows up with, “I can take care of myself.”

“I am sure you can,” the other replied and that was that. “But we don’t have much time.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Arsène’s third eye scans through him once more, noticing the yellow silhouettes of the hidden guns and knives under his sleeves. The same sleeves which are now laid out in a sturdy foundation. The boy steps forward and wraps his arms around the man’s neck, gripping his sides carefully. 

He straightens his back and Arsène takes it as his cue to securely wrap his legs around Mr Kurusu’s waist- carefully avoiding the hidden gun in a concealed holster- as the man barely makes a noise. Adjusting his grip, his "dad" proceeds to stand upright and balances him right away.

The piggyback feels ridiculous whenever he watches other parents hold their children up like this, but now- with the increased altitude and the sturdy perch. It feels incredible! With a deep exhale, Akira starts walking, and the anxiety that brimmed within Arsène converts to a sort of stupid excitement that makes his lips perk up. 

“Doing okay?” Arsène hears the question after a moment. 

“...Yeah.”

“Good. You can go to sleep if you want,” the man follows up with ease.

The shared body heat and the proximity should be something that sends red flags hauling up in the air in the boy’s eyes and yet, Arsène doesn’t quite mind it. It was rather comfortable…being held like this. He chalks it up as being too sleepy to care when he buries his face into his shoulder and closes his eyes.

From the corner of his eye, he misses the way his "dad" casts a glance over his shoulder, his brows scrunched up in worry. A roll of sweat ebbs from his forehead and his hair, that had looked a little representable in the morning has now become a complete disarray- further amplified by his askew hat that further describes his chaotic state.

This isn’t working…I just don’t understand this irrational behaviour.

This mission will be the death of me.

The clock’s hands slowly inch towards the peak of midnight- signifying how the rest of the world peacefully slumbers in their warm houses and comfortable lofts. With only a few cars bolting across the streets, a thinly veiled silence takes over an unassuming apartment complex tucked away in the crowd of buildings that are nestled at the heart of Ostania’s capital. While most of the apartments and rooms are shrouded in darkness, there is a shred of light casting a silhouette in one of them.

Akira’s hands gently grasp the cover of the book, his thumb acting as a hook to hold the pages together before he slowly drifts it from left to right. The motion causes the pages to utter soft, papery sighs as they weave at a fast pace. The table lamp next to his sofa illuminates the pages as harsh shadows cross his face while his grey eyes scan down the words in the few milliseconds he gets to read the contents of a page before it weaves to the next one.

A well-honed spy would know better than to enjoy a book. As is his daily vendetta to trespass, collect and analyse information while being held down by a tight deadline, it is only natural that he trained himself to read quickly. From analysing documents to comprehending blueprints- Joker needs to keep improving. Sharpening his skills. Avoiding paper cuts that would give him away. Flipping through the pages; it is important that he follows a strict procedure starting from the very summary of the book to the captions, the glossary and, of course- the reading itself. He can’t possibly overlook a single detail when that detail can be later used to decrypt a difficult code or even predict the next strategy the enemy might take.

Just like that, Akira finishes a 100 page book titled “The Happiest Baby on the Block” in about 5 minutes.

I didn’t really need to know five ways to distract babies while changing their diapers but here we are, Akira sighs as he adds the book to his finished log of books next to a long pile that consists of many more.

Titles like “Parenting with Love and Logic”, “The Whole-Brain Child”, “The 5 Love Languages of Children”- all of which would give an average person a headache. Probably. For Akira however, it is more than a headache. The words are too gentle. The actions are too patronising.

As he flips through the pages of another book, his lips part in light murmurs as his eyebrows scrunch together.. “Rather than understanding them…try to understand things from their perspective,” his lips purse as the words leave his mouth. His gaze rises, away from the teetering statements of the books to the now ajar door of another room across the hallway. The lights are dimmed and the silence only hones in on the fact that Arsène is still fast asleep. 

“Children are not very good at conveying their thoughts into words…hence understanding them through patience is crucial.”

His eyes zero in almost aimlessly while his mind wanders. It draws a quick memory of Arsène sniffling because he couldn’t tell Akira that he was hungry.

“So I can’t interrogate him,” he concludes as he sets down the book and turns to the next one. Some of the manuals contradict each other. A few discuss the importance of firmness while some continu going on long tangents about what it means to be compassionate and easy-going. All in all, it's just as he suspected. When he spat down on the newspaper the other day, it wasn’t just because of the shock at what he had just read but the thought of settling on that idea. He can't discuss things like a logical adult, can’t be cutthroat enough to seek answers and just overall, he is fucked.

Does every single parent have to deal with such gruelling missions on a daily basis? 

As he finishes the last book from the pile, he tosses it over to the coffee table. He needs to mull this over and write proper notes. Probably after a nice cup of coffee or a decent sleep.

Besides, there is someone else who is living with him. A young boy who can’t possibly protect himself if Joker gets ambushed by an enemy. 

Right now, Arsène is Akira’s weakness- much to Joker’s chagrin. 

His home slippers lightly tread the wooden floors which barely creak under his weight as he traverses from the illuminated halls under soft yellow light bulbs to minimal darkness showing through the gap between the knob and the door’s frame. His one hand grips the knob of the door and slowly pushes it as the yellow lighting enters the room. It allows him a better view of the kid’s bedroom. The empty study table, untouched cabinets and drawers, the nearly vacant wardrobe that barely had some extra clothes for Arsène- it looks reminiscent of a small family that had just moved into a furnished apartment with barely any belongings of their own.

Not like it's a surprise. A family that consists of a secret agent from the enemy country and an orphan who has survived the streets as a thief won’t have personal things in the first place.

“...?” He steps in and noticed the chair of his study tables now draped by the signature tattered cloak- that thing which grasped the attention of almost every person they interacted or crossed paths with today. The rest of his…previous outfit is also disposed of on the seat. Did the boy actually wake up in the middle and change into the pyjamas that Akira bought for him when he was not keeping an eye on him?

Arsène makes a noise, getting the man’s attention as he notices how the boy curls further into the blanket. Soft little breaths ebb away into the quiet of his room, his little fingers practically digging into the soft fabric while his eyes are closed firmly as if he couldn’t allow a bystander to simply steal away the blanket even in his sleep. A soft huff leaves Akira, who makes his way over to the bed and notices how Arsène hasn’t fully covered his legs yet.

“How do you expect to be warm like that if you just bundle it up…” he shakes his head as he carefully grabs the end of the duvet and pulls it down. The boy slightly twitches, his eyelids flickering before he settles down again.

“Mister…I want a silenced pistol…” Arsène murmurs into his dreams while his eyes remain closed.

Kurusu blinks at him in surprise. “What?”

The boy turns the other way, facing his back to him while remaining blissfully unaware as Akira feels the slight tremble of a headache stemming in the back of his mind. Again- he will never understand what type of content Ostania allows her kids to watch. Wasn’t Arsène a fan of a spy show or something like that? Isn’t he too young to know about things like weapons in the first place?

Well, whatever it is- he should probably try to catch up on some sleep or make some notes from the books. Running his fingers through his hair, he watches from the nearby mirror mounted on the wall as it gets as messy as it can get. A slouched back, the black rimmed glasses resting on his nose that hid away his attentive sterling gaze- all such features are signature traits for his character as Akira Kurusu. He frowns as he gently rests his naked hand on his own cheek, the pads of his fingers running against natural skin. The warmth in his cheeks is more detectable. Rarely is his face so untouched, his beauty mark feeling nearly strange from being exposed for so long- giving a dash of personality to his otherwise plain looks. A country bumpkin psychiatrist who transferred from the countryside to the main city after the death of his wife and adhered to her wish to enrol their child in the best school this country could offer. While Arsène dozed off, the spy had helped himself by buying a cheap wedding ring and wore it on his right hand- signifying his social position without looking like a complete asshole about it.

Akira Kurusu is an ordinary man.

As things should be.

He looks down through his lashes as something catches his attention on the table. From this angle, he noticed a piece of paper and a pencil lying right next to it.

Curious, he brings his hand down to look at the paper properly against the light. His eyebrows rise in surprise as he looks at the title of the paper:

THE CONTARCT.

Well, he doesn’t really mind the spelling mistake that much. An amused chuckle erupts from the back of his throat, making sure he doesn’t actually wake up Arsène in the process as his eyes gloss over scribbled lines and indescribable words. Obviously, the boy couldn’t just write official words or anything much beyond two to three words or a statement at best- instead writing the “contract” in the same way the cartoon probably described it.

At the end of the paper, a singular line makes his breath catch in his throat.

Sined by: Arsène Kuroosu.

Nimble fingers reach up to the bridge of his nose and pluck off the glasses, just to make sure he is reading it right.

His lips part in surprise as he flips the page, wondering where he even got the paper from- only to be rewarded by the essay questions that were present in the Shujin Academy’s previous year papers. He ripped the page at some point or stole it from him, god knows how, and even the pencil- well that is still explainable. Joker probably forgot to ask for it when they were going to leave the restaurant. 

But that’s not the problem at hand, is it?

Arsène accepted the name right away after knowing this…"dad" for a single day. He’s serious about this role. 

An…expendable role. The kid has no idea what type of person he’s signing this contract with.

A person who…doesn’t exist. Akira doesn’t exist in this world. Once he has accomplished his goal he will revert back to how things were. An aloof look in his naked gaze, an ever-changing face; no doctor. No late wife. No family.

No kid.

The least Joker could possibly do is bring Arsène to a good orphanage where people could actually take care of him. 

Right now as he stands in his room, all of this is just as make-believe as are the very contents of the contract. 

The paper is set down next to the pencil, his grey eyes reflecting away the warm yellows of the apartment’s living room along with the opaque colours of the night sky before his spectacles are placed back where they belong. Akira carefully brings his index finger to the bridge of the eyeglasses and presses it to his nose.

Once I am done with this mission, I have no need for Arsène.

The boy buries his face into the mattress.

Determined, Akira proceeds to leave the room- one hand pressed against the side of his neck as he cracks it a little- just to get rid of the tension of his limbs.

Acquiring a child was just the start of his mission after all. There’s no time to relax just yet.