50 Christophers…all ready to rock and roll in a unique outfit and story…
Every time I write him in a new AU, he is never the same as his previous iterations. He is constantly changing, filling the various roles of protagonist, villain and secondary character. What a happy accident upon this world. What a marvelous, strange and hairy set of occurrences to have led me to him.
Edit: If you’d like to read my commentary on the outfits, you can view the Twitter post here! By the way, I have no idea how that website works and will most likely only be posting this set of images.
Edit II: You know what, you deserve better than being sent to Twitter to read my commentaries. I’ve replaced the transparent PNGs with non transparent PNGs so you can read my commentary with ease.
It looks like he’s about to break into song about how great the stars are while his animal friends land on his shoulders and a prince nearby rushes towards the princess mating call
Warnings:Tron being Tron, Christopher struggling with unhealthy expectations, Arclight crest fuckery
Summary: Before he can save his brothers from the orphanage, Christopher must strengthen himself first. His newly-returned father has just the answer.
“Rise, my son,” calls his father. “Rise as my successor—my heir.”
Underneath his ceremonial cape trimmed with ermine fur, Christopher stands. How strange it was, to look into his father’s golden eyes webbed with crows’ feet. It had seemed only yesterday that he was looking up at him. Now they see eye-to-eye, with Christopher only a few inches below his father. He wonders if from afar, he still appears like a ghostly version of his father, with silver hair gathered into a long braid.
“You are now Young Lord Arclight, protector of House Arclight and all of its treasures,” declares his father, eyes shining with pride. “Beside me, you shall endeavor to carry our traditions with grace and pride befitting of your good breeding.”
His father clasps his hands in his, the warmth radiating from Byron’s skin reaching deep into Christopher’s heart. He beams with pride as the ballroom erupts into applause. The Arclight pin is secured to his robes, shining proudly beneath the golden light.
It is the same golden light, filtering through the curtains in small rays, that awakens Christopher. Or, V, as he is known now. A number, a statistic.
At 20-years old, the world should have opened its doors to him, welcoming him into the pleasures of adulthood. Independence. Respect. Honor. Yet he is trapped in this hotel suite, leagues away from his home without a single thing to his name. A king without a crown, a ship adrift in the ocean.
He gazes at his reflection in the mirror.
Nothing has changed. His hair is still long (since when did it get so long?), he is still as tall as he was last night and his eyes are still the same sad shade of blue that his grandmother had called “mourner’s eyes.” Fitting, for he is mourning the gala and splendor that was rightfully his this day.
He dresses in silence, grimacing at the ribs that poke through his skin. It’s so difficult, to take care—to want to take care—of yourself when the weight of the world is on your shoulders in the form of a demented child that you call your father. Doubts occasionally fill his mind at the identity of the child, but with each passing day, his doubts recede deeper and deeper into the recesses of his mind. There was his father’s calm way of walking, hands clasped behind his back. There was that one event that only his father would know. There were the cards his father had so loved, gently clipped at the corners.
It feels as if he has fallen into a fairytale whose end is obscured by mist and tangled forests. A ruthless betrayal. A cursed father. Magic granted by creatures from a far off land. And he is just a helpless fly, caught in the tale’s intricate spinnings.
Knock knock. Midway through buttoning up his shirt, V freezes.
“Are you ready?” calls the now-familiar voice of Tron.
V finishes buttoning up his shirt.
“Yes,” he replies.
He opens the door to meet the gleaming metal smile of his father’s mask. Once, it frightened him. Now, he only feels a slight undercurrent of unease. Whatever the mask was hiding was definitely worse.
“Splendid,” murmurs Tron. “Now let us begin.”
They walk down the hall towards the room that was prepared for the ritual. With each step, V’s heart beats faster. He closes his eyes and opens them, pretending he is walking through the Arclight manor’s halls. His ancestor’s portraits stare down at him with pride. The flowers have been freshly picked by the staff, reserved especially for this day. Their footsteps echo upon the marble, worn with generations upon generations of Arclights making the same journey.
The doors open to reveal the opulent ballroom, a sea of people waiting to catch a glimpse of the future Young Lord Arclight. He stands proud and tall, the heavy ermine cape the only thing keeping him on the ground.
“My son!” declares his father, arms sweeping across the ballroom.
They make a dashing pair, Byron and Christopher. Both tall and elegant, they stand above their guests like two proud kings. Dressed in Arclight regalia, they carry the hopes and wishes of the past and future Arclights upon their shoulders.
His father clears his throat and places a hand on Christopher’s shoulder.
“Tonight, we shall witness—”
“Lay down.”
Tron’s command snaps V out of his fantasy. Before him, his father’s crest glows in the darkened ritual room. In silence, V lies down, the cold marble seeping into his skin. So much for a ball held in his name.
“The pain that you shall endure will equal the amount of power that shall be granted,” explains Tron as he raises his hand.
V feels his body being lifted into the air, tendrils of DNA-helices snaking up from the ground. A lump forms in his throat as he regards his father’s impassive expression. They had decided on this date a week ago. In a detached voice, his father had explained the details of the ritual with each approaching day. To V, it had seemed more like a ridiculous play that he had to partake in to appease a child.
Now, with the tendrils wrapping around his limbs, he realizes that this is far from an act.
“You’ll take all of it to protect your brothers, right?” breathes Tron.
Thomas. Michael. Still in the orphanage, waiting for his return.
A stinging sensation begins to prickle his skin. V swallows the lump in his throat.
“Yes, of course,” he utters.
Yet, would he? It had been more than four years since he had last seen them. They could be nothing but cold-eyed strangers at this point. No, no. He musn’t think that way. It wasn’t how a proper brother—
The first wave of pain courses through his body and he stiffens. Like an unexpected bee sting, the pain lingers. Still, it wasn’t anything compared to what he had endured with Kaito.
Kaito . Son of his father’s murderer.
Children should not bear the sins of their fathers and yet…
Another wave of pain, sharper and longer this time. V grits his teeth as the tendrils tighten their grip, holding his body taut.
He had betrayed his brothers by indulging himself with Kaito and Haruto. Deep down, he knew that he would never be considered as their own flesh and blood and yet…
More pain.
Fantasies. Escape. His two favorite things to do ever since he was a child. Hiding from his strict tutors by daydreaming about the stars. Stifling his parents’ reprimandations by wishing he was floating out in space with the planets. Occasionally envisioning a reality where Thomas had been born first instead of him.
Oh, there was no doubt that Thomas would bully the daylights out of him but it was better than all of the expectations the entire household had heaped upon him, year after year.
The spare to the heir.
Kaito and Haruto as the spares to Thomas and Michael.
The helices begin to glow brighter. V stifles a cry as a particularly sharp bolt of pain courses through him. His miniature father looms over him, the pinkish light casting his body in a hellish light. Tron squeezes his fist and the tendrils grow tighter. Struggling against his bonds leads to no avail. V’s breath catches in his throat as his world grows white with pain.
Sharp. Biting. Cold. Hateful.
“Don’t fight it, V. Accept it. My anger. My hatred. My pain. It will make you strong,” calls his father.
His shadow dances across the wall like a demon, laughing at V’s anguish. It feels as if the prickles at the beginning had left holes in V’s skin, allowing a burning coldness to seep deep into his body. It drips, painful inch by painful inch into his body, like an IV drip of poison.
By God, they were meant to watch the sunrise together. It was their tradition, as long as he could remember. Then, they were supposed to have a breakfast of scones, toast, tea and cake. And because this was his twentieth birthday, he would finally be allowed into his father’s study to learn about the family secrets.
All of his life he had wanted to enter through those sacred doors. What treasures would have awaited him in the forms of heirlooms and books? How changed would he be once he left those doors?
And yet he is here, floating in the air, immobilized by demonic helices and surrounded by dancing shadows, something cold and wicked crawling into his soul.
V shouts as he feels his limbs being pulled apart, the tendrils doing their damned best to quarter him. Yet when he looks down at himself, he is still as he was. No holes. No evidence of the thing that was most definitely invading his being.
He could take more pain. For his father, who endured so much to return to him. For his brothers, who were innocents caught in the crossfire.
He grits his teeth and meets the next wave of pain with only a low groan.
“Excellent,” breathes his father.
The singular word makes everything else insignificant.
A memory—distant and dreamlike, resurfaces in V’s mind.
To you, your father should be as a god.
One that composed your beauties, yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax,
By him imprinted and within his power
To leave the figure or disfigure it.
By his father’s side he had watched the Shakespearean play, quietly bored out of his mind. He had always preferred opera, with its soaring instrumentations and glamorous costumes. The play was all a blur now, save for these lines from the first scene.
Those were the words he had been taught to live by, serving and honoring his father as if he were a god. Even now, in his shrunken form and demonic mask, his father was still V’s god.
If he were told to jump into a fire and burn, he would obey. To his father, he is nothing but wax, born to be molded and fit for his use.
Tears burn V’s eyes and slide down his cheeks, leaving behind heated trails. He must survive this inferno to serve his father and protect his family, even if that meant sacrificing his very soul.
Not only would he jump into the fire, he would dance through it, a flaming effigy of devotion. That was how deep his loyalty lay, even as pain akin to being burned alive ravaged his body. He will be reduced to ashes and dust before he would refuse his father an order. His body convulses with pain and he grits his teeth. He is dancing, dancing through the flames and running towards the light that awaited at the end of the tunnel.
He is ablaze with passion, the multiplying tendrils the only thing preventing his disintegration. As the heir to the Arclight family, this was what he must endure to ensure that his family would survive.
A final shout escapes him as his world fills with white and he briefly feels lightened of all pain. It was as if he was struck by lightning, so electrifying and all-encompassing was the pain. He is floating, floating, gazing down at the body that was imprisoned by purplish helices, stretched like a prisoner on the rack. For a moment, it feels as if he would continue to drift away from this nightmarish room and into the heavens, far away where he would become one with the planets and stars. There he would stay, watching over the earth, wondering how such insignificant creatures could even attempt to make their mark in a universe so large and uncaring.
And then, the world spins and he returns back to his body, his forehead burning. Something etches itself into his skin, slithering deep into his soul and nestling there. It continues to burn in a pulsing sensation, melding with his heartbeat.
His father’s crest has been replaced with his own, blue and swirling with elegant curlicues. As he is lowered onto the ground, he looks up at his father, whose face remains impassive. Sweat and tears cover V’s face and blood rushes through his ears. Up and down his chest heaves, his vision blurring.
Despite that, a cold and prideful voice calls out from the depths of his mind. Thomas and Michael must never see him like this. He must protect them from such pain, as their older brother. And as the Arclight heir, his duty was to endure the pain that their father would inflict upon him without a single complaint. He is marble, silent and unmoving.
Tron leans over and rests a cool hand on his burning forehead. All Christopher can see is the mask’s smile. What skin remains on his father’s face is covered by the shadows of the now-darkened room.
“Happy birthday, V,” murmurs Tron.
His breath shuddering with relief, Christopher closes his eyes and allows the darkness to overtake him. Never again shall he be allowed to show weakness. The crest would not allow it.
Warnings: Drug use, street racing, angst, Christopher gets punched in the face
Summary: Christopher gazes in the mirror and wonders how long he can keep up this charade. His job at the laboratory has been reduced to skull-crushing boredom. He’s more alive at night, racing down the streets as Jules Vincent Lucas. When he returns home with half of his face bruised from a fight, his two realities come closer than he would like.
“Goodness, Chris. You’re quite a sight for tired eyes this morning,” remarks Tron as he poured out his coffee.
Christopher grunts and presses the ice pack closer to his bruised face. Last night, it hadn’t seemed as bad, despite the splitting pain in his skull. The morning proved to be a different matter. The bruise spread from his eye to his cheek, a dark and ugly purple stain over the rest of his pale features. He looked like an unruly ruffian, or, at worst, a criminal.
Lifting his coffee to his lips with his free hand, he grimaces in distaste at the lukewarm liquid. He swore he had just poured it out from the machine. Glancing at the clock, he stiffens when he realizes that an hour has passed by without him noticing. Three hours of sleep a night was beginning to take its toll, no matter what he tried to pump into his system.
Thomas’ loud whistle nearly splits his skull in half as he walks into the room, a bagel in his hand.
“That’s quite a shiner there. Did you and Kaito get into a fight last night?“ chuckles the middle Arclight.
God if only it had been that easy.
Avi’s fist had rushed at him in an inhuman blur, colliding with his skull in a sickening crack. First went the Bianchi sunglasses, the crack of the lens unleashing an internal curse from Christopher. Then the Morgus-80 driver’s fist slammed through the shades and into his face, setting off an array of fireworks in his eyes.
The next thing he saw were the streetlights dancing above him like will-o-the-wisps.
“No,” grumbles Christopher.
Thomas gives Christopher an amused look and pulls out a seat beside his brother. The screeching of the chair causes Christopher to wince and grit his teeth. The melting ice pack drips down his cheek like tears.
“You never get injured,” remarks Thomas. “So what happened?”
There’s a hint of glee in his tone, as if he were relishing Christopher’s pain. Prim and proper Chris, showing up to breakfast with a bruised eye the size of a goose egg.
God, he’d slam Thomas against the wall if he could.
On the other side, Tron sits up a little straighter, pretending to be engrossed in his coffee. Although their father would never ask, Christopher knew that he was equally curious to know about what had happened last night.
He sighs and presses the ice pack closer to his face. At this point, it was mostly water.
The rush of the Lunar powder as it vanished beneath his nose. The feeling of his muscles wailing in pain and ecstasy as the powder made its way through his system. The rainbow blur that was Heartland as he sped through at 290 kilometers an hour. The feeling of winning, champagne splashing against the sleek build of his Sunset.
“I bumped into the car door on the back,” he replies after a few moments.
He’s dying. He’s never been more alive. He’s dying. He needs to be alive again. He’s dying. The silvery-blue powder is fresh and clear in his mind, stored in his bedside cabinet and The Sunset’s glove compartment.
When things are especially dull or aggravating, he’ll bring some with him to work.
He’s seen what Lunar does, reducing its users to listless ghosts, hands curled into claws and hollow eyes roving aimlessly. Walking corpses searching for the next opportunity to come to life.
“The door?” echoes Thomas, mystified. “But the corners are above your height. I’m trying to wrap my head around this but…”
He’s not a Lunar junkie. He will never be a Lunar junkie.
Imagine the inconvenience that it would cause.
Christopher grips his coffee cup harder. He gives Thomas a warning glare, yet Thomas continues to stare at him, expecting an answer. A distant voice in the back of his head groans. It was far too early for such trivial matters. If he wants to make it through, he’ll need to have some Lunar.
His hand twitches.
Nothing is better than hearing the roar of the engines beneath his feet in a Lunar-induced haze. Everything is brighter, the street lights racing past in a kaleidoscope of wonderment. Finally, he can feel something besides mild irritation and dissatisfaction again. In his Sunset, he’s the king of the streets and lord of the neon lights. No other driver has a car as fine as his, stored off by the piers like a secret treasure.
“C’mon, Chris. Was it a sex injury?” teases Thomas.
No. No Lunar, no violence. He must resist. He must set a good example. His aggravated silence wipes the grin off of Thomas’ face.
The sound of distant sirens fills Christopher’s ears and he isn’t sure if it’s simply a hallucination or real. He grits his teeth. The howlers will never catch him. And even if they did, Dr. Faker would probably pull some strings to set him free.
Thomas gazes at him with furrowed brows, far too reminiscent of his own stern expression. The words escape from him before he can stop himself, a result of sleep-deprived irritation and pain.
“Are you a howler?” growls Christopher. “Because I don’t remember this being an interrogation.”
Fuck. Thomas’ expression freezes. Their father’s mouth twitches. Thomas’ brows slightly raise and his lips part into a small “o.” Christopher knows exactly what his brother is thinking and swallows hard.
Never has a single word from Heartland’s criminal underground been uttered from his aristocratic lips.
“Damn. Okay then,” mumbles Thomas as he bites into his bagel.
On the streets, they never used their real names. For Christopher, it was similar to being reborn as a different person. This kind of vulgar language was reserved only for Jules, the word howler as familiar as breathing. A creature of the night, Jules lived on moonlight and neon, the idea of aristocracy a distant memory. Behind his tinted shades, he was untouchable. Even Avi’s punch seemed to have barely affected his composure.
Christopher winces as he gazes at his reflection in the window. Another bruised reflection stares at him from his coffee. He grabs the cup and dumps the lukewarm sludge into the sink, a guttural noise burbling up from the drain.
He needs to buy a new pair of shades before tonight.
“Are you coming to the lab today?” asks Tron, eyes glinting with a cold light.
Christopher pauses.
The sounds of last night’s races are still fresh in his mind. His head pounds with a fresh wave of pain.
“Of course,” he mutters. “What else would I be doing?”
Definitely not crawling into a heap and Lunar-ing the pain away. No, of course not.
Christopher V Arclight was a respectable citizen who followed (most) laws and set a good example for his younger brothers. Or, a good example as humanly possible. And that meant showing up to work after safely navigating the streets.
Before he can hear his father’s response, he walks off towards his room.
In Christopher’s world, the colors of the traffic lights were ironclad laws to be obeyed. The pedestrian was a sacred personage. The speed limit was nonnegotiable. Only in a rush would he go slightly over. And only slightly. Nothing punishable. His world is colored in shades of gray and blue, like a cloudy sky.
Jules’ world was bright with neon lights, the stars shimmering above him.
He closes the door to his room and tosses the remains of the ice pack into the garbage can. Then he gazes at the full-body mirror attached to his closet door.
For the next 18 hours, he will be Christopher.
And yet, he can still hear and feel the purr of The Sunset beneath him. How the steering wheel’s grips perfectly molded to his fingers. The gentle give of the throttle that urged him to push harder and harder until the world was a mere blur. The absolutely divine sensation of coming back to life whenever The Sunset accelerated, the needle of the speedometer going from 0 to 180 in a satisfying arc.
His defeated expression stares back at him, the black eye mocking his otherwise milky complexion. A low groan escapes from his throat. Right now, he is dead. He is so tired of being dead. Without the night, without the streets, without The Sunset, he is dead. It’s like Christopher V Arclight experiences his emotions at the shallowest levels possible.
Joy is expressed as a fleeting smile. Disapproval leads to slightly tugged-down lips. Anger is either a glare or a frown. The only emotion that he feels to the pits of his stomach is dissatisfaction these days.
Perhaps that was why he enjoyed Madame Bovary so much. The book currently sits by his bedside, a dusty bookmark placed on top of the leatherbound cover. It was about to go on its third reread. Once the racing season dies down, he’ll probably pick it up again.
Christopher opens his closet and begins to put together an outfit from the 15 shirts and 10 trousers that he kept for the lab. All of them are similar shades of either blue, gray, white or black. He wonders when he had gotten so boring with his clothing choices.
Maybe that was why Jules wore leather and form-fitting apparel. On his way to work yesterday, he’s certain he saw a midriff-baring top that would go well with the black trousers he recently purchased.
Christopher would die at the thought of wearing such a thing in public. Jules would love it, showing off his toned form.
He picks out a dark blue shirt and gray trousers.
His thoughts return to Emma Bovary as he begins to dress, the cold air brushing against his bruised skin. Madame Bovary, all alone, discontented and bored in her lonely home. Christopher Arclight, floating along the river of an uneventful life cooped up in a laboratory. He saw himself in Emma’s wistful fantasies, dreaming of far off lands and dashing lovers. Except the far off lands were the neon-filled streets of Heartland and the dashing lovers was his Sunset, with her sleek build and tinted windows.
Where Madame Bovary wanted to die yet live in Paris, Christopher at once wanted to live and die on the streets of Heartland.
Now dressed for the day, he grabs his keys from the door and walks towards the garage. Opening the massive doors with the remote, he sighs upon seeing the luxury all-terrain vehicle. The Luna, gifted for his 20th birthday. It, like The Sunset, is painted a pristine white. The blue stripes painted on its sides were at his father’s suggestion. It, for one, was not meant to fly down the empty city streets. The split steering wheel was definitely not made for rapid, sharp turns. Built like a tank, it was meant to cruise at a sedate pace, like a general surveying his troops.
The first and last time he had driven it in any manner similar to The Sunset was during the Barian invasion, all those years back. Had he not been in a vehicle packed with children, he would have slammed into Nasch at full speed. Freshly introduced to the world of underground street racing, anyone that stood in his way was a challenge meant to be overcome. Regarding unwary pedestrians at night, the saying among the drivers was, move shit or get hit. Anyone out during those times had probably no good reason to be out anyways.
He’s more careful now, but he’s still gotten in some pretty close calls.
He opens up the door to the SUV and turns on the engine. Outside, the rooftops are beginning to let off steam, the melting frost a reminder that winter was coming. Turning on the heater, he hops out and walks back inside.
Returning to the kitchen, he takes his thermos from the cabinet and fills it with his specially made espresso. He’s never quite forgiven Dr. Faker for refusing to buy an espresso machine for the lab. Even if the old man had taught him how to drive (“Drive a stick shift! Best anti-theft measure in this day and age.”), there were still many things he had to work out with that man. He doubts he’s alone in that endeavor.
For one, his father. If anyone, he had the most reason to be angry at Dr. Faker. Even after all these years, they still haven’t found a way to restore his body to its adult proportions. Christopher glances at him. He hasn’t grown at all since he returned from the Barian World. Tron stares out the window, his coffee long gone.
“Just a few more minutes,” says Christopher.
A nod.
“Take it easy at the lab today. I’ll do most of the heavy-lifting,” murmurs Tron.
“Thank you,” he mumbles.
Once his thermos is filled, Christopher screws the cap shut and sighs.
Here’s the cast for my drama series, Scattered Roses in the Palm of Your Hand, giving advice on self care
The remake coming who the hell knows when
The Scattered Roses style is based off of retro shoujo anime, mostly from Oniisama e
However, members who aren’t in the Resurrection (the Tenjos) are drawn in a more modern style…until they enter Resurrection territory and vice-versa. Once the Arclights go into Heartland City, they pop back into the modern style.
2023? 2025? Big Bang fic?? Manhattan Sweep 2! aka Kaito gets blackmailed into setting up another musical (My Fair Lady) and Chris loses a horse racing bet against Thomas and reluctantly auditions. Much to Christopher’s dismay, he is cast as the highly irritable Professor Henry Higgins, who he says doesn’t resemble him at all.
Cue Mizael, Kaito and Thomas rolling all of their eyes.
Hi everyone! I would like some help deciding which WIP to finish first. This is the first one, featuring Thomas and Ryoga doing dumb things on their quest to become superstars.
It will feature a mixture of pixel art and teenage shenanigans, all set against a retro backdrop.
My second WIP is a bit more serious. If you would like to help with either of them, please reach out to me! I would love to collaborate! The second WIP is coming up next!
Happy (belated) New Year! I can’t believe both of my favorite shows (Ninjago and Yu-Gi-Oh Zexal) turned 10 in 2021. Time sure flies fast when you’re having fun.
I wanted to thank both fandoms for helping me through thick and thin and for bearing with my silly antics. Here’s to many more years in fandom hell!
Also…still very upset that neither Byron or Sensei Garmadon were brought back…
50 Christophers…all ready to rock and roll in a unique outfit and story…
Every time I write him in a new AU, he is never the same as his previous iterations. He is constantly changing, filling the various roles of protagonist, villain and secondary character. What a happy accident upon this world. What a marvelous, strange and hairy set of occurrences to have led me to him.
Edit: If you’d like to read my commentary on the outfits, you can view the Twitter post here! By the way, I have no idea how that website works and will most likely only be posting this set of images.
Edit II: You know what, you deserve better than being sent to Twitter to read my commentaries. I’ve replaced the transparent PNGs with non transparent PNGs so you can read my commentary with ease.
