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.
Area 6 of the Duelist Road unlocked, with a tag-team duel against Dr. Faker and the mysterious Barian (Vector) who possessed him for the last few turns! Boy is his mechanical form big…Almost fills the whole screen XD
A new Duelist Road area appeared as well. I find it funny how disconnected Yuma’s plotline initially is from everything else that’s going on, though he does get tied back into it later with the reveal that Dr. Faker and Vetrix/Byron Arclight were working with his father (and the former betrayed the latter two under the belief Hart would be cured). All these masterminds have gambits and manipulations going on and Yuma and Astral just want to have a good time XD
A Duelist Road event in Duel Links has started, focusing on Zexal’s World Duel Carnival arc! I love how all this drama was going on and Yuma thought he didn’t even need to apply to enter XD
Everything is the same but… (It’s an AU day! Show us your Zexal AUs)
I have a lot, but sadly they are just vague ideas/concepts since I don’t know how to expand them and how they will affect the rest of the story :(
1. Despite the desperation, Dr. Faker has a change of mind and choose not to sacrifice his friends in the end. The “portal incident” is cancelled and they later work together to find a non-evil way to cure Haruto
2. During the “portal incident”, Dr. Faker sacrifices himself instead with Mr. Tsukumo, trusting Byron to do the pact with Vector. Kaito & Haruto later adopted into the Arclight family and growing up with siblings. Expect the Tenjos with noble outfits
4. Instead of brainwashing and memory rewriting, the Barians consciously and willingly accept Don Thousand’s offer during their past time because people and humanity are just pure assholes
3. Nasch and Merag didn’t die before the start of the series. They later volunteer themselves to spy on earth disguising as human with name Shark and Rio
