Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Irony is such a beautiful and bitter thing. Much like anything both lovely and acrid, it tends to land the most brutal and personal hits. Quite synonymous to times where one lady acquaintance of Cross happens upon the other and they become fast, vengeful friends. Vindictive women and irony both have an unrivaled tendency to arrive during the most unfortunate of situations. That is to say, it invokes hilarity upon enemies and allies alike; positive and negative. Mostly, however, irony has an almost cruel tendency to strike the unaware without mercy or particular care. If karma’s a bitch… then irony is certainly a bastard.

Then again, at least karma only came in one part. Irony had a rather deplorable habit of coming in four parts. Really. Irony should have known that anything classy comes in threes, but amongst clowns and gamblers common, there can be exceptions made since four of a kind. Dramatic irony could be pictured as that man dress darkly and skulking through the shadows cast by tall light posts. He secretly stalks the lady dressed in shaded pink up the street, known to the world but not to her. He’ll strike unexpectedly under the eyes of unseen stars and the moon. Verbal irony plays the swindler. Always talking, rambling, gossiping, speaking, but always meaning anything else than what is said. He dances with words as Cross does’ ladies… that is to say a lot and frequently. Comedic irony is, of course, the clown who cares little for appearances and less for who finds his jokes humorous.

Last but not least comes the dreaded situational irony. This particular part, the joker of irony, wears many costumes. It dances often between happiness, surprise, shock, confusion, and despair. Like a good gambler, its cards are never revealed until the very last second. It comes as babies, marriage, breakups, and death. For every person, it is slightly different, unique, or individualized one might say. For Allen Walker, this irony came as a simply carved slab of stone. Disturbingly prime and unnaturally clean, a single name carved onto polished slate; Mana Walker. Ah, raise the glass to common despair and the usual twisted smile fate. A boy lost his father and even his death was ironic! The man so prone to running in streets killed by a carriage while walking on the sidewalk upon his beloved son’s insistence.

A stroke of deplorable luck. A bad hand of cards against detestable kismet. Per the norm with particular bad gambles, something of importance, of value was to be lost. Mana Walker lost at age… How old was Mana? He still appeared to Allen around sixty and he sincerely doubted the man had been anywhere near seventeen. Whatever... he supposed it really wasn’t important how old Mana was now. A soft sigh faded to the winds. When those whom are used to having nothing and being nothing themselves… it is only natural that anything that tells them otherwise immediately becomes precious. Mana had freely given love, kindness, compassion, and warmth. Was it selfish that the being known as Red and now as Allen craved it like an old soldier does morphine? He really could help but miss the gone and vanished…

“A good evening to you.” A haunting melodic voice greeted.

Allen barely looked up from his depression, and then only because the voice struck a familiar chord within his memories. His doleful silver eyes took in a rather terrifying visage. A fat, almost goblin-like clown, hung over Mana’s grave much like a bashful girl behind a tree. Although, with that thought, it would have to be an extraordinarily wide tree. Allen blinked; his mouth parted slightly in shock.

“Shall I revive Mana Walker for you?” The strange clown continued most intently.

Allen didn’t respond. There was something painstakingly familiar about that voice, the outrageous costume as well. It just didn’t sit right within both his mind and his stomach that this man remained nameless. He closed his eyes in thought.

As if considering that an answer the clown went on, “If you wish me to, I need your assistance.”

Nothing came forward in his mind as a name dance so tantalizingly upon his tongue. It was a frustration similar to that of walking in a room and forgetting your purpose… or like coming across another of Cross’ numerous debts.

“I need you, the beloved one,” A slight pause as if for dramatic effect, “to call Mana out from the heavens.”

That rang a bell. Mana… That was Mana’s voice. Allen’s eyes snapped open and he stared intently at the strange goblin clown. There was no mistaking that voice as anyone else. It was familiar and musical, the goofy tilt unlost within the costume. Allen narrowed his eyes at the ridiculously decorated top hat. Well… certainly they held the same… tastes.

“Mana…” He voiced silently.

He nodded.

“Yes indeed!” Mana clapped his hands, “You can steal back your Mana from that hateful God!”

Allen felt his face twist into an expression filled to the brim with a relieved sort of anger. A vein slowly began to show itself on his forehead. Both his hand folded themselves into a shaking fist. His moving, albeit twitchy, left arm went unnoticed. Mana would likely chide him later for reverting into Red’s usual anger, but at the moment he felt as though it was perfectly justified. Summoning speed Allen was unaware he even had, he vaulted over Mana’s supposed grave and landed a fist right to the face of the very not-dead man. Mana crashed to the ground clutching his nose. Seeing no reason to show sympathy, Allen proceeded to kick him in the ribs while shouting obscenities. A perfectly normal reaction given that the only family he ever had was apparently ‘not dead’.

“You STUPID clown!” He screamed as he landed a particularly vicious kick to the kidneys.

Mana let out a pained groan. Duly noted and purposely ignored.

“I thought you were DEAD!” He screeched.

After one last kick, Allen stopped and took in several sobbing breaths. Tears fell from his eyes despite his best efforts to hold them back. He raised a dirty arm to whip them away.

“Mana…” Allen cried, “Was I… Was I truly so awful you wanted to leave me behind?”

Mana ignored him and scuttled several feet away while now clutching his ribs. He pointed an accusing finger at the boy.

“You!” He seethed, “Why did you hit me!”

Allen scowled despite the tears.

“Cause you’re Mana…” The scowl hardened, “A stupid, idiotic, crazy clown.”

For several moments… all was silent. Quiet in the way that both parties were beginning to come to conclusions vastly different from each other's. Allen, twisted by grief and sorrow was convinced that this strange clown was, with beyond a doubt, Mana. He really wasn’t that far off. There are many things one cannot be changed easily, and the voice in one of them. The creature known as the Millennium Earl, on the other hand, was coming to the conclusion that he was most definitely not Mana and that this kid deranged. Only the latter could be considered even slightly correct.

“I’m not Mana!” Mana hissed.

A pause.

“…Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!”

“You are!”

“I’m not!

“Yes!”

“No!”

Allen grit his teeth.

“Fine! If you’re not Mana... then what’s your name?” He questioned pointedly.

Ah, the logic of ten-year-olds. Quite brilliant when deployed in the proper moment.

“I’m the Millennium Earl, little boy.” He said in a low voice usually reserved for the announcement of titles and men with rather large egos, “I am the master of the Akuma and patriarch of the Noah.”

Allen stared at him with a blank expression. Mana continued to perform several poses, each more elaborate than the last.

“That’s a title, not a name…” He deadpanned.

Mana froze as though in shock. Not such an unexpected reaction when faced with the surprisingly correct and logical points often brought about by children. Allen shrugged his shoulders.

“See you’re Mana.” He stated offhandedly as though that was common knowledge, “That carriage to the head must have knocked up your memory and increased your craziness, that’s all.”

Mana shook with unreasonable anger.

“No!” He shouted much like a child, “I’m not Mana! I’m the Mellenniu–”

The young boy was swift to interrupt.

“Sure, sure. You’re the Millennium Earl. Lame title. Don’t know why you want it. But that’s not what I’m asking. What’s your name?” Allen pouted, “It’s not that hard! I’m Allen Walker! Now give yours.” Another pause, “It’s only proper manners.”

What happened next was rather unfair. Mana, stunned by logic and peeved by his own insanity, chose not to answer. He fled the scene unwilling to deal with some brat that insisted he was that hateful Mana and who he wouldn’t be getting an Akuma out of. Allen was left with the shattered fragments of hope glistening amongst the blood of his fingers. A seed of obsession was planted with Mana’s denial of self, and Allen was now determined to return to his sides. It could be considered a proper throw of the wrench, a simple flick of the wrist really, straight into the face of fate. Sure, Cross would happen upon him, younger than expected and with eerily familiar steely grey eyes. He would not be as easy to manage, with a despairing sigh and the familiar stench of irony, he would be just like the previous Allen Walker.

Chapter Text

Irony and karma go hand in hand just as well as gasoline and a match or Romeo and Juliet. This is to say pray to the unholy mother of hell that they aren’t left alone in a room together. Some idiot’s going to mess something up, light the match if you will, and cause some form of ridiculous disaster. An outcome of the usual fiery explosion, a cheerful vile of poison, or something sharp and pointy becoming acquainted with the general cardiovascular region. Basically, such lovely partnerships usually end in catastrophes of incomprehensible proportions. Perhaps irony and karma go less elementary girls clutching each other’s hands while they prance through a field of bloody flowers with stems of bone, and more like a sleazy bastard opening the door for the conniving bitch.

Irony comes first, providing an oh-so graceful opening for karma to slip in and slit the throats of those who deserve it. As per with most bitches, such retribution, such avengement, such karma the red-hot slap of their frigid, boney hands is most definitely expected. The scarlet palm mark is a badge of shame or a target for teasing among some friends. It comes in one-part since the doubling of any vengeance just renews the cycle of retaliation. She is a pretty blood-dressed lady. The one that shifts from lover to lover. The abused, broken child covered in the deplorable grime of the world. Fiery women; volcanoes slowly building under the pressure of society. And the men as well… refused, denied, gore-filled eyes and green in the face with jealousy.

Most think themselves above the frivolities and flirtatious promiscuities of karma. It’s better to think of them as blinded by the shade of her blush and glamour of her smile and dress. They never notice the knives hidden beneath the corset until recent events have perhaps become a little too personal, the blade striking too close to heart. Some would find sadistic pleasure in watching the donning look of horrified realization fluttering across their faces as sharpness slips past ribs and poison reaches the blood. While the subjects of karma don’t always die, is there truly any way to deal with the soul-shredding consequences? Target, reciprocator, and unaltered whiteness placed aside. Obviously yes. There are plenty of ways to deal with emotional trauma. Most protagonists just chose not to deal. Of course, there are also many ways to go about–

Booze.

Hem. There are many ways to go about rectifying such–

Alcohol.

There are many ways–

Liquor.

–to go about–

Spirits

–rectifying such–

Grog.

–emotional strife.

Rotgut.

Hmmm! Fine! Just toss back a couple of cups of wine, brood out your sorrows away, and act fabulous despite being hungover. Because that won’t develop numerous personality issues! It is almost guaranteed that everybody will at least meet one of that kind of person at least once in their life. The glorified assholes with problems as deep as the sea and an almost hateful skill when it comes to dressing finely. Morally ambiguous. Deplorable philosophy regarding their fellow human beings. Always a little too smooth. Perhaps they even have an obscene amount of debts they like to throw around willy-nilly. Hrm. This is most definitely Cross Marian. A man previously immune to all things ironic and karmic no longer.

Cross had never really realized that one day he would pay for previous actions or even just his own persona. Sure, he had gotten his own fair end of the teasing spectrum through those despicable twins. He had even been subjected to demeaning nicknames and scolding for his nasty habits via one of his more precious and terrifying friend. Unable to do anything while his friends were in need, useless as the picture frame fell to the ground and shattered. He lost one to madness, another to death, and the remaining one to his own carelessness. Cross Marian understood his karma. He accepted and excepted it. However, regret towards his friends and his actions aside… Cross didn’t want to deal with such familiar, now child-like, steely grey eyes. The brat was too reminiscent for comfort and too young for him to correctly deal with the situation. It was all the same. Red hair, eyes, polite with hidden emotion personality, and that god-forsaken nickname.

“Mari!” A deceivingly innocent voice sounded from behind him.

The gunshot sounded loud in the muted, run-down bedroom of some seedy inn he’d managed to secure temporary residency in. Cross continued to choke on the fine wine that his lungs had decided they wanted a taste of. He side-eyed the disturbingly polite grin his apprentice was sending him. The brat was creepy on the best of days. Always knowing things he most definitely shouldn’t. Perhaps it was a side effect of the conflicting memories currently repressed within his small body. The hidden recollections of both a top-tier scholar and a rather knowledgeable magician. Two willful people smashed into one… It would surely cause suffering later on. He supposed that it was rather karmic that the brat would have occasional, astounding spouts on knowledge.

Cross awoke to something slamming harshly into his head. In the wake of sleep, his sense of past and present mixed for only a second under the familiar aching pressure of his skull.

“Fucking hell Allen!” He had growled.

The book slammed into his skull once again and Cross let another string of profanities.

“What have I told you about taking care of my books Marian.” Allen chided him.

It was then that Cross paused. Time appeared to freeze only for a second. Allen was gone. He would never return and his only legacy would soon be destroyed as well. None of this was real. Looking up Cross took in the pouting form of his recently appointed apprentice. A half-destroyed book was clutched protectively against his chest. Cross let out a sigh and ran a hand down his face.

“That’s not your book stupid pupil.” He deadpanned.

A glazed look appeared to overtake Allen, a clear aura of confusion almost palpable.

“It’s… not?”

Cross brushed wrinkles out from his clothes.

“No, it’s not.”

Allen clutched the book tighter and stuck his tongue out Cross.

“Well then, since you clearly can’t take care of it properly…” Allen grinned, “Then it’s mine now!”

Cross shook away the remains of such memories. The past would forever remain in the past. Collecting himself, he turned to glare at the little heathen. Timcanpy sat on his head with an identical grin. That little traitor…

“What do you want idiot pupil…” He sighed.

Cross was beginning to get the feeling that this conversation really wasn’t going to end up anywhere favorable. Allen pulled a packed travel bag over his shoulder. Yep. This was definitely not good. Cross had thought the brat had grown out of his escape faze.

“I don’t want anything! I was just being polite and telling you where I was off to.” He supplied with a smile.

Cross Marian was not a fan of children. They were emotional, grubby, and annoyingly whiney at the best of times. However, he would prefer them to this eleven-year-old who wore the mask of Allen just as well as the original.

“And just where do you think your off to?” He questioned exasperatedly.

A strange and not all that unfamiliar gleam entered the younger Allen’s eyes.

“The Black Order.”

Cross jerked at that answer. Everything was progressing much too quickly. Mana hadn’t shouldn’t have ‘died’ as soon as he did. Allen should not have figured out the Millennium Earl’s identity so early. Only a year with Cross and he had already decided to go off to the Order. Central had only just removed its dark and dangerous claws as Komui rose to the position of Supervisor of the European Branch. Even then, he was quite sure not all of the Crows had left their nests yet.

“What makes you think that I’ll let you go?” He questioned darkly.

It wasn’t long before the dreaded demonic smile spread across Allen’s face. The boy shrugged offhandedly.

“Hoh? Apparently, you forget that your apprentice currently has knowledge of your current position, places in which you owe a fair amount of cash, and the location of the Order which you hate oh-so-much.” Allen continued with a smirk, “Force me to remain by your side and who’s to say what might happen?”

A moment of silence.

“It’s about time you got out of my hair.” Cross finished flawlessly, “I’ll write you a recommendation letter. Take the little traitor… Timcanpy with you.”

With a nod his apprentice left the room. Cross Marian stared at the murky green bottle across from him. His eyes flickered towards the wine glass next to it.

“Screw this…” He muttered.

Cross grabbed the whole bottle.

Chapter Text

It is hard to believe that a person who is only aged a mere millennium could ever have seen what humanity truly has to offer. Humanity is seductive in her cruelty, swinging her hips side to side with offers of belonging, comfort, and love. Yet just as quick as affection comes, she is merciless in her slaughter. Humanity saves just as many children as she abandoned, heals just as many as she kills, and compromises just as often as she dictates. Philosophy is lost upon a man that has spanned a thousand lonely years.

The one clutched and struck amongst a savage peaceful people by his own bitter humanity. His pride and horror, his horror and pride. Philosophy is primarily targeted to the meager lives of mortals, a way for them to express a sympathetic optimism or a pitiable pessimism. When not torn apart by war, they are ravished by famine. When not devoured by famine, they are made wearied by tax. To not be exhausted by tax, a familiar revolution spins its dreadful wheels. Another cycle of war, another round of death. A great summation that excludes the many other causes of useless battle; pride, land, money, greed, women, murder, fun–needless to say, the list continues onward.

Perhaps if people knew the blood-bathed history of the world, glanced at the scarlet-inked pages of handwritten journeys, they would know better than to push for war. Perhaps if society evolved, grew, and learned, perhaps picking up a book or two along the way, people would know to shy away from war and all that nonsense it brings. Perhaps some simple leather-bound paper would teach people the value of words over the many well-used blood-rusted blades and smoking, fleshy guns.

If only the first love of humanity had been a book. Perhaps more fingers would have been combed ever so gently along the spines, eyes eager and excited for the searched title. Pages would be preserved and treasured rather than stomped upon and burned. Libraries replacing brothels and bars; there is more filling to feed the mind than lust and gluttony. Rather than booze and unknown perfumes, the familiar library musk would become commonplace. Street kids and orphans practically kidnapped by schools instead of cults, factories, or houses of ill repute. Author politicians. Novelist rulers. Philosopher religious leaders. Such a lovely dream.

Ah, the wonders and all-consuming despair surrounding the thoughts of something that could never–would never–be.

Rather, dear seductive humanity, sway your bare-bones far away and allow for dreams of people on paper. People in ink. Let such hopeful wishes grow despondent as more is learned. Allow for the portraits of such ugly people to be viewed by children with eyes too large and hearts too open. Please allow such tired eyes to close and fantasize a more gentle humanity. A rest to last a millennium, to avoid the pain of such idiotic brethren. Release the one whose called himself many names, the one you’ve enjoyed showing so much. Cruelty is just as malicious another day. Yet no release is made, humanity chuckles in the shadows as poor dreams become a tool of bitter irony.

To the little, little, tiny, tiny Bookman. The one who plays with paper and ink, knowledge and secrets, masks and truth, a task sure to be enjoyed.

Sluuuuuuuuuurp

“Have you found it yet?” Komui whined.

Lavi felt his heckles rise at that singular comment. Currently, the young secretive historian was waist-deep in a pile of random reports, research, and–was that just a porno? Lavi’s eye twitched slightly, a noticeable lack of control quite unbecoming of a young apprentice of this degree. Manage your emotions, don’t become your next name, don’t eat yakiniku over important documents, blah, blah, blah. He was a freaking Bookman’s apprentice, not some underpaid secretary. The Japanese kid next to him (Kanda Yuu, was it?) seemed to have a similar thought process. Well, going off the aura of darkness and death that was currently radiating off him in waves.

“Che…” He growled.

Lavi narrowed his eyes at the irritable girly-boy. He looked fun to mess with. An annoying tease would work nicely with his persona as Lavi. He swung an arm over the boy.

“Calm down Yuu-chan!” He smiled goofily, “I’m sure will find the letter soon!”

Glaring silver eyes turned towards him. If possible, the narrowed farther.

“What did you just ca–”

The poor boy didn’t even get a chance to finish as Alma burst out from a pile of various probably important documents.

“I found it!” He shouted gleefully, waving a crushed, muddy, yellow, moldy envelope in the air much like one would a particularly large sum of money.

Lenalee was the only one to contribute to the young boy’s enthusiasm. Kanda seemed to be debating whether stabbing the Chief or the red-headed idiot. Both were possible, but the only one didn’t come with an enraged kick-happy little sister. Lavi was quite busy reminding himself that Komui was actually quite a genius when it came to both leadership and his own sciences rather than the bumbling sis-con he portrayed himself to be. One of the youngest chiefs of the Black Order. His tomfoolery had to be some sort of elaborate act, right? Komui took another long sip of coffee before snatching the letter from the overly energetic Alma Karma.

“Let’s see…” He muttered to himself as he tore open the letter.

Quite honestly, and well… secretly, Lavi was rather excited about the newest mission the old Panda had assigned him. Listen in on a report by the Black Order’s infamous Cross Marian, the only exorcists not to make monthly reports. One of the strongest and most widely known General’s both within the Order and without. A man surrounded by secrets and mystery that even had the old man frustrated. While Komui pulled out the letter Lavi sat on the edge of his seat.

“Komui,” The chief began, “I have sent along my apprentice Allen. If he hasn’t arrived by March, he probably got lost. His eyesight is poor and his left side has limited mobility. If he could ‘accidentally’ suffer a fatal injury, that would be nice. – Cross”

Both Alma and Lavi stared in horror at the letter while Kanda just made his standard grunt and left. Komui appeared to be rather indifferent, going back to his coffee. Lenalee just smiled.

“It’s good to see Cross’ improvement towards being a better human being.” She nodded to herself.

Alma’s head snapped towards her.

Komui nodded: “I was wondering when he was finally going to pick up an apprentice.”

Lenalee skipped towards the exit. Alma appeared to snap out of whatever mental funk he had worked himself into.

“It will be nice to have another exorcist around!” Alma agreed excitedly, racing after Lenalee.

Komui nodded and watched with a small smile as the two kids ran off. Despite being a despicable octopus, it was nice to see Lenalee making friends. Turning his attention to the confused young Bookman, he tried to withhold his giggles.

“By March…” He muttered curious green eyes turned toward Komui, “Isn’t it May?”

Komui’s chuckles stopped.

Sluuuuuuuuuurp

“I’ll send someone to find him immediately…”

… … …

It was such a lovely day. People were bustling from place to place, a smooth, almost musical chatter was alit in the air, and not a cloud could be seen in the sky. Allen tucked his arms beneath his head and released a lengthy yawn. It was such a pretty town. Clean buildings, well-kept streets, not a seedy mentor in sight… Ah, blissful peace.

Now…

The only thing that could make the scenery even more perfect.

Would be…

If he knew where the hell he was.

Chapter Text

Hello faithful readers!

I would like to start off by saying that I am quite thankful to those of you who have persisted with both my bad writing habits and admittedly questionable writing. I have come to grace you with the unfortunate news that I am leaving ao3, and that I shall be orphaning my account by the end of this week.
I feel as though I have improved as a writer exponentially over the past couple of years, and I’m not going to lie, some of this writing kind of embarrasses me. I plan to help out some friends with some of their fics, but my main goal at the moment is to focus on more original works.
Not all is lost though! Those, aforementioned friends agreed to pick-up and improve some of my previous fics!
WannabeOneWithWords has agreed to pick up my series Delirious Memories, That’s the Spirit, and maybe Experimental Dango.
i_reproduce_through_mitosis isn’t necessarily new to the fanfic world, but it’s her first time posting so be nice! She’s agreed to fiddle with Consume my Flesh and Die of Food Poisoning despite STILL not being caught up on the D.Gray-man series.
I will also be working on a project with Wanna to hopefully push out a longer, Scarlet Stalker concept-based, D.Gray-man fic, so keep your eyes open for that!

Bye guys!

~Wanna