Hope and Despondence

Hope and Despondence is a short background story detailing a defining moment in a young boy's life.



To grow up in the lower slums surrounding the base of the city of Mistral meant a hard life for the weak. To grow up in it alone meant a life of bitterness and malfeasance. To grow up as both meant ruin.

Even at his age, to Decadere Diaboli these lessons were learned quickly and painfully. With the right connections, one could easily thrive in this festering hell. To those less fortunate, only true grit and unshakable determination will allow one to claw their way to the top. The destiny of those without these traits was, in his mind, not one worth living.

This was a truth which the boy dwelt on every day. And as he stole his way between the crumbling buildings and down the dank alleyways he felt a surge of pride for having defied it for one more day. The hessian sack slung over his wiry shoulder cut painfully into the skin, but the weight of the scavenged loot inside more than compensated for any injuries he had sustained in their acquisition. Wallets and purses, trinkets and baubles – if it was of value, it was taken. This was the code the aspiring thief lived by.

The fact that said code had brought him a hair’s breadth from death on more than one occasion was not lost on him. Youth and poverty was not a worthy excuse to those from which he stole. But he had evaded them so far, and soon he would have enough to put this life behind him and start afresh.

The boy skidded to a halt in the middle of the dark alley outside a decrepit bar. So lost in his thoughts, he had been, that he hadn’t realised he had taken a wrong turn several streets back. He groaned in his mind at the thought of having to retrace his steps so far, and leant against the cracked brick wall as he caught his breath.

It was the sound of laughter that caused the boy’s head to snap up then. All older voices - most of them likely teenagers – coming from down the alley in the direction where he was originally headed, and growing louder. He swore quietly and looked around, but there was nowhere to hide, and he was in no state to continue running. Thinking fast, he threw the sack into a nearby trash can and slumped against the wall, trying his hardest to appear destitute – not the hardest task, for one in his position.

A few moments later the owners of the voices appeared, all of them older as he had predicted. Far from the traditional style worn by the more respectable citizens of Mistral, these young men and women were dressed in western apparel more commonly seen in Atlas or Vale – a strange concoction of punk and outlaw, from the looks of it. Fashion wasn’t exactly Diaboli’s strong suit. In short, a rough bunch whom he would prefer to avoid confronting.

Most of them passed him by without trouble. One of them deliberately stepped on his toes as she passed, but did nothing more. For a fleeting moment he believed he might make it out unmolested by these wannabe gangsters.

“Hey you, patchwork kid!”

Diaboli groaned inwardly as the faint glimmer of hope was quickly snuffed out. He looked up to see a denim-clad teen looming over him with an abhorrent look on his face, repeatedly nudging his knee with his boot.

“What?”

“Little street urchins like you ain’t supposed to be loiterin’ around here," The boy barked, wrinkling his nose at him. "You better scram before I change my mind an’ make you pay a toll.”

By now the rest of the gang had turned and had their eyes fixed on the interaction between the two boys. It was probably only a matter of time before others among them decided harassing a ten-year-old was an entertaining pastime.

Diaboli’s eyes flicked to where his loot had been stashed. No way he was leaving it behind.

“You own these alleys?” the boy challenged his much larger counterpart, rising to his feet as he did so.

The teenager smirked. “My da owns the bar next door, so yeah, I kinda do.” He attempted cracking his knuckles in an effort to look intimidating, except for the fact that they didn’t actually crack. “But that bit of sass is gonna cost you extra now, boy.”

“I ain’t got no money.”

“Heh, don't worry 'bout that. A couple of teeth’ll work for me...!”

The older boy began to follow up the threat with a clumsy punch at the youngster’s head, only for Diaboli to duck and slip away. There was a yelp of pain from the teenager as his fist crunched awkwardly into the brick wall behind him.

“Ain’t got none to spare,” Diaboli replied, dancing away towards the opposite wall of the alley. There were hoots and jeers from the rest of the gang of teens as they laughed at their friend, who hissed as he inspected the scraped skin on his knuckles and turned back to Diaboli.

“You little rat! Take your lumps like a man and go back to whatever hole you live in!”

He lunged at the boy a second time, but once again the young thief spun out of his reach, this time kicking the teen in the back of the knee as he passed.

“I live where I’m standin’,” Diaboli told him, backing further away this time. The urge to draw the small switch-blade in his back pocket was growing more and more appealing with every second, but he knew that doing so would only incite the other teenagers,

Oh shi-

Just as the thought crossed his mind, his vision exploded in a flash of white as someone smacked something heavy into the back of his head. He lurched forwards blindly, only to be swept off his feet by the first boy and pinned against the wall by the scruff of his shirt.

“You prancing little brat! Not so smart now, are ya?” he said, driving a knee into Diaboli’s gut. He grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, suddenly feeling as if he were about to throw up. This was hardly the first time he'd been roughed up like this, but it still hurt like hell. His attempt at wrestling off the boy’s grip was cut short by a quick sock in the mouth, earning him only a broken tooth for his efforts. Through cloudy eyes he could see the boy winding up another punch, preparing to put him out for good. And then a loud voice cut through the cheering.

“You kids better let the lad go. Now.”

The audience turned to face the newcomer, with Diaboli straining to see through tear-stained eyes. A man was standing there, clad in black and white, alone against the horde of rowdy teens. His hands rested in his pockets in a nonchalant manner, unalarmed by how outnumbered he was.

“Can it, greybeard,” the lead boy replied. “Mind your own business, or else you’ll end up like him.”

Several voices called in support, but the man only chuckled. Then, with two swift motions he drew a pair of double-barrelled shotguns from his jacket and aimed them at the crowd.

“Holy…!” the lead boy exclaimed, dropping Diaboli in a panic and backing away, the rest of his posse reacting in a similarly shocked manner.

“I won’t ask again,” the man told them, a threatening edge to his voice which Diaboli felt could freeze the blood in one’s veins. Twirling the guns in his hands as calmly as toy, he flicked one of barrels in the direction behind them dismissively. “Off you go.”

The boy who had attacked Diaboli growled in irritation and took a bold step forward, but then thought better of it and began walking away.

“You wait ‘til my da hears about this! You’re already dead!”

The man only smirked at the threat as the group retreated. “Tell him I’ll be waiting for him.”

Soon the last of the teens disappeared from sight, and once he was sure they weren’t returning the man returned the shotguns to their holsters and looked at Diaboli, who was still recovering from his beating.

“You alright, kid?”

Diaboli remained silent for a moment as he leant against the cracked alley wall, before spitting out a bloody tooth and glaring up at the man.

“Sorry, sorry. Stupid question. May I?” he gestured at the space next to him, before sitting down anyway.

They sat in silence for a while, as the ten-year-old nursed his wounds. When he felt capable of talking, he turned to his mysterious saviour.

“Drawing your guns was stupid,” he told him.

“Not as stupid as trying to fight a gang of kids nearly twice your age though, was it?”

“Fair point.”

He fell silent again. Eventually, the man spoke up.

“It was a brave thing that you did – standing up to them. Stupid, but brave.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“I mean, exceptionally stupid. Just...really, really dumb. Impressively so.”

“...”

“Not the sharpest knife, are you? About as sharp as a marble, I think.”

“I get it. Will you quit with the insults?”

The man grinned and nodded, giving Diaboli enough time to properly take in the man who had saved him. He was dressed in classic biker garb – leather jacket, thick boots, the works. His kind were a rare sight in Mistral, though. They could sometimes be found in Vacuo, and occasionally Vale, but never Mistral. Not to mention his strange appearance – entirely monochrome? Even his hair was white, like his own, though Diaboli bet it was dyed.

“Why’d you help me?” he eventually asked, earning a shrug from the man.

“Wouldn’t you have done the same in my position? People don’t need reasons to do what’s right. Not that I’m one to lecture someone on morals,” he replied, barking a laugh. “Why didn’t you just run away anyway?”

Diaboli tilted his head. “Oh, I had to protect my loot, of co...”

He suddenly blinked. Why did he say that? He quickly shut his mouth.

The biker’s smile widened a bit. “Hmm? What did you say your name was?”

“Dec-Decadere...Diaboli,” the boy replied, unable to stop the words forming on his lips, his natural instinct of caution seemingly collapsing under a strange new emotion. It was unnatural, as if something was forcing him to believe that the man next to him was a trustworthy and loyal person. A person who he should tell everything.

A person he could not deny.

“What a strange name. What does it mean?” the man asked. Once again, Diaboli could not find the strength to resist. Every time he tried to focus on the man’s eyes, his gaze always fell to his unnatural smile. Such a perfect smile...

“To decline...and rot,” he mumbled in answer, suddenly feeling very sick. “I don’t know the language.”

The man nodded slowly, almost sadly. “To die, huh? Not one I'd have chosen. And your surname?”

The child’s mouth opened to respond, but this time the answer didn’t come out. Instead, he clamped his hands over his eyes and squeezed them shut.

“What...what is this? What are you doing to me?” he asked, shaking his head as he felt a splitting headache beginning to grow. "I'm not..."

And then, everything suddenly melted away. All the pain. All the nausea. And the unnatural, intoxicating spell that had been cast on him suddenly broke and dissipated, like a sickly smog that had covered his mind had lifted. When he finally raise his head he found the man no longer smiling that alluring smile of his. Instead, a look of concern dominated his features.

“Ah...sorry about that. Sometimes I forget that I’m...like this...”

The man ran a hand down his face, as if to wipe the remnants of his smile away for good. “I’m impressed you managed to resist it, actually. Not many can so easily. Perhaps it’s because you’re...” he trailed off, gaze turning to the brickwork beneath him.

Diaboli regarded the man with newfound caution, but believed his apology to be genuine. “Was that your Semblance?” he asked wide-eyed. "I've never seen one being used before. Not like that, at least."

“Heh...yeah, it was,” the man replied. “I’m a charmer, you see. People can’t help but tell me things, and forgive me for my transgressions. Many even fall in love, if they swing that way.” He smirked at the last comment, a reminiscent look on his face. “I don’t suppose you have one yet?”

The boy shook his head dejectedly. “Nope. Doubt I ever will. I ain't got the money to pay for lessons or nothin'.”

The man gave him an easy smile. “It’ll come to you eventually, if you work at it. They say one’s Semblance reflects their character, which I guess says a lot about me, hah! Maybe that will give you a hint as to what yours is.”

Diaboli looked down at his hands, and clenched them into fists. “Well, I’ve been told I have a habit of never letting things go...” he murmured. "I never forget a grudge."

He frowned when he heard the biker snort in amusement.

“The power to hold grudges? That’s lame. Almost as bad as your fashion sense,” he said, tugging at the boy’s patchwork shirt. “This thing’s almost as ugly as you are.”

The youngster slapped his hand away. “At least I don’t need a Semblance to make friends, Mr Charmer,” he replied, earning a look of feigned shock from the man. They looked at each other then, the moment holding for several seconds, before both burst out in fits of laughter.

“Well...I think I best be going. Can’t have you cramping my style all day,” the man said through pained breaths, wiping tears of amusement from his eyes as he stood up from the cold alley floor. “Besides, I have work to do.”

Diaboli stood up as well, first noticing the symbol embroidered on the sleeve of his jacket. “That’s your biker club?” he asked, to which the man nodded.

“Indeed. My Chosen brothers and I have been in hiding for a while, but I think now’s the time we made a bit of a comeback.” He smiled to himself then, and then ruffled Diaboli’s hair. “You know, those with natural white hair rise quickly though the ranks. The ‘True Chosen’, they say. Maybe you could join us, once you’ve grown up a bit. We could do with tough guys like you.”

Diaboli slapped the hand away again, though lightly. “Why black and white, anyway?” he asked, the question having been nagging at the back of his mind since he first saw him. The man let out a long breath as he thought of an answer.

“They represent a simple life – do what you want, when you want to do it. Live freely if you choose, but accept the consequences when they appear. The club’s founder had this view, and wanted his followers to see the world as he saw it.” A grin crept up on the man’s face. “Funnily enough, though, the guy was colour-blind.”

Diaboli laughed at that, but it was weak. Now that he had gotten to know the man, he really didn’t want to let him leave. The thought of it made his chest hurt for some reason, though didn’t exactly know why.

The man turned then, and strode over to Diaboli’s side. Reaching forward, he ripped open the trash can next to him and retrieved the bag the boy had stashed there before throwing it to him, smirking at the surprised look on the youth’s face when he did so.

“Next time, just run away from the fight,” he suggested, to which Diaboli nodded solemnly. A pang of sadness suddenly washed over him as the biker began to walk back the way he had come, signalling the return to his normal life and the loss of his first real friend.

“Hey, wait!” Diaboli exclaimed, taking a few hurried steps forward as the man paused with his back to him. “Will I see you again, you know, around Mistral?”

The man visibly tensed at the words, his head lowering. When he spoke, his voice carried a slight shake of despondence.

“I...I don’t think that’s gonna happen, kid. Best not push our luck, eh?”

The words only raised more questions for the young boy, but he was determined not to let the man go quite so easily. For once in what felt like forever, he felt a trickle of a tear running down his cheek, which he wiped away angrily.

“I...I haven’t thanked you for saving me yet! But I swear...one day...one day I will definitely repay you!”

The boy bowed low as he declared his promise, his gut wretched in misery. When he finally looked up, he found the only caring person in the world smiling back and him. A smile of warmth, and hope, and a completely foreign emotion he had never seen before - pride.

The lonely biker nodded his head in acknowledgement, a hint of warmth in his icy blue eyes. Eyes just like the boy's.

“Don’t worry, kid. You already have.”