Work Text:
Their search comes to an end far beyond the city yet within sight of it still. On the horizon lies the Lumiose skyline, a widening sliver of twilight creeping up from behind. And he, standing atop this nameless hill, will remain for only as long as these final moments of the night, afterwards to disperse into the great wide world. Not to return for years, if not centuries. They've cut it close for sure—but close is good enough.
Corbeau looks upon the back of the dawn-silhouetted man, then up at the little guide who has accompanied him, making this undertaking possible. "Yeah. Just like you said, huh."
Swaying in the air she gives him a pleased sort of trill, shimmery and ethereal.
Another glance towards the figure, to steel himself. But when he raises the poké ball to recall her, it takes him aback to see her recoil in protest. "I need to speak to him alone. Please," he beseeches her in earnest. "I'll bring you out when the time is right, I promise."
Two bright pairs of yellow eyes regard each other in silence. Then she relents, bathed in light as she is drawn into the ball. Giving her his silent thanks, he tucks it away in his jacket for now.
And he is alone. Alone, with the man that he approaches, with the obligation that has hung unfulfilled over his head for too long. He straightens his sleeves and necktie, dons the mask he's perfected as the famous, fearless Corbeau... pays no mind to how he can't quite become it this time. Relying on his voice rather than his too-quiet footsteps, he makes his presence known in the way he does best.
"Had to see it one last time before you hit the bricks for good, eh?"
L turns around, his one open eye widened at this sudden visitor. Although, it takes but a few seconds of consideration for him to relax again and answer, "It only seems fitting for the City of Light."
"Yeah, don't it just."
No other words are exchanged as Corbeau comes to stand next to him. Eyes on the glowing horizon, to which L returns his focus as well.
That it's been years since they'd last talked to each other is hardly any help. Whether L's appearance inside Hotel Richissime counts is not even up for question; he was speaking to an audience then, distant from any individual, for the diffuse benefit of everyone who witnessed him. Less a speech giver and more a narrative force.
Here, on the cusp of the morning, beneath the unbounded sky and speaking closer to equals, it's fully apparent even in those few words that his voice has had its timbre altered. Rough, weary, a touch thin now. As if his hair hadn't been the only thing drained of color. It isn't beyond recognition, not to Corbeau's keen ears anyway, but it is quite the departure from what it used to be.
When he last heard it unchanged.
"We will use the Ultimate Weapon and wipe the slate clean."
Corbeau stared at the image of Lysandre projected from his holo caster. Tried to make sense of it. That was the face, the voice of his old patron, whose generosity had altered the course of his life. But those words... he didn't understand. Those Team Flare pricks that Syndicate members were hired to chase off once in a while... Lysandre was associated with them? And this talk of the Ultimate Weapon, what was he doing mucking about with ancient history like that? Did he really mean to use it to... kill off the entire world...?
No. This wasn't happening. Never mind that all around him the streets of Lumiose were dissolving into confusion and panic. He was rooted to the ground, petrified by shock, an unmoving stone with the river turbulent around it. He had but one singular thought, or rather one feeling, wordless and heavy inside him. This wasn't happening.
Until—a second one occurred to him, much more articulate in its messaging: Idiot. Get moving. You have to stop him.
He blinked, looked around himself, like having just woken up. I have to stop him, was his mind's determined echo, and finally he was in motion, starting down the street, figuring out a plan on the way.
The hope that he could stop him, as if he were uniquely able to, above anyone else whose life had ever intersected with Lysandre's... hindsight has humbled Corbeau with the realization that it was at best naive, and at worst horribly conceited. But at the time it propelled him, kept him moving forward if nothing else. And for what happened afterwards... he could not be faulted.
"...I don't presume that you'd remember who I am," begins Corbeau, who has to affect his nonchalance a little more than he'd like, "regardless of amnesia, even. You were renowned for your philanthropy; I was hardly the sole recipient of your aid."
L turns himself to evaluate the other man more carefully. "Hmmm... no, I think I might. Your face seems to ring a bell from the mists of my history."
"Oh." At that, Corbeau allows a flash of surprise to pass over his face. "All right. Sure. Can't imagine a lot of, uh, Johtonian trans boys came to you askin' to invest in 'em."
"Yes. Yes, now that you say it, the memories are coming into focus," says L, his eye lit up. "Your sharp eyes, your quick wit, the hardship you'd endured: all remarkable for one so young. I remember thinking you needed but a nudge in the right direction to set you on the path to greatness. And, I remember also... you gave me your name only as Arsène, stating that your family name was of no value to you and had been cast aside. But you've taken on one of your own since then, haven't you? I've heard it around the city in my new life: you must be the one they call Mr. Corbeau."
The named man smiles. "How about that. Correct on every count." That makes things a tiny bit easier. "Your handle on the past is better than they say, at least on that front. But how's this, now: you know why I tracked you down all the way out here?"
"Ah..." The question has L's expression dimming. "That, I would not be so bold as to assume anything of..."
"No? You've surely caught on that I've not come here in malice, yet you won't even hazard a guess? Well, it's simple: I never expressed to you my gratitude for all your support. So, here I am rectifying that."
"You wish to... thank me? Even knowing what I've done?"
It was a matter of a goddamn apocalypse, after all.
Of course every single taxi flight had been cancelled, why didn't Corbeau expect anything less? And what few cabbies he could get a hold of, all the money in the world would not have kept them at their posts, rather than scrambling to sort out their affairs. Never mind that it was for the sake of preventing the very disaster that drove them to this point.
Not one to fold at the slightest setback, Corbeau hastened to think of what to try next. And second on the list, was his second-in-command.
An even longer shot than Plan A, frankly. The chamber might as well have been empty altogether: what could the whole of the Rust Syndicate do about such an existential threat, let alone just the two of them? But it had come so naturally to him, as practiced as lifting a wallet from a full pocket, or slipping some cash into an empty one. Philippe was his best fixer. Maybe even his best friend...
When he looks at it that way, it does seem only human. How many friends, family, lovers seeking reunion that he had passed on the way. In the moment, though, he could not have afforded to spare a thought on anything but his target.
"Boss! There you are!" was the first thing out of Philippe's mouth. He must have likewise been looking for Corbeau.
No time to think on that. "He's in Geosenge; I have to stop him," came Corbeau's hurried, breathless words.
From Philippe, too, there was no hesitation, not a second wasted. He took the poké ball out from his jacket, held it out with but a single word: "Go!"
Corbeau's hand snatched it—instinct before comprehension—no time no time no time—and sent out the skarmory within. He paused only to tie the drip cord of his glasses around the back of his head before taking off.
Once more the significance of this would not be acknowledged until much later. That Philippe had so readily offered up his oldest and most steadfast partner, and that Corbeau had so readily accepted. As if either of them could have possibly refused the other, when they both had such faith in him setting things to rights.
Philippe was a damn fool. But, for what it's worth, not half as much as his boss.
"I... suppose I am in no position to refuse," L continues, the reluctance borne of guilt etched into his face. "As undeserving as I feel."
"What, like your bad deeds cancel out the good ones or somethin'? Don't be absurd." Even when it comes to kind words Corbeau doesn't hold back in their bluntness. "I mean, just look how far I've come. Rust Syndicate boss, Rank D trainer, and a real man about town on top of all that. Where would I be if it wasn't for you? Well—no, I might've ended up here eventually; I'm quite resourceful, see. But you better believe I wouldn't wanna take my chances."
"...I suppose," says L again, appearing no less conflicted, "that there is truth to that..." An apologetic shake of the head. "Forgive me, I don't mean to doubt you. It's only that I'd labored so hard specifically to undo all that good."
In contrast Corbeau shoots a grin up at him, assured and assuring. "Well, it didn't shake out that way, count our lucky stars. Now me and you both get to stand around here talkin' to each other. And I'm the one who started us off, and who's in the driver's seat of this little chat, so. I say I'm thanking you." His smile wanes, not out of unkindness, as his gaze drifts. "Besides... you already know what you did wrong. Why waste my time kicking you while you're down."
"Hm. Pragmatic. I can respect that. All the high-minded philosophizing I once did, and still do... but at the end of the day there's always the world right in front of us. How I once strove to set myself apart from it; only upon being severed from mortal humanity do I realize I must return to it to see it for myself."
"It does a person good. No matter who you are."
The silence that follows is not quite tense—though neither does it set the mind at ease. Less and less so while a dark, woeful something is taking this opportunity to claw its way out of Corbeau's throat. Loath as he is to even recognize its presence, he forces it back down into the depths of his heart before he can open his mouth to proceed.
It is L, though, who ends up speaking first. "At any rate, it should please me to hear that at least one thing I've done in my old life was of use to somebody. Therefore I do accept your gratitude. But..." Again he hesitates, this time not for his own sake. "I suspect that you are trying to convince yourself as much as you're trying to convince me."
At a rare loss for words, Corbeau can only snap his eyes back to the other man's.
"There's something else on your mind, isn't there? So go ahead and say it; no point in holding back now."
He never stood a chance.
The flying speed of a typical skarmory can reach nearly 300 kilometers per hour—under ideal conditions, that is. Even for Philippe's trained and larger-than-average specimen, being laden by a passenger almost as tall and heavy naturally put a much lower cap on his top speed. And that's before taking into consideration his concern for the safety of his trainer's boss, especially in the absence of any specialized flight gear. Against the whipping winds of the sky Corbeau had to keep his eyes shut and his face down. Forehead pressed to cold metal, as though in prayer... the kind that one is solely forced into out of desperation.
It was the best chance he had.
That forlorn-hope flight seemed to stretch on forever in the agony of anticipation, denied even the luxury of a visual on their progress. When the time finally came for the skarmory to decelerate, only then was Corbeau able to open his eyes and look up. They hadn't arrived; they weren't even close; the blossom of the Ultimate Weapon sat far in the horizon. Yet even at such distance, a strange sort of something filled the air that—... or rather, a sort of nothing. Some awful nothingness that bore down into his ears and eyes and mind, that flooded his lungs like he would drown in it.
No—this was no time to be fazed by mere omens. The order to press on was just about to leave his lips—
When shimmering spirals of energy gathered around the Weapon, and with a lurch of those pearlescent petals, it fired. A beam of horrid sickening light pierced into the heavens—until it was falling down, down, down.
He was only twenty-one. He had been acting twenty-one for years and years. In the blinding shadow of that light his life was ending before it could ever truly begin.
What happened next, he can't remember. That the blast merely served to destroy its originator and bury it for good, he had to learn secondhand from other accounts later on. All he knew for himself was a brilliant flash, a horrific sound—and then he was doubled over on the ground, white-knuckle fists in the grass and dirt, heart entombed in the pit of his stomach... and the skarmory of the man who believed in him, at his side. Neck curled around his body, one wing covering him.
"Why did you do it—?"
The wretched question has broken free, made its treacherous escape. Regret seizes Corbeau in an instant; this isn't how this is supposed to go. He needs to offer his gifts and then depart with grace and closure, not to—to open the wounds again.
"No, I—Forget I said that," he rushes to take it back, tripping up in his mortification, "it wouldn't be—It's unfair to demand answers from you when you can't even remember—"
"I did it because I hated humankind," is L's unflinching response. "I wanted to cull the members of our species to the harshest extent possible. I believed them to be wretches beyond redemption, damning themselves with their greed and wickedness, far beneath the likes of Team Flare and myself. Little did I realize that all along I've been a part of them... I'd fallen for my own worst fears, my own self-fulfilling prophecy."
Corbeau holds his stunned, wordless stare for another second or two before he turns back towards the sunrise. "So it's true."
"That is the monstrously, lamentably ugly truth. To turn my eyes away from it would be uglier still."
"Of course," he agrees, in spite of forcing a swallow, in spite of the tightness in his chest. "We can speak frankly of it. Anything less would be a disservice to us both."
Over to the side L closes his eye and hangs his head in sorrow. "You... you must be wondering if I'd counted you among those ranks. The answer, I regret to say, is yes—but please understand that you were not singled out in the slightest. As far as I was concerned, every single person to whom I'd rendered assistance had squandered my gifts. Misused them on base, foolish endeavors.
"And where I was not given reasons to scorn my beneficiaries, I invented them. You could have been a living saint, honest and gracious and peaceable, the perfect martyr beyond reproach in every conceivable way... and I would have performed miraculous feats of creation on par with the Original One to have manufactured fault with you regardless."
It is absurd.
It was absurd.
Wholly beyond reason.
Wholly beyond comprehension.
Everything Corbeau had seen, everything he had been through... All the times he had literally fought for his life... and it's this.
There have been nights where the roar of it in his dreams has him jolting awake. There still are. If he's lucky then that's all it is, and he returns to slumber easily enough. But if he gets dealt a bad hand then it means a cold sweat, a racing pulse, a gasp for air like on the verge of drowning. To attempt to sleep again, to lie motionless and alone with his thoughts, is not even on the table. Instead he bolts out of bed, freshens up and gets dressed for the day, and heads into the office no matter how early in the morning. So long as there is work to do, so long as he does not remain idle, the momentum will allow him to keep it together.
And he has kept it together, or if not that, then at least brought himself to that point when necessary. Even in that grassy clearing, once he'd found his breath and cleared his mind and the skarmory had steadied him on his feet, he knew what he had to do. His city was going to need him at a time like this, and where Mr. Corbeau is needed, he goes.
There was tragedy, of course, bleeding out of the aftermath of the Ultimate Weapon, yet the enterprising Rust Syndicate saw opportunity as well. Like carrion crows they swooped down to feast on the remains, to amass resources, influence, goodwill in the chaos. So many things priced to move, so many people in need of help, or a lesson, or sometimes both. They even snapped up a beautiful historic building in Bleu District that the previous owners were practically giving away, and after renovations both professional and "volunteer" it was proudly made the site of their new headquarters.
Not in the slightest did Corbeau have qualms about any of it. Someone had to come clean up lest the rot take it all. The circle of life had to keep on turning, whether anyone liked it or not.
And with it turned the earth, the seasons... Day by day his life went on, purpose driving him ever onward. Never needing to look back, or to face the unease compounding with each birthday.
...Which brought him to one night five years later when, against all expectation, that piece of history repeated itself.
Rust had played its part well, the boss alongside his subordinates, in hastening the young tourist to their destination. But there came a point when nothing else could be done except to wait. Wait, and watch. All eyes on Ange, not one among them could have missed the moment that the Light of Ruin burst forth—least of all Corbeau.
It arced high into the sky, scraped against the nighttime clouds, and was coming down to bleach out even the darkest alleyways of his beloved city. The sight of it transfixed him, sundered him, hollowed him out. He could only stare and stare until his eyes were unable to bear the brightness any longer. And when he shut them, burned into his eyelids was the afterimage of a waking nightmare.
Everything Lysandre had done, everything he had put Corbeau and the whole world through—none of it is this. None of it truly gets at the core of it.
Because, in some twisted way, if his charity actually had ulterior motives lurking behind it, as a front for some grand nefarious scheme he'd been plotting all along... that somehow would not feel as awful. Deception is a concept that Corbeau knows like the back of his hand. But to hear that his donor's genuinely noble intentions were overtaken by rot... and the Ultimate Weapon's revival, hence, the culmination of the all-consuming hatred that remained... Well, that too can be grasped. In the same way one can grasp the hand of a plague bearer.
This is the one time it's not the symptoms that bring such pain, but rather the disease itself.
Once the silence had dragged on a few seconds too long L lets out a quiet sigh and says, "I surmise that is of no comfort to you. Certainly you are well within your right to revulsion for your would-be murderer—"
"No. That's not it."
"Mr. Corbeau, get down!!" Philippe shouted to him, miles and years away. "Arsène!!!"
Nothing could have brought him back. Not the invocation of his forename, on Philippe's tongue only in dire straits. Not even being forced down onto the ground, shielded by the hulking body of his ever-loyal lieutenant, for a chance in hell it might save him should the worst come to pass.
He was only twenty-one. In that moment he had never stopped being twenty-one.
Though he does not dare face L, cannot unclench the fists that are digging nails into palms, it is the price Corbeau pays in order to force the shakiness out of his shoulders and voice.
Would it be better, though, to have stayed twenty-one...? If it would save him from what might await?
"You weren't just my benefactor, you know; you were my inspiration. Even after we'd parted ways, I chose to follow in your footsteps in a different sense: I wanted to give back to the world, just like you. But you—"
The words hitch in his throat. He swallows them down and summons them back, soldiering on even as he threatens to crumble.
"You... became poisoned by your own altruism. It sickened you with contempt and despair till you saw no other cure but to—kill us all. Not a single soul outside your group deemed fit to live. So... if I continue down this path... is that what I am fated to become—?"
On that final word his voice breaks—and his façade shatters.
Tears run down his face, tremors take over his body; he throws his head back and yells into the dawning gray sky, "Arc almighty, please!! Don't allow it! I don't care if the world hates me, even if it's enough to take my life!! But if I—i-if I come to hate the world, then—" a gasping sob—glasses ripped off for his face to fall into his hands—barely above a whisper he finishes, "there would truly... be nothing left of me."
In L's answer is the vast tranquility of an aged, ageless being, one who is at the dawn of his long life yet has already learned much beyond his years.
"You are not who I used to be. Of this, I can already be certain. I have heard the people of the city speak your name—some with fear, others with awe, but many more with gratitude.
"For you give them not what you imagine they need but what they truly need. You recruit the downtrodden on whom all others had given up, to pay forward the second chance you'd once received. And you focus your efforts on a place close to your heart, whereas I spread myself thin on strangers who meant nothing to me—and became offended nonetheless when they wasted my gifts.
"So fear not." He brings a hand to the young man's shoulder, brief in its pressure yet full of meaning. "You will not succumb to the same ruin as I."
Thus Corbeau begins to fall still. His ragged breaths even out, his wet hands return to his sides. Whether it is from the easing of his pain or merely buckling under the fatigue of it, he can't discern. "Of—of course. Thank you," he says, flat, distant, water just underneath.
It hardly matters; his present concerns have shifted to a different issue entirely, one he can avoid no longer—and which anchors him in this storm. Before anything else he takes out a handkerchief, wipes his face dry and puts his glasses back on... His eyeliner doesn't seem to have run too badly, thank god.
"Look at me, I came here to repay you, not to accrue even more debt," he mutters, putting away the square of cloth so he can bring out the things he's been meaning to give. "Here. These are for you."
Curiosity flashes in L's eye as Corbeau presents the first gift: "It's a money belt. Wear it under your clothes to protect from, y'know, the light-fingered." The now-beneficiary takes it, opens up the pouch—and raises his eyebrows at the amount of cash preloaded within.
Corbeau is already moving on to the next item. "A camera, so you can remember where you've been, if only for a few years or so." Most likely longer, being a high-quality one of rugged construction, but he won't kid himself about any reasonable number being more than a drop in the bucket. "Could even have a rotom possess it, if ya like.
"A survival knife, for the wilderness." It is held out for L to take by the hilt; he runs a reverent thumb over the gyarados design carved into the sheath. "I imported the finest one money can buy. Take care of it and it might last you a century.
"And lastly... I'm aware you have a full party already, but have a look."
Just as he'd promised, Corbeau sends out the pokémon that had brought him here. In a burst of light the little bud-like creature makes her reappearance; she wastes no time in floating over to L.
"It's called a glimmet," explains Corbeau as the other two regard each other with interest. "Rock/poison-type. Can't find 'em in Kalos, and even in their native regions they're still shrouded in mystery. But we know how to care for them; it's pretty easy. Just let 'em have minerals and a little light. Doesn't seem to matter much what kind."
L smiles at the glowing eyes peering through limpid crystal. "Hello there, Glimmet. Don't you have a beautiful luster."
"She's already taken a shine to you, y'know. Led me right to where you were. Maybe she's drawn to the Ultimate Weapon's energy hanging off'a you. Or maybe she just likes your vibe, I dunno."
"Is that so, little one?"
A slight grimace darkens Corbeau's visage, his next statement a rather unpleasant truth. "The thing is... if you're really gonna live for three thousand years, then you're gonna outlive your entire team, even your florges. But her kind—" he tilts his head towards Glimmet as indication, his frown fading— "and what she evolves into... the research says there might be no real limit to their lifespan. They've found specimens that're over ten thousand years old. So, if you're cool with it... she can stick with you as long as you like."
"An eternal flower of my own," muses L as he holds out his hand and receives the poké ball. "I accept your gifts. Your generosity is beyond compare."
"No, it's not," is Corbeau's frank denial. His serious eyes shining up at the man just as they had done long ago. "Everywhere you look, you'll find folks doing what they can with what they have. I just happen to have a little more."
L nods, once more seeing the wisdom in those eyes. "Of course. This time I'll be looking out for it."
That has Corbeau mustering half a smile, even if he can't hold it for long. "Well... that's all from me," he says, taking a step back. At last his duty is complete; no sense in hanging around any longer, is there. "Good luck out there. I hope that... that you're able to find peace."
Warmly L replies, "You as well, Mr. Corbeau," Glimmet joining in the sentiment with echoing chirps.
At the title Corbeau rediscovers some of the pieces of the persona attached to it, the one he'd like to be remembered by in his parting words. "Heh, I wouldn't count on it; no rest for the wicked, after all. But thanks," he appends as he turns around and starts down the hill, morning rays on his back. A hand raised briefly in farewell, not looking back for the gesture to be returned.
Only once he's distanced himself into the slope's shadow does he pause and, in a tired exhale, let the pieces fall away again.
It's not the closure he hoped for, or in any case it doesn't feel like it. His tears had not been a cleansing stream so much as an acid rain. Tarnishing, corroding the outer layers of his spirit—or simply revealing what was already underneath. And although he can accept the reasoning that L laid out for him, it is not yet enough of a shelter to stop the rain from leaking through.
...Well, what's done is done, and it was right for him to have done this. No matter how he feels about it.
This is his memory of the apex of that fateful evening: he remembers the glow of Ange's light the moment before it stabbed into the dark; he remembers looking up from the ground at the bloom of fireworks dissipating harmlessly in the sky. Everything in between is as dust in his mind.
Yet... when he could bear to set aside his feelings long enough to sift through the ashes, there was something waiting to be unearthed.
He hadn't been present for the incident; he had gone dark in his own body. But it was sending its messages from the environs regardless of whether anyone was listening. Even in retrospect he could find traces of that data, like recorded transmissions from a distant star.
They whispered of his head cradled by a huge musclebound arm, to protect it from impact with the concrete below. His hands clutching a suit jacket with warmth and strength behind it, as though nothing could make him safer. His forehead against a piece of cold metal with a gemstone set in it... a symbol of bonds.
In those faint, muddied signals, he read clearly: someone thought he was worth saving. Someone couldn't bear the idea of a world without him.
And his readings, covered permanently in ash as they are, he has to keep at a distance—
To find peace, they said... maybe he truly will never. Maybe the world is just as violent and ugly as Lysandre feared... and Corbeau a part of that too. Yet whether or not L turns out to be right about him, giving in to the paralyzing venom of his deepest fear would be another kind of annihilation still; after having a taste he's sure of it. In small doses, though, he can perhaps learn to live with it, or at least around it. Whatever it takes for his people, for his pokémon, for Philippe. For everything worth saving.
From the detritus he will pick out the rag-and-bone fragments of a more beautiful world, every day for as long as he has days to spare. They are in there; he's already found some. At twenty-six he knows better than to believe they will last forever...
—but he will do everything he can to keep them.