Chapter 9: The Smothered King
It was precisely nine forty-five in the morning when Lusamine called Guzma, startling him awake. Either he had completely slept through his alarm, or forgotten to set it; in either case, as he rolled stiffly about his oversized bed, colliding into something large, hard, and crustacean-like, he pondered, with his eyes shut, the consequence of ignoring the call.
"Ugh." His elbows pinched against the hard object. That better not be what he suspects it is. "Goli, I'm gonna kill ya."
The phone still rang. He groaned, blindly groped for it, and eventually pulled it to face. When he saw who it was, he cleared his throat, and tried to blink the grogginess out of himself. He answered. "Hello?"
"It's Madame Lusamine."
"Uh, yeah, I know." Sometimes, he forgot how old she was. "What's up?"
"I'm calling to remind you of your morning appointment."
Guzma shot up.
"I know it's not until ten o' clock," she droned on, "but I did hope you'd aim to arrive early."
"Uh." He checked the time and muffled a curse. He muffled another curse when he turned his head the other way and saw Golisopod had indeed once more snuck into bed, chewing and shredding his bedsheets. The fat slob still slept, and didn't respond when he gave its shoulder armor a good whack with his fist. His anger made him hesitate for a second, before lying, "Yeah, I know―I'm coming down right now."
"...You sound like you're still in bed."
"I'm not!"
Technically. He had just leaped out and untangled himself from his sheets. He pawed along the floor for his clothes, which he had slung somewhere. "I'll―be there, just gimme like a minute!"
Her voice turned cross. "'
Like' a minute, or an actual minute?"
Guzma slapped a hand over his face and swallowed down a frustrated scream. She always did that, always picked apart his careless measurements of time, always insisted on keeping schedules down to the millisecond. He calculated. "Ten minutes, maybe fifteen."
"Ten minutes," she echoed, then hung up.
Once Guzma found his jeans and pulled them out from under his bed, he stood up to release his frustration by yelling at the still-slumbering Golisopod. "God! How many ways I gotta say it, huh? You can't do this no more!"
Golisopod wickered.
"Goli! I'm dead serious!" He tried to pull on the sheet to wrest it from his pokemon, but as he did, he found the edges had been completely shredded and stained with drool. Again. He snarled. "The maid's gonna replace 'em―and they charge me for that!"
Golisopod snored, snared the bed-sheet back into his claws, and began digging it against its body, nesting with it.
"Ugh! You're lucky I don't have time to pound you!"
-
In truth, he didn't have time to do much of anything. He wasn't looking to get lectured about tardiness this morning, so he threw whatever clothing he could find lying on the floor, wetted his fingers and slid them through his hair to calm his massive case of bed head, and trotted out into the main area of his suite.
Guzma's private suite, located at a generous three floors above the ocean in Aether Paradise, sometimes felt too large. It was a funny thing, thinking that―Guzma would have laughed the idea off weeks ago. Since when could having room be a bad thing? After living all of his life in cramped, shared spaces, it first felt freeing to live here, like he finally could breathe.
But on mornings like these, the place felt not only expansive, but empty.
It had all the amenities that qualified it as a high-class suite; it boasted a sleek, modern look of white tile and walls, a living space with furniture and a mounted widescreen television, a bedroom fitted with a king-sized bed and walk-in closet, a bathroom sporting the single largest jacuzzi tub he had ever seen, a serviceable kitchenette, and a wide balcony that overlooked the distant Alolan islands.
So, yes, it was big… But mostly empty floor-space, and features he hadn't gotten around to using yet. It also lacked personality―Guzma wasn't much of an interior decorator, even when left with a space of his own.
It didn't matter too much, he decided. It wasn't like he spent a lot of time here, anyway.
So he stuffed his feet into his white, oversized sneakers, and hurried out the door.
-
The routine in the labs had been running for a while, enough that Guzma knew what to expect. This particular area was a testing lab; he could see Faba's back behind the dark-panelled glass that separated the room from the monitoring equipment inside, and could also see that the Branch Chief was plucking away at a computer and modelling some sort of calculation. Beyond the door, there would be also a larger, open space, where Guzma would assist in various tests of the beasts' anatomy, strength, and other attributes.
Normally, Faba would have preferred working on the beasts with only himself and a small team of scientists. However, after trying to work with the creatures only once, he had to relent and make Guzma a permanent element of the testing sessions. As a product of their training, which must have happened in complete isolation from other humans, the beasts acted extremely aggressive and hostile to the presence of anyone other than their owner. Not to say Guzma's control of the beasts was perfect; much like Guzma himself, the beasts were prone to violent and inexplicable outbursts. But eighty, maybe ninety-percent of the time, Guzma was able to maneuver them to the correct place, goad them into doing what Faba wanted, and come away relatively unscathed.
Neither Faba nor Lusamine could really describe Guzma's training tactics―they were rather undisciplined and uneven, yanking back and forth between stuffing the beasts with treats and pleading for cooperation, and completely losing his temper.
In any case, this morning, Guzma was maybe, maybe, thirty seconds late arriving to the lab, and Lusamine already looked annoyed with him. She stood tall for her stature, her arms folded before her, her snowy dress fanning out. She looked ethereal and bright, making him feel more overshadowed than usual.
"Good morning," she said. She had the grace to not express her irritation in her greeting.
"...Morning."
"I missed you at breakfast."
"Wasn't hungry," he said, avoiding her eyes. His current strategy was to hurry by her, hopefully enough to to throw her off. "We gettin' started, or what?"
"Guzma." Lusamine called after him, catching him before he disappeared through the door.
He slowed to a halt, huffed, and asked, "What?"
"Come here, please."
He sighed and plodded back. He wore an incredible scowl.
"You're in quite a mood this morning," she easily observed. She took on a sweet, consoling tone. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No." His answer came out flat, hard, like a curse.
"Hmm." She started to look him over, to his complete dismay. "When did you get up?"
"I dunno," he said. Then he clumsily upped his lie. "A while ago."
"I see. And this 'while ago'―you spent it doing what, exactly?"
He slouched and started to lean in the direction of the door. He eyed it desperately as a path of blissful escape. "―Can we go?"
"Guzma. Look at me."
He did, and tightened his face. He knew it. He knew today would be like this.
"I don't want you rolling out of bed and trundling into work. It's unprofessional and it's unhygienic."
"Miss―"
"Now, I've let you get away with it too many times, and you clearly think I think I'm oblivious or unserious on the matter, so this is what you're going to do. I'm going to give you―" She glanced at her watch. "One hour. Go upstairs…"
"What?"
"Take a shower. Brush your hair and your teeth. And for goodness' sake, put on something you haven't worn for three days in a row."
This was the last straw. He exploded. "Why you geekin', Miss L?! It's not like I'm goin' on TV! Look―I'm just gonna do tests, right? I could do that in my PJ's!"
Lusamine thought of about a dozen things she could say at that precise moment, but kept each of them quiet. Instead, she kept silent, gave him a look, glanced at her watch again, and then waited.
He whined and he kicked the floor and he went on and on about the unfairness of it all. To be treated! As if! He was a little kid! He raged and frothed, sputtering with all the energy brought on by his indignation.
Finally, though, he started to run out of ways to complain, and he saw she was still ignoring him, keeping her eyes on her watch.
He blustered. "Miss!"
"Oh," she said dryly, looking up. "Are you finished?"
He stiffened like a board, his muscles taut and ready to fight. She was making fun of him; she was mocking him. His broken wrist, tightened inside its splint, throbbed with the strain of his anger.
"Because now you have fifty-nine minutes."
Guzma kicked the wall with his foot and stifled a scream―he had hit his sprained toe on the way. Bleary with pain and rage, he grabbed a glass flask from the table and chucked it into the wall. It shattered, matching his shouting. "I don't wanna do this no more! Screw it! I quit! I didn't sign up for none of this! Nobody tells me what to do! Nobody!"
And with that squawking finished, he stormed off into the hallway, cursing and limping the whole way to the elevator.
-
Lusamine didn't worry; this happened virtually every day. Sometimes, it happened twice a day.
The poor dear―still adjusting.
She had at least fifty-five minutes before Guzma would slink back into the lab adequately ashamed of himself and pretending nothing had happened. She carefully planned the day around explosions like these, even building in flexible blocks of what she affectionately called "cool-down periods" and Faba snidely referred to as "time-outs."
Speaking of. She turned to the glass panel, pressing the microphone button to speak into the computer lab on its opposite side. "Faba, dear," she said―she saw him turn from his computer screen, pausing his work to look at her. "We're taking an early break today. Join me for tea?"
Not near enough to a microphone to speak back, he gestured with an affirmative wave.
"In your office, please. I'll see you there in five minutes."
Faba made a face, as if he wanted to say something urgently, but she turned away.
-
"I apologize for the mess, Madame," Faba said upon seeing her enter. Five minutes of warning had proved not enough for him to make his office space at all conducive to morning tea; he had cleared the guest chair, at least, of papers, and had cleared a little space on his desk, but the whole room was in an embarrassing disarray.
She didn't show any offense, instead marveling, "There's truly a renaissance of activity down here. I hope it hasn't been overwhelming."
Faba gave up on making the place pristine, and they both took a seat, on opposite sides of his desk. He looked at her. What a far cry she was, he thought, from not so long ago. She looked so vibrant now, so strong and alive―so very… much like herself again. As the attendant brought in their tray of tea, setting their cups and filling them, he made his observation known to her. "You have experienced a remarkable turnaround yourself."
She smiled, adjusted her cup, and nodded to the attendant as she explained, "Purpose, dear, is the most potent medicine."
They waited for the attendant to leave before they continued speaking. A sudden weight fell over his office, and he didn't like it.
"Faba, I would like to speak with you in confidence," Lusamine suddenly said. "You see, with recent developments, I think it is time we cleared the air, so to speak." She stirred her tea and tilted her head. "For once and for all―we must make clear the issue of loyalty."
"Loyalty?" Faba dropped his cup back into its saucer. "I'm not sure what you mean; my loyalty has always been to you, Madame."
"Oh, let's not muddle things. You were loyal to Mohn."
Faba opened his mouth, almost ready to speak, but realized suddenly he had no way to answer that.
She explained herself. "After Mohn… Well, when it was determined he would not be returning, you went to the Board of Directors." When she saw how his face changed, she sipped at her tea for a moment. Her eyes skimmed over him for signs of contrition. "I know this because I went through their files and found the transcription of the meeting."
Sweat beaded on his brow. He started to shake.
"You begged them to give you the Presidency. You told them that I was an unqualified fashion floozy―a vapid debutante―an embarrassment to their cause―"
"M-Madame!" He scrambled to his feet, hands pressed together. "Please! Since then, I-I've come to realize―"
"Faba." Her face, eyes, and voice softened, cushioning him with sympathy. "Do you think I don't understand?"
His pleading stopped; he looked confused.
"I was an outsider. And you were hurt. We were all hurt, then…" She set down her tea cup and looked outward, a bleakness covering her in memories of darker times. She eventually settled her eyes on a picture Faba had hanging on his office wall, below his doctorates and a prestige plaque he had received years ago. She stood, walked over to the picture, and gave it a long, heavy-hearted look, her hand resting on her chin. "...Sometimes, I wonder if you weren't hurt the most of all."
Faba sank back into his chair slowly, feeling his legs turn to jelly. He winced. "Madame, you were married to him," he reminded her.
"All the same―we share a fate, don't we? Grasping like children, trying to hold onto him." She calmly lifted the picture from the wall and pressed it to her chest. "That's why. Why, though I know you are not loyal to me, you will always have a place here, Faba. You are, in so many ways, the last piece of him that I have. And that is also why I can trust that your loyalty to him will sustain newly in me."
As he mulled over this promise, she drifted back to her seat, pulled the picture out before herself, and pressed her fingers to it. A gentle smile came over her lips.
"This has always been my favorite picture of him. He looks so relaxed. So―in his element."
Faba knew the picture well enough not to need another look. It was the day Aether had been formally made a Foundation; all of the chairs, co-chairs, founders, and head scientists were all standing before their now-former headquarters, eyes bright, smiles proud. A more formal version of the photograph existed somewhere, with more professional faces and stances, but he had kept this version: in it, a young Mohn, in his lab coat and tie, hand upright and waving to the camera, had spontaneously swung his other arm about Faba's shoulders.
Lusamine was not in the picture.
She saw his melancholy expression and gasped. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to depress you."
No, he thought bitterly,
just to play me like a violin. The worst part was that it had worked. He sighed and swallowed hard. "No, it's qu-quite all right." He got up, gently released the picture from her hand, and placed it back on the wall, taking time to carefully straighten it.
"Well! Seeing as we're here, I have another matter I wish to discuss." She neatened her skirt for a moment, giving him time to find his seat once again. "How is Guzma doing?"
Faba couldn't roll his eyes to the ceiling fast enough. He honestly didn't know where to begin. The boy, since showing up with the beasts slung over his shoulder, only terrified him more than ever. The quest he had undertaken in capturing the monsters had turned him scrawnier and more savage; he punched and he threatened and he bullied with starved ferocity. Faba decided to keep his answer politely withdrawn. "We have our work cut out for us."
"I think we've made tremendous progress."
"So you would. You're the only one who can get away with scolding him."
"He is energetic," she said, still smiling. "But he's responsive to correction." She noticed him looking unimpressed. "I am aware of your difficulties with him, Faba. Perhaps if you approached him differently―"
"The boy is an ogre," he said flatly, leaving no room for discussion. "I've made monsters more trainable than that thing. Ought to be locked up, with the key thrown away. If I had known sooner that this pet project of yours was going to take over my life, I would have hanged myself."
"Dramatic, as always!" She fluttered her eyes at him, somewhat admonishingly, but also with a sense of pity, as if she understood. "He wasn't raised by wolves, Faba. He lived with his parents until not so long ago."
He scowled a little, sipping at his tea. He growled into it, hoping to muffle his words. "...Makes one wonder."
"The poor dear needs some mothering."
"...And that is your prerogative, Madame. Not mine. "
"Ah, but there are things boys cannot get from their mothers." With that, she put a meaningful hand atop his, and pressed her eyebrows together in concern. "I had so hoped you two would get along better. That he would look up to you, perhaps confide in you―that you would be a father to him."
Faba choked in utter disbelief. "Are―are you joking, Madame!?"
"Why would I be joking?"
"'Look up' to me! He could probably break me with his bare hands―!"
"But you're older, more experienced, more accomplished in your field..."
"Don't butter me up! He is a predator! The way he eyeballs me―!"
"Only because you're so quick to criticize him!" she implored. From across the table, she reached to take his hands, folding them into her own. "My dear, he requires a certain… Gentle touch. If only you took the time to encourage him, to praise him, to show him the slightest bit of care―" She took his two hands, then placed them together, guiding his fingers to weave into one another and clasp tightly. "I promise you, he will become putty in your hands."
"If I were…" He uncertainly sent his eyes up and down her figure, so that he didn't have to say it directly. He grit his teeth. "...Of your persuasion, I might believe you."
"I give you my word. You will be shocked by how quickly you get results."
"I make no promises," he said. But his eyes jutted over to the picture on the wall, and he withered slightly. "But… for you, Madame, I will put some thought into it."
"Wonderful!" She flashed him a sunny smile.
In the end, they chatted on more frivolous matters for some time, finished their tea, and returned to the lab, where Guzma already waited, adequately freshened up for the day. Lusamine cooed at him, lavishing him with praise:
so much better, so much more handsome this way, and though Guzma still pouted a little, he could not suppress the coloration in his face that showed proof of his pleasure.
-
The moment the strange woman walked into his suite, Guzma took a severe disliking to her. Her heavily-accented voice boomed out, almost shattering his eardrum with an excited screech. "Lucie! Dah-ling!"
Lusamine, who had opened for her to enter, greeted her with as much emphasis, though not as much volume. "My dear friend!"
The two women poured out a cascade of words he didn't understand―eventually he realized it was French―and joined arms, laughing and cooing and purring at each other. They kissed cheeks and gushed for what felt, to him, like forever.
Guzma, who stood awkwardly in the middle of his living room, stuffed his hands into his jacket and waited it out. He had known that some "fashionista" that Lusamine knew personally was coming here―the appointment had been long-standing―but he didn't expect to witness this much affection between the two. It confused and embarrassed him.
He also didn't know Lusamine spoke fluent French, though considering it now, it made some sense. Guzma had learned occasional tidbits about the Foundation through these weeks, and he had heard, somewhere, that the branch had primarily originated out of Kalos.
Finally, Lusamine and the woman separated their embrace and he got to get an actual look at her.
She had short, cropped hair, flashy diamonds at her ears and throat, and a puffy, over-the-top dress lined with fur. She carried a sizable business case, too bulky to hold only papers, but carried it with one hand effortlessly. She clacked around hurriedly in tall, narrow heels; her body was rail-thin, willowy, and tall, easily matching his height. Her energy took immediate command of the room, as if the very molecules of the room lined up to her liking. Her head moved quickly, swerving and sweeping, identifying and analyzing every little flaw in her view.
―And kept looking at him, eyes crawling.
Lusamine took her arm and looked to Guzma for his attention. "This is Mademoiselle Heloise, an old friend―and simply the best designer out of Kalos."
"Merci! You flatter me too much." Heloise broke away and rushed up to him, before he had a chance to flinch. "Ah! This is the young man, oui?
Bonjour, mon amie!" She reached and clasped his face. "What a handsome boy you've given me to work on, Lucie!"
(He uncomfortably wriggled away).
"I hope you're not too intimidated by such a tall order," Lusamine said to her.
"Oh, not at all! It is not every day I have the chance to design a gym leader!"
Guzma looked confused. "I ain't a gym leader."
"You―ah, I see." Heloise snapped her fingers, trying to stir her memory. "You call it... what is it...
ka-hoo-NA." She over-pronounced it, putting emphasis on all the wrong sounds. She grinned. "So exotic! Now what is your name, my pet?"
He barely had a chance to open his mouth before she cut him off with more rapid-fire speech.
She practically yelled in his face. "Come now! Out with it! No need to be shy!"
"Guzma," he blurted, praying she'd shut up, or at least slow down. He felt dizzy, just listening to her.
"Guzma . Lovely.
Merveilleux. Now, let me―" For a whirlwind of a second, she looked him up and down, her head cocking and swaying rapidly, her expression turning contemplative, strange, and unreadable. "Ah," she said, as if discovering something. She waved a finger in the air. "Ah, yes. Lucie?"
"Hmm?"
"He has had his measurements, yes?"
"We're getting him fitted tomorrow."
"Ah,
très bon. And a stylist? You have a stylist lined up already?" She laughed suddenly, hitting her forehead with her palm. "Oh, what am I saying! Who am I speaking to!"
...Guzma, by now, seriously wondered how long this was going to take. He scratched on his forearm, especially where his splint got sweaty and uncomfortable.
Heloise, without another word, hoisted the large case in her hand across the living area, making her way into his bedroom. That she moved about so freely startled him, but he followed her at Lusamine's urging. The woman set the case on his table and had already opened it―there were papers, and cloth samples, and color palettes. Lusamine disappeared out into the main room; she appeared busy writing something as she went. In any case, he was now alone with this twitchy, overbearing woman.
"My plan is simple today," the woman said, now finally directing her speech at him. "We are going to―get a few sketches ready, throw some color on you, see what pops; this is really a, oh, how would one say this―a time for me to capture―whatever it is that you are."
"...Sure. Whatever."
"I'll have designs ready on paper in, oh, three days―and we'll move from there." She caught his eyes, boring her intense gaze into him. "Do you have questions, perhaps?"
"Not really." He tugged on his sleeve. "But I think―"
She swiftly cut him off with a bubbly laugh. "Oh, dear, no! You needn't think at all. I am to do all of that for you, understand?"
He gave her a baffled look, lip curling with incredulity. "...Yeah."
"Well! Let us get started right away, oui? Strip, please."
Guzma thought he misheard. He lifted an eyebrow. "Uh, what?"
"Really!" Heloise started gesturing emphatically with her hands and snapped her fingers rudely. "Down to your undergarments, quickly. It all must go, right away! All of it!" When he didn't immediately obey, she went over to him, starting to grab the jacket at the shoulders. "Here, my darling, let me help you."
"What are you―!" Guzma lurched and knocked her hands away. "Woah! Hey! Hands off! My clothes are staying on, lady!"
"What is an artist without blank canvas?" she scolded. "Come now, there's no need to be shy."
She tried again, and again he knocked her hands away. "Quit touchin' me!"
Lusamine must have heard their shouting from outside, because she swooped in, her heels clacking hard against the floor to show her displeasure. She gave them both a stern look and placed a hand at her hip. "What on earth is going on in here?"
Guzma shrank up against the wall, flush with anger. He spat out his answer. "Nothing, other than this lady trying to sexually assault me!"
Heloise screamed. "Oh, oh!" She spun around, clutching her chest like he had planted a dagger there, and for a second they both thought she was going to faint. "
Mon Dieu!"
In retrospect, if he knew the woman better, he might have chosen a gentler way to phrase his disagreement. She not only swooned, but after being caught by Lusamine, she fell to pieces, bawling and crying out expressions of disbelief.
"Never! In my life!"
"My dear, please, calm down."
Guzma, gawking at the spectacle, eventually said, "What's wrong with her?"
Lusamine shot him a glare. "Guzma, that's enough!"
In all the explosion of dramatics, Heloise finally found her footing, enough to sniff and say, "I must go." She started clawing for her case.
"Oh, really, dear, that won't be necessary."
"I love you, and you are gorgeous, but I cannot do it! I cannot!"
"My dear friend!" Lusamine clutched her hands and purred her sympathies. "Please, I beg you. He is a thoughtless brute, I know, but look at him―" She pointed at him pityingly. "The poor dear is frightened. A trembling lamb, a sparrow―"
Guzma tried to interrupt. "Hey!"
"To be left by himself with such a strong and beautiful woman―it must have momentarily overwhelmed him."
Guzma knew now she was ignoring him, so he rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. "Tch."
Heloise, though, seemed both touched and comforted by her words. She wiped the tears from her eyes. "Ah, oui, I see it now,
mon meilleure amie. You are right. You are always right!" She kissed Lusamine on the cheek, joined their arms together, and let loose a long, overwrought gushing of French exclamations. "How could have I doubted you for an instant?"
Under his breath, he muttered, "Geez, get a room."
"Guzma!"
He stiffened, thinking she heard him. "What, I didn't―"
"I can hardly find words, other than to say I am severely disappointed in your behavior."
"I―"
"This poor woman is a friend and colleague, here only to help you. I'm shocked that you would treat her with blatant disrespect!"
He could feel anger and humiliation knotting in his throat. After all this, she was going to ream him out in front a stranger, like he was a disobedient two-year-old?
Her voice sliced into him. "Guzma! Apologize this instant!"
"Is she gonna apologize to
me for―"
A single, cracking stomp of her heel on the floor cut him off. "Now!"
Guzma let out an enraged, sharp exhale through his nostrils, swept his leg to the side to give his dresser a hard kick, and sank his head miserably between his shoulders. He picked out a spot on the floor to stare daggers into and resorted to pouting for a minute, but that got to be more embarrassing than being scolded in the first place. Through clenched teeth, he strained out a muffled, "...M'sorry."
Lusamine growled. "I don't. Think. She could hear you."
"Oh my g―" He lifted his head, spewing loudly, and not without sarcasm, "I said, 'I'm sorry'!"
"I could do without the attitude."
Thankfully, before she could try to bully out another apology attempt, Heloise chimed in. "Lucie! Please. Think of it no more. It is forgotten." The woman broke from Lusamine's side and swooped in, taking his hands. "
Mon petit loup! We have gotten off on the wrong foot. I can be a headstrong creature, a real terror. Now, please. If you would forgive me, we can put this all behind us."
Her magnanimous plea, paired with Lusamine's urging look, pressed him to say, "Okay."
Heloise appeared disproportionately thrilled at his answer―but Lusamine cleared her throat.
"My love, I know we have wasted some of your time already, but can I ask for only a minute more? I would like to speak to him."
Guzma's expression darkened, and Heloise did not dawdle, politely sidling her way out the door. A moment passed. His breath flared. He figured he was about to get lectured some more, so he paced around in the small square of the room that he saved for himself, stomping invisible bugs and swiping at invisible enemies with his fists. It was like every part of his body wanted nothing more than to fling outward and knock the room apart.
Lusamine watched him for a while, then sighed heavily. "What has gotten into you today? I know we had a rough start, but Faba told me you did very well this morning, and I thought that would continue."
Guzma roughly pushed his hands his pockets and scowled.
Her voice dropped a bit, turning to ice. "...You promised me you'd do better."
"I―!" He cringed and forced his eyes shut. He kicked at his bed, landing a hard crack at its frame. "I am! I mean, I will! I'm trying!"
"Guzma. Tomorrow, I'm introducing you to the Board of Directors."
"I know."
"What can I expect to happen? Are you going to embarrass me?"
"Nah! Nah, I'm not gonna―" That accusation set him alight, and made him flail and tug at his hair. He sounded chastised and hurt. "I'm sorry. I promise. I'll― I'll do better. I'll be ready! You can count on me!"
She folded her arms, weighed his penitence, and finally decided it would do. "Very well. Now, what started all this silliness?"
He clammed up.
"She asked you to remove your clothes, is that right? It's perfectly standard―whatever's the matter?" She looked at him―studied him, as if trying to figure out the source of this resistance. "Do you not like your body?"
"What? Nah! It's not―" He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I don't care about that."
"Then what is it?"
"I dunno―I just don't want to."
Lusamine didn't look particularly moved by this logic, so he blurted out some more, tugging at the ends of his hair as he struggled to express his thinking.
"It's just weird. Like―it's not normal, to―you know―"
Lusamine almost laughed, but caught herself in time. "Oh, dear, dear, dear." She pressed her fingers to her temples, like she was overcome with a headache. "Wherever did you get such a silly notion? Guzma, let me―" She walked over to him and touched his shoulder. "I want to help you. Will you let me help you?"
He shifted his eyes uncertainly. "…I guess?"
"Then let me explain something to you." She motioned for him to sit down, and he did so. She stood with prim, precise poise, placing a demonstrative hand to her chest. "I am from the Kalos region originally. That's how I came to know Mademoiselle―we have worked together for many years, beginning when I was a young lady starting my career in modeling."
Guzma couldn't say he was surprised by any of this information, but he didn't know where this was going.
"In such an industry, it was not unusual to undress. Why, I had my first nude photo-shoot when I turned eighteen. It was nothing vulgar," she said, seeing his face start to contort. "It was all purely artistic, you know―for fashion magazines,
L'Enchanteur,
Maybellé, the like. Kalos, in some ways, is more libertine on such matters―Guzma, you are turning a very strange color."
That would be because Guzma had stopped breathing. He sputtered and finally sucked in some air. "I―uh―"
She didn't wait for him to stammer out an excuse. "This is all to say―what we do with our bodies depends so much upon context. If it is the proper context, such a thing is not wrong or strange. Besides, young man, you're not posing in front of a camera, and you certainly won't be nude―she only wants to see your figure for a moment, to help her make decisions. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Guzma nodded, but the truth was his brain had completely shut down after the words "nude photo-shoot" and had since run off into the proverbial wilds to frolic and play.
"I'm so glad." She trotted back to the doorway. "Heloise, dear! We're ready for you now."
"―We are?" Guzma blinked hard, stirring awake from his daze. "W-well, you don't think―I mean, we could, like, re-schedule, or―?"
"What are you talking about? Guzma, she's come a long way, and we've wasted enough time already."
Heloise wandered back in, vacant and excited, like nothing had happened. He waited for Lusamine to leave. She didn't. He gave her an exasperated look. "Uh, you aren't―"
"What are you waiting for?"
Apparently nothing. Guzma snorted and grumbled, starting to take off his jacket, hoping she'd get the hint by the time he started fumbling with his zipper.
Finally―finally―she had the decency to turn her back to him as she chattered endlessly with her lady friend, their French skittering over their lips. He decided to hurry and get this over with.
Heloise peered up at him. "Ah, yes, that's fine. Now stand naturally for a moment. This should be quick." Heloise took up her pencil and began to sweep the shapes of him onto paper. Her eyes traced him, then the paper, and then slipped over to Lusamine, who had politely settled her eyes on the opposite well. Heloise growled. <Lucie, you are truly a dog of a woman. How do you do it? To have this pretty little wolf, to smack it so―I am dying of jealousy.>
Lusamine didn't respond, but smiled to herself sweetly.
Heloise paused the movements of her pencil and spoke to Guzma, who had crossed his arms over his chest. "Mon amie, put your arms down; I cannot see."
-
The entirety of the next day, Faba avoided both Lusamine and Guzma like the plague. He did not need any more reminders of future indignity―of having to show his face to the directors, plaster on a fake smile, and pretend to like the snakes for an entire evening. He'd much rather do something productive with his nights, like stabbing himself in the eye, or jumping off a bridge.
So he distracted himself by sealing himself up in his office for a majority of the day, working on mind-numbing number-crunching, and then telling his staff that he was going to remain in his suite―absolutely no interruptions.
This was why he was so startled when, after successfully cajoling himself into getting dressed and ready for the ever-approaching dinner, and managing to get caught up in a horrendously frustrating argument with that idiot chemical supplier over the phone, he heard his buzzer, and was even more startled to open his door and find Guzma on the other side.
For a moment, neither man recognized the other. Guzma, hair tied back, in a fitted suit that still managed to look ill-fitting on his gangling form―and Faba, in his white dress shirt, suspenders, and necktie, lacking the large green glasses that usually sat on his face.
Guzma didn't know immediately what to say. "Um."
Faba gave him an unwelcoming, impatient look. He had a phone to his head.
"Miss L sent me."
"Oh, for the love of―" He clapped his hand over the receiver, heaved a sigh to the heavens, and motioned him inside. "I'm on the phone. Come in―sit down, don't... break anything. I'll be with you in a minute."
Faba's suite was unlike any of the other rooms Guzma had entered at Aether Paradise. Where other rooms communicated Lusamine's aesthetic of lightness, modernity, and simplicity, Faba's had a decidedly more ornate and baroque style. Dark wood in the facades of the walls, detailed carvings in the door-frames and shelves, deep reds on the carpets and paneled floors, brassy leather furniture. His lab coat could be seen hanging on a hook near the door, and its white color clashed with the ruddy copper and mahogany of the surrounding space.
Guzma heard Faba off in the other room in the midst of a loud, heated argument about chemical shipments―yes, all the vials, contaminated, two million dollars worth! Guzma had no interest, then, in eavesdropping, so he milled about, poking his face into various belongings. Most things were beyond him: books on fields he couldn't pronounce, large-scale models of molecular structures, complex diagrams of equipment. Though a living room, Faba's work had successfully infiltrated it; stacks of papers and reports that had been dragged in from his office piled on his coffee tables and chairs. One shelf had a glass panel protecting a large array of awards and plaques, each carefully cleaned. The whole room represented Faba's mind well: focused on fifty things at once, operating on an organization scheme only he perfectly understood, and meticulously guarded against cobwebs and dust.
In the end, the only thing Guzma recognized in function was a chess board placed carefully on a table next to the fireplace.
The ebony pieces, to Guzma's untrained eye, looked scattered randomly about the game board, so he didn't sense it would be a problem to pluck up the small carved chessmen and give them a look. In his boredom, he shuffled them around, started to make a pattern out of them.
Faba, finished with his call, returned through the doorway. "―All right, now what is that you―" When he saw what was Guzma was up to, he just about shrieked. "What―on earth are you doing!?"
"I'm―"
"Get away from that, this instant!" He dove for the board, snatching the pawn from Guzma's hand. "I told you, I told you not to―!"
Guzma huffed. "I didn't break nothin'!"
As Faba pushed him aside and scrambled to set the pieces back in their original placements, he heard Guzma whining.
"I was bein' real careful!"
"The game is in mid-play," Faba said. As he collected his wits, he realized how hysterical he'd been. He lowered his voice. "I―I'm sorry, but the pieces need to stay where they are."
For another few moments, Faba frantically mumbled letters and numbers to himself as he reset them, trying to recall each of their placements, but he gradually lost track and gave up. He shook his head, saw Guzma's dejection, and decided the damage was done.
"It's―" Faba pinched his forehead and relented. He summoned his most gentle, reaffirming voice. "Never mind it, it's all right. I have the notations written down somewhere." He moved away from the board.
Despite Faba's attempt at rectifying things, Guzma still looked a bit put off. He didn't touch the board immediately, like he expected it to be a trap of some kind. He did, though, glance it over, and notice a piece of paper wedged beneath the board. Without asking, Guzma pulled out the paper and started reading aloud. "One, E-four, E-five, two, NF-three―" He frowned at it. It looked a bit… Mathematical, for his taste. He absentmindedly read the notation in the corner. "Faba versus Mohn." Some gears clacked away in his head, making a deduction. "Oh, it's an old game, huh?"
Faba froze.
"Why don't you start a new one?" Guzma started clacking the pieces around with his hand. "I'll play you."
The boy, bless his heart, was a little dim. Faba winced at having his memories poked at, but calmed slightly once he found Guzma didn't understand their importance. "O-oh, you play chess?"
"Nah, but I got, like, mad checkers skills." To demonstrate, he hopped the black knight randomly about the board, eventually landing safely in white's territory. He grinned toothily. "King me!"
"…Yes. Very amusing." Faba just then realized how side-tracked he'd been. He folded his hands behind his back. "Now, why are you here?"
"Oh. Well―Miss L sent me."
"As you said. Whatever for?"
"Uh, Miss L―I mean, she said that―" Guzma started fidgeting with something at his shirt collar.
Faba, growing impatient, tried to read his body language. Obviously, the boy was too embarrassed to spit it out. "What is it? Is something the matter?"
"No." Guzma, flustered and visibly frustrated, muttered a series of words under his breath. It was then that Faba noticed the necktie, strung loose and undone around Guzma's neck―the boy started twisting it around, pulling on both ends of it, as if to bully it into cooperating.
"Ah. I see." Was that all he came for? Faba felt a headache coming on. He motioned for Guzma to face him. "...Yes, let me help."
But when he stepped forward, reaching for it, Guzma immediately had an adverse reaction; he backed away, gave him a nasty look.
Faba jumped back, like he expected to be bitten. "Or―! Er, here, hand it to me. I'll show you."
Guzma seemed to find this more tolerable. He eased, pulled the tie from his neck and gave it to him.
As Faba swung it over his own neck, he felt the presence of the boy looming over him, and he found it hard to concentrate. He tried to calm his nerves by talking. "No one's ever taught you?"
"Nah." Guzma shrugged self-consciously. "Never had to wear nothin' stuffy like this."
"No matter; it's very simple. Here, watch. Now, first you fold it like this, and―"
And before he knew it, there he stood, with the boy inches from him and more attentive than he had ever seen him, and he demonstrated how to fasten a necktie.
"―And finally you put it through here, and tighten―there, you see?"
Guzma studied him for a second. Faba could tell by his blank look that no, he didn't.
"Hmm. Well―" Beginning to suspect this was going to take longer than he thought, he took a shortcut. He loosened the tie enough to pull it over his head. "For now, put this on and adjust it. You can practice on your own later."
Guzma, without saying anything, took it. As Faba suggested, he pulled it over his head and at least attempted to adjust it; Faba got briefly distracted by fastening his own cuff-links, and once he turned back, Guzma had it… Mostly figured out.
"Erm…" Faba calculated the risk. The knot was misshapen, but only slightly. Enough to bother the perfectionist in him, but was it enough to justify poking the tiger? He awkwardly gestured at it. "Perhaps―can I…?" When he leaned in this time, Guzma didn't flinch―only stiffened, letting him fiddle with it for a second. Faba breathed with relief when he finished and was able to let go. "Ah, there. Better."
Guzma pawed at it, suddenly feeling the pressure of it around his neck and not pleased with it.
"They're torture devices," Faba said. He said it flippantly, not really thinking, but it actually elicited a goofy half-smile and snort from Guzma. Faba continued, "At least it's not our everyday wear."
"Heh. Yeah."
...After a moment, Faba came to realize that Guzma was still standing there, a tad too close for comfort, and was looking at him, eyes wide and intent. His face was pensive. Nervous. Expectant. A little… Beholden.
"Did… Did you need something else?"
"Uh, nah." Guzma finally averted his eyes, but to Faba's surprise, rather than leave, he thumped down, seating himself heavily onto the sofa.
Faba decided to ignore him for a moment, ducking into his room to fetch his jacket.
But when he returned, Guzma still sat and wiggled his tie with discomfort. He had started to exhibit a clammy, pallid complexion. His knee bounced persistently, and one finger had looped around a knot of hair, tugging on it. His other hand had gotten to be so fidgety that he actually grabbed a throw pillow and started kneading it, digging his fingers into it, crushing it. His breaths were low, but they rattled and popped, loud enough that Faba could be irritated by it from across the room.
In a thready, uncertain tone, Guzma started to speak. "So these are… Important people, huh."
"One could say that."
"She really, uh, wants me to make a good impression, or whatever."
"Yes, I imagine she does."
"C―" He stuffed the pillow against his stomach and started to tug on the ring on his index finger. "Can they vote me out, or somethin'?"
Faba couldn't contain a scoff of disgust. "Oh, I wouldn't worry. She has them wrapped around her little finger, have no doubt about that."
"But what if I screw up? What if they don't
like me?"
The question―and the emphatic way it was asked―caught Faba completely off guard.
Then, all of a sudden, Faba recognized the look on Guzma's face―he had seen it a number of times, on the faces of grad students flop-sweating before defending their theses. The sense of dread. The overpowering terror of having one's fate placed in some nameless committee's hands.
Guzma was afraid.
Now that Faba thought about it, it made sense. The boy likely coped with fear by lashing out, using violence to topple his emotions. No wonder he had been pitching hissy-fits every day for the past week.
It couldn't be said that Faba felt sorry for him. But seeing the "ogre" like that―well, it humanized him, a bit. Guzma, for all his bluster, felt the reality of the pressures being put on his head.
A stab of resentment drove Faba to sigh and reassure him. "Boy. Er―Guzma." Guzma looked up at him and Faba somehow found the courage to continue. "You'll do fine. These people―don't let them intimidate you. They're really quite shallow and self-absorbed. Flatter them. Smile and nod. Make them feel important. That's all there is to it."
"Oh… Okay." Guzma's fidgeting slowed, as did his breathing.
...Was that all it took? The boy was more pliable than he thought.
There was a long, pregnant silence. Guzma, in processing what Faba told him, had evidently come to some drastic conclusions, leading him to start speaking again.
"...Mr. Faba?" The name sounded awkward and stilted coming from his lips―he had never actually addressed him by name before. "You're… You're supposed to be smart, right?" Guzma had phrased the question clumsily; the caveat
supposed to at first struck Faba as an insult, so it took a second for him to realize Guzma was actually asking in earnest. Guzma noticed his reaction and tried to correct his mistake. "I mean―you know a lotta… Stuff."
"I have a double doctorate, if that's what you're referring to."
"See―!" Guzma punched down on the throw pillow and sucked his teeth. He started grousing again, rambling mostly. "I don't know what that is―! It's like, all the time, there's stuff I don't know― And she uses these words, and I'm not sure what they mean, but if I ask, I'll just look stupid― And I think she already thinks I'm stupid―"
"Well…" Faba started to say.
Guzma talked right through him. "But I don't want to be stupid," he said. His fists shook with a sudden, frantic birth of some new desire. "I wanna be smart." Then came an unspoken, but heavily implied, like you.
And that's when Faba stopped, looked at him, and saw something he didn't recognize.
A strained, childlike devotion haloed Guzma's determined expression―a vow, a covenant, as if in one desperate snatch, he had swept Faba up into his collection of cobbled idols―as if to say,
I will do anything for you, anything you say, at any cost, if you would take and mold me.
Faba felt something drop in him―like a stone plummeting into his stomach. A thought hit him, and he had no clue how to process it:
This boy. This
boy. Faba was no developmental psychologist, but everything about him smacked of arrested development, like something had caught Guzma by the throat when he was ten years old and hadn't let go since. Faba suddenly remembered that this was ostensibly a man, in his early twenties, the age at which Faba himself had graduated from university and had been already accepted into a prestigious doctoral program in Kalos. The scientist had his immaturities at that age, to be sure, but he wasn't throwing temper tantrums or slinking about begging for scraps of approval from his elders.
Guzma―taller than most around him, with a body of heft and muscle, angry at the world and most of its inhabitants―he could traipse the world and capture deadly beasts, clobbering himself in the process. Yet the moment he's challenged, given something he cannot beat into submission with his fists, he absolutely crumbles, regressing into infantile whining, shrieking, kicking, and biting. He squirms. He pouts. He stomps. It all only feels threatening because of his size―but ascribe the same actions to a two-year-old, and they begin to hold some context.
Child, what trauma did this to you?
Lusamine must have understood this from the beginning. After all, she was right: one tiny physical interaction, one half-hearted piece of advice, and the boy's defenses collapsed, making him clingy and needy, like a stray animal that had just received a tasty morsel from a stranger. In that moment, he could have told the boy to do cartwheels about the suite, and he might have done it, just to be praised.
It made… Faba more uncomfortable than anything. One thought floated in particular, unnerving him:
a predator's dream. A person of fewer scruples than he would have a field day taking advantage of this trapped adolescent who thumped his tail sadly and whimpered for validation.
Faba grimaced and cringed. "Young man―" He shook his head and sighed. "You know―" But what could he say? He certainly wasn't going to air those suspicions or misgivings; it wouldn't do any good. "Madame is likely waiting for you. Why don't you go attend to her?"
Guzma didn't at first know how to answer this dismissal. He must have thought his desire would be reciprocated―that Faba would jump for the chance to form him. He gradually shrugged off his disappointment, and pretended to be relieved. "...A'ight."
Finally, Guzma slid out of the room and back out the door, leaving him in peace.
-
Faba returned to the chessboard, drew up a chair, and sat before it. He knew he would need to collect himself soon―the dinner would be starting within the hour―but he took the time to carefully replace every piece until it was restored.
As he did some nights―certainly not every night, but especially during ones in which he felt particularly alone on this ghoulish island―he went ahead and completed the game. There was only one move left―Mohn's finishing play. So he performed it in his stead. Over, and over, and over.
He picked up the black knight. "Knight… To D-three. Checkmate." He shook his head bitterly, sinking his chin into his hand. "
The Smothered King." He flicked over the white king with his fingers, letting it topple onto the floor. He sighed. "Mohn. You always got me in the end, didn't you...?"
-