Sage Frontier Fan Fiction ❯ Plot of the Princes ❯ Plot of the Princes ( Chapter 1 )

DISCLAIMER: I don't own SaGa Frontier. SquareSoft does, and they don't approve of the terrible idea I have for their precious little Mystic princes. They should be thankful I even included Ciato in this.

 

“Okay, I think we have everything we need for tonight,” Zozma said, as Rastaban and Ildon set up the table in the middle of their apartment, situated on one of the many towers of Chateau Auguile. It was dark, as it usually was in Facinaturu, but this particular night was one of the most gloomy that any of the three had seen that year. It was raining; actually, it was pouring out. The mud from the gardens made it impossible to walk through them, and so, the princes had to find another way to amuse themselves other than wandering through the flowers. Orlouge was throwing another party, but this time, the princes weren't invited, each for their own reason. Zozma had blown up one of the gardens with his Rava Shot, earning him not only a stern lecture from the Charm Lord himself, but also being banned from the party; Ildon simply didn't want to go, and Rastaban didn't want to go unless Ildon went. So, they all were there, in Rastaban's apartment, planning their own party.

 

“This'll be much better than going downstairs anyway,” Rastaban said gently, bringing two chairs over as Zozma took out a bowl and filled it with, to Ildon's complete dismay, human food. It wasn't that Ildon didn't like all human food; he hated potato chips, and that was the one food Zozma insisted on having. Ildon himself snorted as he looked for candles to light.

 

“I'd hardly call this a party, Rastaban,” he commented grimly, “There's only three of us.”

 

“There'll be four if Ciato gets his arrogant ass out of bed and flies here,” Zozma replied, “I sent him for one thing and he takes hours! You'd think the little pest was killed with how long he takes sometimes!” Ildon snorted again; the thought of Ciato lying in a heap somewhere far away appealed to him highly. Then again, he hated Ciato. Everyone with an ounce of self-respect hated Ciato. The only person who appeared to even tolerate the man was Rastaban himself, and it was him who insisted on inviting Ciato.

 

“I'm sure he'll be here,” Rastaban stated, “He hates those parties as much as we do. I'm sure he has a good reason for being so late.” Zozma rolled his eyes at Rastaban's optimism as he set the bowl of chips on the table.

 

“Right. And I'm sure Orlouge will find slaying little kittens and puppies to be a perfect reason to run away from Facinaturu,” he said mockingly, “I mean, technically, he didn't run away, but Orlouge is damned possessive of us. If we even set toe outside of this dump, he gets all monster mode on us. Ciato knows this, so where the hell is he!?” At that point, Ildon tuned himself out, as Rastaban and Zozma now began to argue about what could have happened to Ciato. He simply looked out the window, into the pouring rain. A party this was, indeed. He couldn't exactly remember how or why Rastaban had wanted to throw one, but he highly doubted it would end well. Finally, a crash of thunder shook him out of his momentary trance. Zozma and Rastaban ceased their bickering as well as another blast sounded.

 

“What on earth was that?” Rastaban asked, walking over to Ildon as his eyes reflected another lightning bolt that struck in the distance. Zozma raised an amused brow as thunder crashed. They could barely hear the mistresses down below screaming or gasping from the shock of the storm. Even Orlouge seemed shocked by it as he too asked what the commotion was.

 

“Either Facinaturu's going to hell or Ciato feels like showing off,” Zozma replied, grinning, “I'm guessing on the latter, because this is the only thunderstorm I've seen in my life. And, I'm pretty damn old, too.” Ildon turned around, looking at Zozma with disbelief at the statement. Yes, thunderstorms had never happened in their world before, but it wasn't completely impossible. Besides, humans dealt with thunder all the time. They never cowered in it. In fact, they usually ignored such weather.

 

“There's always a first for everything,” he sighed, but was quickly proven wrong when something landed with a thud on Rastaban's balcony, followed by a series of angry curses. Rastaban blinked, and then quickly opened the door, allowing a very soaked, and very furious Ciato into the apartment. He stomped in and practically slammed a case of what Ildon was sure was beer onto the table.

 

“Sorry I'm so late,” Ciato growled, throwing his coat off as his hair tie snapped, his light blonde hair falling around him, “You won't believe what humans charge for their food! I'm a Mystic Prince. I shouldn't have to pay them! And yet, I was almost arrested when I told those pathetic nimrods all of this!” Zozma actually laughed, causing Ciato to glare at him. Rastaban simply shook his head as he bent to pick up the soggy cloak and hang it on the rack. Ildon blinked, and then sighed again, sitting down. So far, from what he felt, their `party' was going to dive-bomb. He just knew it.

 

“Okay, so you decided to do something stupid,” Ildon summarized, and Zozma's laughter rose, “What else is new?” Rastaban smiled, though he still rapped Ildon on the head, causing the man to growl and turn to him angrily. Ciato simply twitched at the impression that someone actually felt he was an idiot.

 

“Oh, shut up, bat boy,” Ciato retorted, crossing his arms, “I'm not the one who crashed into the mountain and nearly drowned myself.” Zozma snorted again, the whole argument amusing him very highly as Ildon stood up, despite Rastaban asking him to calm down. He and Ciato simply glared at each other.

 

“That was an accident, you old bird,” Ildon growled, “Besides, I'm not the one who Orlouge nearly killed for questioning him like a total dumbass.” Rastaban sighed; his request for a friendly night with his friends seemed to have been denied in ten minutes, as an argument indeed broke out between Ildon and Ciato.

 

“I'm not the one who babysat a human for twelve years!” Ciato countered, and Zozma nodded, grinning. That was a definite fact. Ildon twitched again.

 

“I'm not the idiot who stabbed her and stained Orlouge's flowers,” he retorted smugly. Ciato scoffed. He wanted to laugh, but that would definitely get him injured. Still, out of everything he did, that was the best Ildon could insult him with? He finally did laugh as he thought that.

 

“I did that for a very specific reason, baby fangs,” Ciato said, smirking, “Besides, Orlouge didn't care. She just sprang right back up like nothing actually happened.”

 

“I know. Shows how much of a weakling you are,” Ildon pointed out, and Ciato finally, finally lost it. After all his years, after dealing with Ildon for the past few centuries, after explaining to the little cretin that he was in higher rank than Ildon, Ildon would still say he's weak! Ciato lunged for the man and tackled him over, scratching angrily for Ildon's eyes, the poor Mystic himself doing his best to push Ciato off. Only when Zozma used Sharp Pain was Ciato finally able to be removed as Rastaban helped Ildon up. However, if Ildon expected a gentle rebuke for their actions, he was mistaken. Rastaban rapped him again, and then did the same to Ciato, both of them growling with displeasure.

 

“Both of you, enough!” Rastaban yelled angrily, narrowing his eyes, “I didn't invite you over to see you kill Ildon, Ciato. This is supposed to be a friendly party, and if you don't stop your fighting, you both will be kicked out!” Surprisingly to Zozma, Rastaban's moment of outrage worked. Ciato grumbled and reluctantly apologized, and Ildon looked away, ashamed that he angered Rastaban so much. Minutes passed in silence as Rastaban looked from Ciato to Ildon, and then back, as though expecting them to point the finger at each other. But neither dared to do so. Finally, Zozma had to break the silence.

 

“Okay, so we got the food and beer, and we're all living it up,” Zozma said, as Rastaban glanced at him, “You mind telling me what we're actually going to do here, Rasty? If we're just going to be drinking ourselves into a frenzy, we'll need more alcohol than this.” Ciato snorted with agreement, and Rastaban sighed. He sat down, with Ildon soon joining him.

 

“Actually, I was thinking we could just talk,” Rastaban said innocently, as Ciato rolled his eyes. Ildon's lips thinned as he stared at Rastaban, and Zozma nearly dropped the can of beer he was currently working on opening. That was it? That was Rastaban's idea of fun? To talk all night long?

 

“Being shot sounds more fun than this,” Ciato grumbled, as Ildon asked, “Rastaban, surely you had something else in mind?”

 

“…no,” Rastaban replied, frowning slightly, “What else did you want to do? It's not like we have any of those machines the humans use… what are they called?”

 

“Televisions,” Zozma answered, grinning, “And man, they rock. I've always wanted to buy one! Ciato, you didn't happen to see one while you were in Koorong, did you?” Rastaban and Ildon both turned to Ciato, who grinning maliciously and nodded, walking over to the balcony. In their haste to help Ciato inside, neither Rastaban nor Ildon saw that he had a large package with him, and now, it was sitting right outside the door, despite the rain.

 

“Well, my lesser-ranked friends, I did,” Ciato replied, his grin widening, “That's another reason I took so long. I wanted to buy a television for the party. I had a feeling Rastaban would have no idea how to host one.” Though Zozma gave Ciato a high-five, both Ildon and Rastaban glared at Ciato for his obvious insult. Ciato, however, ignored them as he and Zozma took to dragging their new television inside, doing their best to hook it up. Unfortunately, the manual was soaked completely, which made it unreadable, and twice, Zozma tangled himself in the wires provided. Rastaban bit his lip, munching on the chips provided, and Ildon simply watched in mock amusement, his eyebrow raised smugly as he did so.

 

“Ciato, I don't think you're supposed to do that,” Zozma said, when Ciato took to trying to jam a USB port into the small electrical socket he created with his magic. Ciato looked up at Zozma, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

 

“Shut up, peon,” Ciato demanded, “I know what I'm doing.” It was clear he didn't, though, because he kept staring at the cable in his hand indecisively. Finally, though, he shrugged and tried to plug it in, only to be sent into a shocking world of pain. When Ildon smelled his wings frying, he laughed as stood up, walking over.

 

“Having fun?” he asked, bending down to offer his hand. Ciato moaned, and looked up at him. He shoved Ildon away.

 

“I don't need you or your lesser-ranked help!” he snapped, “I can do this myself!” Ildon blinked, and then shrugged, feeling that if Ciato really wanted to die, he should simply let the man continue to electrocute himself. He walked back to Rastaban, and waited. Within another half hour, the television was hooked up, correctly this time. As Zozma flipped on the television, Ciato grabbed the beer and sat on the couch, not caring how many spaces he took as he laid there. Rastaban walked in and sat in his usual seat near the fireplace; Ildon sat on the floor beside him as they both looked on to what Zozma was trying to find. Finally, he settled on the hit series in Koorong: Alkarl's Stream.

 

“I declare this party started!” Zozma exclaimed, as he popped open a can of beer, chugging its contents happily and belching loudly, much to the disgust of both Ildon and Ciato. For minutes, they simply sat and watched whatever it was Zozma had put on, all of them staring in utter confusion. The only one who seemed to even understand what was going on was Zozma himself. Ildon blinked dully, wondering if he should blow the television apart.

 

“What is this shit even about!?” Ciato asked, as he too opened a can of beer, tasting it before he simply drank it. It tasted foul, but he shrugged and downed it anyway. If he somehow became intoxicated like humans did, maybe he'd actually die and free himself from Orlouge. Zozma opened another beer and drank it before answering.

 

“Well, Alkarl was just kicked out of his apartment by the head hero because he forgot to pay his rent,” Zozma replied, “See, in the last episode, he was supposed to head to Baccarat and stop the Cabellero family from breaking into the vault, but he forgot his bag and lost all his money. When he realized it, it was too late…” He sighed and shook his head, but when he looked away from the television to the others, he nearly fell off his seat laughing. Everyone in the room stared at him, their brows raised in complete and utter confusion as to how he knew this.

 

“Do you watch this show?” Ildon asked him bluntly, “And if so, how? We don't have televisions!” Zozma snorted as he climbed back up into his seat, handing Rastaban a beer.

 

“Well, yeah. I don't have a TV, but Asellus does. She lets me watch it with her,” Zozma replied, “You'd be amazed what these humans come up with! Some of it is actually really funny. Spongecake Squareshorts is hysterical!” Ildon and Rastaban simply looked at each other as they sipped their beers. Ciato, however, snorted with amusement as he turned back to the television.

 

“Looks like a piece of shit to me,” he commented. Yet, despite that opinion, he found himself watching said show anyway as an hour passed by, and then two hours. By that time, he, and everyone else, was thoroughly drunk. He was also in tears as he said, “Wow… I never knew that Aldred loved Alkarl so much! I just… it just gets to me!” He sobbed as Zozma patted his back.

 

“I know, man!” he replied, letting out a steady burp as he popped another can of beer open, “This made me realize… I love you all! I just… I just love you guys! Here we are, spending time together and watching reality TV like… like brothers!”

 

“Hooray for brotherhood!” Ciato cried, as he and Zozma clanked their beer cans together. Rastaban, who was the least toxicated, looked down at Ildon, who grimly sipped his beer and threw the empty can on the ground.

 

“Shtop all yer cheering,” he growled, “Ish… makin' my head hurt.” Rastaban blinked, and looked around the apartment. Somehow, despite only having one case of beer, they had easily gone through over one hundred cans as they littered his floors. He had… maybe three cans. He had to snap them out of their states before someone actually heard them.

 

“Uh… Ildon, maybe you'd better get up to bed before you throw up,” Rastaban said gently, heaving Ildon up to his feet, “You've had to most beers, dear. You need to rest.” Ildon looked at him, blinking sluggishly as though he couldn't recognize the man that was trying to help him, and then nodded, staggering to the stairs.

 

“Okaysh, Rashtyban…” Ildon said, and started up the stairs. Unfortunately, no sooner had he reached the fourth step, he fell right back down, slamming into the floor and moaning in agony as Rastaban heard his wings crunch under his back. Rastaban sighed and dragged Ildon into a chair, where he soon fell fast asleep.

 

“Damn it, this has gone on long enough!” Rastaban cried, taking the beer away from Zozma and Ciato, “You both need to be cut off! Turn off that television right now!” Despite his ordering someone else to do so, Rastaban turned the TV off and slammed the remote down, hoping he was loud enough to sober his friends up.

 

“Heysh, brother! What was that for!?” Zozma demanded as he went for his beer.

 

“We was… watching that, Rashty,” Ciato said, trying to get up. But, he simply fell back into the couch, laughing all the while as he knocked his beer over, spraying himself with the vile liquid. Rastaban's eyes widened and he tried to pry the beer from their hands, and yet, they refused to give it up. His eye twitched as Ildon snored on.

 

“Are you using magic to get all of these beers!?” Rastaban inquired, and when Zozma nodded, he cried, “Are you all insane!? Orlouge will kill us! Do you want that!?” It was pretty clear that no one except himself seemed overly concerned on that point as Zozma looked up at him flatly.

 

“Rashty, you gots to lighten up, brother!” he exclaimed, handing Rastaban a glass filled with what smelled like wine, “Drink thish!”

 

“No!” Rastaban replied, pushing the glass away, “Listen to me. You all are drunk! We need… to… stop you… ACK!” Rastaban fell over as Ciato proceeded to punch him right in the face for taking his beer. Slowly, Rastaban started to rise, just as Zozma went to grab another can, and ended up spilling it all over the poor Mystic, who screamed in shock, slipping on the puddle created and falling again.

 

“Ish you okay!?” Ciato asked, helping Rastaban up even though he was technically the reason Rastaban fell over at all. Rastaban growled, sitting at the table as he dragged a glass over, not caring what it was actually filled with.

 

“I'm fine,” he said with controlled fury, “I just had my nose punched in by another prince. I'm doing just well.” His eyes narrowed angrily as he sipped the contents of his glass. It didn't taste like water, which he didn't expect. He blinked, and then looked at his cup. The liquid was red; blood red, one that could only be matched by the roses in his room. It was also very sweet, something he rarely tasted as he asked, “What is this?”

 

“That'sh some rose… something or other wine,” Zozma replied, grinning, “Ish from Orlouge himshelf.” Rastaban blinked again. He knew he shouldn't be drinking it, but it tasted so rich! So wonderful, and it made him feel warm. Was this what Orlouge used at his own parties? Rastaban continued to drink it, and when he was done with just that one glass, his head was swimming. He looked around, but everything felt as though it were spinning. Not even the crystal in the walls seemed to be still any longer.

 

“What's… happening to me…” Rastaban asked, his eyes beginning to get unfocused, “I feel so… dizzy.” Zozma walked… or more, lurched over to Rastaban and sat down next to him, still grinning as he looked at Rastaban's face.

 

“That'sh the magic working for you, Rashty,” Zozma told him, and then laughed, “Ciato, Rashty's drunk! He gotsh himself drunk!” Ciato got up and gave the thumbs-up as he too walked over to Rastaban and sat down across from him. He grabbed a few chips and stuffed them in his mouth.

 

“Good. Nowsh we can get downsh to bushiness!” Ciato said, as Zozma grabbed the bowl and stuffed his face next. Rastaban blinked as he tried to focus; he was drunk, yes, but he wasn't stupid. Anything they were planning in this state reeked of failure, and though he was gentle, he had to stop them now.

 

“What plan is that?” he asked, trying to remain as calm and sober as he could, which was hard to do, as Orlouge's magical wine took its effect on him. He found he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep… go to sleep and dream of… Ildon! Dear lord, Ildon was still asleep on that chair. Maybe he sobered up as well, and could have helped Rastaban. Yet, he didn't stir. Ciato looked at Zozma, who nodded.

 

“Wellsh, aren't we going to shtop Orlouge?” Ciato asked, as Rastaban turned to him again, “We needsh a plan.” Rastaban shook his head. He was so tired… and yet, he had to focus. He could barely hear Ciato; just enough to process what was said. Zozma laughed as Rastaban turned to him.

 

“I figured we couldsh probably lure him outshide and push him off the roof,” Zozma had said, though Rastaban found it harder and harder to concentrate, “Watch him shwim for a bit… and then finish him off with… with…” It was clear that Zozma was getting rather woozy at that point, even as Ciato snapped his fingers to get him back. Now was Rastaban's chance. He turned around and tapped Ildon, who snorted.

 

“Ildon… wake up!” Rastaban whispered, “Help me!” Ildon snorted, and then opened his eyes, blinking as he saw Rastaban. He smiled just slightly.

 

“Is it morning, Rastaban?” he whispered back, but Rastaban shook his head.

 

“No, dear. You passed out at the party… but I need your help,” Rastaban told him as Ciato and Zozma jabbered on, “They're trying to come up with plans to kill Orlouge! Most of them are pretty ridiculous, but we need to stop them!” Ildon blinked, and then stood up to join them at the table. He looked grim, his usual look, and Rastaban smiled as hope returned to his still-intoxicated mind. Ildon sat down, eating a chip.

 

“They're going to try and attempt to kill Orlouge?” he repeated, and when Rastaban nodded, he said, “Good. I'm getting sick of the arrogant bastard, too.” Hope immediately left Rastaban as he realized that Ildon, though much more sober than the other two, was just as serious on the plan. He frowned as Zozma and Ciato cheered, both opening yet another can of Mystically-created beer.

 

“Ildon!” he cried, frustrated with how his party was going, “I'm begging you, do something!” Ildon looked over at Rastaban and sighed, shaking his head.

 

“Rasty, I know you're upset, but think about this. We all hate Orlouge,” Ildon pointed out, “Besides, these idiots are drunk. How much damage could they do?” Rastaban wanted to yell at Ildon, to tell him that wasn't the point, but Ildon did have a valid point: Ciato and Zozma were both too sick to actually carry out their plans. Rastaban simply sighed with slight relief as he realized that.

 

“I knowsh!” Zozma exclaimed, causing Rastaban and Ildon to look at him curiously, “Why don'sh we bomb the cashtle?” Ildon blinked, unable to believe that Zozma would think that would work. Ciato simply laughed, nodding dumbly and agreeing fully that the plan was the best they could've possibly come up with. Rastaban looked at Ildon, but his face was impassive. He'd have to humor the two.

 

“Zozma, how do you expect to smuggle a bomb into Facinaturu?” Ildon asked, as Rastaban inadvertently took another sip of the wine, silently cursing when he felt its effects once more. He twitched; he could barely hear what Ildon was saying. All he heard was his own heartbeat as he looked on at the Mystic. Zozma seemed to ignore Rastaban's suddenly flushed cheeks as he answered his friend.

 

“Wellsh, I knowsh thish guy… who got a plane… and he could probably shmuggle it in for us…” Zozma was trying to say, as Ildon snorted. He simply gazed on, watching Ciato and Zozma slowly drink themselves deeper into oblivion. But, as he glanced back, he noticed that Rastaban was watching him. He perked a brow.

 

“Rastaban? Are you all right?” he asked, showing genuine concern, “You look… a little ill.” He glanced at the glass of wine near Rastaban, and began to guess that the Mystic next to him was just as drunk as both Ciato and Zozma. Rastaban looked on at Ildon, and slowly nodded.

 

“I'm… fine… Ildon,” he said gently, smiling as he leaned a bit closer, “Just… feeling a bit warm, dear.” Ildon's lips thinned as he took the glass and sniffed. He smelled roses, and his face returned to its usual grimace. Rastaban ingested Orlouge's special wine. He sighed, knowing this meant he was the only sane one left, as his own sickness faded with sleep. Inwardly, he grinned, wanting to see just how this would unfold. He leaned back.

 

“Just rest, Rastaban,” he said calmly, and then looked at Zozma, “So, tell me, who's this guy you know about?” Zozma had just finished another can of beer at that point, and let out another loud belch.

 

“The guysh?” he asked, “What guysh?” Ildon had to repress a snort, as well as the urge to seriously mess with Zozma's head.

 

“Oh, you mentioned a guy with a plane,” Ildon told him, as Rastaban moaned miserably and flopped his head onto the table. Ildon patted his back, but kept his gaze upon Zozma, who steadily drained another can. His skin was turning green with illness, and Ildon was sure he'd reach his limit soon, if he hadn't already surpassed it.

 

“Guysh… with plane…?” Zozma repeated, “Well… there… ugh…” Zozma threw up, finally, all over Rastaban's rug, but Rastaban himself didn't appear to notice it as Zozma then fell out of his seat, too drunk to even sit properly. Ildon snorted again, and Ciato looked down at his proclaimed `brother.'

 

“Shozma?” he called, poking Zozma, “Come on. Gesh up, ya lashy bashtard. We gotsh to kill Orlosh. You shaid we needsh a bomb.” He poked Zozma again, but the red-haired Mystic didn't move. Ildon finally grinned. This was working… in a way. Soon, either they'd finally find a decent way to kill Orlouge, or they'd pass out, completely off their rockers. He just had to keep pushing their buttons until something worked in his vaguely described favor.

 

“We could kill Orlouge in other ways, you know,” Ildon reminded Ciato kindly, trying not to appear too helpful, in case Rastaban's drunken effect wore off, “I'm sure someone here knows how to do so?” He looked at Rastaban, who seemed too out of it to even remember where he was at that point, the wine becoming too powerful for him to process. He stared at Ildon with a dull glaze in his eyes. Ildon smiled gently and patted his shoulder, wondering if Rastaban would have any ideas.

 

“He likes… his mistresses….” Rastaban struggled to say, unable to keep himself up without support from Ildon, “We… could make them… all leave…” Ildon's lips thinned. That wouldn't work to kill Orlouge, though it probably would make him leave for a while to find them all. But that wasn't good enough, especially if Ciato sobered up in the middle of their execution. As if that would happen; Ciato's beer count was nearly at one hundred, more than enough to knock any normal human out.

 

“We need a… more effective plan,” Ildon goaded, unable to control the grin he was forming as he looked at his fellow Mystics, “We know magic won't work on him, and fists are just as pathetic. So? Any ideas?” Rastaban simply moaned, unwilling to think any more than he had to. It was all he could do not to throw up on his own rug. Ciato, however, grinned a very dumb grin as he tugged at the sword near his waist.

 

“We could shtab him!” he exclaimed happily, “Shtab the bashtard with theesh big, pointy shticks!” Ildon's eyes narrowed, his dark, sinister grin still widening. This was actually fun for him, something he could rarely say he ever felt. Part of him knew this was wrong, but he didn't appear to care. After all, they were drunk. He didn't think anyone besides himself was a threat to Orlouge at that point.

 

“Hmm… no, we need something at a long range so that, if he does survive, we can run,” Ildon suggested, “It's too bad we don't have any guns.”

 

“Ashellush has one,” Ciato said, “We could ashk to borrow it. Shay that we needsh to shoot birds… an' watch their organsh… spew…” That plan was a bit too much for Rastaban, as he too threw up the contents of his stomach all over the floor. He didn't pass out, but he moaned again and laid his head on the table as Ildon patted his back.

 

“No, no, that's way too messy,” Ildon told him, “I mean, the birds. Orlouge might fall down a bit… but one gun isn't enough. We need… Ciato?” Ciato tried to pop open another beer, but the sheer smell of it finally hit him. It made him dizzy, and as he leaned back, his chair fell over, causing him to slam hard into the floor. Ildon blinked, and then looked around. Everyone had either passed out or fallen over. He bit his lip and glanced at Rastaban, who was panting heavily, trying to get rid of whatever was still in his system. Zozma was stirring, and seemed to be trying to stand. Ciato was already clambering back up, and within minutes, all of them stood, once more, around Rastaban's now-trashed apartment.

 

“What the hell were we doing?” Zozma asked, “…and why do I smell like barf!?”

 

“You threw up, dumbass,” Ildon told him grimly, knowing that his wish to actually off Orlouge was now thwarted, as Zozma sounded perfectly sober, “As to what was happening… you all were getting yourselves drunk off your rockers.”

 

“You were drinking too, dear,” Rastaban said, glancing at Ildon skeptically, “I'm to guess you sobered up during your nap?” Ildon nodded.

 

“Of course. Mystics don't get hangovers like humans do, so as soon as we sleep, we're cured,” Ildon reminded him, “I see you all snapped out of your embarrassingly deep conditions, too.” Rastaban nodded as Zozma began to pick up some of the scattered cans and throw them into a bag to toss out later.

 

“So, seriously, what the hell were we talking about?” Zozma asked again, as Ciato tried to fix his chair, “The last thing I remember is watching Alkarl's Stream and listening to Ciato cry bucketloads over it.” Ciato shot him a nasty glare, and Ildon laughed. He remembered that picture clearly. Sighing, he sat back in his seat, looking at the now empty bowl of chips.

 

“You two were coming up with increasingly bad ways to kill Orlouge,” he told them all, “Trust me, none of them would have worked.” Ciato snorted, unfortunately unable to remember any of those so-called ideas. Zozma chuckled as he threw away another can.

 

“What'd we finally settle on?” he asked, as Rastaban used a towel or two to clean Zozma's mess up.

 

“I suggested we use guns, and then you all just fell apart on me,” Ildon replied bitterly, “Not that we have guns, anyway.”

 

“Yeah we do,” Zozma told him, perking an eyebrow, “I got a case full of them in my bag.” Rastaban looked at him, raising another skeptical brow as he threw the soiled towels into another bag.

 

“You randomly keep guns in your bag?” he asked. Zozma grinned again and nodded, opening his bag to show that, indeed, he carried four guns with him.

 

“Well, yeah. You never know when we need to do errands,” Zozma told him flatly, “I figure, hell, Twogun is a powerful technique, so my new Fourgun should kick some serious ass!” Rastaban simply blinked, unable to tell Zozma that, not only could they NOT use techniques, but that Fourgun would never work anyway. He'd need at least four arms to pull that off. He simply sighed.

 

“Hey, if you have the guns, why don't we do what Ildon said and just shoot the hell out of Orlouge?” Ciato asked, and Ildon glared at him in disbelief, “Hey, you yourself said we all hated him, Ildon. If we all go in together, one of us might actually kill him and survive.” Ildon actually laughed, now. Those were terrible odds! Besides, he wasn't actually serious when he suggested that.

 

“Since when have you ever advocated teamwork, Ciato?” Ildon asked, trying not to snort with amusement at Ciato's logic.

 

“Since I realized that with you three with me, the chance of him killing me specifically was lowered by 75%,” Ciato replied, “So, bat boy, are you going to keep questioning my logic, or are you going to help me take that son of a bitch down and rebuild our world the right way?” Ildon blinked, not sure he should even think of making that decision. Pissing Ciato off was always bad, but agreeing to kill Orlouge would be worse if they didn't actually manage to kill him.

 

“I doubt human sacrifices are the right way for any world,” Ildon remarked smugly, “But I guess I'll help you. Our lives aren't even worth living with him looming over us. So, who's with us?” Zozma looked over and threw both Ciato and Ildon a gun.

 

“I'm in,” he said darkly, “I've always wanted to use these new MBXs.” Ildon's evil smile returned as he glanced at Rastaban, who stared at all three of them with utter shock and disbelief at what was happening.

 

“Rastaban? Will you come with us?” Ildon asked calmly, as Rastaban's eye twitched.

 

“You can't be serious. You're going to actually go in there with guns and SHOOT him to death!?” Rastaban cried, “In what world does that EVER work!?”

 

“IRPO does that all the time,” Zozma pointed out bluntly, “They've never had a survivor.”

 

“THEY'RE PROFESSIONAL GUNMEN!” Rastaban yelled, tugging his own hair, “We don't know how to use guns! We could hurt people! It's illegal! We…”

 

“Are you coming with us or do we need to shoot you, too, Prissy Wing!?” Ciato threatened, rolling his eyes at Rastaban's overreaction to their situation. Rastaban sighed. He didn't like his ultimatum at all. It reeked of not only failure, but of certain death no matter what he agreed to do… or not do. Shaking his head, he took the gun Zozma handed to him.

 

“Fine, I'll help you…” he mumbled, “Let's go and get Orlouge.” Ildon smiled again as he patted Rastaban on the back, the four of them leaving the apartment. They walked down the long, spiraling flight of stairs that twisted around the large `branch' that Rastaban's apartment was seated on, walking into the entrance hall and ignoring the smell of the flowers and the music from the throne room. They stopped right outside two large doors with roses dangling off of them.

 

“Everyone got their gun ready?” Zozma whispered, his hand on the knob. When everyone nodded, he said, “…FOR FACINATURU!”

 

“FOR FACINATURU!” And with that, the four Mystics rushed into the large chamber, with all of the mistresses screaming and running out, as they brandished their guns. After that, all anyone in Facinaturu could hear were the sounds of four very loud gunshots… and then the insane laughter of the Charm Lord himself as it echoed all across the chamber, out of the castle, and into the dark, night sky itself. And then… silence.

 

-----------------------------(The End)

 

…and it looks like we don't even know what actually happened! Anyway, I decided to do this on a whim, because, while I love Asellus's Scenario and its dark setting, I felt it was a bit too serious, and that most fanfiction concerning it was overly serious, too. This was my attempt to bring some humor to the Mystic race… which I think came out really good considering, too! So, be sure to click that Review button!