Getting Out
| Getting Out | |
|---|---|
| Date of Cutscene: | 29 January 2013 |
| Location: | Traverse Town |
| Synopsis: | Maximilien Amadeus Renaud-Sylvianne gets out of the office after Aftermaths and Battle-Scars. |
| Cast of Characters: | Maximilien Amadeus Renaud-Sylvianne |
'Get out'.
The words still rung in his head, and Maximilien Amadeus Renaud-Sylvianne hated himself for it. The words bounced around in his skull; the look on Cirra's face, the fork and the knife falling to the plate of carefully-prepared food, everything about that moment hung in his mind like a stormcloud, like a noose, like all sorts of dark and unpleasant metaphors he could probably spend all day naming if he really wanted to. The look in her eyes, the sound of her voice...it was like he had struck her, had reached out and slapped her. He should never have offered, never have said anything. He knew better, didn't he? He had thought he'd known better. Where had the dashing Phantom Thief MARS gone, the man he normally was, the man who could take a woman's hand and spin her about and pull her close and whisper sweet nothings in her ear, the man who could dance in the moonlight with a twinge of mystery and excitement and all the little romances that came between them, the legendary Phantom Thief who was the scourge of so many wealthy treasurers, full of swagger and confidence and French contempt?
The mask had slipped. That was all. He had slipped up, had said something he oughtn't've. He had just been stupid, that was it. Everyone made mistakes, even legendary, incomparable Phantom Thieves who dressed like they stepped out of a storybook and acted the same, a larger-than-life confidence trickster and stealth artist, a man who honestly wore a tuxedo and cape as evening-wear.
Maybe it was the clothes. Maybe wearing this button-down shirt and khakis, maybe that had done it. It wasn't really nice enough for him to be MARS in; it was the sort of thing he could be Joe or John or Jack or some other J-named generic nothing, some nobody who said stupid and honest things, someone who was totally and completely honest. There was such a difference, Max observes as he stands in the cold, thin air of the Traverse Town evening, between never lying and being totally honest. He didn't like being totally honest. He never liked being totally honest; it was a good way for a thief to get himself in a great deal of trouble, in a great deal of danger. He shouldn't've said anything.
The problem lay, Max considers as he hops from roof to roof, the open button-down shirt billowing in a familiar and comforting manner that reminded him a great deal of his opera cape (even if the tee-shirt he wore underneath, plain and white though it was, was hardly a match for his stylish tuxedo), in the fact that he had dared to take the step. He knew what would happen if he took the step before he had taken it. He knew what would happen, knew what the reaction would be - if not now then five years, ten years, twenty years down the road. He bounds off the wall of a building, grabbing the windowsill and hanging silently off the thing by his fingers.
This was unlike him. This was unbecoming of him; a simple obsession gotten out of hand, nothing more. His lips purse into a deep frown.
No, that wasn't what it was, and he knew it, and he wasn't about to start lying to himself about it or he'd never stop. He wasn't about to start pretending like that hadn't...
Max shakes his head as he drops into the alleyway. He pauses in the darkness, looking around as his eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light; it wasn't hard for him to see the alleyway, not difficult for his eyes to adjust to the pure, pitch, deep dark that was a thief's best friend. His hand slides into his khaki pocket, and he stands there for a moment, his eyes sinking shut as he pushes the memory of the hurt and anger on her face away, as he pushes the memory of the whole event away.
It's not like he had anyone he wanted to talk to about this, either. Oh, surely, Percival had made an offer to drink, and Mercade would likely make an offer to talk, and Will would say something kind-hearted but ultimately missing the point, and Emi, dear Emi, she would try something mad to cheer him up, some zany scheme or something sweet and from the heart, and he would smile and pat her on the head and thank her and it wouldn't quite meet his eyes, wouldn't quite reach his heart. None of them were people he wanted to talk to, though; he could talk at them, but he would be MARS the whole time, have the mask held delicately in front of his face and dance around the issues the way he always did. It was sort of amusing; the only person he wanted to talk to about this was the one person he had just promised never to speak to in this manner again.
But the bittersweet, heavily-ironic amusing, not the ha-ha how clever amusing.
Max stands there in the shadows for a long time, as the late night people of Traverse Town pass by. He stands there for a really, really, really long time, not really seeing them, not really hearing them, not really noticing them as they go about their evening routines, as they stumble home or enjoy the night or whatever. Every so often, a couple passes, enjoying the solitude and the peace and the quiet and the crisp, cool night air, and he doesn't look hurt. He doesn't look hurt. He refuses to look hurt, refuses to be so petty, to bend, to break. Call it stubborn pride, call it denial, call it whatever one liked, Maximilien Amadeus Renaud-Sylvianne was not the sort of man to get weepy and teary-eyed over a woman, he lectured himself sternly.
Max walks away from the darkness, heading out into the street. He had no intention of joining the world, of rejoining it; he was alone, after all. He had held out his hand, and had it bitterly slapped away, and that was fine. That was alright. He was alone, and he was fine with being alone. He just needed to remember that. He wasn't alone. He was a loner.
If only he could sound as convincing to himself as he did to other people, he would never have any problems at all, he muses.
In the shadows he just left, a pair of wide, glowing eyes open, gazing hungrily out at Traverse Town.
