alphonse alcott ; district two ; done

All this ceremony makes a fragile foundation for ambition. There's no telling who Alphonse might have been had he not been born the eldest Alcott. With a legacy that quite literally stretches toward the heavens, every victory painstakingly inked into its bones. He learned at an early age to define himself only in the ways he's suffered for them. It's lucky, then, that his fingers are well-suited for a trigger.

He shouts down empty hallways until his throat bleeds, demands for respect drowned out by the sound of bullets vacating their chambers. There's an anxiety at the root of his bravado, more destructive than fearful. He has begun to resent all the parts of him that feel human, that cannot be polished until they fucking shine. He strives for perfection acutely aware that one day even that will not be enough.

He's carved out quite a lonely little kingdom in their closet full of skeletons.

There came a point where Alphonse was so full of hunger it left little room to be anything else. Perhaps his siblings still remember their older brother, the one who bandaged bloody knees with hands that had not yet forgotten how to be gentle. He equates that kindness with immaturity, a weakness that he was quick to outgrow. Obedience is born of fear, not love. As the leader of the Alcott spawn, that choice was practically made for him.

It's not so bad, though, because it's really fucking hard to feel guilty about following orders. Alphonse does not deserve to sleep as soundly as he does, but time again his victims have found that it's hard to haunt what harbors no regret.

Sometimes - not often - but sometimes he thinks about them. The faces beneath thick hoods, with hopes and dreams and families that are probably missing them. They'll worry themselves sick as cooling corpses are whisked away to god knows where his parents take disposed of marks.

That's okay, he tells himself. Repeats it over and over until it is all he can hear or think or taste. Until he's overwhelmed by the sheer force of his conviction. If they were deserving of more than a sad, anonymous death they would not have found themselves in his crosshairs to begin with.

He's found doubt is a difficult weakness to outgrow.

It's woven into the root of everything he does. Mottled in the bruises on his knuckles born from an evening of relentless training. It runs like poison through his veins, it whispers in shadows just out of earshot. All this desperate effort to prove himself and he still tends to avoid his own reflection. All this fucking effort to prove himself and he's never once felt proud.

Maybe that's why he's always fighting like he has everything to lose. Some persistent part of him is worried he'll never be enough to deserve this.

He likes his privilege. Likes that he's never had to earn anybody's respect, it's simply laid at his feet the minute he walks into a room. People listen to what he has to say, they give his words weight because he's Alphonse Alcott - who is not yet powerful but carries the promise of it. It's easier to keep your head down, best to just give the boy what he wants.

Therefore, he's not in the habit of going without.

Alphonse doesn't know how to live any other way and he doesn't really intend on learning. So he'll do what he must to keep this family together. And really, there's nothing he isn't willing to do.

For the greater good.

For his own good, too.