Alphonse Brunt {D4}

His angular frame was bent over a tray of palettes and brushes, stationary like a statue aside from the subtle twitches in his left hand. Blotting the stars on this particular masterpiece was troublesome work. He had to count each individual star as if he were counting the freckles spattered against his sharp cheekbones, and he counted thrice to triple check the total. Then he had to measure each position and attempt to match it with his forgery. An exact replica of a famous painting had to be convincing, after all. The hills must match the original's length, the sun had to be the right circumference and the sky had to be the right mixture of colors or else he would be discovered as a fraud and arrested for his schemes. After assembling his reputation and building a mountain of wealth after years of diligence and dedication, why risk losing everything? He had to be a perfectionist, painful as it was. In the business of forgery one couldn't be too careful.

He took breaks now and then. Artistry was a constant test of his patience - a battle he refused to lose - and whenever he detected signs of hand cramps or quivering arms or hunger or drowsiness he would abandon his post to eliminate whatever distraction was plaguing his mind. For cramps he would massage himself in the comforts of his lonesome abode, a luxurious place earned by his cunning ability and hard-work. If his parents were to see the building for themselves they would surely be impressed. Envious, even. Who would've guessed that their "lazy, good-for-nothing" son would one day afford something so grand? And he had such fine taste in furniture, too. The interior was decorated to match its attractive shell. He figured he might show it to his parents someday to spite them further for their actions. Booting him out on the streets like that - what sort of irresponsible parent would do such a thing? He hadn't even been eighteen yet. And that's why I never turn back. Fuck them, and fuck their opinions.

He dotted the painting with its final star, a freckle of yellow mixed with white to create the perfect contrast in the piece's evening sky portrayal. It was an odd swirl of colors, making it more difficult than usual to copy. But this one would be worth it. Not only would it bring the largest influx of money he had earned thus far, but it would surely impress Lancelot Black, for owning one of the finest paintings in District Four that had supposedly been lost by its deceased creator was definitely something worth gushing over. He was still ecstatic about the letter he had received on his doorstep, taped to the glass window with the initials "LB" etched neatly on the front. Lancelot Black, one of the most prestigious men in of the upper class, had invited him to attend a ball at his mansion. His mansion, which happened to be on a bloody island. Was there anything that could match this honor? Probably not.

And it's funny, because they'll have no idea how big of a liar I am.

A week later he was in the bowels of the mansion, donned in his finest suit with his blond hair gelled and styled. Lancelot had an announcement to make:

"I will not live forever, and as I never had any children of my own, I am left with the issue of deciding where exactly my wealth will go."

He was so rich, so deliciously rich that Alphonse himseld could discard his entire career if he possessed such wealth. He would be set for the rest of his life. He would be set for ten lives. "As you may guess by now, I have decided that the recipient will be someone in this room." Were his ears deceiving him? He was a potential replacement - the new Lancelot Black, except his name was Alphonse Brunt and that name would sound so much better sweeping through the District with the highest prestige laced into its syllables. If it was a raffle, he could somehow cheat his way to triumph. His brain as already scheming, and he didn't know whether he should be proud or ashamed of the monster he had become.

"There is, however, a catch. In order to be considered, you must live here with me. On this island. For an entire year, at the end of which I'll be deciding which of you gets my estate. Everything, the island, the house, the money, the business, and all you have to do is keep me company.

He could've laughed.

It was a Game to win Lancelot's heart, a contest for his admiration. Every man and women in this room would be competing - all while dwelling on plush pillows with servants at their heels. Alphonse was rich, but he couldn't afford to have employees snooping around his abode. He would lie his way to victory with servants to assure his comfort, maids to clean his messes and chefs to prepare the finest meals District Four had to offer. He had to conjure a plan, a scheme to ensure that he won Laneclot's full attention. He would have to get to know these people, and he would have to find out if they already knew about him. Not the real con-artist Alphonse, but his false identity. The salesmen who managed to get his hands on the rarest paintings in Four. Who knows, maybe he had already sold a painting or two to some of these esteemed guests.

He smirked and sipped the last drops of his red wine. Let's see if you can out-con the con man, you amateur scum.

In other words, let the games begin.