alexandre belrose || district eight || fin

What makes a boy like you tick?

At first, it might appear easy to pick up from a glance. A lone wolf armed with words coated in honey, an enigma who's brash and loud whenever there's a pretty face to impress, a speed demon who grins when he fights whether he's got someone in a chokehold or wiping the blood off of his face. Adrenaline junkie, cocky bastard, liked by most but beloved by few, someone who looks good and fights good and is all too aware of both facts.

You came from nowhere, a recent addition who took the world by storm. Sure, you were unrefined, sloppy, but there was no denying your enthusiasm, the raw energy you poured into each and every bout. You were tossed into the ring like any overeager newbie determined to prove their worth, with the expectations that you'd get your ass kicked and you'd never be seen again.

And you did get your ass handed to you, for it takes a hell of a fluke to win a fight against a seasoned professional on your first try. But you didn't disappear either, at least not in the manner you were expected to. Instead, you came back, bruises still fresh, and fought again. And again. Until suddenly it was your name in the win column, your name being shouted from the stands. Everyone knew who Alexandre was, after that.

But who is Alexandre, really?

Of that, no one can say for certain. Someone with his attitude, his looks, his skill could be a part of the inner circle of the fighting organization, a favorite amongst the wealthy whose debaucheries put food on the table and, sometimes, drugs in the bloodstream. There's an ego to rival even the most skilled in the ring, a raw strength and speed that makes up for a lack of refinement - by all accounts, you should be on top of the world, everyone screaming your name whenever you step into the ring.

And yet, you're painfully middle of the pack, seemingly content to bloody your knuckles and sometimes your nose, seemingly content to give a flirtatious look towards anything with a pulse and bed anyone who responds with the same. There's an air of carelessness following you wherever you go, seen in your fights, in your interactions, and there's never a chance to find out more. You come, you banter, you fight, you leave.

Everyone knows who you are, but not one soul in all of Eight knows who you are.

And that's just all right with you, for there's nothing really worth sharing.

Who is the boy behind the swagger, the winks, the calculations disguised as carelessness? If one cared enough to dig - and across eighteen years you have yet to find a single person that fits that criteria - they might find a backstory riddled with pain and disappointment.

One doesn't become the person you are without a tragic backstory, after all. The specialized branch of egotistical maniac that you put on comes from one of two possible backstories, and it definitely was not the one where you were a neglected heir of some rich family's estate. And for that you're just the tiniest bit grateful - after all, how else would you have been driven to such desperation, found such raw, dirty fun?

But only the tiniest bit. For while the rich merchant families eat out of silver spoons and have nary a care in the world, your life was quite different. Not extraordinary, if you count the many hundreds of other kids throughout the place you were born that also grew up in poverty, but not your typical run-of-the-mill family with two parents and a stable financial situation.

Hell, if fate had had its way, if the world was less cruel, you might not even be more than a dream, a passing thought on the wind. As it was, you were born to an affair between two unmarried lovers, a relationship doomed to fail when it was clear you were to be a thing. Your mother, for her credit, stubbornly refused to give you up both before and after the birth, and if victories and success could be won through sheer power of will then the two of you would have been victorious ten times over by the present day.

But alas, life was no fairytale, no story with a happy ending, and anyone that suggests otherwise is delusional. Your mother always put you before herself even when it became apparent that it wasn't sustainable. And then when the years of overworking caught up and it did become unsustainable, well, by that point you had to figure out an alternative.

She'd gotten you most of the way to adulthood, so it was time for you to pick up the pace.

Sure, there were several other things you did before fighting, but those don't need to be mentioned. The point of the matter is that you found something you enjoy and brings in the cash at the same time. If all you're good for is to fight and to fuck, you might as well make sure you're getting something worth it out of the endeavor after all, right?

Not that you could ever tell anyone of course. The persona of Alexandre does not include a soft spot, and anyone who suggests otherwise will have to get their ass beat.

So who is Alexandre Belrose, one might ask?

Heh. Well, good luck finding out, because if you had it your way, no one would ever truly know.