I wanted to do a story about how Junior 'becomes' Lavi. But since that's been done before, I decided to stray a little bit away from the 'canon' and make it so that he's sort-of aware that he's slipping instead of the first 'real' signs appearing on Anita's ship. And even though I only planned for it to be 2,000 words max, it ended up being twice that length.

But this is my first one-shot going up. So, enjoy :)

"Yo! Mind if I sit here?"

He could hear all the Finders whispering, making quick glances in their direction. His ears could pick up all the separate conversations—they all went something along the lines of 'that new exorcist must have a deathwish.'

The other boy—Yuu Kanda was his name, according to the files that Bookman had 'gathered'—was more well-known for his hot temper than his skills with his katana-like innocence. At least, it was according to the Finder reports, and he had noticed that they seemed to exaggerate many different things most of the time.

"Che," the Japanese exorcist grunted, and the way that he was glaring at him probably meant that it was most likely a 'get the hell away from me'. But 'Lavi' was 'frivolous and friendly', and he had to live up to his 'part' in this war.

"My name's Lavi," he said, plopping himself down right next to the Japanese exorcist. "And you're Yuu, right?" He pretended to ignore the way his hand tightened around his sword. "That's a cute name! I'm gonna call you Yuu-chan, 'cause you got pretty hair!"

The entire cafeteria became deathly silent, all attention on the two sitting at a table close to the door. He froze, still used to Deak's personality and habits and the fact that he was used to being seen but not heard. But that worked out surprisingly well, seeing as 'Yuu-chan' drew his sword and pointed it dangerously close to his neck.

"H-hey! What's that for, Yuu-chan?!" he yelled, faking a scared look.

"Don't ever call me that again, Baka Usagi," he growled. "My name is Kanda."

Of course he knew that—all those files that he and Bookman had pieced together from Finder reports and journals and debriefing pages and the like had some very detailed information about all the exorcists. There were little holes in all of them, as was expected for incomplete records, but this particular person's holes were gaping, threatening to swallow whatever came too close to the edge.

So he'd still be 'Lavi' for a while.

"Aw, Yuu-chan's got a nickname for me!" he said, keeping the giant grin on his face. He hadn't smiled this much in what seemed like forever—his jaw was beginning to hurt.

He took off down the hall at a speed that even Lenalee would be impressed with, bursting through doors and memorizing corridors, an extremely pissed off swordsman at his heels and swinging wildly.

He laughed the entire time.

I hate humans.

Bookmen aren't supposed to have a heart, I know that all too well. We aren't supposed to pick and chose who we like better and which side to take because the feelings will leak into the records and contaminate them.

But I hate humans. I hate them so much that it hurts.

Everyone has their secrets here, at the Order—who could possibly guess that cheerful, happy-go-lucky Lavi is actually a heartless observer who stood by and watched as families were slaughtered and children were raped? Who would guess that 'Lavi' was a skin that he could shed at any moment he wanted to, who wouldn't care a bit if all his comrades turned to dust on the battlefield?

Humans only saw what they wanted to see, and if you put on a convincing enough act, they would leave you to your own devices. It didn't matter if your smile never reached your eyes or you would frown when you thought that no one was looking. It didn't matter who was fighting as long as they were on your side.

It sickens me down to the core. It's always want, want, want; mine, mine, mine; war, war, war. Humans are such a pitiful species: they're the ones tearing themselves apart.

I have no problem saying that I would not be disappointed if the Earl won this 'fight for humanity'.

Kanda had openly expressed his dislike for Finders. He preferred to leave them behind at the inn, ditch them in the middle of a mission, run off for no apparent reason other than the fact that he just felt like it, or all of the above.

But when they were in battle with the akuma, he made sure to position himself between them and the demon and block all the attacks headed their way. He watched when he deflected blows headed for Lenalee and sometimes even for the 'Baka Usagi'.

It baffled him. It confused him. It took all his first impressions and stretched them to their limits before he'd throw a glare over his shoulder and remind him why his first impressions were the way they were.

His impression that day in the cafeteria had been that the Japanese man was the typical 'I-don't-care-about-anyone-because-I'm-so-awesome' type that he'd some across so many times that it made him want to puke by just thinking about it. But he was one of those people who genuinely cared for others, something he hadn't come across very often in all the wars that he had seen.

There was Lenalee, too. She'd struck him as the type who was all talk but no guts, as she was a girl and had her precious older brother to protect her from harm. But she charged into battle without a second thought and fought until she was black and blue, and then she'd fight some more.

…He didn't understand them. He didn't know what to think of them anymore. But he pushed those thoughts into the back of his mind and continued on through the battles, promising himself that he'd figure the both of them out, that he'd figure out why they acted so strange and how they could still be real after everything they'd been through.

This is my forty-ninth alias. There were forty-eight before this one: forty-eight names, forty-eight wars, forty-eight times that I'd given up my name and moved on without a second thought.

Usually, it is Bookman who creates these aliases and their personalities, but he believed that I was ready to create my own. I had chosen the name Lavi, the name that I had been given when I was born.

It was my way of rubbing it in mother's face. See, I told her in my mind, I don't need you.

'Lavi' was the comic relief; 'Lavi' was that loveable oaf who had no problems and cheered everyone up and was more annoying than helpful on more than one occasion; 'Lavi' was supposed to be someone that wormed his way into everyone's hearts so much that it was almost painful. Almost.

But 'Lavi' was also supposed to be temporary.

Looking back on it now, he realized that the entire problem was that 'Lavi' just smiled too damn much for his own good.

Humans only understand what they wish to understand.

One such example was Galileo Galilei, the Italian physicist from the mid-sixteen-hundreds. He had come to the conclusion that the universe revolved around the Sun, not the Earth, and that everyone on their little planet had been wrong for thousands of years. Because his findings, the Christian church had put him under house arrest and eventually beheaded.

Even now it still amazes me. Are humans truly that conceded that they believe that the universe revolves around them? That they were so great that there couldn't possibly be something bigger and better than they were?

"This is the war to end all wars."

Yeah, right, he thought, only half-listening to the Pope's speech. He was dressed in his brand-new uniform, but it didn't help him at all to blend into the crowd of other exorcists with his red hair and eyepatch. He had noticed that all the exorcists that came from the other branches were in strict uniform, sitting rigid in their seats like good little soldiers.

These people didn't know what war was. War was greed, war was jealousy, war was when so much blood was spilt on the ground that even goddamned grass wouldn't grow on it. Of all the wars he'd witnessed, this one was probably the most 'civilized': if you got hit, you were dead, simple as that. No blood was spilt: what need was there for sharp weapons when there was poison and flesh-eating butterflies? What need was there to gather and bury the dead when the greater majority of the enemies were machines?

If the battles weren't so damn important to the 'fate of mankind', they wouldn't even be called skirmishes in the records that he and Bookman were working on.

"This is the war to end all wars."

As long as there was something to fight over, there has been war: that is what Bookman told me when I was a child.

I am no optimist, nor am I a pessimist. I am a realist—I do not dance around the truth like a puppet on strings. I tell it like it is, without sugar-coating my words to make them easier for others to swallow. The truth is the truth, and I refuse to spoon-feed all the mistakes of the human race to the people around me with non-existent sugary goodness. If they can not swallow what is in front of them, then I say let them starve and whither away until they come crawling back for what they rejected.

There will always be war, and there is no way to sugar-coat that without your fair share of lies.

"What is that thing?"

"It's not a thing, you… you Bookman!" Komui spat, stroking the metal of his newest creation. "It's my precious Sir Komurin!"

"You took me out of the cafeteria to see that?!" Kanda spat. "I'm going back to eat."

"No, don't-" Komui began, but the Japanese man slammed the door behind him, going back to his cafeteria.

Lavi sighed quietly. With Lenalee off on a mission and the Science Division doing God-knows-what, the only one left to comfort the eccentric man was him. It was only his second week at the Order, the first few days being followed (stalked) by Johnny who was a little too eager to get his measurements and all the rest was either spent unpacking or on that little mission with Lenalee. He wasn't a naturally sociable person, and he was still adjusting to all the… colorful people at the Main Branch.

Yes, colorful was a good word. It was simple, but it got his point across. A better word would be insane, but that would be pushing his luck a little bit.

Just a little.

"So…" he began. "What does it do?"

"It does everything!"

"…Everything?" He wasn't sure that he liked where this was going.

-

"That damn thing ate my soba! Damn Baka Usagi!"

"Woah! Watch where you point that thing, Yuu-chan! Besides, I'm not the one who made it, remember?"

I am no soldier, and I pride myself with that fact.

I am an observer, a watcher, a recorder, nothing less, nothing more, and certainly nothing in between. I am a Bookman, a liar, a person who cast away their heart along with their name.

I am no soldier, and I pride myself with that fact.

"Today's June 6th."

"What's so special about June 6th, Lenalee?"

He spent most of his time with Kanda and Lenalee than most of the other people in the Order. After all, they were the soldiers going into battle, so it was only logical that he work on his records through them.

"Today's Kanda's birthday," she said. "He's turning seventeen."

"That's no fair," he huffed. "He's older than me."

"But you're taller," she reminded him. "So will you help me?"

"Of course I will, Lena-chan!" He smiled. "Yuu-chan will be so surprised!"

"He likes chocolate, I think," she said. "For the cake."

"Really? I thought that he hated sweets. And doesn't he live off of soba?"

"Don't be silly, Lavi. No one can live off of just soba, even Kanda."

"What, Lavi? Afraid of a little blood?"

"How many did you get?"

"I dunno. About thirty."

"Thirty-seven. I win."

"Isn't that a little morbid?"

He laughed, surprising Allen. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Why do you care for these people so?"

"Don't listen to those stupid villagers, Krory-kins!" he said, grinning while pulling the 'vampire' along. "They just don't know that you saved all of them from that akuma."

He mumbled something that sounded like the name of that akuma girl: First-Aid? Definately no, but it was something along those lines.

"But don't worry about that," he tried again. "Look at Allen! He's a gluttonous freak—"

"Gee, thanks."

"—But he's got Lenalee comin' at him head over heels."

The half-swallowed drink in Allen's mouth was sprayed all over the hallway of the train.

"What?" His voice was a few octaves higher than any respectable fifteen-year-old's voice should be.

"Oh, young, naïve Allen," he sighed, patting his head. "Already fifteen and you don't know how to tell if a girl's got the hots for ya." He shook his head sadly.

"Who is this 'Lenalee'?" Krory asked, looking a little confused.

"She is another exorcist at the Black Order," Allen said matter-of-factly, recovering from his outburst. "And she has an older brother who would probably come and kill me in his sleep if he heard you say that."

"Gosh, someone doesn't know how to take a joke."

"Don't you remember why you became a Bookman? Or have you already forgotten?

Have you already forgotten what they did to us?"

Allen was dead.

His blood had been splattered on the trees and the ground—everywhere within a two-foot radius had been drenched with it. Tim had recorded the entire thing, and he and Lenalee had watched it on the spot, something that had proven to be a mistake.

Miranda was crying. Krory was devastated. Lenalee walked around the ship with dead, blank eyes, the recording from Tim replaying over and over again in her head.

And he had locked himself in his room, for the first time not relying on his memories to get everything right and replaying the small clip over and over again.

And it hurt. It hurt every time he saw him scream and arch his back against the ground. It didn't get better, it didn't go away.

It always goes away, he told himself. It always does.

"What, Lavi? Afraid of a little blood?"

"Shut up, Junior," he hissed, covering his ears. "I don't need to hear anything from you right now."

"Don't play dumb, Lavi."

He paused.

"Why do you care for these people so?"

"I don't care," he said. "I don't care about a single one of them."

"You're slipping. No, it's far past slipping now. It's as if you have jumped off this boat. You've taken a nosedive."

A smirk.

"Don't you remember why you became a Bookman? Or have you already forgotten?"

It didn't need to be finished, because they both knew what would be said next: "Have you already forgotten what they did to us?"

"Shut up!" he yelled, knocking a bottle of what smelled like perfume off the desk, it crashing onto the floor and shattering. After a moment, a glow of innocence surrounded it and it repaired itself, floating to land back on the table.

He could still smell the perfume. But whether it was in the air or just in his mind, he couldn't tell.

There was a soft tap on the door. "Lavi—" he could tell it was Krory. "—Are you alright? I thought I heard you talking to someone."

"Just myself," he said, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead. "And I got a little clumsy. Sorry 'bout that."

It was a half-lie, but it was so much better than the truth.

Lies are still lies.

I was born a liar, lived a liar, and with any 'luck', I will probably die a liar.

I do not care for these people. I do not care for these people. I do not care for these people.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I'll start to believe it myself.

"A Bookman has no need for a heart. Never forget that, Junior."

Sorry, Gramps, he thought. I guess I wasn't a very good Bookman, was I?

Love was such a weak word.

"I love shopping."

"I love money."

"I love food."

"I love my house."

"I love my job."

So, when asked what he loved, why did he want to say "I love my family"?

What had he brought, when he came to the Order?

He had brought an extra pair of hands. He had brought muted rainbows in his pockets and white lies on his lips.

But they were only little white lies. White lies were harmless, easy, and for someone as 'experienced' as him, they came to him without a moment's hesitation, pouring out of his mouth, unable to stop them, like that tacky perfume bottle on Anita's ship that was sitting at the bottom of the ocean, broken into all those little pieces.

But it was better that way, maybe, probably, definitely. His little white lies had become lies of omission, telling some of the truth while leaving out all those little details that made all the difference.

You're still a liar, Junior taunted from the back of his mind. Smirking, taunting, always there. You make me sick. Excuses, all of them. Lies of omission are still lies, stupid.

When you look at them, Lavi, what do you see?

Do you see them as friends? Do you see them as family? Or do you see them as ink on parchment, like you know they are?

They're just like the rest of them. They're just like that man who got skinned alive by that boy whose parents were murdered at his hands. They're just like that little kid who promised revenge on their tormentors, only to grow up and plow through those who stood in their way. They're all soldiers: they'll never understand. They were trained not to pity. They were trained not to care. They were trained that 'we' were good and 'they' were bad.

Forget about Miranda, that lady exorcist who was never wanted by anyone. She's the only one to blame: she set herself up to be used, and it's her own fault that she's got a nice, warm bed to sleep in and people who genuinely care.

Forget about Krory, that 'vampire' from that village. He's a freak among freaks—he was never liked by anyone, but now he's got people who don't shun him from society and give him real smiles.

Forget about Kanda. Forget about cold-hearted Kanda who scoffs at Finders and uses his comrades as target practice, but protects them 'til the bitter end without so much as a second thought.

Forget about Lenalee, the cry-baby who goes running to her precious Allen when things get too rough, who cares more the people around her than anything else. Forget about how sad she looked when Allen 'died'; forget about how it made you wonder if she'd cry over your death too.

Forget about the Science Division, who would pull all-nighters just for the sake of keeping a soldier on the field. Forget about that crazy nurse in the hospital wing who constantly tended to soldiers who wouldn't make it through the night. Forget about Komui, who feigned lunacy and would watch, stone-faced, as all the people he had been charged with keeping safe were cremated and their valuables spirited away.

And forget about Allen Walker, that boy with the cursed eye who probably wouldn't see the end of this war. Forget about how his heart could fill the entire room, how he was the first person you had met who could sympathize with and cared genuinely for both sides, how he was sure that he was right but that he wasn't so close-minded that he'd push away every idea that came his way that didn't agree with his morals.

Don't you see what you've done to us, Lavi? You made us feel, you made us real, you made us grow a heart that laughed and cried and bled.

You made us care.

"We want to know the real you, Lavi."

Allen had approached him one day. It was surprising: he was much too polite of a person to be so direct about personal subjects such as those, but the war had inevitably changed him.

For better or for worse, only time would tell.

But it made him angry. It made him want to scream and cry and beat his head against the wall until he bled. This was the real Lavi: happy-go-lucky and so fake that it was almost nauseating. Almost.

As much as I hate to admit it, Panda-gramps, I don't think that I was a very good Bookman.

But I wasn't a very good friend either.

But he ruffled Allen's hair, still smiling, still fake, still carrying those stupid plastic stars and rainbows in his pockets that seemed a little brighter than before.

"No, you don't."

Lies of omission are still lies, stupid.