So… after two years, I have come back! I actually never thought I'd go back but Allen kept bugging me and giving me love chills.

In those two years, I only opened my account once or twice. To those who were waiting for the final update of Five Instances in the THG fandom, I am incredibly grateful for your enthusiasm. I feel so blessed! However, I am sorry to say I don't have plans of foregoing with that project anymore. *goes hide in a closet*

Anyway, moving on, this story was borne out of my frustration with Allen. I don't usually like the douchebag types but there's something about Allen. (His hot face and hair and everything) I like to think that he's hiding some angst/inner fluff underneath his jerk exterior… or maybe I am giving him too much credit. Oh well, papel.

So, without further ado, here's the prologue to The Narcissist's Unmaking. A sneak preview to angst-Allen. Although I warn you this is going to be more fluff sooner or later.

PROLOGUE

Nestled between humble mountains and inconspicuous nowhere, Echo Town laid before Allen, in the shadow of its former glory – that is to say, in the stylist's words, old news.

"This is it?" Allen grumbled to himself as he stood atop the cliffs overlooking his new home.

The wind rolled off his skin in gentle waves, brushing deeper into his thin jacket before going on its way. (His hair had probably been blown into disarray but the 'just got out of bed' look suited him just fine too.) It tasted of dew, mint and a hint of flora; so unlike the smoke and grime filled air his lungs had grown accustomed to. He almost felt like a fish out of muddied water, choking in the absence of its drug.

"Lovely," he adds begrudgingly.

And it was. Here, every shade of color was richer than what he was used to: the sky was bluer, the grass greener, and the water clearer. Color popped from even the tiniest of flowers and flutter of wings. The early morning sun added a soft glow to the already picturesque sight.

However, the town was a tad bit too rustic. A few streetlights, benches and topiaries here and there but that was it. He can't fathom how he would be restocking his supplies. Would they ship it as far as this place?Then there's his clientele, or possibly lack there of. He could count on one hand the number of buildings, which gave him an idea of the population's scarcity. At least he didn't have to pay for advertising. He'd be a walking advertisement on his own. Everybody gets excited when a newbie comes. Especially when he/she is as rare as a specimen Allen is.

The stylist groaned, unsure if he should laugh or pity himself. Perhaps moving wasn't as easy as he thought it was. He could hear his sister's voice now, asking how everything was.

"Perfect" he said, under his breath. "Just perfect."

And he covered his face with one hand, trying to hide the devil's grin.

When old man Dunhill asked if he would be interested to move towns, his first instinct was to laugh at his worn face. Why would a stylist who's highly in demand transfer to the middle of nowhere? In the first place, why should he when it meant letting go of everything he worked for? Dunhill wasn't asking him to simply leave for a different town. The old man was inviting him to a new beginning – or at least that's what it sounded like.

And truth be told, Allen was bored with his lifestyle; with the numbing minute-to-minute schedule, mindless monotony and occasional drunken nights of "passion" with faceless women. Everything had coalesced into a fizz of gray, static and anesthesia. It was more suffocating than smoke. It was slow-acting poison. Hence, he agreed.

"Take me away, old man," he said. Tucking away his shears in his backpocket, he never looked back. After all, he liked that a withered old man had graciously begged for him. He liked a new challenge. It's not like he felt he lost himself at all. It was not because he wanted to see the world in color again.

To hear, breathe and feel again.

To simply live again.

Certainly not for those reasons.

So, there he was, thinking this was what the harvest god had felt when he created the world and looked over creation. Or perhaps how a military general analyzes the battlefield. How a surveyor maps the area and its boundaries.

The area was dotted with a few meek houses. A wide expanse of field - the farm - lay before him, close to his own fort. Undoubtedly, the center of his map would be his own salon. His eyes grazed the blue roof. Dainty and classic, his salon fit perfectly in that quaint little town. Not exactly what he'd go for given the choice but who could complain about free lodging? Although he'd definitely add a splash of red given the choice…

Just then, a streak of pale yellow flew out of his salon. He'd have thought his eyes had been playing tricks on him if it weren't for that goddamn awful cow print hat she was wearing. As if pulled by his gaze, the chick swivels her head to look up at the man on the cliff. Allen could swear it was almost as if she was challenging him, but that couldn't be. From that angle and the sun shining behind him, she couldn't have seen him. And yet…

An old nursery rhyme suddenly surfaces into his mind, one about shooing away rain. Except this time, it goes:
"… Come again another day. Little chickie wants to play…."

The End.

A/N: So what ya think? Drop me a review if you liked it or have any constructive criticism to offer! (Please be nice though huhuhu)