[Jack Fontaine]

Nobody Don't you know who I think I am?

The room was large, well appointed, and airy. With its large windows, natural light poured across it. The three siblings were stood side by side, in order of age. Their age was clear enough through their height. The tallest, and therefore eldest, a boy, had close cropped blonde hair and an air of arrogance about him. The next was shorter, though only by a few inches. She was slim, with a faint smile on her face. The final, the particular object of our story, is shorter than both, and while thin, is thin in a particularly gangly way that suggests they have not yet grown into their limbs. Their hair is dark, messy and falling down over their eyes, such that they frequently need to brush it out of the way. They do so, returning their hand to their pocket once their vision is no longer obscured. They are slouching, dressed in direct contrast to the other two. Instead of shirt or blouse, they wear an oversized t-shirt adorned with an equally inappropriate slogan. Their jeans are stained, and at odds with their sibling's more formal attire. The three have been stood like this for some ten minutes, awaiting the arrival of the one who summoned them, their father. The door clicks open, and all three stiffen, standing straighter, though this was difficult in the case of the two elder siblings. The youngest grimaces, suggesting that their position is one they would not have chosen themselves. The man who enters is tall, though the eldest is clearly catching up to him. He has a long face, sharp cheekbones, and the sort of figure that suggests he once was an athlete, now running to fat with his increasing age. He didn't look at the three individuals awaiting him, instead moving across to the large, heavy desk that dominated the space. He sat, inspecting a few papers for a moment before finally looking up. His eyes passed across the three individuals without comment, though they lingered disapprovingly on the last and youngest figure for a moment longer than was perhaps necessary. They were cold blue eyes that conjured images of white witches and contract killers before they made one think of a father figure. His face was impassive, betraying nothing. It never did. Emmanuel Fontaine was a man of control. He rarely expressed intense emotion, or emotion at all. "Well?" His tone likewise held no warmth to his progeny, demanding absolute attention and obedience, while giving little in return. "You know your task. You may begin."

© seadra of gs