Axiom of Two

Warnings: Please note, this is the only time these things will be stated. As the rating reflects, there will be plenty of mature content including violence, gore, dark themes, sexual situations, angst, etc. This is based in the City Of Heroes/Villains world, centered on CoV, but it more about the character's and their lives.
This is a collaborative effort! The story is told in two perspectives, Glacia and Fusiono are written by Kash and Xervai, respectively. The emphasis is on this, and these characters’ growth. Look elsewhere for game lore.
We do not own or in any way reflect the opinions of City of Heroes or City of Villains and their owners, merely the order of our words.


Glacia: Daughter

Both of my parents lived very convenient lives.

I never hated them as a child. They disgusted me, but I couldn’t hate them. That came later. I myself led a life of convenience for decades, and I owe it all to them.

Papa was a damn good business man and scientist, he made some convenient choices and found himself an influential administrator for one of Crey’s more questionable sectors.

He married my mother for convenience. The public was kept in the dark about her past, as far as they were concerned she was a beautiful, compassionate little wife to keep this working man in check. They loved this gracious hostess, this wonderful actress, and people trusted him just a little bit more.

What he really liked about her was how much she didn’t care. She never asked questions, never got in the way. She was also so very kind to his gentlemen, and simply turned her head to whatever kind of pleasurable company he wished to have himself.

It was all very convenient.

In truth, Mother was a whore. She went into prostitution at a tender age to keep food under her rotting roof – her mother was a hopeless drunk and her father long gone – or so she claims. It’s an excuse too often recycled, in my opinion. I think she really liked it, the control.

There is no denying she was beautiful, the smoothest cream of skin topped by wide, dark eyes and blonde hair. But she was hopelessly materialistic and carnal, and soon found how to efficiently manipulate her patrons. Papa would never admit she had twisted him, but she probably did plant ideas of a proposal long before he ever asked, but it wasn’t about love at all. It was all a cold, hard deal.

Her siblings and mother she swore she worked so hard for were guiltlessly thrown aside and she dove headlong into the lap of luxury. Anything she wanted - any price, any person, any time. As long as she smiled for the camera and stayed out of my father’s business, something she had no interest in to begin with, she got whatever she wanted.

It was all very convenient.

What wasn’t convenient was my conception. The only thing that saved me from a coat hanger was the public’s excited adoration. It became clear that I was a perfect pawn for his image, just like mother. I was never a child to them, just a tool.

They sheltered me completely, their labor molding me into the perfect doll couldn’t be wasted with my freedom of will. I was a good little girl. I was quiet and polite, I wore frilly dresses and satin gloves. My hair was always curled and kept just above my shoulders. I excelled in a prestigious private school that I never attended, I was a star ballerina and had a record hitting the press any day now. I would be in pictures, loved riding sidesaddle, and could beat the best in croquet. I had everything any little girl could possibly dream of.

These are the things people told me I was and did.

What my parents failed to remember is that I had my own mind, my own dreams and ideas that I spilled every night to the immaculate toys I never used. I played along, I had my lines memorized and performed them perfectly then cussed behind my smiles because little dolls aren’t made to be vulgar. I wore polish over my nails and kept dirt under them, wore panties I had shredded under my perfect pink dresses, but I played along because it earned attention.

Attention fit for a showcase specimen, it was all social and mockery and soulless.
Just as a glass case shelters the fine porcelain doll from dirty, ogling faces and prodding fingers, I was caged in the lies my parents so religiously polished. I was there for anyone to see, but all I wanted was someone touch my skin, take me out and play with me.

When I was five I mistook a glass of vodka for water, spraying it all over our newest maid. Papa not only genuinely laughed at this, but made me a Shirley Temple with his own hands and time.

When I was nine I dressed up like a flapper and as I danced on a coffee table, Mother put her drink down to laugh and sing along with me.

When we were in public and my hands had to be held.

When I would catch Mother with a man and she had to play with me so I’d stay quiet.

When I heard something I shouldn’t have and Papa had to tell me a story to cover it up.

When I was twelve and my chest began to bud.

These are the few times I was more than a mere inconvenience, when they looked and paid attention – any kind of attention – to me. Beyond these moments I was just their doll. I had my mother’s porcelain skin with a light dash of freckles across the bridge of my nose. I had my father’s dark brown hair, a deeply rich chestnut, and his hazel eyes. This, they never noticed, to them I was another mouth to feed and body to clothe. Every check they paid to my tutors, nannies, and trainers were cigars and diamonds, fur coats and new equipment they never got a chance to buy.

I grew tired of being spoiled and clean and polite, tired of trying with no avail to earn parents’ love from people who were not parents beyond any biological definition. Instead I began to watch them as my father does his subjects, starting with my mother.

I joined her smoky parties, started talking smug to the boys and sharp to the girls. I established myself as a presence, and for the first time I had the start of an identity that I made. I entertained and schmoozed and drank. Mother and I became quite the team, and I learned much of her prowess.

The first man I twisted, I was barely fifteen. It wasn’t until the end of my sixteenth year I manipulated another. From there, it just accelerated. I did Mother proud.

These people disgusted me, though. I hated the rough, wrinkled hands that tried to slide their way up my thigh and the burn of alcohol in my nose. They wasted their time along with everyone else’s, rotting between opium clouds and frivolities. They didn’t have their own will, just followed each other from one party to the next, doing whatever they were told to. They reminded me too much of my childhood, and so I moved on to study my father.

He was excited when I showed interest, not because he thought I may follow in his footsteps, but because he had new ears to fill up with his ramblings. It was through him, at seventeen, that I learned of my obsession: these Heroes and Villains.

A Hero had honor and recognition, but they had a set of rules to abide by, an image to uphold, and a cause to follow. They had to be kind, had to shine, had to be proper. They were dolls, powerful dolls, but too much of them belonged to other people.

A real Villain, though, does what they want, when they want, how they want. They can be gentle or brutal, it’s their judgment alone. They don’t have a public facade to uphold or a creed to follow. They lived for themselves, and whatever they deemed worthy. They were no one’s doll.

Then here I was, just a pretty girl lost under a big name. The public thought I was something special, but what they believed was me was only a mask. One that I didn’t even make. It was my parents’ projection. The real me was a faceless, fleshless body.

I had no sense of self, but I would. Some day. I would have a name and an identity and I could show, with pride, my face. I would be for myself – live for myself, think for myself, do for myself.