Ask Me No Questions ( Monty | Saga )

MYRIELLE WAS AT THE END of her wits, at the front gate of U.A. Two well-dressed security guards surveyed the blonde down the bridges of their noses.

Tearful, fists clenched, face scrunched in frustration and puffy from crying. She was doing her best to keep her voice steady, but a pervasive tremble betrayed her.

“P-p-please, sirs, s-send for my c-c-cousin,” Myrielle insisted, “His n-n-name is Beau-Beaumont, and I am-m in need of his c-counsel and c-c-companionship!”

“We can’t permit you onto the campus without a guest pass, ma’am,” one guard insisted, eyeing the unusually large bag at the girl’s side. It was a rolling suitcase that reached up to Myrielle’s waist, and had the appearance of being overstuffed, “Gravely sorry for the inconvenience.”

“H-he’s-he’s… all… I’ve got, please,” Myrielle pleaded, sniffling snottily and sighing, “I am in a crisis.”

“We’re very sorry, miss,” the other insisted.

Myrielle clasped her hands tightly together, holding them to her chest. Around her feet, gaggles of tiny goops circled idly, some tugging at her stockings, others tiptoeing towards the gate. The guards toed at them with their shoes, trying to keep them out. Myrielle looked at them with uncharacteristic disdain.

This really was the last place she could think to go.

The other alternative was to book a hotel room, an endeavor she had never taken before. But even if she did—her parents would know about it. They helped manage Myrielle’s credit cards. As soon as they saw the charge, they’d be trying to video-call Myrielle while simultaneously video-calling her aunt and uncle to swoop her up and potentially whisk the young blonde back to France.

They were just looking for an excuse to show that their daughter couldn’t handle life abroad.

And she wasn’t going to the give them that satisfaction.

A certain steeliness crept into her gaze.

“Well, how long does getting a guest pass take?” Myrielle demanded sharply.

“We are not privy to that information.”

Myrielle pulled her phone from her pocket, her delicate fingers flitting over the screen before she held it aloft to her ear, staring skyward as she let it ring.

“Monty? Comment vas-tu, petit chevalier? …Non, non, je vais bien. Je suis à la porte d'entrée… Oui, dans ton école… Est-ce que ce serait trop difficile de me procurer un laissez-passer invité? …J'ai besoin de vous."

As she spoke, she fixed the guards with her wet, steely-eyed gaze. She pouted dispassionately at them.

“Merci, douce cousine. Prends ton temps.”

With that, she hung-up the call and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

…

The sun was low in the sky, though not quite set, as the trio stood at the gates. It was enough to send a chill skittering up the girl’s spine—but turning back was not an option. Myrielle stood with arms braced across her chest, head tucked, watching the Goop’s disinterestedly. Knots twisted in her stomach. By now, the guards had relaxed in deterring the creatures, allowing them to linger near the bars and wander around the path. It was impossible to herd tiny slime creatures while also letting students go to-and-fro on the campus.

A pulse of excitement ran through the bond that Myrielle shared with the Goop’s, and a voice that was both multitudinous and uniform touched the edge of her consciousness.

“Monty,” it insisted.

Myrielle’s posture straightened, rising onto her tiptoes to crane for a better look. She rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, but there was no concealing the fact that she’d been crying. With skin as fair as hers, any agitation was angry and red. Moreover, she wasn’t in one of her usual, frilly dresses—but a faded pair of shortall’s with a yellow t-shirt and matching canvas sneakers. Her hair had been wrangled into two messy buns, but—it was a serious step down from her usual mode of dress.

ft. Beaumont Favager

quirk: e-rank durability, healing, strength/speed/range (f-rank flex slot); f-rank regeneration, mobility