Author's Note: The direction of this fic is careening away from me at this point. Pray for me. -.-

Money Honey

Part Three:

I Was a Teenage Anarchist

Balthier's body hit what might be considered the closest living posture to rigor mortis as he sized up the brute standing before him, all at once relaxed and at attention. He'd had military training, Balthier was certain.

He recognized that posture from the various masses of merchant muscle that would occasionally wander in and out of his father's employ. The elder Bunansa was borderline (if not full-out, card-carrying, Beautiful Mind and-not-in-the-good-way) psychotic, but he wasn't misguided in hiring protection. He'd made quite a few enemies, and rightfully so. Balthier might have offed the man himself, if Vayne hadn't provided a neat little example of just what kind of monster that would make him.

(Really, he'd hate to be affiliated with Vayne Solidor in any additional sense, especially after watching the effeminate fop interact with his old man.)

Basch stood in a parody of ease and relaxation, but Balthier held no delusions—the man had been holding back when he'd scrambled his brains earlier, and at the slightest sign of physical rebellion, he could no doubt drop Balthier in scant seconds.

What would compel him to associate with this ragtag band, Balthier couldn't quite imagine—well, really, after seeing 'Vaan' from behind and factoring in the goo goo eyes he'd made at the older man, it wasn't impossible, but...— but that in no way lessened his physical capabilities.

Mistrustful gray met patient brown, and Balthier got the rather unpleasant sensation that he was somehow being toyed with. "I suppose," He began with an artfully delicate shade of derision, "That you'll be holding the boy ransom?"

The alternative wasn't exactly pleasant to think of, after all.

But the larger man shook his head, putting his hands out, palms up, as if he were offering the fabric of peace itself, "No, ...Balthier. I assure you that while Larsa's removal from his brother's care was not entirely voluntary, he remains with us now of his own free will."

"Oh? Shall I assume he's grown to enjoy the lingering effects of rope burn, then?"

Basch sighed, and Balthier found himself somewhat insulted. The merry misfit himself had received much the same reaction, and Balthier had no desire to be placed in that category.

Really, was it so hard to achieve perfection? All he'd wanted to do was enjoy what pleasures he could in the warm lull of inebriation, away from the insidious Vaynes and insipid Vaans. Instead, here he was, smack dab in the middle of kidnapping country and—something inside of Balthier shriveled and died as the words 'White Slavery' flashed in his mind.

"Really, Ffamran, it isn't as bad as all that. I promise you." The crisp, youthful voice that interrupted the train wreck of his thoughts was like some sort of miracle balm. Felt like menthol for his mind. Unusual, because that voice usually carried the promise of ensuing unpleasant company.

There was a relieved exhale, and Balthier couldn't fight off the twitchy smile. He blamed it on the nerves, but still, something corded tight in his chest loosened at the sight.

"Larsa."

"I think he prefers 'Balthier', now, Larsa. He was rather adamant about that detail." Basch lowered his chin a bit in a gesture of respect. Balthier nearly went cross-eyed.

"I do recall hearing about that. He's never had much affection for the business world."

Balthier snorted, "Understatement of the century."

He'd never had much 'affection' to begin with. His mother may have been an abandoning gold-digger, but she was smart enough to get out quickly. Balthier envied her luck. Since the day of his birth, Ffamran Mied Bunansa had been more of a pet than a child, carefully groomed for presentation. He'd shown quite the aptitude for tricks, before he figured out precisely how to bite the hand that fed him.

And bite he did.

Often, and with fervor. He considered his first pregnancy scare a thing of pride. Of course, there had been consequences, but Balthier had survived them. He had seen into the 'business world' with those shrewd eyes of his, and he had memorized its workings in detail. It wasn't something he wanted any part of. He'd rather be put down than led into the dog fights.

"I'm sorry, Balthier, I really didn't mean for you to be injured at all. I thought you'd be a rather helpful ally, after all, and I think you'll be interested in what Basch and the others have to say."

He might have snarked back in his typical wicked way, but the boy had rested one of those delicate hands on his shoulder. Honestly, Balthier had no doubt that so many problems in the Archadian power structure could be solved if only Larsa Solidor would pout more.

He sighed, "All right. Fine. Let's hear it. Anima only knows, I've suffered enough for a little insight."

The smile that lit up Larsa's face almost made Balthier sorry he hadn't been better acquainted with the boy...but it faded quickly. The serious look that schooled his features in line spoke of an aptitude unusual for such a young man.

It wasn't so surprising. From the few pleasant meetings he had shared with the younger Solidor, he knew that the boy practically breathed poetic language.

Except—

"I'm sure you've noticed that my brother's been killing people."

Balthier liked to think that there were certain rules of engagement to be observed when breaking news to other individuals.

There was an art to it that he felt anyone should be able to understand.

Anyone, apparently, but sweet-mannered Larsa Solidor.

If Balthier had anything to choke on, he would have. As it was, there was an unpleasant, twisting retch in his throat as the boy made his announcement. Felt suspiciously like gagging.

This was not even 'ripping off a bandaid' sudden. This was 'unannounced air raid' sudden.

Basch was good enough to pat his back until he stopped coughing, careful not to bruise the thorny brunette.

"I'm sorry," He gasped, struggling to regain his composure, "Come again?"

Larsa gave him a look somewhere between surprise and skepticism, "You didn't realize?"

"I'd suspected, yes, but the announcement was a bit abrupt." He answered, "Your father's death was a bit too well-acted to have been an accident."

The younger man nodded solemnly, "Yes."

"And your sudden departure?"

"I had refused to go with Basch and the others until I realized precisely what had been going on. I didn't want to imagine that my brother could be capable of such things. He was never terribly warm toward father, but..."

"Compelling evidence."

"Exactly."

"I'm sorry."

Larsa frowned, as if tired of receiving these tired, empty platitudes wrapped in Archadian-accented propriety. He might have told the older man so, but Balthier cut him off at the pass. "Please don't assume that my character is so easily aligned with my father's. I say this very rarely, and I mean it when I say it : I am sorry."

The boy looked as if he might cry, but he settled on a soft, watery smile, "Thank you."

"Mm," Balthier eyed Basch, standing nearer to Larsa now, head bowed and strong hand resting on the boy's shoulder, "So I'll assume that your extraction was...?"

"We didn't hit him." Basch droned.

Balthier grunted, and did his best not to show his ruffled feathers as Larsa chuckled, "It seems you've been poorly introduced. Balthier, this is Basch fon Ronsenberg. He's the man that keeps it all together."

It was almost heartwarming, watching the delicate youth doing his best to reach up and return that old-fashioned, hand-on-shoulder gesture. Except for the 'fon Ronsenberg' thing.

Balthier hadn't recognized the name before, but he sure as hell remembered it, now. He'd been right to suspect some sort of military ties—the man's name had been plastered all over the news not two years past, decried as the culprit behind the violent murder of one Raminas B'nargin Dalmasca, CEO and owner of Dalmascan Industries.

...Not to mention the king of one of the only remaining monarchies in modern Ivalice.

In the aftermath of the former 'knight commander's' betrayal, Draklor and Solidor had been left to brutally take over the respective economies of Dalmasca, Nabradia, and Bhujerba. His intended heir, son-in-law Rasler Heios Nabradia, had tried to stop the corporate rape of the three countries, but it hadn't taken long for his weak hard to pull him under in the face of the seemingly hopeless stress. Suicide, it seemed, had been the only discernible way out for young...Princess...

Ashelia.

Balthier had been kidnapped by the last remaining vestige of the Dalmascan monarchy.

And the man who was supposed to have damned them all.

It's hard to describe exactly what happened next, because Balthier was adamant that men, especially gentlemen, did not faint.

"I don't suppose we should take that as a 'yes'?"

A soft sigh, then, "Where's Vaan?"

I was a teenage anarchist, looking for a revolution.
I had the style, I had the ambition.
Read all the authors, I knew the right slogans.
There was no war but the class war, I was ready to set the world on fire.
I was a teenage anarchist...
looking for a revolution.

(eNd ChApTer)

Musical credit for this chapter goes to Against Me! from their album, White Crosses.

A/N: The soundtrack keeps changing, and the story fluctuates. I never expected to write something with quite so much political intrigue. o.o Anyway, this may yet be a cry for help, if anyone's got MSN. I'm a little iffy on where this may be going. I have an idea, but I could use a bit of help.

As always, thanks for reading, and please do tell me what you thought. :)

Bonus : As for the ever-changing soundtrack, any ideas on where I should post it?