Keeper of the Lost Cities: Rebuild [COMPLETED]

Chapter Two - FITZ

Popularity, in Fitz's opinion, was overrated.

It asked for perfection, and Fitz wasn't perfect—he knew that. Everyone knew that. But no one else was perfect either, and that made it better.

What everyone didn't know was what popularity brought along with it.

Fitz had wanted to be popular for as long as he could remember. Sure, he'd really wanted to be accepted, but there was more to it than that.

To be popular was to be known. To be remembered. Popularity was a legacy.

But... Fitz was tired of legacies. He just wanted to be himself, wanted to be allowed to be himself.

That wasn't possible anymore—not when he was the youngest Councillor. Not when he was a Vacker. Not when the Councillor he'd replaced had been killed by the same organization his family had founded.

Don't get angry, he reminded himself, clenching his fists. Sometimes that helped. Then again, sometimes it made people afraid to tell him how they really felt—which wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to help people. Wanted to be a good Councillor.

...Didn't he?

There were no easy answers to that question, so he shoved it to the back of his mind and focused on the more pressing problem: King Dimitar. He'd just finished updating everything that had been happening to Sophie. He could tell she'd appreciated it; he had been avoiding her these past few days. Not because he didn't trust her, but... things were complicated. And sometimes Sophie cared about everyone so much that she wanted to help—but Fitz wasn't quite ready to talk yet.

Or ever.

"Councillor Fitzroy," a deep, commanding voice said, interrupting Fitz's thoughts. "I assume you have something to say on the matter. That is, if you aren't too busy daydreaming."

Fitz narrowed his eyes at the Council's leader. A silver spotlight highlighted his outline, as well as the surrounding Councillors; the neutral color was meant for ambiguity, but Councillor Emery always managed to stand out.

"I wasn't daydreaming," Fitz said, trying to keep his tone even. If he let them see his anger, they would pounce like a wild T-Rex. "I was just thinking. About the ogres."

"Ah, yes, the very subject of our own conversation. One you've been ignoring the past twenty minutes."

Unclench fists.

Don't slouch.

Smile.

"I'm sorry," Fitz gritted out, his attempt at being kindly fading fast. "What is it exactly you were discussing?"

"We, Councillor Fitzroy. What were we discussing? You're as much a part of this Council as the rest of us."

"I wish I could agree with that."

Fitz immediately regretted the words, but there was no use in taking them back now. It would only make him look more stupid.

So he pressed his lips shut. Waited. Held his breath, a part of him hoping Emery would kick him out of the Seat of Eminence. It was too dark, too reminiscent of times past, when a different rebel group was prowling the Lost Cities.

Emery sighed. "Anything you are uncomfortable with is your own doing, Mr. Vacker. Not mine."

Fitz knew the "Mr. Vacker" was only meant to bait him—a sick irony by mentioning the very name that had caused the world a lot of its problems—but he didn't take it. In fact, he preferred the familiar title; more often than not he found himself cringing when referred to as "Councillor."