Chapter Text
On January 10, 1920, the National Prohibition began.
The Prohibition put a ban on things considered sinful, shameful, and harmful to society. Groups came out of nowhere to voice their support, saying the nation needed to put a stop to its gluttony. They said drunkards needed to stop using their money to support evil businesses. They said hardworking Americans needed to stop being blindsided by things that led them off the path of goodness.
So, on January 10, 1920, the United States of America banned the wholesale production of magical items.
Sounds a tad unexpected, doesn't it?
The Prohibition banned more than just that. Alcohol, certain drugs, and medicines—things hotly debated for months in Congress before they finally agreed on a baseline. Magic was one of the things they seemed adamant about banning. To everyone who wasn't human, it seemed illogical, stupid, downright hateful—and it was. The government couldn't exactly ban it from existing but they could damage the world that revolved around it. History between the human and the inhuman had always been tense. Especially in America.
Maybe it was when the Spaniards landed and the Natives surrounded them with forest spirits. Or when a colony of wizards set up camp right after the British did. Or when the Aztecs used their dragons against invaders. Really, there were multiple instances. But you could read all about it in history textbooks; the subjects of human and inhuman relationships were always covered in general social studies and history.
Well, covered from the perspective of the humans. They had a terrible tendency to skew things in their favor.
Like now, as they celebrate the purifying of American culture while ignoring the fact they're effectively fucking over another culture into poverty.
This was what had turned Jean Kirschstein's life into a little bit of a living hell.
It was horrible enough when his family left their lovely home in France. They had left their cozy village, their safe haven away from public eyes, for Hell on Earth. New Orleans. Mother had tried to soothe his angry fifteen year old demeanor (“It's for the company, dear. Business is booming—”) but it didn't stop him from detesting the swampy air and slurred French of the bayou.
It was horrible enough when he had to attend a preparatory school filled with ignorant humans who thought his status made him exotic (“I didn't know one of you could even make grades that high!”). If it wasn't for his private tutor at home, he would have lost it and blown the entire school to bits.
It was horrible enough when he set foot on American soil only to find out that the supposed melting pot that was The Land of the Free was a crock of shit to the highest degree (“Your kind doesn't belong in first class. I don't care what your ticket says—”) It was all lies. It was all horrible lies. Back home there had never been any trouble. He could live his life without worry. Here he had started to lie about his status and claim he was human just so passerby wouldn't gawk like a child at a circus.
But this was just a new nail in the coffin. He should just move back to France and be done with it.
His family's business wouldn't be too affected. The company did have a potions wing, but that wasn't the only thing sold. There were production lines for clothes, radios, food—he was sure they could keep their stupid manor in the stupid garden district.
The issue for him was that now his ideal career was out of his reach.
What was a wizard going to do when his greatest craft was illegal?
Apparently waste his time attending college for a business degree he didn't want and stare at the wall for hours. That was how he had spent most of his time since the Prohibition began. Occasionally he threw a ball at his bedroom wall until the maid came to tell him to stop.
That was what he was currently doing, actually. There's a spot on the wall where the constant hits were beginning to dent the paint and Jean found it useful as a target.
thunk
thunk
thunk
thunk
thunk—
CRASH
Jean blanches and eyes the expensive looking lamp that had shattered against the hardwood floor. He'd never liked it much anyway.
A tentative knock sounds from the door. “Master Kirschstein?”
Jean sweeps the lamp under his desk with his foot. “It was nothing. I'll clean it up—”
“Sir, there are people here to see you.”
Jean pauses, ceasing his foot sweeping. He didn't have any idea who would be around to see him. He didn't have many friends in his college classes—he had never told them where he lived anyway—and all of his relatives were in France. He opens the door to stare down at the scared maid wringing her hands in worry. “Did they state their business?”
“They, um…” The maid glances up and down the hall, taking a deep breath before meeting his eyes. “They are…affiliated with your business, sir.”
Jean nods once.
The words “affiliated with your business” never meant they were here to actually talk about business.
Jean straightens up, rolls his sleeves up to the elbow, checks in the mirror that he is somewhat presentable, and then opens the door fully to step out. The maid bows her head and allows him to pass. It takes a short walk down the hall and a dash down the stairs to finally see the disruption standing in the foyer.
Said disruptions were eyeing the light displays and seemed to be calculating their cost.
The first is the one that catches Jean's attention the most. He's pale, for one. He almost matches the marble columns framing the doorway. Pale skin with neatly parted dark hair and a cloak twice as dark covering his body. He meets Jean's eyes before he ever reaches the foyer and the tense expression makes Jean’s fists clench.
His fists unclench when he finally makes it down and realizes the man is also incredibly short.
The second—taller than his companion and a good three times darker—was wandering around in loose circles, shaggy chocolate hair whipping around with every turn of the head. He lacks a cloak and sports a very loose shirt tucked into equally loose trousers. Those were tucked into boots Jean could see mud caked to. He hopes this idiot didn't track it all over the floor.
“Gentlemen.” Jean keeps his voice level. He knows formalities count for far too much in this town. The short one softly scoffs but bows his head respectfully in turn. The companion notices they had finally been joined and snaps to attention. Jean is startled to discover the companion had scars trailing down the right side of his face. Like he had gotten into a fight with something savage. “If you're here to see my father—”
“No, we came for you. You are Jean Kirschstein, right?” The short one kept his tone strong, matter of fact, and didn't hesitate to stare Jean in the eye. Jean stares back and notes the dark circles on the man's face. He finds it odd the short man lacks an accent. After years of the same southern drawl hearing anything different is a shock.
“Yes.”
“My name is Levi Ackerman.” The cloak parts and an equally black clothed arm extends for a handshake. Leather gloves also seem to be included in his odd choice in wardrobe. Jean wonders how this man isn't sweating to death. It was the start of a Louisiana summer, for God’s sake. “This is my companion, Eren. Say hello, Eren.”
Eren grunts and gives a halfhearted wave, face focusing intently on an ornate statue next to the umbrella stand. Levi shakes his head before returning his attention to Jean. “I'd like to talk business with you.”
“I'm not involved in Kirschstein Co., sir. My father leads the company himself.”
“Not that business.”
Jean's eyes narrow. “I don't have any other business, sir. I'm afraid you came here for nothing.”
“Untrue. You were a student of Dot Pixis, who excelled in cloaking magic and the practical mythic arts.”
Jean freezes, eyes stuck to the stranger who had revealed something he never told anyone. He never had the chance to pursue his talents further; Pixis was out of a job thanks to the government. Jean couldn't have his cover blown or his college would—
“You need to leave. I'm not interested in anything you have to say. Goodnight.” He turns on his heel and starts for the stairs, surprised he had remained somewhat polite. He couldn't go around announcing what he was now. His talent was illegal. He could be arrested. He could ruin his life just by doing a simple trick. He needed to blend in, be normal, be like everyone else
The intruders in his home didn't even budge. Once Jean's foot hit the stairs Levi spoke once more.
“What if I told you that you could put your powers to real use? Not hide what you are for the rest of your life?”
Jean's foot hovers above the next step.
“We represent a group who thinks the government’s treatment of our culture is hateful and unnecessary, and we would like to change that for the fine citizens of this city.” His voice tightens at “fine citizens.” Everyone knew that was a joke— “How would you feel about keeping the culture alive by working with us?”
Jean stares at the plush carpeting on the stairs. The paisley flowers seemed to mock him. The oak banister grew clammy under his hand.
He turns and slowly makes his way back to the guests. He refuses to meet their eyes until he's face to face. “Maybe now we should move to the sitting room for discussion.”
Levi's mouth twitches minutely.
“I agree. Eren, stop staring at the statue's tits and follow me—”
Jean sends a look at the maid, telling her to lock the door and keep quiet if she wants to keep her job.
Inwardly, he prays he wasn't making a terrible choice.