Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dusk embraces Krat, lilac and amber billowing across the horizon as the sun sinks beneath the sea. The first brave few stars have taken their place in the darkest parts of the sky, winking down at a slowing world. 

The day had been long, but it was a length of joy and exhilaration, the kind that ought to tire anyone out with a sense of bone-deep satisfaction, but had only left one particular young boy with the desire to keep the day going. 

In the simple garden of a not so simple townhouse, the boy and his puppet clasp their hands together and spin in wild circles. It might be called dancing, but only if you were to ask the performers themselves. Clumsy feet skirt around the few well-tended patches of flowers and stay safely around the fountain at the garden's heart, a puppet's heel clacking sharply against the pavement in time with the splashing of water. Her red dress sprays out as she twirls, twice as beautiful as any of the flowers his mother tends to in her rare spare time, and her laughter rings out brighter than the wind chimes dangling over the back door. 

She could dance forever, her heart fueled by her friend's happiness, but the boy has far more human limits, and eventually stumbles in the midst of another twirl, melting to the ground in a giggling puddle. 

“Are you well, my friend?” Rosaura asks, bending over to peer down at the boy. 

Carlo nods, savoring the chill of the stone seeping through his clothes and into his sweaty skin. “Just felt like laying down.” 

Rosaura stares a moment, the gears in her head almost audibly turning, then she plops down beside him, fine red dress spread out over stone and grass. She folds her porcelain hands over her midsection and meets the watchful eyes of the stars. 

“It is very nice,” she agrees. 

The laughter dies down, and Rosaura waits until Carlo's third yawn before she asks, “Is it time for bed?” 

“No!” Carlo exclaims, sitting up ramrod straight. “I'm not tired.” 

He shoots to his feet and sets about rummaging through the rose bushes. Sometimes those funny green bugs with the long, sword-like arms hide within, or, if he's exceptionally lucky, he might find a lizard huddled away from the chill of night in the rotting leaves at the base. Rosaura comes to his aid, deftly reaching between the stems with the most fearsome thorns so Carlo cannot reach them first. 

No critters of any sort are found, much to Carlo's dismay, and with night fully taking the city even he loses the will to brave the cool sea breeze. His mother and father's voices drift from the sitting room, soft but impassioned. Rosaura catches only hints of words he does not entirely understand, things to do with the Alchemists and the Workshop Union, which seems to intrigue Carlo but not enough so to dissuade him from sneaking through the hall and up the stairs. 

Rosaura removes her grassy shoes and follows as quietly as a puppet can, her porcelain feet on the wooden steps only somewhat quieter than her heels would be. The conversation in the sitting room does not dull, so their stealth must be a success.  

Rosaura perches on her chair the moment they've made it to Carlo's room, brushing stray bits of grass from her skirt, and watches curiously as Carlo makes no move towards his bed. Instead, the boy sits at his little desk and pulls a sheet of paper over. 

Comfortable as she had already gotten, Rosaura abandons the idea of putting her systems to rest for the night to peek over Carlo's shoulder as he draws. A little boy that can only be the artist himself is first to appear upon the paper, and soon to follow is a rosy-cheeked girl in red. 

“Rosaura!” She declares, pointing at the drawing. 

Carlo nods, looking very pleased with himself, and continues to work diligently. Beside Rosaura is Camille, a big grin curving across her face to match the two smaller subjects of the drawing, and beside Carlo is Giuseppe, smile somewhat lost behind the block of his facial hair. Smatterings of green grass are scribbled around their feet and snow-capped green mountains rise up behind them, a brilliant blue sky visible between the peaks. As something of an afterthought, a tall, spotted giraffe is inserted next to Camille and a happy lion behind Giuseppe. 

With his vision complete, Carlo falls silent for a curious moment. Rosaura lays a hand on his shoulder, about to ask how he feels, when his head falls back and reveals him to be asleep where he sits. 

Rosaura giggles, deciding to sit leaning up against the side of his chair rather than go to her own resting place. 

In the strange not asleep but not entirely conscious state of a rudimentary puppet resting, Rosaura hears the quiet, fond laughter of a mother and father. Camille presses a kiss to Carlo's forehead, gently adjusting him to a more comfortable position in his seat. 

“Oh, look at this…” Camille breathes, picking up the drawing. 

Giuseppe chuckles, “He didn't want the day to end, I imagine.” 

They pluck a pen from Carlo's desk and each write something on the back, then slip from the room as quietly as they came. Rosaura reaches up to take Carlo's limp hand in her own, and wonders at all the marvelous days they have ahead of them. 

It is the humble opinion of one D. Gray that no one has a greater understanding of the human soul than an artist. Well, a talented artist, that is. Not because art holds the soul of its subject, as some of the superstitious ladies he has painted for have asked him in hushed tones, there is no magic in oil and brush, but because being made the subject of a painting bares one's nature to the artist. It is necessary, if one is to have a truly remarkable portrait painted. 

There is a quiet delight in learning all there is to know about a person just by reading the creases of their face over several hours, days, weeks, as each bit is meticulously recreated upon his canvas. 

D. Gray is no stranger to nobles. Old families with old money that think of art the way one might regard a piece of silverware—shiny, a staple of the household, but not worthy of much further thought—and new families with new money who flaunt it with as many pricy things as they can get their hands on, similarly flippant in their value of the things they possess. He has seen everything there is to see in the face of a person of noble birth. It is typically bleak at worst, bland at best. 

Giuseppe Geppetto had been somewhere between the two. Though it was not he who would end up D. Gray's subject, it was impossible not to pick up the tired weight in his eyes that spoke to an immense grief and the tightness around his mouth that spoke to an immense frustration. Admittedly, he had little in common with most noble families, more akin to an exceptionally rich tradesman than anything—fitting, he supposed, for the prestigious head of the Workshop Union—but he was predictable nonetheless. 

His son, too, was predictable. 

When Giuseppe Geppetto came to commission a painting and explained he would like a portrait of his young son, who was curiously absent at the arrangement of said commission and spoken of in a distant sort of tone, D. Gray already knew what to expect of Carlo Geppetto. 

The boy had been easy enough to direct into sitting, even held his tongue as D. Gray nudged him here and there until settling upon a proper but relaxed positioning, but staunchly refuses to do one simple thing.

“Would you smile for me?” 

The boy's scowl only seems to deepen. 

No surprise there. D. Gray leans back to study the boy, not bothering to conceal his boredom. It's probably less likely to annoy the child further than any other emotion. 

His eyes catch on the broach pinned to Carlo's breast. Anyone in Krat with working eyes would know that ornate M anywhere. That, at least, is interesting. What could Giuseppe Geppetto's son be doing at the Monad Charity House? That was not the sort of distance D. Gray imagined when hearing Giuseppe Geppetto's request.

“Well, you have a fine enough face that a smile matters little,” D. Gray says, falling back on the easy charm he reserves for working with nobles. It seems unlikely this boy would complain to his father about the artist's manners, but one can never be too safe around the wealthy. 

Carlo huffs, hands moving closer together on his lap. D. Gray decides he actually rather likes the minute change in pose and adjusts his sketch accordingly. 

No more words are exchanged for the next four hours. Carlo remains still as ice, expression twice as cold. D. Gray will take the liberty of adding some extra pink to his complexion, just so he looks a tad warmer. 

The older woman that had left Carlo in his care returns, though this time she is accompanied by another boy close to Carlo's age. 

D. Gray regrets setting aside his brush when Carlo's eyes set upon this new boy, longing to have even a moment to attempt to replicate the sheer joy that blossoms on his face. 

Carlo all but leaps from his seat and runs to the other boy, demanding to know if someone named Lea came by the Estate today, and that is all D. Gray hears before Lady Antonia scoops up his attention with her kind thanks for working with Carlo and, with a furtive glance back at the boys, a quiet apology if he had been too stubborn. 

D. Gray laughs, waving her apology away, “Not at all, I look forward to continuing the portrait. Same time next week, yes?” 

Lady Antonia nods. Over her shoulder, D. Gray sees Carlo scowl again at something the other boy has said, but even then a glimmer remains in his eyes that was not there while sat across from D. Gray's easel. The other boy has that distinctly teasing look on his face all young boys seem to innately possess, laughing when he gets the desired reaction from Carlo. 

Indeed, a painting could never house a soul. For all his talent, D. Gray knows there is no medium in which love would shine as clearly as it does on rosy cheeks in the dreadful hallway lighting. 

More and more come to the Rose Estate every day, but tentative hope begins to settle over the residents as spring arrives. Spring means no more sickness, no more cold, and more time in the sun. 

The beginning of spring is always a jovial time at the Rose Estate, but this year Lady Isabelle Monad wants to do something special for the children. It had been a hard winter, bitingly cold and full of newcomers who wept through the long nights as their parents' blue bodies were buried somewhere far outside the city, and she cannot bear to see her home with such darkened faces floating about the halls as if they've already resigned themselves to being ghosts. It is not a look that belongs on any child, certainly not those under the Monad's roof. 

The snow has not quite melted away yet, but the sun knocks enough of the chill off to remind her of her own childhood, of evenings spent tying her skirts up to scoop up great handfuls of snow and throw them at her friends and family. The thought of doing so now is mildly appalling. 

Luckily for her, all it takes is escorting all the children outside and one offhand remark that they ought to behave before someone shoves a handful of snow down the back of another's shirt. She bites back a pleased smile as, slowly, one by one, the children all find ways to play in the snow. 

At her side, Sophia casts her a look that is too thoughtful. Too keen, that girl. Isabelle worries terribly for her. Girls like that, girls with sharp minds and strange power in their veins, have to work very hard to live a proper life. Isabelle has done a splendid job herself, and prays every night that she can guide Sophia in the same way. 

Sophia breaks from her thoughts, glancing out at the children and raising a hand to her mouth to hide her amusement. 

Looking out, Isabelle sees the same two boys that started the rest on enjoying the snow. Romeo is now running circles around Carlo, narrowly avoiding slipping on the snow that is rapidly turning to slush as they stomp around in it. Clumps of snow still cling to the back of Carlo's neck, dripping down his vest, and Romeo's hair is as white as it is blond from Carlo's desperate attempts to get back at the other boy. 

“You ought to be able to handle what you hand out!” Carlo cries, pelting Romeo with another handful of snow. 

“You're the one bent out of shape over a little cold water,” Romeo titters, managing to dodge the next snowball sent his way. 

In the far corner of the Rose Estate's courtyard, four younger children work at building up a snowman, sneaking glances at the three slightly older children nearby who are doing the same with much more confidence. Another three are having a snowball fight of their own, this one lacking any arguments. One nearly grown young lady sits with her two little siblings, one baby-faced and the other barely able to stand, and gently brushes the frost from their backs after they've made angels in the snow. 

All around her, spirits are lifting. 

She's put in special arrangements with the kitchen for a warm meal and warm drinks, but first she wants something to keep the children from dimming. 

“Keep an eye on them for me, will you?” 

Sophia nods, a question in her bright eyes. Isabelle slips from the courtyard, moving through the Rose Estate with a purpose that just borders on haste, but not so much so as to lose the poise of a noblewoman.

She returns to the courtyard accompanied by a butler puppet carrying a camera. 

“Gather up, children,” she calls out, corralling them into formation on the Rose Estate's steps. “Smile wide, yes? So you will always be happy in the future, if only you know where to look.” 

In the back, with all the other older, taller children, a dark-haired boy shoves snow down the back of a blond boy's shirt just after the camera has flashed. His wide, practiced smile immediately shatters into betrayal as he turns towards Carlo, who snickers and takes off into the Rose Estate. 

“Dry your feet before going inside!” Isabelle attempts to yell, but Romeo has already vanished after the other boy. She sighs, stepping up to the door before anyone else can track wet footprints through her halls, and shepherds the rest of the children through drying themselves off and heading in for supper. 

Later, a photo of all the children of the Monad Charity House is framed. Instead of decorating the halls, this she will hang in their bedchamber, where their immortalized smiles might make future times of turmoil easier to bear. 

If she squints at the back row of faces, she can make out one distinctly mischievous grin and a hand halfway raised to the boy beside him. Despite herself, she smiles back. 

Sophia has been pressing her luck lately, but it's hard to be completely reasonable when one is around the likes of Carlo and Romeo. Lea might claim to be level-headed, but she too had fallen to the pull of those two. Sophia stood no chance. 

In truth, there's little reason to keep their meetings secret. Sophia is a friendly, sociable young lady, yes, but there are not many she would leave the Rose Estate to visit so frequently. Though her father will not mind, might even have that faint look of relief on his face were he to hear of these meetings, Lea insists that Valentinus cannot know they still speak. 

Sophia understands. She does. She also understands her father, sees the strange weight that guides the slope of his shoulders these days. Lea has always been the bravest of the Monads, unburdened by whatever flows in the veins of her family. 

They do not need to play their instruments while Sophia paints, but none are known for their ability to stay still. At a lull in the parts of the piano and the cello, the violin rises up as the lone sound for a series of somber measures. Carlo and Romeo's eyes drift from their own instruments, watching Lea play with her eyes closed, her hands guided by that gentle heart she tries so hard to hide. 

It is not an uncommon sight. In fact, it is remarkably close to what occupies Sophia's canvas. Those two can never seem to stem their awe for Lea, looking to her like she hung the stars in the sky. Sophia had once looked at her much the same, when she was very small and Lea, new to the family and fiery as her hair, would thrust herself between Sophia and impolite neighborhood boys with all the stout confidence of a brick wall. 

The violin comes to a stop. Lea's eyes open, sweeping towards her apprentices. 

“You were meant to start playing three measures ago.” 

Romeo has the good graces to glance back at his sheet music sheepishly. Carlo simply shrugs. 

“It's just for fun, might as well get our mistakes out of the way now.” 

“It would better serve you to make no mistakes at all.” 

“That's an impossible task,” Romeo says, leaning back in his seat and making meaningless motions with his bow. Lea watches it bob through the air with disapproval evident on her face. “Mistakes are bound to happen no matter what we do to avoid them. It's as you said, the truly gifted Stalkers are not flawless, they just know how to work around any problem that gets in the way.” 

“Hm,” Lea says, considering a moment. She inclines her head. “I suppose I cannot argue with my own words. See how listening to me has allowed you this victory?” 

“We always listen to you!” 

Lea crosses the room to set her violin in its case, speaking as she goes, “You say that, but I have yet to see any change in your footwork. There's little point to wielding that hook if you do not move around enough to bring your enemies in close. You are too easy to weave around.” 

“Careful, Master Lea, Romeo gets sore when you talk about his footwork. I don't think he ever got over being scolded for messing up the waltz we were meant to learn back in—” 

“That's not true!” Romeo interjects, glaring back at him. “Lady Isabelle said I was a very good dancer. You must be thinking of yourself, you donkey.” 

Carlo pretends to consider that. “I don't think I am,” he concludes with faux innocence. 

Lea sighs, returning to study Sophia's nearly complete painting while the boys argue more. While insults that are made more of fondness than ire are traded behind the easel, a small smile graces Lea's face. 

“You should paint more, you have a gift for it.” 

“It's nothing special, you had all the same lessons I did,” Sophia reminds her. 

“I did, which is how I know yours is a skill of great worth. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, and in your case I might just believe it.” Sophia lifts her brush, wagging it about playfully. Lea huffs, “Don't get smart with me, young lady.” 

Sophia laughs, patting Lea's arm with her free hand, “I apologize, it is rare I have the opportunity with you.” 

Lea's smile grows softer, her face suddenly looking much younger. It is easy to forget she is not too far off from a young lady herself. 

“Are you almost done?” Carlo asks, peering at the canvas from over top. 

“I am. What do you think?” 

Before Carlo can answer, Romeo swoops around behind her. “It looks better when it's not upside down, I promise you that. It's—wow, this is incredible, Sophia,” he says, breaking from teasing Carlo to marvel at her work. “You got a lot done today, I can't believe this is the same thing as the blobs you started with.” 

“You're not supposed to say that part out loud,” Carlo snipes, pressing up against Romeo's side to look over Sophia's shoulder. She has another, unoccupied shoulder, but she refrains from telling them that. “Oh, that is really nice. Where are you going to keep this, Master Lea?” 

“Somewhere quiet, I think, away from all your squawking.” 

Sophia looks over her shoulder to watch Carlo flounder over his words, taken aback by Lea's remark. Lea squares her shoulders, hiding the quiver that denotes a suppressed laugh. 

Romeo laughs loud enough that no one notices Sophia doing the same. 

Somewhere in her father's chambers, there is a family portrait of the Monads, all perfectly posed with perfectly proper expressions. It has not been on display for some time now, and Sophia had been surprised to find she did not mourn the disappearance of what should have felt like an important image. She thinks she understands why, now. 

This, with Romeo's wide grin and Carlo's sulking pout and Lea's bitten back smirk, is a family portrait Sophia wishes she could carry with her everywhere. 

The sun vanished long ago. Everyone was supposed to be gone by now. 

A woman and a young man remain, huddled together before a table littered with all manner of flowers. At the center of the pile of petals, a single framed photo juts out, sharp edges cleaving through the soft floral surroundings. 

Their backs are to the casket, but it would be foolish to think he could sneak by them, much less retrieve what he is here for and make his escape without notice. These are Stalkers. Carlo's Stalker friends. 

At the very least, they are wrapped up in their mourning enough that Geppetto can hide himself away in a shadowed corner until they leave. Stalkers do tend to have a flair for dramatics, of course they would linger at a funeral. 

“I'm sorry,” the woman says. 

The boy sniffles. Sighs. “It's not your fault.” 

Her hand tightens around the hilt of the sword hanging from her hip. The boy reaches up to grab at his chest. 

They say nothing more, silent as the casket behind them, until they finally tear their eyes from the photo and make for the exit. 

Geppetto pauses in his path to the casket, glancing over at the small, framed photo that had occupied the Stalkers for so long. It's unremarkable, really. A black and white print of a bored Carlo sat against a nondescript background. A pendant stamped with an ornate M hangs around his neck. A graduation photo, maybe. It's nothing that warrants an hour of staring. 

That casket, however… 

Geppetto is not any stronger the second time around. He has to force his feet to carry him closer, lift his hands to open it up like he's Atlas lifting the world onto his shoulders. The body had been kept enclosed for the entire procession, as much a safety precaution as it was to spare all who cared for the deceased the pitiful sight of him. 

Carlo's flesh is a sickly, unnatural blue, thick and rigid around the eyes. The disease has never progressed so fast in any other victim Geppetto has known. A child should not bear such heavy marks. 

Carefully, with gloves and a mask to keep the residual sickness at bay, Geppetto lifts his son away from his grave. A few stray bits of bulky puppet materials from the Workshop Tower replace him, stuffed into the casket to keep the gravetenders from wondering at the lack of weight within. 

No one ventures through the streets of Krat in the dead of night, not when winter has stretched into spring and threatens to take summer the same, not when every shadow might just hide the body of someone who thought they were too good to be quarantined. No one is there to see a father carry a cold blue body back home. No one sees him linger by the dying embers of the fireplace, like a bit of warmth is all it takes to breathe life back into someone. 

Briefly, distantly, Geppetto thinks it shouldn't be so easy. That his hands should shake or his stomach should lurch when taking apart and rebuilding his son. Instead, he is merely thankful that he can undertake this task so effectively. Carlo deserves his best. 

The legs cannot be saved, the poisoned blood that pools there as the disease stiffens the body leaves them as little more than a mass of stiff cerulean shards. Geppetto will have to make them anew. One arm is heavily damaged, but he should be able to simply remove the chunks of petrified flesh and fill in the spaces with puppetry. He will preserve as much of Carlo's original form as possible, the poor boy never did care much for change. 

He pities those Stalkers, limited to a soulless photograph as their only comfort. Geppetto can't imagine being unable to cradle his son's blue face in his hands, the stiff scales of the Petrification Disease chipped away with utmost care. There is still much work to be done before this body can house Carlo's soul again, but already he swears he can see that familiar, once infuriatingly mischievous grin in the stretch of bloodied skin over his jaw. 

When all he's seen are images of a face that is not his, no matter how alike they may appear, there's a moment of confusion when P sees a face that is without a doubt meant to be his. 

Beneath the title, nestled in margin beside a block of text, is an artist's rendition of a dark-haired young man raising a gleaming saber to the sky. It's a bit cartoonish, the wide black lines and desaturated colors a far cry from the oil paintings that hang on nearly every wall of Hotel Krat, but something about it makes the mess of components in P's chest twist together. Springs, ergo, heart, whatever it is that puts up so much of a fuss inside him. 

“Looking pretty impressive there, pal, like some kind of fairytale hero. A knight in shining armor,” Gemini chirps. 

The text on the flyer goes through a series of grandiose exclamations on the heroics of the puppet that saved Krat, how that surely affords all puppets some degree of faith in spite of everything. It ought to make P feel happy, or proud, or hopeful, but instead it feels like his heart is made of tangled wires. Maybe it is. He's been too afraid to look inside himself since Arche Abbey. Would it be worst to find sparking copper threads? Or something pulsing and blue, seeping some strange liquid? 

“What, want to show it off to everyone back home?” Gemini asks, and P realizes he's torn the flyer from the side of the building it was pasted on. The fact that P doesn't answer isn't particularly unusual, but by the absence of Gemini's own voice and a single low hum within the lantern, he knows Gemini can tell this is a different sort of silence. 

P stuffs the paper into one of his pouches and hurries away. 

Gemini makes no mention of the flyer when P leaves him on Eugénie's workbench. For a puppet with no eyes to be found, it's remarkable how strongly P can feel Gemini's gaze on his back. 

He slinks into the makeshift training grounds of Hotel Krat hoping to loosen the knotted things in his chest by experimenting with some new weapons only to find someone else has already had that idea. 

Romeo is not using a new weapon, he had ignored all of the not insignificant amount of blades around the hotel in favor of his scythe once Eugénie restored the battered thing P pulled from the wreckage of the opera house alongside Romeo's scorched body, but the flourish he does with it is definitely new. P is fairly certain he had seen everything Romeo is capable of when they—

In the opera house. 

He pauses with the hook raised over one shoulder, poised to swing down at the training dummy. 

“You're back early. Everything good in the Malum District?” P shrugs. Romeo lowers his scythe, nodding in understanding. “Right, stupid question. No new troubles, though, that's good.” 

There hasn't been much in the way of new troubles, thankfully. Just a lot of old troubles. Carcasses running amok, stray Alchemists still trying to sink their grimy fingers into Krat's healing wounds, and plenty of survivors who are yet endangered by the Petrification Disease. There are more hands to help out now, Stalkers that didn't sell out to Simon and companions of Belle, but Krat is so vast that it is hard to imagine ever piecing it back together. Sometimes, when he thinks of just how immense and complex a task that is, part of him longs for the simplicity of following his father's orders. 

Those moments never last long, but the faint sense of guilt that follows has a tendency to overstay its welcome. 

“I found you more abrasives,” P says, fishing through one of his belt pouches. A few stray gears and a crumpled sheet of paper tumble out when he pulls the abrasives free, earning an amused huff from Romeo. 

“You take such good care of them,” he drawls, leaning his scythe against the back of the dummy and crouching down to collect P's scattered things. “Maybe you really do need more pouches.” 

P picks up the occasional paper, there's nothing special about another crumpled wad falling from his belt, but of course Romeo chooses today to be curious about P's findings, clutching several small gears in one hand as he unfolds the flyer. 

Though Romeo is technically not as finely made as P, he is far more expressive. P watches each minute shift of his eyebrows and every twitch of his lips with bated breath. 

He's… not sure what he's watching for. 

Romeo glances up at him, then back down at the flyer. 

"It doesn't look much like you, does it?" Romeo muses, smoothing out a crease in the paper. "Bit too dashing. Not at all like the man I saw slip off a rooftop last week." 

"It was raining," P defends automatically. Then his shoulders lower and he kneels at Romeo's side to study the flyer again. "You really don't think it looks like me?" 

Romeo looks at him in that too-deep way he often does, like he knows what's hidden away in P's chest even if P himself doesn't. His lips quirk up into a gentle smile. 

"I don't think you can fit any person on a page, certainly not you. It's not too bad, though, to see how someone else sees you.” 

A strand of silver hair slips from its place, falling over P's eye. He brushes it aside with his mechanical arm, catches the reflection of blue eyes and freckles in the steel of it. 

“They could at least get my hair right,” P says. 

Romeo laughs, pressing his shoulder to P's. There shouldn't be any warmth between two puppets, but P feels it anyway. 

“We can go around the city and paint over them all, how about that?” 

“I don't think that's necessary.” 

“If you insist, but just say the word if you change your mind and I'll do it.” 

“I'll… keep that in mind,” P settles on. He's not going to take Romeo up on that offer, it's silly and impractical and a waste of time, but just the thought is enough to lighten the weight of his heart. 

He keeps the flyer. Over the next several months, as Krat slowly rouses from its fearful slumber, P collects more printed renditions of himself. None of them are ever entirely accurate. His hair is too long, his eyes are the wrong color, he's too muscular, Gemini isn't on his hip, the blade in his hand isn't one he actually owns. 

They're not really him, but they're close.