Work Text:
Her apartment is very… white.
White walls, white furniture. Even the plain finished hardwood floor was covered by a white rug in the living area.
Did the concept of colour personally offend this woman or something?
There isn't a complete deficiency of colour in residence. Drawings done on simple sketchbook paper with coloured pencil were taped to every wall. Many of them were simple, sketches. Almost juvenile in their simplicity: A yellow star-shaped fruit. A fox. A cluster of dandelions. Others are more detailed and complex: A beachside sunset. A mansion in the woods. A fountain square… The drawings are really the only thing separating this unit from a real estate advertisement photograph.
Roxas couldn’t help but stare until he forced himself to look away.
She wouldn’t be back until another half-hour, he figured based on his observations of her weekly habits, so he pulls out the (white) chair on the far end of the (white) table perpendicular to her kitchen and waited.
(The debrief with Saix was like any other. Quick, efficient, and to the point. The scar-faced deputy never liked him to begin with, but he glared harder than usual when he conveys the one anomaly of the mission, an anomaly requested by the Superior himself: “It would be optimal if you could bring her back alive. There was a great deal of investment in the Château Oblivion operation, it’s best to salvage what we can.”)
It’s faint, but he hears the sound of a key unlocking the door. That is his cue to slip Oblivion out of its holster and into a position that’s hidden, but ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.
And she comes in, a plastic bag of groceries in hand and a backpack hanging from one shoulder. She doesn’t notice him, distracted as she is by the music playing through her headphones. She drops the backpack on the floor and takes out a box of sea-salt ice cream, before her shoulders tense and she freezes.
Roxas counts to three.
With the mechanical precision of a prototype robot, she puts the box of treats in the freezer and slips off the headphones before turning around to face him.
(Axel had been one of the operatives at Château Oblivion, so Roxas technically wasn’t revealing any classified information his friend didn’t already know.
Roxas was only half-joking when he asked what took the Organization so long to track her down. “That’s not a face that gets lost in the crowd.”)
She’s even prettier in person, if only because the only headshots he’s seen of her, taken during her time at the château, all featured pallid skin, thin, stringy hair, and the dead eyes of a corpse.
She doesn’t move a muscle, the only thing that gives away her unease, but then she smiles. Ruefully. Wearily. “I’ve always known that when the Organization finally sent someone after me, it would be you.”
She’s stalling.
Flashing a grin he knows women find charming, Roxas decides to humor her. “Should I be flattered?”
Moving more naturally now, but still with a trace of deliberate precision, his target pulls out the chair on the opposite end of the table and sits down as though she is entertaining a dinner guest rather than an assassin. “Proud, maybe,” she replies. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours, Subject 41207.”
Defiance flashes in her eyes. “Naminé,” she says, iron beneath ivory. “My name is Naminé.”
(“I offer my congratulations. A number alone will no longer suffice. From this day onwards, you shall have a name of your own.”
He looked, dispassionately, at the name printed at the top of his agent file.
“Roxas…”
“That is right. The new you.”)
“Naminé,” he concedes. It’s not what she thinks. He calls her by her number because other than what she’s been nicknamed, it’s all there is. “How this ends is entirely up to you. I’ve been told to bring you back to headquarters alive, if possible.”
She raises a delicate eyebrow. “And what’s stopping you from knocking me out and doing just that?”
He schools his face into neutrality. Yes. What is stopping you from doing just that?
“I would rather give you a choice.”
“That’s kind of you,” she says and she actually sounds sincere. “But my choice is no. I am done with letting people use me.”
Are you? Roxas thinks cynically. Union Cross may preach fairytales, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t pulling your strings any more than the Organization did.
He could repeat that thought out loud, but what would be the point? With a swift, sudden movement, betrayed only by the sound of his chair sliding across the floor, Roxas rises to his feet, aims, and pulls the trigger.
She didn’t even have time to react. Eyes still open, she falls back against her chair, bleeding from the throat.
Roxas doesn’t move. Blue veins glowing along Oblivion’s barrel, the aftermath of orichalcum absorbing the sound of a gunshot.
He feels nothing.
(“Better get used to it, kiddo. You’re going to be killing people for the rest of your life.”)
This would be the time to retreat, leaving her body for someone to discover. Marluxia may have been a traitor, but the Organization wants the Union to know what this is: retribution for Château Oblivion.
He knows this. The job has been finished, so it’s time to get out, but his instincts are telling him something was wrong. So he approaches her body - cautiously - to confirm that she’s dead. She is, but this… it feels too easy , somehow.
(“She’s not combat trained as far as we’re aware. Her delicate health would make it difficult at the very least, but don’t get cocky. She’s been code-named ‘White Witch’ for a reason.”)
The moment he touches her shoulder, she dissolves into a dusty light and a 13mm cartilage clatters onto her now-empty, still-pristine white chair before rolling uselessly onto the ground.
And then she is standing next to him. There’s still six shots remaining and she is right there , but surprise slows him long enough for her to touch his face.
Time slows. Space distorts. He’s drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
“You did not enjoy that.”
Her lips are moving, but too quickly for the words he hears.
“Number 35813, Roxas.”
(“Why do all our names have an ‘x’ in them?”
“Noticed that, have you? It's a quirk of the Superior’s. Take a human name and add an ‘x’. Rearrange the letters and voilà, a nifty new name for the next lucky person that makes it out of training alive. He’s into the symbolism and all that.”
“Symbolism?”
“We all used to be human, once. Not anymore. We’re just creatures of the Organization now. Got it memorized?”)
He doesn’t have long to reflect, because soon he is forced to relive his entire life on fast-forward. All the pain and terror that followed him more closely than his own shadow. Fighting with other children for scraps of food. Taking a knife in the thigh to learn to patch wounds.
She sees it too. All of it. She watches them escort his sixteen year old self down a sterile grey hallway before turning to him with compassion in her eyes.
“You’re not a nobody. I’m sorry they made you believe you were.”
(“There’s no place in the world for nobodies like us.”)
Gritting his teeth, Roxas hisses, “Get out.”
She blinks once and withdraws her touch. He catches one final glimpse of a beach at sunset and the smile of a boy that looks strangely like him. A memory he didn’t realize he had. Or, more likely, just a dream.
Her spell has ended, but his reality does not return to the way it should be.
He’s dizzy. Sleepy. His body feels like lead. The only reason why he doesn’t collapse where he stands is because she’s supporting him as she lowers them both onto the floor. Leaning him against the wall, she sits down next to him as though she was his friend and says, “It’ll be alright, you know.”
Anger boils deep within. “Don’t presume you understand,” Roxas spits with as much venom as he could muster.
She doesn’t flinch. “Why do you work for them?” she asks softly.
“You think I had a choice?”
“No,” she says, “But if you did, would you still be working for them?” Killing for them?
His heart is torn in two. The half that loves the Organization, the half that fears the Organization says yes, he would. The half that hates the Organization, the half that yearns to be free of the Organization cries no, he wouldn’t. For once, it is the second half that is winning.
“I thought leaving was impossible too,” she says when he doesn’t answer. She’s so open and honest about it, Roxas finds himself hating her. Don’t give me hope. Hope was a child’s fantasy.
“I just needed help. That’s all,” she continues, “It’s okay, you know? If you need help. It’s human to need help.”
“And are you offering to help?”
“If you’d like, yes.”
He wants to accept. He wants to tell her to fuck off. He wants to leave the place that forced him to kill his best friend for graduation , but he can’t comprehend the idea that someone like him with so much blood on his hands can find acceptance in the world outside it.
Maybe she sees the struggle on his face, sees something in his eyes, because she drops her (too intense) gaze and picks Oblivion off the floor. He hadn’t even noticed he’d dropped it.
For a moment, he wonders if she is going to shoot him with his own weapon, but all she does is place it on the table, within sight, but out of reach.
“How this ends is entirely up to you,” she says, using his own words against him. “I have to be somewhere this evening, but you should be able to move again in about an hour or so. If you’re still here when I come back...” She trails off, but looks in square in the eyes. There is no malice, no hostility, when she says, “I won’t blame you if you choose to continue your mission, but if you do, or if you try to use someone - anyone - to get to me, I won’t be so lenient.”
He says nothing.
“There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom. Painkillers too, if you need it. Think about it, okay? About leaving. I know it’s not easy, but you do have a choice now.”
She stands. Roxas follows her with his gaze.
“Naminé,” he says, his voice barely louder than a whisper. I want to leave. I’m scared to. “Why are you being so… kind?”
She smiles softly. “Somebody once told me helping others should always come before asking for help. A little bit of kindness in a world like this can go a long way.”
“So pity.”
“Call it pity if you must,” she replies, “The Union agent who dismantled the branch at Château Oblivion gave me a second chance when I thought there was none. No one else would have offered, but he did. It would be hypocritical of me to deny someone else the same thing.”
What is left of his resistance shatters .
“Don’t go,” he pleads like the child he never got to be.
Naminé smiles again. There is sadness in her eyes when she gently takes his hand in her own. “I won’t,” she says and this, Roxas thinks, is how it begins.
:.
:.
:.
Axel hates staff meetings. Rarely is it necessary for all active, higher-ranking agents to be called together, but when it is, trouble is guaranteed to follow. Today, it is no different.
“Roxas has betrayed us.”
A murmur ripples throughout the room. Axel could feel the others shooting him hostile, suspicious glances, but he distances himself from all that, shutting down his emotions until this all blows over.
The Superior stays silent, impassive after he delivers the news. Axel recalls the time he gave his report of Marluxia’s rebellion. Xemnas hadn’t been surprised at all back then, just as he doesn't seem surprised by Roxas’s betrayal now.
Then Xemnas clears his throat, such a small action that demands silence and respect like none other. “These are indeed troubling times,” he says. “Perhaps we have grown… compliant. Assuming the loyalty of our members is a given. The matter of the traitors at Château Oblivion have been addressed, but Roxas is still at large. Perhaps he has joined Union Cross, bargaining information on us in exchange for his life. Perhaps not. Regardless, there will be some… changes as a precaution, starting with measures to strengthen security and ensure the loyalty of our members.”
Axel is no longer the only one under scrutiny as everyone exchange glances with everyone, wondering who else in this room could be a traitor. The field agents, at least. Axel thinks R&D would be more annoyed by the fact that Roxas ran off with the only working orichalcum handgun they’d managed to create.
And the higher ups? Probably wondering who would take the fall for failing to notice signs of insubordination in Roxas so soon after Marluxia’s failed coup.
So, really. It’s not surprising that Xigbar would be the only person who is both irreverent and high-ranking enough to speak after that announcement.
“And what about Roxas? You goin’ to send someone after him as well?” His good eye flickers briefly in Axel’s direction. “One of us, maybe?”
Xemnas nods, acknowledging the sharpshooter’s concerns. “I will indeed. But not one of you. I do not wish to cast doubt on the loyalty of anyone here, but I cannot afford to take such a risk.” He bows his head in humble regret - Axel wonders how many idiots in this room are falling for it - before he continues. “I cannot I already have someone in mind for the task. Someone whose loyalty cannot be questioned.”
Confusion spreads again. Axel is not exempt, even as an unpleasant hunch forms in his gut.
As if on cue, the meeting room’s door slides open and someone walks in. Murmurs break out again. Saix narrows his eyes even as disbelief threatens to reveal that he is capable of emotion other than perpetually pissed off.
Black hair, blue eyes. Axel fights down the urge to curse. Impossible. She failed her graduation exam.
“My friends,” Xemnas says as the young woman comes to a stand beside his chair with her thousand-yard stare. “I am pleased to announce that a new comrade has been chosen to bear a name. Xion, formerly Number 35814, will see to the matter of Roxas. Let us all wish her good fortune on her first mission for our illustrious Organization.”