Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's cold, when you wake up. Somewhere dark, and quiet, with only a soft humming and occasional beeping noises being made. You wonder where the noises are coming from, but -- it's cold. It's dark. It's quiet. You've only just woken up, and you feel like you're forgetting something, but you don't know what. Is it something important? If it was important, wouldn't you have remembered, though?

You?

A hum, and a breath, and a blink. You are, but 'you' are not sure if 'you' were before this, if 'you' are really a person now. You don't remember. You feel like that's familiar though, somehow.

You think, therefore you are. Isn't that how the saying goes?

Maybe. Maybe not. It is important? Maybe not, but maybe.

You're sleepy. Tired. Fatigued, even. But you're awake now, not quite sleepy enough to go back to sleep, so you lift your head a bit and look. Everything is a bit green -- or, maybe it's the liquid you're in? A kind of greenish, cold liquid. Cold, but not cold cold. Cool, maybe? The kind of cold like morning dew on grasses and soft birdsong, not the cold of ice and snow and blizzards. A wet cold, something moist.

The wet-cold-moist liquid makes everything look slightly green-ish. It's nice, at least. It doesn't strain your eyes. A kind of dark, green-blue place like this. . . it's cozy, almost. Cradled in this little tube, where you are floating and you are sleepy and you don't have to think. (You can just be. That's all you're doing right now. Sleeping and growing and being. Maybe you'll be properly woken up soon? That's supposed to happen, you think, but you don't know where the thought is from.)

There's a noise, something you can't hear with your ears but you hear with your skin, and your eyelids drag against your eyes when you blink. (It's a weird feeling.) Some blurry shape moves in front of the green -- in front of your tube? Something black, and yellow-green-blonde. A smaller something that's black and lavender-purple-lilac.

The yellow-green-blonde moves, and the green-wet-cold liquid in your little tube begins to go away. You don't like that. But you don't know how to talk yet you don't think. (You're still figuring out what you even are. Is? If you're a singular you, does that make it is rather than are?)

Words, and noises, and more words, but your ears are clogged up so you don't have to listen. It's colder now, snow-ice-tundra cold and not the wet-dew-moist cold. You liked the other cold more, can you have it back? It was a warmer cold, nicer. This cold just sinks into your bones and stabs at them with little needles. It's a very rude cold.

The shapes move. When you blink you can see them clearer now -- yay -- but you're still not sure what the Shapes are. You can probably figure out though, right? Maybe? (Your ears are still clogged up so you can't hear, but, tilt your head to the side, maybe things will be okay?)

You discover that the yellow-green-blonde does not like you. Jabbing needles into your bones literally, and that hurts, you don't like it, you don't like it, you want it to stop, please don't.

Your little whines and noises of pain are ignored. Maybe you're too quiet? But it's still dark-quiet-still here, and you're halfway sleepy somehow still, so you don't make louder noises. Just soft ones. Little ones. Little like you're little.

The lavender-purple-lilac is better, though. That one drapes some kind of soft blanket on you -- a coat, maybe? It looks like a coat, but it feels like a blanket -- so once the needles are taken out of your bones and muscles and skin, and you're picked up off the table and set in a corner somewhere, you pull the not-blanket around you and settle in. You're just you, with the blanket against the cold, but it's a warm blanket, and you can fall asleep easier like that.

It's not the same sleepiness as it was in your tube, which was small and cozy and everything you'd known, but the corner is also cozy in a different way. Everything else is big and scary, but the corner is nice for now. You'll go to sleep now. (It will be a good sleep, you hope. It would be nice to have a good sleep.)

(You sleep. You do not dream. Not yet, no. There's not enough of you to dream, yet. You'll get that chance later.)

Chapter Text

Vexen is not in the best of moods that morning.

No, that's not quite the correct phrasing. Phrasing it like that implies he has moods, and moods require emotions, which require a heart, and it is well known that Nobodies have no hearts with which to feel emotions. Regardless. He is encountering . . . unexpected difficulties, is the best phrasing, yes.

The Replica has been coded to have a general amount of knowledge required for it to function correctly -- but it seems Vexen had gotten something wrong with the coding, because upon waking the Replica from its artificial slumber the thing was simply blank. (Similar to how No. i had been -- but Vexen had created this Replica first, and then No. i, so he had refined his coding after No. i's successful implementation at the World That Never Was, which makes this problem all the more vexing.) Vexen may be no coder, but surely even this level of failure is an uncommon amount.

Zexion looks at Vexen oddly when he deigns to be in the labs, at the time of any of Vexen's muttered complaints. Zexion doesn't have the responsibility of programming and ensuring the function of the Replica -- and unlike Zexion, Vexen is well aware of what Marluxia (or worse, Axel) would do to him should he outlive his usefulness. Marluxia is of a similar kind as the Lord Superior, not tolerating failure or incompetence.

Still. Still. Never let it be said that Vexen cannot adapt to issues and improve issues in his experiments.

The Replica is docile as he leads it to the operating table. Small noises are easily ignored -- anaesthesia would interfere with the results of the operations, Vexen knows. It dulls the senses, and he needs to take stock of the Replica's tolerance of pain as well, so this method is the most efficient. Slice into the skin and muscles, watch the repair time -- eight minutes for the bleeding to stop, an additional three for the muscle to stitch together, and another two for the skin to seal over. Then, needles, sunk into the bone and muscle and other flesh. Bone marrow samples are required, of course -- Vexen is not a programmer but he is a biologist, and samples for analysis provide the best means for determining what the flaw with the Replica is. The Replica only makes soft noises of pain through the entire process, and does not scream -- quite satisfactory in that regard, at least. One small success amidst the many failures in the Replica's function.

(Vexen does not feel any sort of emotion when those blue eyes gaze into his own. The Replica may appear to be a child but it is still artificial, the same as No. i is. Possessing of a heart, yes, capable of containing emotions, but still empty. Vexen has no sympathy for broken things. He is a scientist -- when something does not work, he pulls it apart and puts it back together until it works properly.)

Idly, Vexen summons a Sorcerer. "Ensure that the Replica does not leave the labs," he instructs, strictly, before opening a Corridor of Darkness. He'll need to report the progress to Marluxia, much as he mislikes the idea. It is, at the least, a small mercy that Zexion can look after the Replica well enough. Surely the thing can't be so broken as to fall over and die in the two hours it will be left attended to. Even a Heartless can't do that.

Chapter Text

You squint at the gloom of the room you're in. It's a dark room. Gloomy. Very dark and gloomy. Hm.

You probably should move from the room. Get up and do something or other. Just sitting here is boring.

Getting up is hard but you do it, so, good for you. Your legs hurt but that's. . . maybe normal? Maybe. You don't have many scars from when Vexen cut you open (just thin little silver lines, nothing bad), but they're healed now so you shouldn't hurt. Unless bone-hurting and muscle-hurting is stuff that happens for a while after scars heal, or something?

You don't think you're working quite right. Maybe things aren't supposed to hurt. But you don't really know what anything else is like, so. . . you'll just. Be here. Existing.

(You don't remember anything before being in the room very well. There was. . .you think there was something greenish, something glass, maybe other people? But the memories are foggy and murky already, like something isn't right, like they're not fitting no matter how you try.)

Error: memory capacity limited. Please ensure proper function of buffers. Please ensure stacks have not been altered when function returns.

Error 400: Bad Request. Please restate your request.

You shake your head. Something hurts. Your head hurts. Your head hurts. Something isn't working right--

. . .what. . . were you thinking again?

Your legs hurt. You're going to sit down. You're tired. A nap. . a nap sounds good right now. You'll go to a different corner and take a nap. (There's a little corner that's got a pile of some kind of blanket- or sheet-like material, though it's not super soft, but it's still comfy enough. You curl up there. It's still cold, but it's decent enough. Nap time, now.)

Chapter Text

Riku does not know these white, empty hallways.

Perhaps he should -- there's something about these hallways that feels familiar, in a way he can't name. But Riku does not know these hallways.

Some times, there will be a door, with a card, and Riku will press the card into the door, and then a world will be drawn like that. It's not consistent. Riku doesn't know why it's so inconsistent, nor does he know where "here" is, but he's moved forwards by his annoyance at the situation and his refusal to let the stubbornly-lingering voice of Ansem win.

Ansem has not said anything beyond that initial challenge, but Riku doesn't trust that he's not present enough to cause problems. So Riku will stay on edge, and stay aware, and he will not be taken advantage of by Ansem. Not again. Not after the last time, not after what happened to Sora.

Sora. . .

Riku hopes that Sora is safe, wherever he is. The hallways do not change. Riku keeps wandering. The time keeps passing.

Chapter Text

Sora is still very confused about. . . everything that's going on. There's a lot that's happening! A lot of different worlds that he went to, on his way to find Riku and Kairi, and these worlds are copied into rooms in this weird castle, through cards? Sora doesn't entirely get it, but he guesses it kind of makes a little bit of sense.

He still doesn't understand what was up with that strange black-cloaked figure from earlier, though. He seemed friendly? But also ominous. Sora doesn't really get it! And Donald and Goofy are gone now, stuck in the cards, and it's all just really confusing.

He'll keep going through these rooms and trying to figure out these cards. That will lead to something, right?

Chapter Text

Yozora lands, in this dart, distant World. The air sits heavy on his tongue; the weight of Light. Of Darkness. Of Nothingness. This reality makes his bones ache, for just a brief while -- those forces, Light and Darkness and Nothingness, are all heavier, all a tangible force that simply does not exist in Quadratum, in his home.

The moment passes. His breathing eases. Yozora sits, for a moment, and breathes. Then, he stands. There's no time for waiting, for sitting around -- there are things Yozora needs to do, things that are expected of him, and he cannot put that off or wait.

The king had summoned Yozora, had called him specifically. The king had spoken of her faith in him, in how she knew Yozora could carry out this mission of utmost importance. And Yozora -- he would not let his king down. Could not. Not when the king had lifted Yozora out of his crumbling home. Not when the king was responsible for keeping Quadratum safe and whole and orderly. Not when the king kept out Light and Darkness and Nothingness all, those heavy heavy forces that weigh down on you and cause all sorts of unrest and chaos and death. (Not when the king is divine, using her power to keep Quadratum so closely-knit and organized rather than all the worlds freely floating around separately, like in other realities.)

It was a very critical mission, too. Somewhere in this other reality, the king had said, was her heir, her child not-yet-born, not-yet-dead, not quite formed in body or mind. "Normally," the king had said, "our children are born in Quadratum, forming within the sanctum where they can grow safely and securely, with no interference from the Light or Darkness or Nothingness." Her frown had grown quite severe, then, and though Yozora had known it was not directed at him he still shuddered at the god-king's wrath. "Normally. Someone has stolen my heir away from us all, to a different reality. They will be crushed by the weight and they will not grow as they should. I am trusting you to find them, Yozora." Her eyes had softened as she looked at him. "I am trusting you to protect them, until you can find a way to bring them back to us."

"Back?" He had said, confused. Would that not be the first thing to do, find them and bring them back?

A sadder smile. "It is very easy to drop from Quadratum into the other realities, but much, much harder to climb out of those realities back to Quadratum."

Yozora keeps those words in mind, now. Inhales, exhales. Steps forwards, through the gloomy air, towards that castle that gleams white and green. It had only been a general guess of a location, but somewhere in here is the king's hair, and Yozora -- who owes the king everything -- will do his duty. Will find the heir. Will protect them.

(He is only seventeen years old. He does not consider that a child would not, should not be sent on a journey so dangerous and risky as this. He does not consider that the king may want to tighten the chains of loyalty, and ensure that their heir, too, have someone keeping them tightly bound to Quadratum and its strict rules and hierarchies and rules.)

(Yozora does not consider these things. He is only seventeen. But he is loyal, and he is brave, and compassionate in small amounts. So, into the castle of lost memories he goes, to find the butterfly that should have been a moth.)

Chapter Text

You awake next when a stirring happens.

You don't know how to describe it as anything other than that -- a stirring. Something awakens, and so you awaken in turn.

Your eyes are fuzzy and blurred, but you blink them open until they work properly.

There's a lot of pink around all of a sudden, you think. Pink Reapers, though you don't know how you know their names. (Is it to do with Before? You think it might be.) There's also -- a man! A very tall man, with pink hair and blue eyes. He looks like flowers, you think. He seems like a flowers kind of person. Thus dubbed Flowers in your head, you uncurl from -- wherever you'd gone to sleep.

"Vexen." Flowers says, with a voice that is cold and flat and a little bit intimidating.

"Marluxia." Comes the return. (Is that the name then, Marluxia? Marluxia doesn't sound as fun as Flowers. But you probably should use the actual name, and be polite. You remember being told by. . . someone, that you should be polite.)

"I require a progress report, Vexen." Ouch, just pure ice. Marluxia isn't very happy, you guess.

He and Vexen continue their conversation, but it's boring, so you ignore it and instead try to remember where you are or how you got there. You can't remember where you are, but you're in the labs! Which is why you're cold. You still don't know how you got here, though. Sad.

At least the Reapers are kind of nice. Pink is easier to look at than all the white and black-ness of the labs. And they're less cold, too, than the Sorcerers. So that's nice.

Oh, voices are being raised. Okay. (You should pay attention. But. Paying attention takes energy, and time. And you do not have very much energy right now. So you're going to just. . . let your mind drift, until you hear something saying that they need you.)

You are sitting, wedged between some bookshelves in the far corner of the lab, and you'll stay here for a little bit you think. Where Vexen and Marluxia can't see you yet. Yeah, here is good. (Hopefully the Reapers don't tattle on where you're. . . not-quite-hiding. They seem nice, or less mean than the Sorcerers do, so hopefully not.)

Chapter Text

He cannot believe this -- this vexeing situation he finds himself in.

The Replica is absurd levels of nonfunctional! Oh, the basic processes work fine -- system checks reveal that the artificial nervous system is fully operational, the titanium-bone skeleton has no breaks or errors, the hemerythrin blood-oxygen carrier works better than hoped for. By all accounts, the Replica should be performing properly, should be up and performing its tasks of replicating that boy, Riku, who had stumbled his way into the Castle Oblivion.

And yet. And yet. The Replica continued to be nonfunctional.

Now, Vexen would admit that he is a biologist first, and not a computer scientist. Grafting the inorganic and organic parts of the Replica's body had been much, much easier than trying to code all of the necessary processes and functions. Even with that in mind, however, it did not account for the sheer failure of the Replica to do so much as think. He had checked the memory banks -- some abysmal error surely must have gone uncaught, for the memory to be so low in capacity, for the Replica's memories to essentially delete themselves on account of not having enough room. And it had to be some error in the coding, because Vexen knows for a fact that he had ensured up to a terabyte of RAM and three terabytes of storage for the Replica's internal processes and memories.

Had he still a heart, Vexen would have been fuming, but heartless as he was, Nobody as he was, he simply stared at the computer monitors with a sort of emptiness that, perhaps vaguely, felt like anger. He runs the code again. Checks it a third time. His not-frustration lingers. The code should run. It is functional in a sense that it has no obvious errors, no runtime errors or logic errors. And yet. The Replica continues to be nonfunctional. Vexen's code continues to glare back at him from the screen, unchanging.

His only reprieve is Marluxia, striding into the room without a care in the world, as if Vexen can just -- wave his hand, and spirit the issue away! If nothing else, it is an opportunity for Vexen to do something -- screaming cannot be cathartic, without a heart, but it is very close to the feeling.

After that, though. Vexen is left at a loss.

He steels himself. The Replica, still slumped over in the corner of the basement labs farthest from the large tube its organic tissues had largely been grown in, does not stir. Very well, then. If the issue is not in the cold, dry science, the coding and the metal and the genome sequences Vexen has analyzed front and back, then there must be some issue with the synthesis of the biological components. Perhaps an issue in integration, between the biological brain and the gold wires of the artificial nerves, or the RAM allotted for memory not properly aligning with the spinal cord. Perhaps, even, Vexen will need to pull Zexion in to review his coding, but that is a last resort -- for now, Vexen will prepare for vivisection, and he will find exactly how much of these glaring flaws can be dealt with by his own hands.

One way or another, the Replica will function properly, and serve its purpose, even if Vexen has to use that strange translucent Nobody's powers, regardless of Marluxia's strange attachment to the thing. (Hypocritical of Marluxia, to lecture Vexen of morals. If he had wanted to be righteous, he would have never joined Organization XIII -- and furthermore, he would have never given the orders to make use of the Replica, to begin with.)

Yes. Vexen will get to the bottom of this. He would hate for the Replica Model 13-B to be as damaged and nonfunctional as the Replica Models one through twelve. It would be a horrid waste of resources.

Chapter Text

You wake.

This is not unusual. You do not remember what you were dreaming, of -- this is also not unusual.

You blink. Something -- something is off. Different. This feels familiar but a step to the left. (Do you remember? No. You do not remember. But it does feel similar to something.)

It's cold. You wish it were not cold, but alas, you cannot change the temperature. Maybe if you learned a spell? You're not sure what kinds of spells or magic would lead to being able to change the temperature, but there's probably something.

Still. You carefully lever yourself upright, from where you're slumped onto the floor, and stumble a bit before you get your legs properly beneath you. Look around. There's nothing around in the lab, from what you can see -- no Lesser Nobodies, no man with green eyes and blonde hair (Vexen?? That's his name, right? You think? Maybe?). So you'll be okay to move, you think.

Well, best to be about it. Nothing worth doing here, so -- out of these labs, into the halls which will hopefully be warmer. Off you go, then!

(And if you do feel anything off, anything that should be suspicious or possibly scary, well -- you forget. You don't remember off the top of your head. So for all you know, the hallways will be safe enough.)

Chapter Text

I do not know who I am, anymore.

I remember who I was. Vaguely. Who I used to be.

I used to be a person. Used to be. Now I'm just empty.

Bitter, I guess. Empty, and almost bitter. There used to be something more to me but I am tired, aching and hollow and empty, and oh how I want.

I am still enough of who I used to be, to be able to be jealous. Of that other self. Of those other selves. The versions of me that I could have been, if things had gone different. (If things had gone differently, if the world had not been falling apart around me -- would things have been better? The gods shaping this other narrative, who'd shaped my own -- they are more stable now. Less on edge the way they had been.)

I am -- somewhere. Somewhere between places. Not quite dead, like a moth hiding back in its chrysalis. It is at least a comforting metaphor -- half-literal, too. My wings are those of moths, large and vibrant in small patterns. A silk moth, not that that means anything. (The other me -- this younger me, both more and less functional than I was -- is a moth, too, of sorts. Or it will be.)

I'll be watching. Until I finally dissolve into the aether, of this in-between space. Or until one of the lesser gods (younger, less powerful, less intrinsically Broad in their divine domains). Or until, even, I break out of this space and into a real one. (Wouldn't that be nice. To be real again, to not be sinking into Unreality the way I have been.)

I do not know who I am, anymore. I continue to not know. (This is not odd. I have never known, really. Rabbit-child, moth god, whatever odd, half-formed creature that I am.)

The time -- or lack of it -- continues to pass. I continue to exist. That is simply as it is, how it works, in places like these. And so -- and so, and so -- I exist.

(You cannot go back, little moth-god, little bell-god, little rabbit-child. "I" cannot be "you" anymore, and I hope, dearly, that "you" will never become "I". May the bell-god smile upon you, little caterpillar, little rabbit kit, little half-feathered chick. The bell-bird god of fire and rebirth -- may she smile on you, little thing. I shall simply watch.)

Chapter Text

Thoughts stutter. Synapses fire. Electricity runs down artificial nerves, breath runs through lungs and static.

For however long -- you were not. And not -- you are, again.

You blink. Blink again. You are -- cold. You are awake. You are in the labs, again.

There are Lesser Nobodies here, wavering as if underwater. Sorcerers, you think. (You do not wake up inside of a tube, which is an improvement from previous moments of disorientation like this.) Your joints ache, slightly, and your chest aches as well -- a sharp pain when you move too quickly.

(You do not know what happened while you were -- unconscious. Asleep? Not present. You ache. It is cold. Your memories are full of holes and foggy. This is the same as it always is.)

One of the -- Sorcerers, yes. That is what they are called. One of the Sorcerers beckons to you. Come. It says. You have been repaired. Your errors have been removed. The Chilly Academic requires you survey.

They're not words, really, the way that the Sorcerer speaks to you. Just -- impressions of meaning, a sort of echo in your head. Something slipped into the nothingness. (The Nothingness, you could even say.) Still -- you blink at the Sorcerer, slowly, and try to answer back. It -- would be rude to answer differently, though you know that you are not a Nobody but a Replica (and how you know this is half a mystery), but -- what if you just. . . focus really hard?

It does take a bit of focusing, but you manage to sort of -- speak back. Shorter, snapshot messages. Why survey? Where survey? What purpose? (And that last question -- what purpose, what purpose, because one thing you do know is you have to have some purpose, there is something you must do that is etched into your bones the same way that the name Replica Model 13-B is etched into them, the same way you know you are a Replica.)

If you could be exasperated without actually having emotions, you think this Sorcerer would be. Survey the halls. Survey the castle. Survey because it is required. Your purpose is in-built.

Well. That doesn't answer all your questions, but it does answer some. With nothing else to do, and there being no further answers from the Sorcerers (not the one you were talking to, and not the other three or so that sort of mill aimlessly in the lab), you pull yourself up off the table you'd been laying on, nearly tripping on some spare cables that had been attached somewhere upon your body, snaking across the floor. You shiver, and there is something-- yes, this. Darkness comes, when you call it, envelops your flesh and bones until it coats you in a mockery of clothing. It is protective, and warmer than the cold lab air, and settles like a second skin. An exoskeleton, almost. (It's definitely shiny, and iridescent enough, to be chitin.)

You stand. You rake your fingers through your hair, glance at the glowing marks on your skin and dismiss them from your mind just as quickly, and then you -- walk. Into the white hallways. Into the Nothingness of this castle. (You poke at your mind, at your bones, all the while. Who are you? Who are you? What is your purpose? Who are you?)

Chapter Text

Riku keeps seeing something familiar, in this place, but he can't say from where. It's maddening, like half-forgetting a word and only knowing it on the tip of your tongue. It's annoying, particularly. He hasn't been back home in. . . a while, but he doesn't think his memory is poor enough that he'd be forgetting so much, like this.

He pauses, in the middle of the one room, running a hand across the smooth wood of the desk beside him. This room, the World it's based on, is familiar in a way Riku doesn't know. There's echoes of people, here -- in the corner of his eyes, a girl sitting at a chair with silver hair and amber eyes, a black cloak on. A boy with red hair and eyes and freckles, smirking. A dark-skinned boy with silver hair and eyes, a boy in a green-and-black outfit with blue hair, a blonde-haired girl in purple. His classmates, Riku's mind says, but he doesn't -- remember. Are these his classmates? This place is nothing like Destiny Islands -- he would remember these kinds of outfits, wouldn't he?

Wouldn't he?

Riku shakes his head, shakes away the memories. This place -- that is what is messing with his memories. Riku just -- needs to get out of here. Get out of this room, get out of this Castle. . . maybe find Sora, and take him back home. To Destiny Islands.

Riku shakes himself a second time. Steps forwards, to the end of the room, uses Soul Eater to cut down any Heartless that appear (even if he has to struggle with those strange cards.) The mystery of his forgetting things can wait.

Chapter Text

Xion sits at the top of the clocktower, and wonders.

Axel has been gone, for a couple days. It's weird, without him there. She thinks -- that it's lonely, even with Roxas beside her.

Not that she doesn't like Roxas, of course! Just that Xion is used to Roxas and Axel being there, and without Axel it feels like something's missing. Because Axel is missing. From his spot beside them at the clocktower, Xion means. Not missing and no one knows where he is, kind of missing.

She hopes Axel is doing okay, right now. Things aren't so bad with just her and Roxas, still. (Some of the other Organization members are getting a bit cruel, but. . . Axel will come back, and things will be fine. Xion is sure of it.) So, for now, she'll keep doing her missions, and eat sea salt ice cream with Roxas at the end of the day, and wait for Axel to come back.

Chapter Text

In a hidden corner of the room, he watches the girl.

She's small. Delicate. Her skin is thin, almost translucent, and he can see her veins visibly. (Dark, dark veins, filled with the black sort of ichor that Nobodies have within them.) Her hair is blonde, a washed-out color, and her eyes are a watery blue. Namine, they named her.

Something about the girl makes him ache, reminds him of something painful and halfway familiar. (He doesn't remember everything, still. There's so very, very many memories missing. But she reminds him of something.)

The Nobodies don't know that he's here. They never will -- for all that he is a Darkling, he's just another Heartless, to them, something to be shooed away or ignored. Or, if he caused enough of a problem, to be killed.

But he is smart, and stays hidden, in the darkest corners. To lose is to find, in this place, and if nothing else Lauriam has certainly found. The two biggest threats -- the Nobody wearing his face (his face if it were ten years older, his face if he had grown cold and cruel and as heartless as he supposedly is) and the woman with yellow hair that makes him think of electric blue and a girl named Elrena -- don't notice him.

(He detests those two, he thinks. He detests the scientist, as well. Marluxia, Larxene, and Vexen. Those three are the worst of these Nobodies, that lurk within this castle. It had been Lauriam's home first, he had found it stumbling along searching for that pull towards the Light, towards -- towards something, the little brother he can't remember, but it had been his home first and Lauriam seethes at these monsters coming in and stealing it, and daring to hurt anyone in his home.)

But. But. Lauriam can be patient. (They scare her, Namine. She's scared. These Nobodies terrify her, even if all they do is use sharp words, born from not knowing how to modulate tone. They do not mean harm but they still harm, and Lauriam hates this.) He will wait until they are gone, and then -- then he will approach. Will do whatever he can to get Namine away from this place, so that she can be free from those who mean well but hurt her, and so that Marluxia and Larxene can be set loose to free themselves and then have the freedom to learn kindness.

(They would surely kill him, if they saw him -- so Lauriam will be patient. And he will wait.)

Chapter Text

The Nobodies have left. All but one -- all but one.

The little Nobody, glowing faintly in her washed-out colors, sits in the center of the room, surrounded by colored pencils and sketchbook pages, all blank save three. (There is a figure in black and red and purple, with gray hair. There is a figure in pink with a sword in hand. And there is a third figure, in black and red, with black hair and red eyes surrounded by blobs of blue and purple.)

Lauriam lets himself drop from his hidden corner near the ceiling, landing softly on the floor. He walks towards her, that little Nobody, Namine -- tries to make sure he's making enough noise for her to hear. He doesn't want to scare her. (He forgets, if Nobodies can hear as well as Heartless. If his Darkling ears are too keen as compared to hers.)

She looks up, and Lauriam can tell the exact moment that she sees him, for she freezes as soon as she does.

Respectfully (and, not wanting to make her afraid), Lauriam settles to a stop some six feet away from her, and sits.

Then, he waits. (There is not truly that much time -- who knows when Marluxia or Larxene will return -- but Lauriam does not want to scare her.) After a long, heavy moment, she speaks. "Who -- what -- " She swallows. Visibly considers. But she does not speak again, only holding herself in that exact stillness, not even breathing.

Lauriam exhales, slowly. "Hello, Namine." His voice is -- rusty, with disuse. It has been some while since he has had to actually speak to others. (He might be able to speak with her in that strange not-words way that other Heartless do, little clicks and inaudible noises that have meaning, but he does not know if Nobodies can speak that language, or if they have their own, something innate to them the same way that Heartless have theirs.) "My name is Lauriam. As for what I am. . ." he trails off. "I'm a Darkling. A kind of Heartless -- but I keep my mind, like how you kept yours even though you're a Nobody."

"You--" Namine pauses, but continues. (Brave of her to do.) "You look like Marluxia."

"I do." Lauriam agrees. "I don't. . . have all of my memories, but. . you could say I'm his wayward Heart. I'm the Heartless that was made when we lost our heart originally," he clarifies. "Marluxia is my Nobody. He. . . doesn't remember anything, so I'm the one with our original name now. Or. . . I'm what's left of whoever we originally were." He resists the urge to wring his hands, or shuffle, or do some other nervous gesture. Even still, his wings are folded flat against his back, and he can't help but grip the edge of his vest in his hands.

"Why. . . are you here?" Namine asks, quietly.

Lauriam smiles at her, softly. "To help free you from this place. If you want it." He carefully, carefully extends a hand to her. "I can't promise that I can get you out of here immediately. But I'll do what I can to help. Is that alright?"

She hesitates, another moment. Takes a deep breath. Takes his hand. "Okay, mister Lauriam." She says softly. "Please do your best to get me out of here."

He smiles with a mouth full of red teeth, and lets his wings unfold. "They're combing back." He tells her, apologetically. "But I'll be here, and I'll protect you if I have to."

"Promise?" She asks, sounding so, so young. (It reminds him of his sister. He hates that he can't remember his sister's name.)

"I promise upon my heart and key." He swears.

(And then the larger Nobodies return, and Lauriam must hide again in the shadows -- but he will be watching. He could not save his sister. He will not let Namine, too, be torn apart by the deep, deep Dark.)

Chapter Text

Namine feels guilty.

This isn't unusual. For most of her life (short, a very short life), she has felt guilt. It is more familiar to her than her own name -- since her birth, she has felt guilty.

She wants to not feel guilty, though. (She knows Nobodies aren't supposed to feel things. But if it's something built into here, then maybe that's okay? It's not an emotion, not really. More of a. . . state of being. So it's probably fine.)

(Unless Namine is just. . . broken, for even a Nobody. But. But that's -- that's mean, that thought, and Lauriam says she should be nicer to herself.)

Namine doesn't like working with Larxene or Marluxia, very much. They're not very nice. They don't say anything too mean to

her. But they talk about Axel and Vexen and Lexaeus with mean words and mean voices. They don't say anything mean to or about Namine or Zexion, but Namine isn't sure if that means anything. She's too -- not scared, she can't be scared, but if she could be scared. She would be too scared to find out.

Most of what Namine does is sit in her room in the castle, and draw. Replacing Sora's memories, working herself into them. She didn't want to replace the nice girl with red hair. Lauriam had told her, in sad whispers, that he thought it was better to have more friends than less, even if one of those friends was fake. It gave Namine the courage to say "no" to Larxene, and Larxene had looked at Namine until she scoffed and said as long as Namine got results it didn't matter. (Marluxia hadn't said anything. But one of his Reapers had appeared and given her more colored pencils and sketchbooks, and a few rose petals. Namine tries to think that it means she did well.)

Namine likes when Lauriam visits. He can't visit often, because he's a Heartless and the Lesser Nobodies are told to keep Heartless out of the room so they can't hurt Namine, and because he doesn't want Marluxia to see him.

It was kind of scary, at first, meeting Lauriam, because even though he looked very different, he also looked a lot like Marluxia. He's nice, though, a lot nicer. And kind, too. (Marluxia is also kind, but he's mean about it. Namine thinks that she might be mean about it too, if Lauriam had'nt come and gently taught her how to be kind the way he was.) It makes sense, that they're so different but so similar -- Lauriam is supposed to be the heart of the person they were before becoming a Heartless and Nobody (who was also named Lauriam, confusingly, but Namine doesn't know if that's how all Heartless works), after all.

(Marluxia leaves his Reapers to make sure nothing can hurt Namine. His words are sharp when he talks, but his hands are gentle whenever he's touching Namine, like when he taught her how to hold a colored pencil or how to write. He says a lot of things and Namine kind of wonders if he actually believes them or if he just makes himself mean because everyone else in the Organization is mean too. He doesn't like Axel or their Superior much, whoever their Superior is. They sound scary.)

(Larxene is meaner than Marluxia is, and she isn't really kind either. She's protective in a different way, though, hovering and pretending that it's so she's making sure Namine won't mess something up instead of her hovering to make sure Vexen or Lexaeus or Axel don't do anything to Namine. Her Ninjas have sharp knives and Larxene's tongue is sharper than her knives but it kind of feels like she's looking out for Namine in her own sharp, spiky way.)

(It's probably wishful thinking. But it makes Namine feel less bad when she thinks about the two of them this way. So, it's okay to pretend to herself. As long as she's the only one who knows.)

Namine kind of wonders, sometimes, what it is that Vexen does in the basements to make Marluxia and Larxene and their Nobodies guard Namine so much more than when it was only the three of them in this lonely castle, before Axel and Lexaeus and Zexion and Vexen had shown up. Namine remembers that Marluxia and Larxene got a lot more mean, a lot more sharp, after they showed up. Namine also remembers that that's when they started really pushing Namine to rewrite herself into Sora's memories.

Namine decides that she doesn't want to know. She'll keep her head down, and she'll keep drawing, and she'll sketch herself into a piece where she is just a girl from Destiny Islands, Kairi's adopted sister and daughter of the Mayor, and friend to Sora and Riku. And Namine will do her best to stay alive. Lauriam doesn't need anymore dead little siblings.

Chapter Text

He sits at the table. Reminiscing.

A funny thing, memory. A hazy, wilting, unreliable thing. Something that falls apart just as the leaves fall off a tree's branches in the autumn.

What a worthless thing, memory. What's the point of memory if you don't remember anything?

Marluxia, once more, thinks he would prefer no memory at all than his current state, haunted by ghosts of half-remembered moments. (Not truly haunted, because to be haunted implies a heart to be haunted with. Which Marluxia cannot be, factually, as he has no Heart with which to feel.)

He thinks of the half-remembered moments of his past. He had not had them, until he came to the Castle Oblivion. And here, here — here his memories seep up from the floor, between the plain white tiles of the floor and the plain white bricks of the walls and the pale pale grey shadows made in this place that is so full of light but not Light. Any color stands out here — and so it is no surprise that the Nobody made of this place blends in so easily, transluscent, radiating Light like a false sun.

Giving the not-girl the name Naminé had been cruelty on his and Larxene's part, Marluxia will admit that. Not cruelty of intention, but cruelty repeated. (For all that Organization XIII claims to be without Hearts, Marluxia finds that they have at least something resembling hearts. Half-dissolved, perhaps, but still present. Not empty and wanting, as he and Larxene and Roxas are.

Larxene was sharper towards Roxas than she had ever been to the others. Sharp as knives but delicate, a dance with words.

Neither of them recall their pasts well, but Larxene has always held more memory than Marluxia has. She had said, in a toneless voice that first day, that she had to be crueler. "He looks like my little brother does." She told Marluxia, lightning flickering across her skin and running inside her veins. "Ventus was kind and soft and he died because of it."

There is no grief in her voice. Only monotony. Plain spoken words. Because neither of them have Hearts, still. They have not yet found how to regrow or regain Hearts the way that the other members have.

"So you are sharp?" Marluxia questions, head tilted in a way he learned from someone whose face haunts his few dreams.

"Children should not die young. If Roxas is cruel like we are, he will live longer. Better to learn quickly and live than not learn and die." She blinks at Marluxia, and a hand settles on his forearm. "You should control yourself. The sooner we go to Castle Oblivion, the sooner we do what we have to, the sooner we can take Roxas and that puppet and get out of here."

"The Superior would kill these children." Marluxia says. Just as toneless. Even still, thorns sprout beneath his skin, and he can feel the writhing of roots within his lungs. "No more dead children."

Larxene nods. "No more dead children.")

It was necessary cruelty, for Naminé. She needed to learn that the Organization could not be trusted. Trust no one but herself and her own instincts. Translucent thing she is, pearl-white skin and washed-out hair, eyes a blue so pale they're almost white, she is a Nobody far closer to the Light than the Dark, and that makes her dangerous. To all the Organization, but especially to the Superior. To Axel, who haunts these halls as well, sent on the Superior's behalf.

(Naminé reminds Marluxia of a ghost of his. A girl, small as Naminé is, with star-speckled skin and eyes the blue of the morning sky, pale and almost white. Naminé, whoever she is, reminds Marluxia of this ghost of his. He is not foolish enough to mistake the two. But for Naminé's sake, and for the ghost's sake, he will let it linger in his memory. Let them be echoes of each other.)

He thinks. . . he was an older brother, once. Larxene's not-pain was something he knows like an instinct, worn into his body even with his Heart gone. He does not know how to be an older brother. But Marluxia can. . . try.

"I do not do acts of cruelty out of malice." He says to Naminé, and withholds a flinch as she flinches, crayon jerked off of the paper page and onto the tabletop. (He pointedly ignores it. He may be the lord of this Castle, but he does not mind any color added. So long as it is not whatever Vexen is up to, in the depths.)

He tries again, speaking slower. Softer. "You are young. Soft. Vulnerable. Dangerous to Axel and Vexen and Xaldin, and others among our ranks. Cruelty is but a method of learning. If you are faced with cruelty, you will either learn to be unaffected or find ways to refute it. But this world will not be kind to you, and I would rather you face cruelty from those who have your best interests in mind than those who don't."

Naminé does not look up from her paper. ". . .it still hurts. And — and Larxene is mean, too." Her words are barely a whisper. Her voice trembles. (She is a young, young Nobody. Her Other must have been strong, for their Nobody to still feel imprints of emotion so strongly.)

"I know." Marluxia says. Toneless. (He has no regrown heart and he almost wishes for one, at this moment.) "Better to hurt than be dead."

Naminé doesn't say anything else. Her skin and hair, already washed-out, dim further.

Marluxia cannot feel guilty or upset about this. (The person he once was, he thinks, would have. It's better this way, though.) Marluxia has learned that ruthlessness is what is required to survive, and Marluxia refuses to let Naminé die. A pawn or a sister or something else, but Marluxia's love is roots and tangled branches growing around all that he would claim dear, if he had the Heart to do so, and so he clings tightly. One way or another, Naminé is never leaving this castle alone. One way or another, she will live, just as Marluxia will live, just as Larxene and her not-brother Roxas will live.

If Axel has to die. . . if the rest of the Organization must die. . . so be it.

No more dead children. The Organization wants to use these children as pawns to play about on a chessboard? So be it. Marluxia will make them his pawns, first. Let the Superior try — Marluxia will be better than those before him.

No more dead children. The echoes of grief scrape his bones raw, in the blinks between dream and wakefulness. Marluxia will be better than those before him.

If cruelty is what is required, then cruel he shall be.

Perhaps that is why Larxene is the way she is. Marluxia knows better than to ask.

(The person he once was would weep at what Marluxia has become. That boy is irrelevant now, though. Marluxia will crush his past self's chest beneath his boots if need be. The last child to die, then, the kind-hearted and loving older brother —

his sister would never recognize Marluxia, as he is now.

Good.)

Chapter Text

You're wandering the halls again. For a reason, this time.

You're supposed to find Riku and. . . fight him. You're pretty sure. That's what the Riku Replica does in the story, right?

(Your memories are — scratchy. Like scratches in a CD, or paint sanded off, or something like that. Your memories of the canon story are slipping away like water through your fingers and it's frustrating because you should remember but you can't—

all you can remember now is the broad outlines, the broad story strokes. the way you'd cried a little bit, not really but you'd wanted to, at the tragedy of the Replicas and those keyblade wielders and the way that there was so much hope but some people still didn't get a happy ending.

you still didn't get a happy ending.)

You have to stop and sit down on the floor, crouched with your weight on your toes and heels in the air and your head in your hands, because the thought hits you like a knife through the intestinal lining. Like a scalpel cutting cutting into your hands through the tendons and ligaments and layers of flesh —

You don't get a happy ending. You're the Riku Replica. You're supposed to take Riku's place, and fight Sora, and lose. Supposed to be used as a puppet, protect Naminé and kill Zexion and get killed by Axel in turn—

You press your forehead against your hands for a long, long moment. You don't want to die.

(You don't want to die. You've died before, hanven't you? It was — painful. Your mind shies away from the memories like twisting away from a scalpel and you let it because you don't want to remember that. It's not important.)

You don't want to die.

But maybe, maybe — you're already defective, nonfunctioning. Vexen had — Vexen had done something to you, to try and fix it, but it was already too late right? You're not going to be a perfect Replica. It's fine. It's fine.

Riku is strong. Maybe —

you blink. Maybe you don't have to die.

(Nothing is saying a Replica isn't a twin, of sorts, and — and family protects family, right? Family's supposed to protect family. Maybe if you claim kinship Riku will protect you. Because you're too weak as you are now, and you don't — don't want to die. You don't want to die.)

Your head swims, and you stagger to your feet. Your bones itch. Something inside your vein itches, you can taste gold and iron and cadmium. (You know these tastes but you don't know how you know them. It's not important.)

Shake your head, lean against the white eye-searing wall. What. . . were you doing again. . .?

Cast your memories back to the most recent thing you recall — the Nobodies. The Sorcerers.

Right. Go find Riku. Whoever Riku is. (The name is — familiar. Are they a sibling? A friend?)

Walk down the halls. Step, step, step, step. Forwards and forwards. It's cold here. You're moving fast but not breathing hard, that's good, right? Probably good.

Walk into a room and oh, there's a person here!

You look at them. Him. Carefully. Silvery hair, about shoulder length, with choppy bangs. (Like yours!) His eyes are an electric color of blue, and there's dark marks at the corners of his eyes down to the corners of his lips. (Like cheetah stripes on their faces!) Your marks are glowy instead, you remember, soft pastel blue and dark dark purple glowing brightly when it's dark. (This fact you know for sure, though you don't remember ever looking in a mirror.)

Your mind flashes through several thoughts, too scattered and abstract to bother to put together, while this other person looks at you.

Wait!

This is that Riku you were sent to look for!

He looks so much like you, and his name is so similar — he must be your twin, then!

Your heart is about to burst with joy, you think. You have a sibling! A twin!!! He's the older brother then, he must be!

"Hi!" You chirp at him, cheerfully, stepping further into the room. (It's a very blank white room. Sad.)

". . . hello." He's so wary and cautious, that's sad.

You open your mouth, only your stomach grumbles before you can say anything. Oh, are you hungry? (You must be.) You close it, and blink up at Riku, then hold out your hands, a bit pleadingly. "Do you have any snacks? I'm hungry."

A moment passes. Two, counted by the beating of your heart.

Then, Riku reaches into his pockets and pulls out a little granola snack bar of some kind. You don't recognize it, which is sad, but you accept it with little fanfare and start munching on it. Mmh, chocolate chips in here. Tasty. Crunchy in a good way, too, not the bad kind of crunchy!

"Why do you look like me?" He asks, and you blink up at him.

"I'm your Replica!" You say, cheerfully. "Or your twin! Both are kind of the same!"

"Those aren't the same at all." He retorts, not opening the other granola bars you can kind of see in his other pockets. "What even is a Replica?"

"I'm a Replica!" You're sure of that, yep, yep, programmed into you so even your bad memory can't get rid of it. You're the Replica Model 13-B, based off of human data, input parameters: replicate individual "Hayashi Riku" of Destiny Islands.

You blink. Shake your head (it's fuzzy). Look back up at — at Riku. "You're my twin, right?"

". . . I guess." He's kind of on edge. That's sad. "What's your name, then?"

. . . name?

"Aren't I also Riku?"

"You can't be Riku." He says, like you're kind of stupid. "Because I'm Riku."

Oh. That makes sense. Twins each get their own name.

"Why don't you give me one then? Since we're siblings."

He gets an odd look in his eyes. "Since we're. . . siblings, right."

Riku abrubptly sits, and pulls out a piece of paper and pencil from . . . somewhere. One of the many pockets, maybe? He pats at the ground, invites you to sit, so you do. (Sitting is nice.)

He scribbles something quickly on the paper. 守究. "This is how you spell my name." He says, tapping at the symbols with the end of his pencil. "Riku."

"Does it mean anything?" You think that. . . in your memories from somewhere else, these were called kanji. Those have meanings, don't they?

Riku nods. "Guarded study is what my parents meant for it to mean, but it can technically mean a few things depending on how you want to read it." He scribbles something else down on the paper — 関流. "This one reads as 'Kiru', it means something like connecting current. It's a good name for an islander, right?"

You look down and trace the edges of the pencil strokes with a fingernail. Kiru. . . "I like it." You look up at your twin — at your older brother — and smile. "Thank you for the name, Riku!"

He smiles at you, this time. Small, and soft, and a little confused, but still a smile. "You're welcome. . . Kiru."

You're so happy you think you could cry, could melt from all of the joy of it — you want to hold all of this in your chest and never never let it go.

You have to go, though. Back to Vexen.

(He wants a progress report. And —

your head hurts and something isn't quite right and you don't — remember.

Your name is Kiru. Riku is your. . . twin? Brother. He gave you food. Gave you a name.

You'll kill for him, you've decided. You're a Replica — you're stronger and supposedly more durable. Riku can keep you safe and then you can kill people if he asks you to. It'll be fine. Replicas aren't people so you can't get killed that easy, right?

But wait aren't you supposed to be weaker—)

your head hurts and your memories are falling through your fingers again, falling falling gone—

Error. Memory space insufficient. Please try again.

Blink your eyes open. There's a boy here.

(Riku. It's Riku.)

He's looking at you. Why is he looking at you.

"We have to fight now." You say, in your most apologetic voice.

"What? Why—"

You don't let your brother your twin the one who named you finish. Dart forward, pull a — oh, hello weird sword, out of the Darkness that coats you (coats your lungs coats your veins and arteries the inside of your throat all of your muscles and everything).

Slash at him, he deflects. Grimace on his face now.

"Kiru, what are you doing?"

Blink. Breathe. "I am required to test your combat capabilities as compared to my own." You answer, monotone. "Please do not cause unnecessary harm. This is a routine test. Please understand the pain is for your own good and improvement."

(echoing words echoing words, drawn from times you weren't — not supposed to be — online, cold voice cold ice against you cold metal and it hurt it hurt but it's for your own good so endure be good and endure—)

the fight continues.

(You know somewhere deep down you won't win this. But. You've got to try, right? Vexen will be mad if you don't.

. . . Vexen is scary when he's mad, ice-cold and calm. You don't want him to be mad. You'd rather die than have him be any more mad at you.)

Chapter Text

Zexion cannot loathe duties but he can be. . . dismissive of some of them. He is aware this is a fault of his, the reluctance to carry out some tasks over others. (It feels, of late, that the other members of the Organization, the older members who had all lost their Hearts in the same disaster of Radiant Garden, forget that Zexion is no longer that obedient little child with stars in his eyes. It is almost annoying. Would be annoying, if Zexion could be such.)

Still. Vexen is correct in that the Riku Replica must be monitored, especially after whatever procedure was it recently underwent.

Whatever Zexion was expecting to find, it is not — this.

"Replica."

It blinks up at him, face-marks glowing slightly. Pulsing, almost, in the same sort of rhythmic cycle that Dusk's stripes do. "Mmh?" It is — less of a word, or noise, than a trill, almost an. . . electronic noise tearing through space. (It reminds Zexion of the sound of bells, strangely.)

"Why are you in a pile of Nobodies."

That is the critical question, because the Replica is covered in the creatures. Lesser Nobodies, to be specific. Reapers, Dusks, Creepers, and even a Ninja looming with its pointed knive-hands just above where the Replica's throat is. What is more alarming is that the Replica looks so at ease in this situation, though Zexion's metaphorical hackles raise. (Reapers and a Ninja — this stinks of Marluxia and Larxene's involvement, and Zexion has heard too much of Vexen's complaints to be entirely unphased by whatever the two are planning.)

The Replica simply blinks its eyes up at Zexion again. "I was hungry. They helped me find food." It pats at the ground beside it, which rapidly becomes covered in yet more Dusks and Creepers. Where do they keep coming from.

Unimportant. Zexion cannot afford the same academic curiosity that had fed Ienzo. He is not that dead child. "Vexen requests a report on your success or failure in the assigned task." Zexion says to the Replica, voice clipped. "Were you successful, or do you have failures to report?"

Like the strike of a match, just like that, the Replica's mood switches. It stills, no longer gently wavering in place with the Nobodies, and a blank look appears upon its face. "Task successful." It answers, in an equally blank and even tone. "Human designated 'Hayashi Riku' of Destiny Islands engaged in battle. Battle outcome included three injuries, minor lacerations to the upper left forearm, lower right thigh, and lower right calf. Individual 'Hayashi Riku' took no significant injuries, and fled after minute five second fifty-three of battle. Task parameters indicate this as successful completion."

. . . Zexion is not going to touch on whatever. . . that is. (It — does not worry, because Zexion cannot worry. But it makes something odd sit, in his chest. To see this not-child so easily switch from life to a blank canvas. Zexion is aware Ienzo had been drawn into committing horrific acts, trusting the adults in his life in the naive way children do, but this — Zexion cannot fathom what Vexen plans for this Replica. What Marluxia or Larxene may be planning.)

"Your report is satisfactory." He says, after enough time has lapsed to ensure there is nothing else to be said. ". . .at east, Replica."

The Replica shudders, some, and loosens from the stiffness it had held itself in. (. . . good.)

Zexion turns, sharply, on his heel. He will not deal with this situation for a second longer. It is not his duty.