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Sora was falling. Or was he sinking? Sinking into unfathomable darkness? He was pain incarnate for the longest time, and then he was nothing at all. And that was bliss for a short while, but when you are nothing at all, you feel nothing at all. He slept and he slept and he did not care to wake up. There was no point in it. And so he slept some more. And then he began to see things in fragmented moments. White walls. Friends. Faces. Voices. Smiling and calling his name. And then the pain returned when he tried to reach out. And why did he try to reach out? There was no reason to, and it hurt. But he needed to. He didn’t know why, but through the swirling darkness, he knew he needed to reach out to the dim light above him before he was swallowed in darkness.
And how did he get here? He did not remember. He could not remember. He did not know where he was, who he was, or what he was doing and why he was doing it, but he needed to reach out. He couldn’t let the darkness swallow him. Even if it hurts. The pain was good. A reminder for something he couldn’t remember. Keep fighting. He had to keep fighting. And then Sora was something again. He was a small fragment against the swelling dark sea, but he was something, and that was good. He had to keep being something.
“You are Nothing. You shall never be Anything.”
The sudden shock of hearing the voice shook the boy, who bordered on nonexistence and existence to his core. It seared through him like fire and then encased him in biting cold, ice that froze his burned, torn being.
Keep existing. He must keep existing. Above all, he could not listen to that voice.
“You are but an empty vessel. One who will soon carry my will. Submit. Stop this futile fighting. You are but a child throwing a tantrum.”
Keep fighting. That is what he must do. That is what they would want him to do.
“Your resistance will come to an end soon. It is only a matter of time.”
Saïx sifted through the copious amounts of paperwork that had been left by two former members of the Organization, notes on things he was supposed to learn how to grasp to help further along the goals of the Master. He was stuck translating formulas and theories, uncovering the secrets hidden within them, day in and day out, with only coffee and tea to take his mind off the words and numbers that began to swim in his vision. And to top it off, there was something in the corner of his vision; another assignment that had been piled onto his already growing pile of assignments.
There was a boy who stood just in the corner of his office, always lurking in Saïx’s peripheral vision if he tilted his head just so. And just like the journals and scientific research he was studying, that boy was the Luna Diviner’s latest assignment. His silent ward was, rather fortunately, quiet and out of his way. He never once needed any attention from the older man.
Yes, ever since Saïx had been saddled with their unresponsive 13th after Master Xehanort’s plan had come to fruition and the Guardian of Light’s rescue attempt had all but succeeded, the hooded boy had followed the Berserker around silently and listlessly. He was unable to do even the most basic and menial tasks without being commanded. And, most days, he simply stood there and said nothing, did nothing. He was a small figure in halls and rooms that were far too large for him.
A long time ago (a lifetime really) that had been Saïx once. A too small boy with a heart torn from his chest. Something hollow and empty and molded to be the perfect vessel. A puppet. There was irony in that statement somewhere that Saïx couldn’t see. Perhaps it was because of what he was researching; the Replica Program that Vexen had started in Castle Oblivion.
Once more in the many hours that the Luna Diviner had been working, he tipped his head in the silent boy’s direction, letting his golden gaze trace over the edges of that black leather hood and then to the shadowed face hidden in shadows and hair that had begun to lighten from dark brunette to a light brown and then white at the tips. He was becoming more like Master Xehanort each passing day. A dark sign that unsettled Saïx. And he was almost glad, or as glad as he could be, that he could not see those empty, hollow yellow eyes.
There was work to be done, as there would always be work to be done, and the boy fell perfectly into that category. So, he supposed he must tear himself away from documents and paperwork lest he begin to give himself a splitting headache. His eyes were beginning to spin, after all, from all this reading. Anyway, how long had it been since their 13th had eaten a meal? How long since he’s even drunk anything? As usual, their 13th did neither without some command from VIII.
“Follow me, 13th,” Saïx commanded as he rose from his seat and walked around his desk, heading towards the small kitchen off to the side. The only sign that the boy had comprehended what had been said to him was the sound of booted feet against the white marble floor as he fell in behind Saïx.
The Luna Diviner’s seat of power, his office, was more than just a simple room with a desk and chair, filled with books and shelves - it was a bedroom, there was also a door that led straight to a private bathroom, and an open kitchen off to the other side. It was everything he’d need without having to leave, but it was nothing compared to what the Superior’s quarters had once been. Although it was far more luxurious than what those below him got. But, above all, it was more than enough for the Berserker to do what he needed to do. That meant, at one point, he was sitting at the same desk and reading through reports handed in to him by the other members of the Organization. Another, more tedious task that usually left him with a similar splitting migraine as the other Nobodies that Saïx. The more recent paperwork he’s been given, though, seemed far more important than what they had been in the previous Organization.
Saïx had somewhat begun to miss those times when things felt infinitely simpler. Plotting and backstabbing had been easier when you had the Superior wrapped around your finger. He did not have the same sway he once did. He was scrutinized by too many, watched by too many eyes. His every action would be hard-pressed to go unnoticed. But those times had long since passed, and the only thing he could keep doing, the only thing he’s been doing, is to keep moving forward. He had to keep planning, backstabbing, sifting through useless junk, and taking care of worthless beings.
‘Hmm… Demyx might be a good candidate,’ Saïx thought when he thought of useless junk and worthless beings. But how to come in contact with the blonde in private and without drawing too much attention to himself? With the Master’s eyes on him, especially with their 13th in his care, that felt almost impossible. He would have to find some other way. But, for now, he focused on their 13th.
“Sit,” Saïx commanded, and the child sat at the small table, head bowed and hands in his lap. His silence was unnerving, as it always had been. Once, he had been loud and rambunctious, shouting taunts and throwing insults. Now all that had been sucked out of him, leaving only a husk. An empty shell. It was chilling, and Saïx had seen it over and over. That is just what the Master did. It’s what Xemnas did and Ansem, too. They all just drained the life out of everything they could get their hands on. But that was a thought to dwell on another day. “Here,” the Luna Diviner set a bowl of lukewarm soup in front of the boy a few minutes later, “Eat. And be careful not to spill anything on yourself. I’m not cleaning you up.”
He had to in the first few days. When the boy really couldn’t do anything for himself. He had been bedridden and needed to be fed by hand, carried to the bathroom. Saïx spent many working hours by his bed, making sure the boy with the fractured heart didn’t die. There were only a handful of reasons he had left the 13th’s side. And one of those reasons had been when Master Xehanort or one of the others right below him had come for the boy. Saïx didn’t know what they did to him while he was away. Master Xehanort didn’t come as often anymore. Not ever since the boy was able to start moving around under orders.
The boy ate carefully but slowly while Saïx lingered behind him, leaning his back against one of the counters while he poured himself another cup of tea that had long since turned cold. But after just a few bites, suddenly he was breaking down into violent coughs that shook the entirety of his small body. His spoon clattered against the table, and suddenly he pushed himself away from the table in hysterics that grew ever more violent.
Saïx watched with a grimace. The bowl had tipped over, spilling the soup across it, and whatever their 13th had managed to eat was soon making its way onto the floor until there was nothing to throw up, and the boy was convulsing.
Yes, typically, the boy was rather easy to take care of. But, sometimes, he was prone to such tantrums. His body and heart were still rejecting the piece of Master Xehanort’s heart that had been forced into that hole, the gaping abyss, and the tattered remains that were the young boy’s heart - the remains that were left behind by their 14th daring stunt. It was only because it worked out in their favor that their 14th hadn’t been punished so severely, but the masked brat was still sulking around the corners and watching the unresponsive boy with a sour look.
Saïx didn’t move to help but instead watched like the heartless nobody that he was until it passed, and the boy had sluggishly moved into a kneeling position, with his hands in his lap and head bowed. He did not move when Saïx told him to, did not even seem to hear him.
It looked like the boy who bordered on nonexistence had broken again.
Saïx gripped 13th’s upper arm, hauling him up, but his legs buckled underneath him, and he fell limp against the older man, forcing VIII to carry the feeble thing back to his bed. Perhaps a good thing about his sudden unresponsiveness was that he did not fight when Saïx stripped him out of the leather coat that all the Organization members adorned. He did not need it here. Here, he would be safe from all those who lurked outside, who wanted to use him, and the darkness that threatened to swallow him. Saïx would make sure of it. Everything hinged on this kid.
He draped the small coat across the back of a chair and left the boots at the foot of the bed. Then, with careful and soft touches, he wiped away the sweat and vomit from the boy’s face and made sure, before he returned to the kitchen to clean up the mess there, that the boy was comfortable. He looked anything but. His face was scrunched up, and he twitched every so often, like he was having some horrible nightmare. Saïx did not envy him. He did not dream anymore, but it seemed like every night, 13th did. Horrible nightmares that kept him from even having a peaceful sleep. He could not even have that. But there was nothing VIII could do about it.
The only thing that seemed to soothe the boy when he fell into these fits was the crown-shaped charm around his neck that he would clutch in his hands so tightly it would cut into his palms. Saïx had taken it when he first brought their 13th here. He had taken it and hidden it from Master Xehanort. He had not wanted it to be taken away from him, to further distance the kid from who he used to be. His name was not even his own anymore, and he had become a stranger even to himself.
Xaros.
Saïx thought it terribly unclever, but just by adding that X, Master Xehanort had forced the boy to become a little less himself and more like him.
He left the boy to sleep and cleaned up the mess left in the kitchen.
Sora trailed behind him, quiet as usual. It was a few days after the worst episode he had had since he started walking. Really, Xaros shouldn’t be up and about just yet. He was still slow and unable to hold down much food, but there was work to be done, and Saïx was not going to fall behind further than he had already, and he did not trust leaving the boy alone in the castle. 14th was growing rather bold, already used to having a body once more. He seemed eager to bait Saïx into a fight that Saïx was not willing to give him, and not many others were easily baited into playing his games either.
Boredom was the word that Saïx would use to describe what Vanitas was feeling. Like him, the boy had been kept away from leaving the Organization's base, forced to spend his days wandering through endless halls and training with no one but himself.
But they were not here for Vanitas; not this time. He already had a replica body. But there were others, and Vexen and Zexion had left behind many empty vessels. A second trip to Castle Oblivion was required. Once a hub for the Organization’s experiments, it now lay abandoned and desolate, bearing witness to countless deaths and misfortune.
Like the first time, Xaros did not indicate that he remembered this place. Not quick breath or looking around in recognition. He got nothing from the boy, which only spurred Saïx on. It was quick work to bring back more of the replicas into the area that was cleared out for him to work through a dark corridor. Ansem, a more scientific mind than him, who took after the apprentice that Saïx once knew in a different lifetime, waited in the laboratory. From time to time, he would work with the others. Today was not one of those days. He was simply there to make sure everything had gone according to the plan, arms crossed over his chest as he watched through narrowed eyes. Saïx returned his glare with a scowl of his own before instructing Xaros to set the replica he was carrying onto one of the chairs, and then followed suit with the two he held. Eventually, Ansem left them to work in peace, and it felt much easier to breathe without the heartless breathing down his neck. Even their 13th seemed to be more at ease, if that was possible. Perhaps a part of him recognized the Seeker of Darkness as the man who once terrorized him and his friends. Did he hate him? Fear him? Did he even have that ability anymore?
It didn’t matter in the moment. Saïx could figure that out later. He would figure that out later. He had to for the sake of everybody. He had to bring “Sora” back.
VIII did not look at him. The man rarely did. Not even when he was issuing out commands. It didn’t really matter to Xaros, and he didn’t have the capacity to think too long about it, regardless. His attention, at the moment, was focused on the “replicas” that they had retrieved from Castle Oblivion. They were working in the lab again today instead of working in VIII’s office, which meant a more hands-on experience for Xaros. He didn’t quite understand what they were doing here with the replicas; VIII hadn’t informed him, and he was unable to put things together for himself.
XIII wasn’t to think for himself, to do anything for himself. His one purpose was to listen to the commands he was given, which he had done rather well. He didn’t ask ‘why’ or ‘what’s’ and there was a strangeness, in an unrest, inside of him. His mind was heavy, leaden with fog that prevented him from thinking too hard. If he tried, tried to piece things together, to think about things other than the commands given to him by the Organization, he would cause himself unnecessary headaches. He would cause more work for VIII.
And he was not to cause more work for VIII.
But when he looked at the replica, he didn’t see the empty vessel that all the others were. In its place, where it should have been, was a girl. His movements stilled, and his heart pounded in his chest, drumming in his ears. It wasn’t a girl but a boy with white hair. And when he blinked, it was a different boy with blonde hair. And then a girl, and then another, with every blink.
His head had begun to hurt, his eyes stinging as he tried to process what he was looking at. It finally settled on a girl that wasn’t familiar to him, like the others were, although, deep down, it felt like he knew her. He should have known her. He knew the others. Riku… Roxas… Namine… Kairi… Who was she? Who was she?
His throat began to close up, and tears began to well in the corner of his eyes. His head hurt, pounded. And below it all, that sense of unrest and wrongness grew. He felt ashamed. But why should he be ashamed? Why should he feel guilty? He had listened to everything VIII and Master Xehanort ordered him to do. That crown pendant weighed heavily on his chest, seemed to weigh him down, and he nearly collapsed to his knees as he held his face in his hands.
He did not hear the voice calling out to him, trying to get his attention, to pull him from the fog he was being submerged in.
“Sora!” a voice shouted, overlapped with VIII’s, if VIII spoke at all. He could not tell anymore. The walls were closing in on him, the girl’s face blurring in and out of view. Who was she? Who was he? He wasn’t supposed to be here. Riku. Was Riku okay? Why should he be worried about a Riku?
It felt as if a crown-shaped hole was being burned through his chest as his breathing grew ragged and pain pounded in his skull. He gripped at his hair, the black hood falling away as he took a step from the girl. White strands fell in front of his eyes, and that even that felt wrong.
Felt. What a strange word. It didn’t apply to him. Xaros couldn’t feel anything. Perhaps Sora could, but he was not Sora, no matter what the voices called him. He wasn’t feeling anything because he couldn’t. There was no shame or guilt to be had, but his mind supplied that he should be feeling those things. Those were the proper feelings despite having no idea why. He should be afraid, and he should be worried about Riku. Because Riku was in danger, or had been, but Xaros didn’t know if he was now. Or where he was. Or why he had been in the first place.
XIII’s mind was going in circles, and reality seemed to crumble underneath him - leaving only him and the girl. The girl whose face had been blank but was slowly morphing features. She was sleeping, her eyes closed, but he could make out the curve of her nose and lips, the soft rise and fall of her chest. He needed to help her. To wake her up. To bring her back. That’s what his heart wanted. As small and insignificant as it was, it could do this one thing, couldn’t it? But he needed to remember her name. He needed to remember her.
It came to him when his back hit the far wall of the lab and he could cower no further. It came to him with the girl’s head turned and her eyes fluttered open; a deep blue that seemed so agonizingly familiar. Had he once looked in a mirror and seen those same blue eyes?
“Xion,” he whispered, his voice small and scratching with disuse. The name had crawled up his throat and escaped from his mouth before he could think about it. But speaking it seemed to relieve some pressure in his skull, seeming to lift the burden just ever so slightly. So he spoke it again and again, like a prayer, a mantra of ‘Xion’ until it wasn’t his voice anymore as he sobbed and held himself. There was a plea in his voice; a plea to wake up, to come back, to not leave him again. He wanted to go to the beach with her, he wanted to hunt seashells with her, and he wanted to eat more ice cream with her on the clock tower. He could taste the sea salt ice cream on his tongue, could hear the ocean that the little shells brought with them that she had gifted him. He needed to reach out harder; he needed to bring her back. Back to him. He was so alone, and it was so cold, and he felt empty. Sosososo empty. Something had been taken from him, had torn him asunder, and he needed it back. He needed to be completed-
“Xaros!” a voice snarled, fingers digging bruises into his wrists, and XIII was pulled back to reality. Blankly, he looked up at VIII. The man’s grip lightened up a little, and some of that tension seemed to ease from his shoulders. But despite that, he did not release the boy and only sighed heavily. It took a second for XIII to notice the blood dripping down his forehead. His hands dropped away from his head, from his face, and he looked at the dark patches that had bloomed at his fingertips.
“Good. You’re back. Go and sit.”
Xaros listened and moved to sit on one of the empty chairs that were left, but his eyes were glued to the girl - “Xion” - who lay sleeping on the table. She had not moved her head; she had not woken up. He must have imagined it, which was impossible. He did not have the capacity to “imagine” nor could he “dream”.
“Xion…” he repeated, and VIII paused, for only a moment, before he began to clean up his ward.
“You called her Xion…” VIII began tentatively, wiping away the blood and cleaning up the self-inflicted wounds. It had not been the first time this had happened, Xaros recalled. He wondered if he had ever tried to tear apart his own head before, though. “So you know who she is.”
Xaros did not answer him. It was not a question. He felt… Weak. Had he truly been sobbing? Had he really repeated her name? Or had that all been in his head? Did VIII see the same thing he had?
Oh.
He was asking questions again. He wasn’t supposed to ask questions.
“According to the notes,” VIII began to explain, “She used to be a fourteenth member. Someone who could siphon and replicate powers. But she was either disposed of or died and vanished from everybody’s memories. Except yours, it seems. Something - or someone - seems to have woken in you. What does she look like to you, Xaros?”
“A young girl with black hair… She’s sleeping right now. Something isn’t right. She’s not there entirely.”
“No, she’s not,” VIII confirmed, “I’m trying to figure out why. But this is progress. If you’re starting to see her, we’re getting somewhere.”
There was an uncomfortable shift in Xaros, and a question weighed heavily on his mind, even though he shouldn’t be thinking for himself. Something in him had changed, like a piece had been taken away… Or, perhaps, returned? And Saïx seemed to notice it.
“You wish to ask something? Then ask it.”
“Who was she?”
“Somebody who was very important to some special people.”
Xaros didn’t need to ask anymore. That question was enough to suffice. But it did leave him thinking. Just a small thing which was surely allowed, wasn’t it? VIII was able to think for himself to some capacity, so surely, it was fine for XIII, too.
Was I important to somebody?
Or had he just always existed like this? He couldn’t have, surely. He had burgeoning memories of a life that was once his. But if he had been important to somebody, where were they now? And why did they leave him behind?