Kingdom Hearts: But Home Is Nowhere

Kingdom Hearts: But Home Is Nowhere Chapter 4

  Chapter the Fourth: A Let-Down

Theme the Fourth: Breakfast

All too soon it is morning. The beds are surprisingly comfortable, all things considered. Demyx chalks it up to exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Yes, emotional, in spite of all of Zexion's protestations that they cannot feel. Demyx has never put much stock in that, (having told Sora and crew in one of their battles that they did, in fact, have hearts) and there are rumours floating about like ghosts that they can eventually regrow hearts given enough time. Zexion dismisses such things as mere wives' tales, but Demyx cannot be so certain. Chalk it up to the optimist in him.

They get dressed in the clothes that they wore the day before, eternally grateful for the fact that the grossly rotund manager seems uninterested in prying too closely into the personal lives of his guests. Under normal circumstances, Demyx would naively assume it is because he does not see enough business to afford such a luxury, but he notices that the garish scarlet neon flashing like an abhorrent pharos into the aeonian gloam sign now reads "No Vacancy." He is not at all certain he wants to know what kind of mysterious guests have filled the place since he and Zexion had gone to bed the night before. Zexion assures him that this is in his best interests, that it would do him well not to dwell on such matters, and to let him handle them instead.

"It is most likely the depraved dregs of society," he explains, with an almost barbarous glee, his visible eye gleaming all too brightly, far too brightly for Demyx's liking or comfort. Zexion is in his natural habitat, that is for certain, and Demyx likes it not at all. "The debauched mongrel hordes that flood the filthy back alleys at night, engaging in perverse and unnatural acts at which the wholesome and innocent masses, like yourself, dare not even hazard guesses." Then he promptly begins to regale the bewildered Demyx with rather sordid accounts of the various distasteful activities going on right under their noses, drug sales, murder, and human trafficking being the very least of these offences. Then again, Zexion insists, what did one expect, when the town was a nightmare abyss of ill-bred squalor and poverty, of a financial, moral, and spiritual nature? Not to mention Moogles. Demyx could argue against this all he wishes, but he must know this to be true deep down inside, no matter how much it disgusts him And disgust him it surely must. Demyx is so predictable in that sense.

He gives Demyx a look full of contempt and pity that makes his skin crawl. "Really, do not be so naïve to assume that such things do not happen here. Muted screams, blood running in the thoroughfares, ghastly inhuman shrieks in the middle of the night, (having nothing to do with black metal, of course) blasphemous and arcane rituals... those are no mere rumours, my friend. Oh, no. But you knew that, didn't you?" He places his hand on Demyx's shoulder, and he shudders and backs away.

"No, no, I had no idea," he says, shaking his head emphatically, as if denying it will somehow make it less true. Ah, Demyx, how innocent you are.

"It really should come as no surprise to you, Demyx," he continues, either oblivious to the other's discomfort, or, which is rather far more likely, relishing it like one would relish a fine wine. Not that Demyx would know of such things; he is straight-edge all the way. "What would you expect of the kind of degeneracy you see in the rank and file of Traverse Town? And yes, Demyx, there are all sorts of misbegotten individuals in this metropolis, if one knows where to look. You must look past the cheerful exterior, the socially conscious individuals who make up the outer limits of the town, the gleaming and polished surfaces that make up the morally upright veneer of the location."

You would know, Demyx wants to tell him. Then again, he would, in all probability. He only hopes that Zexion did not participate in such things last night. He sighs and tells himself to be grateful that Zexion does not go into detail about what exactly does take place in these cabalistic ceremonies. Except he does, and Demyx wishes he would not, that he could close his ears to this vile and hateful gossip.

"You may well pity them because they are only here because they lost their homes to the Darkness," Zexion goes on to say. "But please do not flatter them by thinking that they are all innocent people who lost their worlds through no fault of their own. Yes, their worlds were destroyed by the Heartless, but the Heartless feed on the darkness in people's hearts. And there is darkness in everyone's heart unless one is a Princess of Heart. And there are only seven of them in this universe, as far as we know."


And to think, we slept right through all that? He consoles himself with the thought that they had had a very long day. Surely he would have been aware of all of that had it not been so. At least, he wants very much to believe that. He would also like very much to believe that he is absolutely certain that Zexion would never be involved in any of the abominations that he has described in great detail, that he of all people would have enough sense to stay away from arcane and unholy rites, but he has heard about the goings-on of the first six members of the Organisation prior to its formation, dark rumours and tales about which he refuses to think.

The motor lodge did boast of what the manager rather grandiosely termed a "continental breakfast", which was one of the reasons why Demyx had chosen for the pair of them to stay there. (Aside from the whole not being run by the Moogle Mafia thing) And by "continental breakfast," the manager apparently meant a battered white box of grocery store doughnuts (from the reduced day-old section, most likely) and lukewarm coffee most likely left over from the day before. Demyx sighs inwardly. He will have to get real food, and soon, since there is no way that Zexion will be able to eat this, the poor thing. Not that Zexion would ever countenance anyone ever pitying him, especially not Demyx.

The breakfast bar is just off the office, in a tiny room little bigger than a cubicle. It features a bland, chipped beige Formica countertop with an old battered metal coffee urn tucked away in the corner, and a white cardboard box of doughnuts, probably purchased from the local chain supermarket, as Demyx had anticipated. Demyx greatly prefers to support local businesses whenever possible, but he is scarcely in any position to complain. Besides, this is Traverse Town, so local businesses are for the most part driven out by the Moogles, save for a handful of holdouts.

There's also a basket filled with fruit that look just edible, to give the illusion of choice. A few large oranges and bananas that are almost overripe Still, it is better than nothing, Demyx surmises, taking a banana which seems to be a safe choice. He peels it and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully a few times before swallowing the sodden lump down. The mass catches a few times in his throat, but the room-temperature camomile tea he has managed to scrounge up forces it down his gullet. He gulps and makes a face at the unpleasant feel. Zexion raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Demyx smiles sheepishly and hopes that the manager has not noticed this. Far be it for him to give accidental offence to their erstwhile benefactor. He glances over his shoulder to make certain that his actions have not been seen.

The coffee and doughnuts make Demyx think of Xaldin, of all people. It really is not that surprising, to be honest, in light of the hairy man's great overwhelming love for the breakfast goods and coffee. Rumour had it that Xaldin had somehow ended up in the small lumber town of Twin Peaks, Washington, a quaint and picturesque hamlet, though deeply troubled by the gruesome murder of a pretty and popular young woman. There, he allegedly had met up with one Agent Dale Cooper from the FBI and discovered his hitherto unknown deep and abiding passion for baked goods there. (Not to mention his love and admiration for the majestic Douglas Fir, which really is not a fir tree at all.) However, this could never be confirmed nor denied. Nor would it ever be, as the braided man had been killed at Beast's Castle by Sora.

At any rate, his fondness for pies and bear claws had proven most fortuitous. The members of the Organisation had been forced to start shearing him during the spring and summer months, thanks to an unfortunate incident at the beach at the Destiny Islands. Or Archipelago of Predestination, if you happen to be named Xemnas. It was and is popular both as a tourist destination and for money laundering and as a tax shelter, particularly for Moogles. He had been sunbathing (no relation to the Deafheaven album "Sunbather." Excellent album, by the by. Demyx would agree wholeheartedly with this assessment.) shirtless, lying on his stomach on a large, thick towel, when a group of small children found him. One, a tyke by the name of Tidus, began poking him with a stick. The girl, a slim thing with flipped-up chin-length light brown hair and a short yellow dress that looked very much like a pair of overalls, started screaming something about a bear. Xaldin was only able to look up briefly before being shot in the rear end with a tranquilliser dart and taken back to his "Natural Habitat" by Animal Control. After getting lost in the woods for days on end, he realised that no longer was he on the Destiny Islands. Though one would think that the misty, rolling hills, steep, jagged cliffs that shot up nearly vertically with sheared sides, and dense, primordial pine forests would have given that away sooner. Blame it on the drugs, if you so choose. At any rate, as soon as he regained his bearings (and narrowly avoided being skewered by an arrow shot by a feisty red-haired princess not named Kairi or Ariel) he returned to the Castle, albeit slightly worse for wear.

After returning to the Castle That Never Was, he had explained his predicament to his colleagues, who were most understanding. Namely because he was bigger than almost all of them and could easily take them in a fight. So it was decided that they would have to remedy the situation so that it never occurred again.

"Of course he was mistaken for a bear!" Xigbar had exclaimed, voicing what the other Nobodies had thought, but dared not say aloud. "He's so freaking hairy! He looks like he's got a jumper welded to his torso."

And he did indeed. Which had given Zexion an idea. They would shear him every so often and use his hair to make jumpers for orphans. Or failing that, they could always use his hair to make toupees. Whichever seemed more logical. (And would earn them more munny.)

"It would make him feel more comfortable," he had reasoned, meeting Luxord's sceptical eyes. "Seriously, how does he not die of heat exhaustion every summer, I have no idea. And if we use his body hair to knit jumpers, well, then everybody wins. Poor kids get clothes and Xaldin gets to not be sent to the Land of Bears against his will again."

Xigbar had rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, but how are we gonna get him to agree to this? I mean, come on, the man's really proud of his hair." He had snorted in disgust. "The man's a walking fur-suit, but God forbid we actually do somethin' about it. Y'know, to make certain that he isn't mistaken for a bear again." He shook his head and sighed.

Zexion had smirked. "Who said he had to know? He can't stop it if he doesn't know it's going to happen, now can he?"

Xigbar had raised an eyebrow. "So, what do you propose we do?"

So Zexion had outlined his plan. They would drug a plate of doughnuts, which he would eat, and shave him when he fell asleep.

An excellent plan indeed. Unfortunately, there was a fatal flaw, as there always is in these kinds of things. In this case, it just so happened that Xaldin had a remarkably well-developed sense of taste. Not that this should have come as any great surprise to anyone, considering the fact that he was the one who had taught Zexion how to cook when he was younger. Thus, he could easily discern the sedatives in the Boston Cream doughnuts on the plate in front of him. Having tasted the medication in the breakfast delicacy, he had spat out his mouthful on the dish and stalked out of the room, revolted.

They had then chosen to try to use the coffee and doughnuts to lure him in so they could shot him with a dart gun. Alas, he had learnt his lesson with the previous batch and avoided the break room whenever possible. They would have to take more drastic measures if they wanted to save their companion from being rounded up by Animal Control.

It was decided, then, that they would have to hunt him down and dart him, which was easier said than done. Xigbar would be the obvious choice for such an undertaking, but it needed to be done by someone who was small enough to travel around unnoticed. Thus, Zexion was the clear winner. He was not the crack-shot that Xigbar was, but then again, few were. Xaldin was elusive prey, but Zexion was small and furtive, and had soon bested him. The older man quickly felt the sting of defeat (and tranquilliser dart) and collapsed to the ground. Zexion rolled up his sleeves and stripped off Xaldin's Cloak and shirt. He produced an electric razor and began to shave long strips of coarse black hair from the man's back, which he collected with an old newspaper. (Owned by the Moogles, of course, as was everything else.) He then struggled to flip him over, but eventually succeeded. He was almost too tired from his efforts to complete his task, but soon enough, Xaldin was completely clean-shaven. Zexion took off before the sedative wore off, lest Xaldin do something unpleasant to him.

The tall, burly man woke up groggy and hairless in the middle of the Grey Room. Gazing down at his hairless body, he whimpered and ran off to his room to hide for a while. Nor could anyone tempt him out with pie or coffee. Too bad, that. They had had the stuff imported all the way from Twin Peaks.

"He'll be fine once it starts to come back in," Zexion assured them. Indeed, within a week, he was back to his old self again, though they had to repeat the process a month later. It was agreed, however, that he'd be allowed to keep his winter coat. It was only right.

Still, thanks to this, Xaldin had taken to hiding come April as soon as it got warm. Zexion became an expert in ferreting out his hiding spaces, and his power over illusions meant that Xaldin usually never saw what hit him.

Demyx shakes himself out of his contemplations and surreptitiously glances at Zexion out of the corner of his eye. Zexion turns away, stroking a thin, pale arm, and warily staring out the grimy window at the empty streets. He will probably have to eat something soon, so his blood sugar stays consistent. He would hate to have his blood sugar crash in the middle of an escape. (As would Zexion himself, Demyx suspects.)

Furtively, he sneaks a bagel into one of the pockets in Zexion's Cloak. He knew it would come in handy one of these days. Just because Zexion cannot eat it, it does not follow that the tow-haired youth cannot eat it as well. It will at least help to easy his hunger later. He will definitely need to get them some real food eventually, however. Unfortunately, that costs munny, which they really do not have. Demyx could kill some Heartless, but he really wants to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Also to do as little as possible for the greatest reward possible, but he will not state such a goal out loud.

Could they get jobs? Quite possibly. Someone might be willing to overlook the fact that they are Nobodies and give them employment, as unlikely as that sounds. But they cannot stay here, as tempting as it sounds. No, they must leave this galaxy as soon as possible and find another, one where they will not be followed. Easier said than done, Demyx thinks. That is still no excuse not to try, however.

Demyx thanks the man and pays his bill. This costs him most of the munny he has managed to scrape up, but right now, he does not care about that. They need to find food and shelter, in that order, and they cannot find that here. They need a game plan.

Standing outside the motel where they have spent the night, Demyx gets a better look at the building that has housed them. It is one of those long, low-slung, horseshoe-shaped structures ubiquitous in the nineteen-fifties, back when Traverse Town had a booming tourist business. By all accounts, a motel that antedates the twenty-first century should theoretically excite Demyx's predilection for nostalgia. But the edifice lacks any kind of character or personality whatsoever, being a dull, lifeless shade of grey with peeling paint and a sagging roof, without a hint of charm or kitsch to invoke any semblance of wistfulness. Still, it kept them warm and dry when they needed it, so they really cannot complain.

"So, where do we go from here?" he asks Zexion, as though he would have any idea.

Zexion shakes his head. "Just pick a star. There are enough of them out there."

Indeed, there are. Even with the tawdry glow of the electric street-lights clogging the night sky, there are a few dimly flickering lights above their head that they can see against the velvet firmament. Surely one of them would offer them shelter and refuge. They can only hope.