Kingdom Hearts: Ceremony of Opposites

Kingdom Hearts: Ceremony of Opposites Chapter 1

Chapter the First: Sorry, You're Not a Winner

Sorry, you're not a winner. With the air so cold, and a mind so bitter, what have you got to lose but false intentions and a life so pretentious?

Zexion can all but hear Demyx mentally cataloguing their current surroundings. Sight, sound, scent, taste...he knows the routine by non-existent heart. It had been drilled into him often enough, and for all his faults, he certainly had always been excellent at re-con missions.

Demyx stands alone, an island of riotous colour in an ocean of green, having long since discarded the Coat of the Organisation. Not for him the stark simplicity of black-on-black; rather, he seemed to delight in taking the Riku route of fashion apparently designed to make the enemy wish they had gone blind beforehand. That has to be the reasoning behind his current...outfit, to be kind: an oversized threadbare (vintage, Demyx would insist; he seems to have acquired a fetish for that as well) red plaid shirt left open over a white tee-shirt emblazoned with chipmunk versions of some band he obviously liked. Whether ironically or genuinely, Zexion is hard-pressed to say. Also ripped acid-washed jeans and work-boots, because that just screams practicality. The fact that Zexion is dressed the same way thanks to Demyx's magic is not lost on him.

It's mostly tall grasses where Demyx is standing, carelessly interspersed with the delicately clubbed heads of young ferns, and ringed with various types of deciduous trees. It will look stunning in autumn, with the trees cloaked in brilliant gold, crimson, and copper. Zexion has never liked warm hues, and finds the fall overrated by half.

Even from here, the blue-haired youth can smell the rich, heady scent of loam and crushed vegetation. It's a small miracle his allergies are not acting up as of yet. They will, Zexion reminds himself, fingering the nearly-empty inhaler in the pocket of his torn blue jeans, Guess Jeans, as expected. They always do, and at the worst possible moment imaginable.

A single hazy sun hangs languidly in the pale blue sky. It radiates a gentle warmth, rather than a blazing heat. Zexion runs slender fingers well suited to holding a pen or a scalpel over thin, wan arms, feeling the left-over heat from a sunburn he had suffered from the last world the pair had visited. His hands are bare, having lost his gloves in some world previous to this one. He cannot be bothered to remember which one.

A breeze picks up, bringing with it the unmistakable tang of brine and decay. So, they are near the ocean or some other body of salt water. Perfect. Zexion despises the ocean.

Wrinkling his nose, he turns away, fighting down the urge to vomit. Neither he nor Demyx had very much to eat, and there is no guarantee this will change any time soon.

Zexion's nausea passes soon enough, but he fears drawing in too deep a breath. He dimly recalls Demyx saying about breathing being "too mainstream" and that he breathes but doesn't inhale. At this point in time, Zexion wishes he could do just that.

There isn't a single Heartless in sight. It's just as well. Besides, the pair's inability to see any at the moment means nothing. Heartless are very much like blackbeetles, minus the ability to live upwards of a week without their heads. Zexion knows that last part from experience. He had discovered this himself working with Vexen in the basements of Castle Oblivion. Yes, basements, plural. Demyx had been a bit bemused when he had finally learnt of this.

Zexion can see Demyx pulling out the battered corpse of an ancient notepad and a broken pencil (yellow, number two, always number two) from the left back pocket of his jeans. Zexion shudders to think that anyone would pay good munny to dress the way that Demyx is dressed. Even Riku has better taste than that, Zexion suspects. Perhaps they could give each other fashion tips. Then again, that would mean encountering him again, and Zexion is loath to do anything of the sort.

The blond scribbles furiously on the mangled sheets. They're just pale enough in colour to still be considered a shade of white, but the blue lines have long since faded into oblivion. Zexion finds this an all-too fitting metaphor for the fates of his comrades, and glances away briefly. He does not mention this to Demyx, however, nor the fact that they no longer have to do this, that they have not needed to do this for ages. It's Demyx's safety net, his touchstone to reality, just like Demyx is to Zexion. He'll never admit this, though, not even to himself. It would be cruel of Zexion to take this from him.

The mournful lowing of a far-off foghorn shatters the fragile silence that has fallen over the meadow. Zexion grimaces and covers his ears. Demyx seems not to notice until--

"Hey, Zex, you wanna go check that out?" He sets off at a jog, not bothering to wait for a response

No, Zexion does not "wanna go check that out." He breaks out into a run in a desperate attempt to keep up.

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Skipping over sea-slicked stones is not a talent that Zexion has quite cultivated. His shoes (work-boots, really, Doc Martins, to be exact, curse Demyx a thousand times over) are no more suited to this task than he himself is. He finds himself more often than not struggling to remain upright. Demyx's constant cajoling is not helping matters in the least. Nor are the varying sizes of the rocks in question, ranging from glorified gravel to small boulders. Zexion resists the urge to say, "It's not just a boulder; it's a rock!" He ends up scrambling on his hands and knees, much to his chagrin. A scientist should never have to suffer such indignities. That is for his test subjects.

The two are soon greeted by the ebon spire of an ancient lighthouse crowning the rocky spit on which they now stood. It seems eternal, everlasting, primordial, as though it has always existed. It is as much a part of nature as the crashing waves beating furiously against the crude, man-made breakwater, or the sheer cliffs rising off in the distance.

For reasons known only to him, Demyx wants to name the promontory, little more than a sandbar with good publicity, Cape Nope. Zexion allows it, despite the point most likely already having an appellation given to it by the locals.

It is only natural that Demyx wants to climb to the top of the lighthouse, Zexion tells himself. What better way to get a feel for their environment? It is simply common sense, a thing which the blue-haired youth would have sworn Demyx lacked in any great quantity. Besides, it is scarcely as though the tow-headed young man is asking him to climb a tree or anything of the sort. Zexion's disdain for such things is near-legendary in the Organisation. And disdain it is, for lacking a heart necessarily means lacking any and all emotions, up to and including fear. Thus it is also disdain he has for dogs, bees and other stinging insects, germs, thunderstorms, rodents, and the like. Demyx would never speak to Zexion of these things, a fact for which the latter is eternally grateful.

Demyx tries the coal-black door, as glossy as a rook's wing. It opens slowly, reluctantly, with an ear-splitting shriek, as though offended at being disturbed after so long asleep. Zexion grits his teeth and backs up half a step. The opening thus revealed gapes like a maw waiting to swallow the pair. The blond wastes no time going inside. The older of the two, however, hesitates, hovering just outside the entrance.

Eventually, he gives in against his better judgement. There is no use in waiting outside, and Zexion feels strangely vulnerable out in the open like this. He runs his fingers along the length of his arms whilst scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. A branch breaks, and he quickly scampers inside the primordial building, telling himself that it is only prudent to get to higher ground and that he had every intention of doing so anyway.

Demyx is already well ahead of him and shows no sign of slowing down so that his partner can catch up to him. Zexion mentally curses his short legs as he jogs up the rusted stairs. He watches with poorly-concealed envy as his companion (no, not Companion; this isn't "Doctor Who.") takes the winding spiral stairs two or three at a time. If he didn't know better, he'd swear that the younger man (seven months and one fortnight younger, to be precise) is mocking him with his display. Perhaps he is, and Zexion is merely giving him more credit than he deserves. He has done that before on several occasions.

Cracks line the corroded walls, thick veins of emerald moss spilling out like plush velvet. Said crevices are mirrored in the decaying metal steps. The blue-haired Nobody scowls at the wanton display of rot. There is no place for such a shameful show in a world that is pressing ever onward towards the future.

Glancing down below, before vertigo has a chance to set in, Zexion espies some evidence that this place has been used as a "hang-out" by the local shiftless adolescents. Not recently, however, given the thick layer of dust and grime he can see even from this angle. Ah, if only he had a broom and a dust mask... He wrings his hands helplessly. The Basements in Castle Oblivion were always sterile and immaculate.

He fights down the desire to sneeze. It's psychosomatic. Of course it is. He's well aware of this. That still does not make things easy for him. He wrinkles his nose in distaste.

He shudders delicately at the thought of having to utilise such common street vernacular like "hang-out" like a vulgar street thug to describe the makeshift nature of this location. Perhaps "gathering place" would be preferable. Yes, this sounds so much more refined. Gathering place it is.

Mentally recording the details of their locations. He smiles faintly at this, almost against his will. Perhaps Demyx is rubbing off on him.

At any rate, he notices some empty beer cans, most likely from some cheap brand, not that Zexion knows much about alcoholic beverages, some discarded packets of crisps, and what appear to be multicoloured wrappers for lollipops, of all things. When he reports his findings to Demyx, he merely smiles knowingly and ruffles the older boy's hair.

Finally, they reach the top of the tower. Zexion takes a moment to catch his breath, whilst Demyx is not even winded. It is apparent that they are surrounded on three sides by a vast ocean or some other body of water. They knew this already. To the west lie some low mountains, little more than hills, really, dotted with the occasional solitary house. Judging from the wistful look on Demyx's face as he gazes off into the distance, the pair will be visiting there sometime in the near future. Zexion does not do hikes. Perhaps he can talk Demyx out of it, though it seems unlikely.

Across a minuscule cove, a village spreads, more like a creeping and invasive ground-covering plant than a town built by human hands. It is crowded, with houses haphazardly strewn in any place available without any rhyme or reason. Dilapidated row houses rub elbows with gleaming new construction, so new, in fact, that Zexion can almost smell the sawdust and concrete. Crammed in between are a few concrete boxes, which the steel-haired youth assumes are shops. Trees are few and far between, the houses choking out and suffocating them like weeds strangling prized roses. It is inelegant, to say the least, and Zexion does not relish the prospect of visiting such a place. It lacks the rugged charm of a fishing village or the contrived quaintness of a tourist trap seaside town.

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The growling of their stomachs tells them the time better than any watch can. Zexion sighs heavily. They need food; that much is apparent. Their meagre rations have long since run out, and he doubts that this world uses munny, not that the pair have much in the first place. Besides, Zexion does not want to go into town if he does not absolutely have to. Heavily populated areas make him uneasy.

It's Demyx's turn to make dinner anyway, and he is all too eager to help. With water being his element, and an ocean nearby, it takes minutes for Demyx to bring back a mess of fish, some of which might actually be edible. Zexion leaves the blond the task of cleaning the creatures. He makes a face, as usual, but busies himself appropriately.

Zexion has only recently overcome his extreme reluctance to eat anything not prepared by his own hands. His food allergies are a large part of why this is. Demyx has often made jokes about Zexion having "all the food allergies, all of them," and has wondered aloud how the older youth has managed to survive this long. Zexion will give the response that he can't possibly have "all the food allergies," since he does, in fact, eat. Demyx takes his word for this, as he has never seen the other do so.

Zexion leaves the other Nobody to gather firewood, a task at which not even Demyx can fail. At least, that is the thought. Even a Dusk should be able to do that much, right?

After several minutes, Demyx returns from the woods with an armload of wood. Zexion frowns. It should not have taken him that long; the woods here are little more than a windscreen and a fence between here and the town. He hopes fervently that no-one from said hamlet has seen Demyx. Old habits die hard.

Demyx drops the wood unceremoniously and uses a Fire spell to light it. Zexion's eyes narrow in envy. He hasn't been able to use magic in a very long time. It grates on him like nothing else in the worlds.

Half-cooked flesh slides down thirst-parched gullets. Demyx tears hunks of the dripping meat and swallows it, barely stopping to chew. Zexion prefers a more fastidious approach, delicately nibbling away at the fish. The tender flesh is briny-sweet, and tastes more than a little of iron and copper.

Zexion stops briefly to regard the blond Nobody at his side. Theirs is not a friendship, not really. It's more a marriage of convenience. Demyx can open Corridors of Darkness ™ and Zexion keeps Demyx sane. The blond had admitted earlier that he was getting sick of hearing his own voice all the time. That was the only explanation he could give for bringing the older boy along with him. For once, Zexion does not argue with him.

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It's late. The fire has long since died and is no longer sending out plumes of smoke marking their location. It's just as well. The stars are out, spread out on the black velvet of the night sky like precious diamonds carelessly scattered about in a jeweller's display case. He lies on his back and stares at the twinkling lights overhead. He wonders which are worlds to which they have already been, and to which they have yet to go. How many worlds are there, he wonders, and will Axel track them there? Most likely; he has so far. Axel hates loose ends.

Demyx has fallen asleep, judging from the strangled bear noises coming from his left. Zexion sighs. How the flaxen-haired young man can sleep is beyond him. Still, he can smell no rain, and there isn't a cloud in the sky. They should be all right sleeping out here for now. If it does start to precipitate, they can always head back to the lighthouse and wait it out there