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Who: Roxas and Zidane
What: Helping where needed
Where: Somewhere between Twilight Town General Hospital, and Roxas's house
When: Thursday, the 22nd
Rating: PG-13

The lights were always on the dim side, casting a soft blue hue across the otherwise stark white hallways and rooms.

'It keeps us calm- we don't like it, we can't function aggressively around it.' It's a fact he knows, but not something that he understands, or makes sense to him. 'No one else can stand it. It gives them headaches and makes them weak. Strange, that. I kind of like it.' He would never understand his dreams.

He's walking. He says walking, it feels more like running. Not quite. More like jogging. Walking briskly. Ah, no. He's storming. But why? An emergency? Fear? ... no, he's angry. At what?

He stops at a cross way. He needs to go left. Why does he know this? Where is he? He knows the door at the far right will be his destination. The man won't be in the labs on a holiday. What labs? What holiday? What man?

He kicks the door open, knowing it wouldn't be locked, and yells out a name he has never heard but knows perfectly well. The man with the long beard looks up from his large tome. The man seems upset at such an interruption, but that's unimportant. Demands are being dealt out; explanations are wanted.

'What atrocity is this? What excuse could there be for this? Isn't Terra plenty?' What's going on?

There is shouting, to which the bearded man merely closes his tome after carefully marking the page. The man responds, but no sense can be made from it. How can he understand a language he's never heard before? What language is this? Why does it all seem like he's spoken it before?

'He can threaten as much as he wants. We don't NEED to expand. We don't NEED to hurt anyone else. We won, we did what we were made for. Now why can't we just live like the ones we protect and defend? Why can't we be equals as well? Why are we being turned into killers? Why are the sins being poured on us? This is unfair! This is unjust! We can't just be treated like this!'

The man with the beard kneels down, and a hand pulls him close to the armored chest. Many words of fatherly love are spoken, and a few words of pride follow. The close hug continues with phrases of praise and accomplishment, and grim but sagely fore tellings. There is much regret being said, and much begging of forgiveness. There's a small promise of not being able to remember. There's a reassurance that all will be fresh.

The Re:Birth Upgrade, the bearded man calls it, and says he'll be the first, she will be the second, and all those who follow will shoulder the weight of building them further than they ever dreamed. The fate and growth of the species and their masters rests on him.

Horrible fear, desperate struggles, and the inability to see are coupled with the crippling affects of the blue lights, and all of it soon gives way to a sharp, searing pain from the neck. Things go black, and shine a bright, calming blue.

He's never felt so human.

He's never felt so vulnerable.

He's strong, stronger than most, even like him. The injection- he knows what it is now- wasn't potent enough, and he wakes, surrounded by fluids. He's not sure what kind. Older Brother would know, and if he didn't, Older Sister would. Older Sister wouldn't talk, though... not an issue, he could search her mind.

Before he could make a note to ask, he was pulled from the fluid by strong, but gentle, arms. 'Father, no...' But he can't move. His body is weak and sluggish, but his mind is fully alert and responsive. He's lifted onto a cold, hard table, and his hands, feet, and tail are strapped, and his simple, thin robe is cut from his body. He's naked and revealed, cold and frightened. They don't think to cover his eyes. He can see everything. The sharp blades, the black liquids, the empty jars and boxes of gloves, the saws, the forceps, the tongs, the...

... the long, thick needles on red-filled syringes shoving into each limb, each major vein and artery. Each needle injected nothing short of nine hells of fire. It burned, it stung, it even stank. He could smell it in his blood, taste it in his mouth, even hearing it as it coursed through his ears and made him sick as it swelled in his stomach.

He wanted to scream, kick, cry, yell, tear himself off the bed and smash, crash, and bash.

But all he could do was watch as the needles in the left side of his body emptied their attached syringes and he burned from the inside out.

It seemed like for each hellfire coursing in his system, time slowed down to five eternities. He could feel the seconds taking their time as they crawled by, slowly evolving to minutes and finally hours.

However, his mind remained alert and awake through it all. It refused to grant him the delicious, sweet darkness of blacking out, he so well craved.

Before long he was reduced to no more than inwardly and constantly chanting a short mantra over and over. 'Shut it away, shut it away.'

He's not sure what woke him up, honestly. Was it the sound of him lashing out and hurling his fist into the surgical steel mere inches from his face, or was it the pain of him lashing out and hurling his fist into the surgical steel mere inches from his face?

His ears were ringing, so it might have been the sound. His hand was hurting, so it might have been the force. Then again, his eyes stung, his chest ached, his back burned, and his limbs tingled. What had he DONE to said surgical steel?

The next few moments came as a red blur and he found himself falling a short distance to the stone gray tile floor. It was cold. Just short of freezing. Or maybe it was him. He couldn't tell. He shivered, feeling the hairs on his tail sticking up as much as the hairs on his arms and legs. He jolted a bit and curled up on himself for warmth as much as to regain his bearings.

Another red blur and he came to on the sidewalk outside, in the fresh night air. He wasn't sure what time it was or what day it was, or where he was or where he had been. Only that he was naked, and he wasn't wearing his gloves.

Damn his gloves! Fingerprints- his fingerprints- everywhere he touched! So dangerous- they could-!

More red blurs, and he had moved from outside of a tall, white building with bright red letters, to a tree-ridden trail, then to a concrete obstacle course with poles and stairs and other things laying about... what were they called? Half pipes?

His last, shortest blur landed him sitting on one of those things, not on the edge, but in the middle. The cold, smooth wood felt good on his increasingly hot skin. He could feel the sweat just about pouring off his arms and chest, and despite the tight fitting black shorts he woke up in being the only clothes he had on, he felt overly dressed, and far too hot in them.

He let out a sigh, but there was no way it could have come from him- his voice didn't sound that unused and strained... did it?


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Aug. 3rd, 2010 06:20 am (UTC)
Roxas was feeling the height of adrenaline rush, as he usually did when it came to skateboarding. He wasn't much for spectators, or an audience, so he chose to go in the evenings or late in the night. It felt good to be by himself, truthfully, and perform without worrying about others' judgment in his skills. Skating in balanced speed on the cement in a rumble of wheels, he came near the a stair railing, and prepared himself for the upcoming trick. Not sure what to do, he ended up performing a fine and impressive execution of a willy grind with a nollie 360 flip-out. He didn't stop then, heading towards the half-pipe now that he was back on ground. He loved summer. Especially when the sun had gone down. Warm still, but the breeze had a cool, soothing temperature that was just right. It relieved him from some of the perspiration gained by his actions.

When he finally reached his destination, he had expected to have a relaxing time doing what he did best. Instead, when he stepped on the wooden surface, he froze, finding what seemed to be a short...man half-naked on the ramp. Gazing at the shocking scene and processing it into his brain for a good minute, he looked to his right and left side, as if that would help figure out where did this come from. His attention turned back on the stranger, not certain what to do. He either had to be mentally handicapped, was a bum, per usual, or had escaped from a gang, knowing the reputation. It appeared so, considering he did look a bit beat up. This could easily prove dangerous if he wasn't careful. Yet it wasn't like he could leave someone like that either.

There was a good debate between the pros and cons in his mind, and he decided to at least see if he was okay. He flipped the skateboard into his hand with his foot, and slowly approached the body. When he came close enough to study him, he frowned, really noticing his state now. This wasn't normal. It seemed more of an emergency, and it was something he couldn't ignore. Now more driven, he shook the guy's shoulders roughly as he bent down, feeling anxious. "Hey, HEY! Are you okay?!"
Aug. 5th, 2010 03:09 am (UTC)
Zidane kept his eyes closed, trying to fight against the pounding in his head. His other senses kept track of his surroundings. He could hear something with wheels coming closer. Another cart? Another gurney? Metal ground against metal. Sharpening scalples? Dragging scizzors across a tray? Foot steps near him. A scientist? Garland hisself? More of the people who carved into his chest? Hands on him- no!

At the strong shaking, Zidane's eyes shot open and before he even took a breath, they switched places. Roxas was held to the wood, and Zidane was above him, hand held above his head like he was holding some sort of weapon, but his hand was empty. He seemed to realize this a second later when he pulled it down to examine it.

"... what on earth?"

Things just no longer made sense. He grabbed his head, falling onto the concrete and scooting backwards. His tail flipped and flicked behind him, displaying agitation and pain.

"Where am I?" he asked. This wasn't Terra. What IS Terra? This wasn't Gaia. Gaia?

"Who are you?" So many questions, but he'd start with baby steps.
Aug. 16th, 2010 08:57 am (UTC)
Of all the things Roxas expected to happen...this was one of them, actually. Just not the way it was executed. The guy had reflexes that seemed almost inhuman, and he was pinned down to the ground before he could even muster a blink. He could hear his skateboard plummet to the wooden floor where he had been, and his cerulean eyes widened in surprise at first, not thinking someone seemingly hurt like this could be this fast. His mind recovered quickly, however, and he gave a defiant glare, tracing his sight to the hand above him. For a moment, he thought it was a fist, but peering closer at it, it seemed like he was holding something that...was not there. The man might have realized it too, considering he put it down and eyed it in confusion. The voice when he finally spoke was full of question as well, and it was because of this that Roxas didn't react with a retribution. Keeping his guard nonetheless, he watched as this stranger pushed himself back, holding his head, and presenting an opening to knock him out clean. He was in pain, but...

He did a double take.

...was that a tail he just saw?

Getting up to his feet, he gazed at the thing flicking around disbelievingly, wondering if he wasn't so far off on the previous "inhuman" thought. Either way, he still kept alert despite being stunned by the display, listening to this...this person mumble something to himself about who he was, and then directing an inquiry at him suddenly. Roxas was about to tell him his name automatically by habit, but thought better of it and caught himself. He could talk, so they might get somewhere with this now. "Me? Who are you?"
Aug. 16th, 2010 08:16 pm (UTC)
The question struck Zidane far harder than it probably should have, and he cringed noticeably. He held his head in two hands and curled in on himself. Fingers dug into his hair and teeth ground together.

A word came to his mind, and he stuttered with it. His ears caught it as strange and foreign but at the same time domestic and comforting. It wasn't anything anyone could pronounce, he knew that. The brothers he had on the flying ship had tried when they found him, and couldn't begin to know what sounds needed to produce the name. So they gave him another.

What was it?

"Zid... dane... It's Zidane."

That was it, wasn't it? Recovering just that bit seemed to take more energy than normal, and Zidane slumped. He used one arm to hold himself up and another to keep his head on his shoulders, or so he felt.

"Where am..?"

Another sound came to his mind, and it brought even more comfort and warmth to him. He tried it out loud, as if testing the sound, and nearly purred when he heard it for himself.


Shakily he stood, and shakily he fell. No, he wasn't going anywhere. Where did he need to go? He couldn't get there. He needed to rest. He needed to heal. But he was in bad territory, his mind told him. He needed to...

"Go home...?"
Aug. 21st, 2010 09:48 am (UTC)
Roxas started to believe the guy probably was an escapee from a mental hospital, or troubled in some similar manner like he had brain stormed the first moment he laid eyes on him. He had never seen anyone react this way when waking up, unconscious or otherwise. And he doubted that it was a simple migraine. Either he had been medicated, or he was suffering some sort of problem. Maybe it wasn't the loony bin, judging by the appearance, and the tail. Perhaps he was an experiment. It sounded impossible...even to him, and he dismissed the notion. After all, the university he was going to had a mouse as the Dean. He had witnessed other similar creatures; this was no different. What he was sure of was that he had been held captive somewhere, and that he was struggling with his name. He waited patiently, keeping his distance, but getting concerned again despite his better judgment. Finally, he got a respond under all the stuttering.


That hit some familiarity. Zidane, Zidane, where had he heard it...?

He took a moment to ponder it over, and then it all became clear suddenly as he connected the dots. He was the person who he spoke to in the journal network, who he told about his hesitancy going to college and...

He watched listlessly in awe, wondering how in the world could this happen to someone. Putting his doubts and shock aside, he went forward as Zidane sunk to the floor, muttering things like "where am" and "Kairi" as he proceeded to hold himself together. Thankfully, he reached him when he was trying to stand up, and caught him before he took a real dive to the ground. He was feeling incredibly uneasy now that he had placed an identity, and he attempted to hear whatever Zidane was saying for some clue. "Hang in there! Home? Do you know where's home?!"
Aug. 23rd, 2010 04:24 am (UTC)
... where WAS home?

Was it that medieval world, so outdated and rusty, with the fat man and his band of misfit miscreants? Was it the modern one, with the school and buildings, with people who didn't like him and people he didn't like? Was it the futuristic one, with the technology and the blue lights, with the people he knew and people who knew him?

"Terra...? Gaia...?"

In other words, Roxas's guess was as good as Zidane's.

He seemed to be very, very slowly coming back to his senses. He formed his first full sentence of the evening, slurred and mixed up as it was.

"I can't remember."

He leaned heavily on the other blond. His own balance completely shot, he relied on the other to stay vertical.
Sep. 23rd, 2010 06:23 am (UTC)
He couldn't remember - that should have been expected. He still hoped that it might have gotten through the deepest ridges of his mind, and an answer would have spewed forth somehow. He didn't understand where "Terra" or "Gaia" came from, so he had to make a decision on what he was going to do. Quickly. The guy seemed about to faint again, and he didn't know if that would end up being a good thing or not. Shifting Zidane and looping an arm around his back to hold him steady, he let out a long breath, wondering deeply about his next action. A hospital? That would have been common sense to any bystander, but he already appeared as if he escaped from one. Why return him there? Would it be fine? Not positive on a conclusion, he thought it was better to ask while Zidane was conscious. "You want to go to the hospital?"

It was very direct and louder than usual, for him to really hear. If this didn't work or the reply was a "no", then he had no choice but to take him home. He wasn't certain on how to take care of someone in this condition, yet the internet could factor some sort of aid in that, regardless of experience.
Oct. 18th, 2010 06:12 am (UTC)
Just the word "hospital" sent a shiver down Zidane's spine. Even though his body was too exhausted and unresponsive to show it, the sound he made was one of discomfort and the hairs on his tail sprang up for a few seconds.

Obviously, he didn't want to go.

His body ached for the chance to throw itself into hibernation, where it could minimize the resources needed to sustain life, and turn all its attention towards fighting the chemicals surging through his system, threatening to interrupt vital communication between the brain and the rest of his being. His body begged for sleep, but his mind continually reminded him that he was not safe, he was not in a place where he could allow himself to be vulnerable long enough to heal.

But, he desperately needed recuperative sleep, and for that he desperately needed somewhere safe. He was vaguely aware that he was at the mercy of the blond at his side, but the true extent didn't register. Hopefully, though, the other would be helpful and merciful.

"Home," he repeated, as useless as it was.
Oct. 23rd, 2010 07:20 am (UTC)
The body response confirmed any suspicion that he had in an instant. It didn't explain why he needed to get out of a hospital like this, but at least he was correct on some assumptions. For the rest of the story, Zidane will have to tell him once he made it out of this. But there was no reason to delay any longer, even when the word "home" was spoken. He got the idea. Pausing for a moment, as his smart phone was in his pocket, he placed him down carefully on the floor, enough to let one arm free to do what he needed to do. Successfully grabbing the object and pulling it out as he scavenged around for it, he immediately clicked a button, scrolled down the opening bar, did password unlock, and finally chose the number he was looking for.

These types of cells weren't made for emergencies, were they?, he questioned sarcastically to himself with an annoyed frown.

As he waited for his driver to pick up the other line, he glanced over at Zidane, making sure he was still moving, or, even breathing. "We're going to my house, okay? You'll be fine there."
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