"Number Eleven," the elemental murmurs with a frustrated tone, "this plot holds little logical value. Leather scarcely-"

"Hmph." Marluxia graces the man with a condescending smirk. "The Lord of Castle Oblivion may do as he pleases in tight leather."

Vexen knots a brow, wisely opting to remain silent.

The shorter man grunts, hoisting up a leg and sprouting petals in the process. Though restrained by his unforgiving uniform, he manages to reach the pinnacle of the criss-crossed wire with astounding grace, though not without forcing in a lungful of oxygen some ten feet above the ground.

"As you can see, I am perfectly capable of completing this menial task," he calls, muffling his scornful tone as to not alert the enemy, a leg on either side of the gate. "Perhaps you should stay down there. Superior would not like to hear that his poor old scientist has thrown out his back."

"… Perhaps you are correct, Eleven," the scientist concludes with folded arms and a smirk. "I may just be too old for such horrible labor."

"… Damn straight."

Vexen stares into the man's grinning face for a few more moments before freeing an amused noise.

And reaches forward to unclasp the simple lock.

--

With age comes wisdom, Number Eleven. Why they refuse to teleport, I have no idea.