Author's Note: Tales of Xillia 2 royally ticked me off with their lack of closure. We fight and vanquish Rideaux, and we see him get dragged off, and we see his bridge being built—but he's never even mentioned after that point, nor is his death acknowledged… so this is my attempt to lay his twisted soul to rest.
There are some who think living on the edge makes life that much more exciting. But Rideaux knows all too well how sharp some edges can be, as he stares at the blood coating Bakur's spear.
His blood.
Rideaux swallows, oddly dryly, and opens his mouth to say something, but the world spins and scatters his thoughts like ashes. He staggers, his hands flying up automatically to clutch the ragged gash in his torso. Burning pain shoots through the wound, and he grits his teeth, inhaling sharply, doubled over with only his arms holding in his guts. Fuck, that hurts.
And Bakur is just standing there, watching him, a sadistically satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. It's too bad Rideaux has never been good at playing the masochist, or this moment would be the makings of some perverted fantasy, its climax with his death. It might not be so bad if the boss hadn't let him have his body—his Chromatus—back again, giving him the illusion of a fair chance, before destroying it like this.
Rideaux supposes, with a humorless laugh that quickly becomes a cough, that it had been too much to hope for to be decapitated, or even to let his artificial systems shut down. They had already started doing so by the time they reached the harbor, but Bakur rebooted them in preparation for their own slaughter. Frankly, Rideaux is surprised Bakur is patient enough to wait for him to bleed out. Isn't he supposed to be in a hurry, or something?
It probably has something to do with the whiny little bitch hiding behind him, he realizes, his eyes sliding over to the Key. Perhaps he decided cutting off his head would be too disturbing for her; gutting him is so much more humane. Rideaux leers at her, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth, and the girl is too scared even to look away. She only stares at him, wide eyes brimming with overflowing tears, and clings to Bakur's side as though he might protect her from the harm he has wrought.
"You see, Key of Kresnik?" asks Rideaux, but the words feel sharp in his throat and he retches, spattering dark, sticky crimson onto the cobblestones. Why does there have to be so much goddamn blood? "This is what he'll do to you, too, sweetheart. You're just a catalyst… and catalysts must be eliminated."
Rideaux's voice comes out a panting growl, and he grimaces, kneeling hard as his knees give way. Bakur is wasting precious time for the sake of watching him suffer, and suffer he certainly is. Had he at least managed to sever his spinal column, maybe he'd have been rendered unconscious—maybe he'd have been paralyzed—maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to deal with this infernal pain.
Closing his eyes in exhaustion, Rideaux falls forward, catching himself weakly by the hands. He cannot suppress an agonized yelp, curling his fingers automatically, and winces as his nails scrape the stone. Rideaux's heart pumps valiantly in an attempt to keep itself alive just a few moments longer, his life spilling out thicker and faster from the now-uncovered gash. Ironically, it is wearing itself out far faster, bringing its inevitable stillness closer and closer to reality.
Well, that's fine by him. The sooner Rideaux leaves this miserable life behind, the better. He reaches a shaking hand toward one of his discarded knives and picks it up cautiously, examining it, vision flickering; this, then, is what a last resort truly is. Raising the edge of the blade towards his own throat, fingers trembling, Rideaux looks up at an impassive Bakur as if in a challenge.
He can't do it. He's never been able to do it.
Rideaux's eyes fix themselves on the Key again, still staring, partially exposed. He smiles spasmodically; he can't kill himself. But he can sure as hell kill the girl. He has one shot, he tells himself, his slowing heartbeat more and more painful with every pulse—
He closes his eyes, deliberating with what little time he has left. Should he bury a blade in her heart, or her throat? Either one would throw a wrench in Bakur's plans. He's not at the right angle, or he'd stick one where the sun don't shine. From the looks of things, the world's fucked her already, just as it did him when he was younger still. And what's another knife to the misfortune already forced on her?
Rideaux grins and flings his weapon suddenly at her forehead before finally allowing himself to collapse, knowing that he will not get up again. He has one chance to ruin it all for Bakur, to spare himself from dying a meaningless death. If Rideaux has to die, he's taking all of humanity with him, throwing the Trial in favor of the spirits. Perhaps they will guide the blade…
He knows he has failed when he hears it clatter to the ground, undoubtedly knocked out of the way, but feels only a peculiar kind of emptiness welling up inside him. So this is what death is like.
"I was curious about how a man so unscrupulous as you would face your own death, given a chance for survival," growls Bakur, walking over to Rideaux at an almost leisurely pace. The tip of the lance touches his throat, almost caresses it. "And now I know."
"Kill me," whispers Rideaux defeatedly, as close to a plea as he ever lets himself utter, and closes his tired eyes. And then the world goes dark and Rideaux is gone, the last remnant of his consciousness thinking wryly that hell will be better than the life he's lived—and looking very much forward to his reunion with Bakur.