My first venture into Kingdom Hearts fiction. Everyone has to write an origins fic sometime, right? So I thought about music and magic and performers and acting and came to a little conclusion about everyone's favourite dumb-blond, based on the premise that he's not that dumb and that Nobodies really didn't have feelings. Also that he's not some kind of closet psycho.
The Art of Misdirection
Most people were convinced that he was missing at least half his brain. It came with being a blonde; he was used to it. Some people were convinced that he was a perverse incarnate of evil, hiding behind a pretty face, waiting to do them harm. It came with acting like the eternal optimist; he didn't care for it.
The truth was that he was neither, just a coward who preferred to avoid his problems when said problems were people. As a boy, he was expected to be able to communicate in nothing but grunts and fists, to answer violence with violence, but there was no way he could win at that kind of thing. Was it a crime to want not to get hurt? Besides, words and taunts he could deal with, but not broken bones.
Some time early in his life, the kids around him found out that his name scrambled into 'Demy'. Demi. Half. And they'd laughed at how he was only half there, smiling at their insults as if he didn't know what they meant. The adults always thought that he was trying to be brave, always smiling and laughing and joking innocently in spite of all the bullying.
He wasn't stupid, and he certainly wasn't trying to be brave. The words cut him like any other human being. That, of course, explained the little accidents. Nothing ever too major, just enough that those stupid kids went home crying to their mothers. No one ever imagined that it could be him. Oh, no, not the boy who was only half there, who smiled at nothing and laughed about everything. Never him.
He kept the smiles, the air of naivety, and it kept people from disturbing him. After all, how could anyone bring themselves to bother a boy happily strumming on his sitar like he'd seen heaven itself on its strings? How could anyone not want to protect that innocence that was so rare now? The spite fell away as they grew older and they began to leave him alone, imagining that someone like him would have no lack of friends.
It was exactly what he had been waiting for. All the childish gestures, the over-exuberance, the noise, the chaos, the theatrical emotions: each and every one had been carefully practiced until he wore the persona like a second skin. As a child, it annoyed his parents enough for them to confine him to his room. As a young man, it convinced people that they didn't want to bother him. So they left him alone to spend time with the only thing that had ever mattered.
Out of need, he performed on the streets, drawing a crowd with his looks, keeping them there with his music. In any case, music was made to be listened to; all the better if it bought his freedom. No more parents, no more siblings, no more 'friends'. Just a room, his sitar, the music and the charity of strangers. His innocent persona continued to draw sympathy and love, and occasionally, jealousy.
He remembered very clearly the day he had his heart torn from him. He had strayed far, far away, right to the edges of town because he couldn't let anyone see him screaming in pure hatred and tearing himself apart. As anger cooled and his mind searched for revenge, he noticed the black creatures. He hadn't known it then, but they were called the Heartless.
When he woke up, there was a man in a black cloak there, who had explained what just happened in a mildly bored voice. He was a little surprised to learn that he had lost the heart from his body, because he didn't feel any different. It merely confirmed what he'd suspected all along.
"So, what were you?" asked the blond man. Vexen, did he say he was? "Don't be mistaken, I'm not interested in your life story. This is just in the interest of finding out what qualities make for a sentient Nobody."
He stared at the pushy man for a moment before instinct kicked in and he beamed widely. "I play the sitar," he replied easily. "I'm a performer, though I'm really just busking right now for some spare cash, waiting for a break, but sometime today? Is it still today? Some bastard broke my sitar and I got really upset because…"
"I said I didn't need your life story," scowled the man.
So it worked on these 'Nobodies' as well.
"Do you have a weapon?"
"I don't fight."
"Neither did I, but it's part of the job description."
He blinked at the long-haired blond. "I need to fight to get my heart back?"
"Are you retarded?" came the snide reply. "Did you even hear a single word I said about the Organisation?"
He gave the man a carefully blank stare, pouting slightly and watching the irritation cross Vexen's face. Then again, did he really want to be left alone right now? There was no more meaning in solitude now that his heart was gone.
"Can you at least use magic?"
"I've never tried." Once more, that slightly incredulous, condescending look. "But I've been told that magic and music are similar," he blurted out. "Only, my sitar is broken and I can't try it out now."
There was a moment of consideration on the man's part. Icy green eyes glanced at him and seemed to come to a decision. "Call it."
"What?"
"Picture your instrument in your mind and call it to your hand," explained the man a little impatiently. "If you can't even do that, I'm going to have to get rid of you."
That was all the motivation he needed. After all, he was just a coward.
Vexen never managed to figure out how in the five hells a wimpy musician managed to control the darkness with such intuition.
He did get into the Organisation after all, though he wasn't sure why he still wanted to. After all, he wasn't interested in Kingdom Hearts or any of that nonsense, and he couldn't care less if there were other Nobodies out there who sought their hearts. He'd already gotten his heart back, the only one that he had ever needed.
The rest of the Organisation began to doubt that their emotions left with their hearts, he became somewhat of a talking point. He knew better; it was just the convenient persona. Just habit. And he'd smiled, the same sweet, disarming smile he'd never felt. He strummed.
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