Disclaimer: I don't own KH.
AN: Written for the theme of "Babylon."
Zexion wasn't thinking about Oxygen. He didn't care about elements, formulas, or all the science he had ever trained himself to remember automatically a the mention of a buzzword. He wasn't making the connections he would usually make if he were to just be a spectator in this Roman sport-- if he were just keeping his hands clean and uninvolved. He was instead thinking of ropes and ladders, of collars and leashes, of Venus Fly Traps and their spidering parasite vines.
His windpipe was crushed beneath the strength of a flowering plant.
Futility was always the first feeling to return to him-- when he tried to recall each emotion he had stopped feeling, he always wallowed first in the futility of revolting, of trying, of admitting, and of crying. It had never made any sense to give up a one-and-only heart to a science that would never restore it, but why stand against the peers that wouldn't understand his thinking? Why turn down an offer of skin, bone, adrenaline, and courage? Even if he had never wanted it, there was no reason to ask for a rift to form. It was always futile to resist, and he was well aware. He could only feign surprise that he had finally been culled from even the shadows he had come to conform with.
It would be real surprise, if only he could still feel surprised.
His eyes never looked anywhere but down; animalistic instincts attached themselves to every nerve with their battle cry of defense against his immediate attacker-- but he had always had the nose for the real truth; even if he wasn't seeing him Zexion was filled with the fact that just beyond the threshold stood the king of traitors, the one soul that had brought about the defeat of his purpose.
Zexion knew that there were eyes watching peacefully from so close, but appealing was a thing of the past. It was a futile effort to meet the gaze of their witness, there was no emotion left to plead rescue from. It was futile, Zexion knew, because it had been that king, the king that had lorded over him whenever he had asked to, that had planted malicious ideas in corrupt minds. Only hatchling seeds of treacherous, traitorous emotion, that would curl and coil and hang him where he stood.
