Before his exile to Oblivion, Zexion ran one last mission, a cursory clean-up, meant to keep both him and Lexaeus busy. They had a specific warp-destination: prime harvesting ground, the Superior said.

It was. Zexion could smell the joy, pungent and aggressive after so long with only the metallic tinge of darkness. He hated it. Lexaeus said nothing while Zexion cursed the place: mechanical contraptions intended to bring joy, everyone a child, a world striving for happiness.

When he finished, Lexaeus placed a hand on his arm and suggested they try the rides, just for one day. Zexion cut his eyes at the man, demanded to know what he was thinking, how dare he waste—

"To at least understand what we are about to destroy."

They returned a day late, to exile and Xemnas' rage.

Now Lexaeus is dead and Zexion knows he will follow. There is nothing in that stolen day to cling to at the end; all he can grasp is the carnage of their success.

Lexaeus is dead and he is dying. Zexion is glad. It is time for this illusion, too, to end.