A retardedly lengthy author's note, if only because the story shamelessly abuses culture--
Thai kitefighting is an interesting sport, with structured rules. Teams are divided into chula, or male kites, and pakpao, female kites. Chula kites and teams are much, much larger than pakpao kites or teams-- the former has spans of five to six feet, and up to thirty members on a team. The latter has a span of about three feet and team members of three to five. The object of the game, set up on a playing field, is to drag down kites of the opposing team onto your own pitch, as the chula teams are on one end of a predetermined playing field and the pakpao teams on the other. It's kind of like a stylized battle of the sexes!
The concept stems from the really simple idea that Xemnas, being totally insane, would probably think splitting the Organization up and playing against each other in chula and pakpao teams, much to Vexen's dismay and others' private amusement. Xaldin, for obvious reasons, is disqualified from participating, but he's judging.
And upon that premise, we begin.
A Contrary Wind
yet more extraordinarily bizarre Organization!Fic by Mana Angel
It's the sport of kings, Xemnas had told them cheerfully at the beginning of the month, eyes fever-glazed with that strange, awful brightness that suggested interesting things in everyone else's future and miserable ones in Vexen's.
He finds he's hardly disappointed.
Whoever's so-called brilliant idea it was to stage this ridiculous 'team activity' on the castle turrets needs to be murdered in a vile and possibly violent manner, including but not limited to dismemberment through brute force and possibly the cramming of all six of Xaldin's spears into various bodily orifices. And possibly any other weapons that can fit. And if they don't, Vexen will make them.
--And even then, Vexen thinks, that doesn't make up for the indignity of having to launch himself off assorted turrets in nothing but what Xemnas calls 'sportswear' and what Vexen privately thinks most worlds would call 'lingerie'.
Operating the kites isn't too difficult now that he's had practice at it, but it's frustrating; it's more difficult to maneuver them as he'd like, and there's always one chula or another lurking at the corner of his vision like a star-shaped hawk. It's one thing to understand the concept of the game in theory, and quite another in application. Much like an experiment, not everything is going to plan. Vexen, admittedly, is hardly surprised when he hears a yelp of dismay that suggests Demyx's kite has been taken down, only five minutes in. He's told the musician he'd picked the worst spot for spotting enemy kites. The terrain can be favorable to them, but only if they learn to actually make use of it.
It is astounding how easy it is to slip into that strange, competitive jargon, automatically classing everyone against you as an enemy and seizing every opportunity to bring them down. Vexen supposes his mentality suits this better than might be expected; glibly, seeing a wavering chula in the distance, he jerks the lines to bring the pakpao around and drag it down.
By the time he realizes it's noon, sweat's stinging his eyes and his arms ache from holding the kite against the wind. From his carefully-considered vantage point, the academic surveys the skies. For now, it's clear-- the red-tailed square near Havoc's Divide suggests Luxord's still very much enjoying himself, though there's almost a suspicious lack of five-pointed silhouettes in the sky, and no sign of Saix or Demyx anywhere.
He can't say what it is that warns him. There's nothing in the shift of the wind or his peripheral vision that suggests it, but he's automatically jerking his kite out of the way as a chula cuts through the air above his head, intent on drawing blood-- or tearing paper, at least.
Suddenly the spot that seemed like such a good perch becomes a very inadvisable one as Vexen finds he has to fight for any semblance of equilibrium; under his feet, the tiles turn unfriendly and slippery, ready to buck him off. As he fights to keep his balance, Vexen spares a brief moment to wonder--
But there's hardly any time as Marluxia and Larxene's kite-- the pink tail and the malicious electricity crackling along the line that sends his hair rising from the static-- is in blatant view.
--As he finally cedes his position and leaps down to less risky footing, Vexen suspects Xaldin's indiscreetly helping the other team anyway, simply because Xemnas and Xigbar are on it--and that, he thinks with a scowl, is blatant favoritism. The eye of the wind is seated in the wrong direction entirely, for this time of day, and the scientist swears when he finds he has to start fighting with the kite originally so obedient under his hands.
Abruptly, Vexen yelps as his kite suddenly pulls at him, threatening to jerk him off the tower-- and stupidly, stupidly, his hands close and wind tight around the string instead of letting it go. It should hardly matter that the other kite's closing in on his; it's just a game-- but Vexen can't make himself let go, or open a portal to safety, and he thinks with a kind of hysterical, morbid fascination that he may be the only Organization member to ever die because of something as stupid as a piece of wood and paper.
Warm hands clasp around his fingers, arms wrapping around him from behind. Vexen jerks sharply at the contact, but Saix's grip does not yield.
The berserker's kite is nowhere in sight, but he pulls Vexen with him as he leans his weight back. Unlike Vexen, insisting on keeping his boots, Saix has chosen to go barefoot-- and perhaps it gives him a better grip on the tiles. Who can say? The academic's breathless for a moment, realizing belatedly that he'd been on the verge of hyperventilating while being tipped into space, but Saix's voice forestalls any indignant complaints.
"Do you think you can freeze their kite from here?"
Vexen squints up into the semi-dark sky, at the strange shapes flitting overhead. And remembers the feel of an uncontrollable skid forward, and the absolutely unforgivable sick feeling in his stomach.
Sharply, painfully, he smirks.
"Get their line close enough for me to touch, and I will."