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Summary: After a failed suicide attempt, Zexion wakes up in a city called Wonderland, very much like the world of the same name, only to find that he's, for some reason, now the leader of Organisation XIII - a mafia version of his own heart-hunting group. He has no idea why, or how, and can only take each day as it comes, surrounded by fearful minions and scheming allies, eager for a throne he didn't want in the first place...

Writer: israelproject

Mirror, Mirror

Part 1

The club was dim, music playing softly in and around the patrons, a steady haze of smog drifting through the chandeliers. Walls of rich burgundy, tables of deeply polished oak, small and private, wall furnishings and rare, expensive paintings adorning the walls. Liquor flowed, lighting eyes artificially, stealing wits, though always leaving enough left over to view one's neighbour with sly suspicion. Through the broad, shimmering windows, the city of Wonderland could be seen glittering far below, its peon-like inhabitants scurrying about their mad, decaying little lives while those that ran it, controlled it, held the ability to crush it on a misplaced whim sat high, scarcely bothering to even observe.

He who held the greatest majority of the threads, who was revered, loved, feared, hated and envied, sat at the head of the longest table, in the most private section of the distinguished club, sitting as still as possible as a barmaid in a bunny outfit leaned in front of him, stretching her arm deliberately to reveal her excessively-exposed breasts. Her tall, clip-on ears narrowly avoided poking his eye. She was divided, unsure who to display her best side to – natural instinct directed her his way, but there were so many other powerful men at the table, half of which looked ready to grab her and fuck her where she stood. Zexion was sure he could understand her plight – what, oh what, was a girl to do?

"Do you – do you mind?" he muttered, as again, the felt-covered wire came dangerously close to turning him into a Xigbar look-alike. She twisted her head, blinking. On the black choker she wore around her slender throat, Zexion saw the glittering letters, A-L-I-C-E, spelled out.

"Hey, slut," a rambunctious, sneering voice called across the table. "Number One asked you a question." Larxene downed her tea, fourth cup of the evening, Zexion observed with resignation. It wouldn't be long til she started groping, men, women, anyone that came within reach of her talons. Until then, her voice would grow more and more cutting.

"I – "

Before the girl could form her response, Larxene was slurring again, "You wanna fuck him? That's what you wanna ask, right? Youuuu wannaaaa fuckim." She propped an elbow on the table, black sleeve of her robe swishing through a spilled puddle of drink, chin on hand. "Baaaabe, that is the most – fucking – powerful dude in the room. In the city. He thinks you're shit. He's not lookin' at you." She leered. "Wouldn't you prefer someone more your league?"

"More tea, love?" Luxord leaned across, past Marluxia at Larxene's side, and elegantly filled her cup from a flowered teapot. Larxene grunted her assent, waving a hand to hurry him up. Alice, looking faintly panicky, took her leave, startled off like – well – a bunny. Zexion released a slight breath of relief, eyes flicking to Demyx. The blond, down towards the end of the table, between Axel and Roxas, had his eyes fixed emptily on his own cup. It was still half-filled, his first of the evening.

"What is this shit?" Larxene muttered, gulping it hot, black.

"Oh, it's superb, dear," Luxord replied. "Hand-picked Paopu leaves, steeped for three hours before serving – it'll get you smashed off your face in a single cup."

The woman threw it back in a long swallow, slammed the little teacup down on the tabletop, and bawled, "I'm not smashed yet!"

Zexion massaged his forehead, automatically lifted his own steaming cup to his lips and took a sip. It was so soothing, and helped his budding migraine so well… He choked suddenly, drew the drink away and clattered it to its saucer, covering his mouth with one arm. Xemnas, on his right, smirked. "Be careful with that particular blend, Superior," he cautioned. "Remember how volatile it made you last time?" He sneered across the table. "Poor Demyx was in hospital for a week."

The blond lifted his head, glared at the man, along with Roxas and Axel. Zexion said sharply, "I have no intention of that happening." Xemnas sent him a wink.

"Of course not, Superior."

Oh, how it grated Zexion to hear himself addressed as such. Superior. Number one. The order was all wrong now – his sudden rise to power, over all of Organisation XIII and, indirectly, virtually the entire city of Wonderland, had shuffled them around, mixed them up. He could no longer trust himself to call anyone by number – especially, especially not Xemnas. Instinct would have him treat the man with the same respect as he always had done – now, he had to bite it down, sometimes literally catching his tongue between his teeth. The first time he'd awoken in this hellhole of luxury, seeing Xemnas almost immediately, seated beside the bed, he'd addressed him as her normally would: "Superior? Wha – what's going on?"

The look on Xemnas' face… it had given Zexion the shivers. He'd pried his eyes open further, gathering his wits, glancing around. At first, he hadn't remembered why he was here. "Hospital? Did I – get hurt? Wait…" He'd shaken his head, frustrated. "Hospital? Why am I here? Why aren't we at Castle Oblivion?"

"…Superior Zexion," Xemnas had replied, that odd little flickering gleam still dancing coldly at being referred to as such, "we will return you to Oblivion as soon as possible – their tea supplies have been restocked recently, with all your favourites – but perhaps you and I should discuss what you are going to tell the rest of the Organisation?"

Zexion had blinked dully, a hand lifting to brush the lavender hair from his eyes, stopping abruptly as his gaze fell upon the tight bandaging wrapped around and around his wrists, down along his forearms. He froze with remembrance. "…Oh, shit."

"Why did you do this?" Xemnas asked curiously, eyeing him inscrutably. "I had thought you happy, Number One – if there is something bothering you so badly, why didn't you come to me? I could have helped you." He'd tucked his hands into the sleeves of his Organisation cloak. "You are at a pinnacle of power – were you really so eager to let it all go?"

Zexion had stared. "I don't – I don't understand."

Something looking like sympathy had arranged itself on Xemnas' features, utterly false. "It's alright, Superior," he'd said softly. "We will make sure you get better." He'd smiled thinly. "We'll tell the others it was – an accident, yes?"

Thinking of Demyx, what his reaction would be to all this, he'd nodded hurriedly, more than willing to agree. But – when they'd left, it hadn't been to return to Castle Oblivion at all – instead, he was introduced to a penthouse above the gentleman's club Oblivion, of which he was owner, apparently. The other members of the Organisation were dotted in lush pads throughout the enormous building Zexion had surmised he was also the owner of, from what people had said. Demyx, though having his own apartment, lived with Zexion, and lived in fear of him. Which all left Zexion wondering, what the hell was going on?

A quiet man by nature, he hadn't leapt about proclaiming whatever truths he thought he knew – everywhere he went, everybody he spoke to, he was left with an indelible impression of being terribly omnipotent. His quick mind sorted whatever dots had been supplied, and joined them where he could, making inferences where necessary. He had gathered the following: He was the leader of Organisation XIII. However, instead of being comprised of a collection of powerful Nobodies, they were instead humans, with beating hearts, and no interest in trawling the world in search of spares. He was now the only one lacking, a fact which he intended to keep as silent as possible – aside from the fact that, of course, Xemnas knew. The hospital monitors had shown him as clinically dead, after all. If he had been anyone other than, apparently, the most powerful man in the city, he would have been spirited away for extensive testing.

No – instead of hearts, the Organisation now desired souls, it would seem. They were an elite society all of their own, aiming to own everything that could be owned, control everything that could be controlled – they were dangerous, they were wealthy, they were driven by who knew what anymore to be the rulers of their domain…

…Which left him sitting tiredly on an overly-comfortable chair in Oblivion's exclusive club, being pandered to, simpered at, admired and detested even by those at his own table, when all he wanted was to find somewhere quiet, with a book, Lexaeus for company if he was planning on being silent, or Demyx if he subconsciously wanted distracting.

Demyx, however, was terrified of him. And who could blame him? If Xemnas' statement was to be believed, he apparently had got drunk enough off tea – tea – to beat the boy into hospital. But then, he supposed wearily, thoughts bringing him back to the room, observing the proceedings with concealed distaste, tea was an intoxicant here, in this insane city of Wonderland, just like alcohol was in – wherever it was he'd come from. He'd attempted to kill himself in the bathroom of Castle Oblivion, in a fit of melancholy, unable to stand the stillness in his chest when it so badly needed to be shaken, and woken up as the leader of an Organisation more cut-throat than the one he'd been trying to escape.

Repeat after me: killing yourself was not the answer. Zexion rolled his eyes, sighed, pushed his tea away, wishing there was just a regular pot he could partake in. "Superior, you're looking tired," Xemnas noticed. The man was his second-in-command in this particular version of reality, or hallucination – though Zexion was sure that, if hallucinating, his mind could find something a damn sight more contenting than a life of debauchery and despicable happenings. Shortly, the lavender-haired man responded, "Yes, Xemnas, I am."

"We will adjourn, then," the man said silkily, "so that you may gain some well-earned rest."

"I think that would be best," Zexion murmured.

"Do you require your whore sent to your room, sir?"

His hand slammed the tabletop angrily. "Don't call Demyx a whore! He's not, so just – " He closed his eyes. Everyone was staring, Demyx caught with a deer-in-headlights look on his face. "Yes," Zexion said quietly. "Send Demyx to my room." His eyes flashed open sternly. "But treat him with respect, damn it."

"Of course," Xemnas said humbly. "My apologies, Superior. It will be done." He clapped his hands sharply. "All of you, get out. Number One is tired – this meeting is over."

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Roxas growled sharply from his end of the table, already on his feet. He left quickly, stalking away. Axel followed, darting Demyx a quick glance as the blond remained sitting, a desolate cast to his posture. Zexion left through a different exit to the others, a staircase leading from the club directly up to his penthouse. Demyx would be along shortly, bearing more tea, more exotic types than the ones available to the others – Zexion had so far refrained from tasting them, their scent was overwhelming – and some food, and… other things. Things which, it seemed, his pre-hospital Superior-self enjoyed using to torment the blond. That he hadn't used them in nearly two weeks had Dem more on edge than ever – he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the gathered energy to explode onto him in a fireball. But Zexion refused – he wouldn't hurt Demyx ever again. It hadn't been him in the first place, but still he swore it – Demyx would never suffer again.

As he ascended the steps, he never felt Xemnas' eyes boring into his back, hand stroking Saix's under the table, nefarious plans boiling within his skull. Demyx saw, he always did – but he was just too scared to say anything.

The leader of the Organisation went to read a book, and prepare for the day to come, wondering wearily when on earth he'd be returned back to where he belonged.