Wake up, Number One.
It's cold, they complain, silently; so much of them is numb. I don't want to get up.
I said wake up.
I don't want to, Number One grumbles, reluctantly twitching anyway. They think they're moving, perhaps, but there is an awful lot of snow on them. There must be; otherwise it wouldn't be so dark. Or heavy. Or cold.
You will do so regardless.
So demanding, Number One says sluggishly. Who are you?
What are you made of? Once you know what the Mist is, you will know who I am!
The sharp tones ring in their head and make them wince, but it wakes them up sufficiently.
How rude.
There is no answer from the mysterious voice. Not the jesters' voices - too proud, too serious, for that. Some sort of noble, maybe. They leave the answer for another time.
It would probably be easier if they could feel their arms, but they can't seem to feel much of anything except their burning headache, and their chest. Their chest hurts, a lot, more than they thought possible.
"At least I know I'm still alive," they murmur, coughing, snow sliding off them in piles as they wriggle, flapping crooked wings to beat the ice off them. How much snow can there be in the world? It seems like half of it has gotten onto them.
There is a surge of panic and pain that isn't theirs, and they beat their wings faster, limbs suddenly burning with energy as they dig themselves out of their predicament. That has to be Two; they can feel the fizzing lightning that must be Three, waiting somewhere higher, itching to depart.
Their legs are still numb; they do their best to shake it off, half-crawling up the slope. They can still feel that terrible seeping dread, thumping at the back of their head, pain that belongs to someone else.
"I'm coming," One mutters, voice hoarse, cursing the slipperiness of the snow as they pull themselves up and forward, towards light. The bell jingles in their hand, frozen to their palm; it will hurt when they peel it off, they're sure. It burns even now, a cold kiss of metal. "Don't die."
Everything hurts.
He can't breathe; something in him is cracked. It's not ribs. He's not sure if he has ribs; he knows how humans work (he really does, he remembers blowing one apart when Zorn and Thorn had tested his powers; there had been a lot of screaming, and afterward he had knelt, some fascination worming itself into his mind at how delicate everything was, how well everything fitted together, like magic) and he knows for certain that he is not human.
He moves slightly and fresh pain bites into his side; he lets out a thin scream. He's meant for destruction, not flailing around helplessly on the ground like...like...
Like something! The fish in the castle's moat? That was it. That was better.
He doesn't dare move, though he can still feel magic fizzing through him, looking for a way out.
All this magic and I cannot cure myself, he thinks, resigned. What is the point of being a warrior if I cannot even heal if I am damaged?
He knows, of course; they all know, even Three, who is the pride and joy of their creators, and is proud in turn. They are tools. All black mages are tools and toys, made for war, except, perhaps...
He'd been surprised, to see a black mage - even a little one - with them; they'd treated him as their own, and he'd seen how they'd done it.
It had made something hurt, and he didn't know why.
What had that boy's name been? He'd taunted him, of course. But that hadn't included his name.
His name was...
"Vivi," he says, out loud, staring at the sky. "Your name was Vivi."
He hisses as pain resurfaces, a throbbing ache, but somehow he feels better for it; he is alive, at least. That is something. He has never felt so aware; something has broken in him, but it's for the better. He thinks so, anyway.
There are a lot of new thoughts to think. His head is crammed with them; there is so much new information to take in.
Numbness is welcoming, and easy to slip into. He does so, and barely notices when he's lifted.
"It's so light." There is a soft kweh - an animal he doesn't recognise - and a voice that sounds quite young. Another flare of pain - he makes another feeble gesture, another weak sound - as he's put onto the animal's back, and everything goes black.
"That's not an 'it', miss. Number Two is a he." The mage deftly ties the ropes, tugging gently to make sure the other mage is secured in a sitting position before jingling their bell. The chocobo trots forward with a chirp.
"What kinda name is Number Two?"
"We are manufactured, as you no doubt know already-"
"Oh, so that's his number?"
"Yes."
The girl considers this for a moment, chewing her hair.
"So what's yours?"
"One."
"Does that mean you're the best one?"
"No," they reply, shaking their head. "Just the first. Shouldn't you be getting back to town?"
"The adults don't care," the girl says, shrugging. "It's more interesting out here."
"I won't be here for long." They sling light saddlebags onto the chocobo - it fluffs momentarily at the unfamiliar weight, but soon settles - and move Two slightly to make way.
"Where're you going?"
"Following the cargo ship."
"'S a long way."
"I know." They flap their wings, experimentally, and hop up onto the chocobo, rubbing its neck to put it at ease. "Go back to town. And forget you've seen me, if possible."
The girl grins. "Sure, Mister Number One. Good luck!" She runs back up the path.
"Strange child," they mutter, clicking to their mount as they turn it, urging it into a gallop. If they're correct, the ship should be turning at any minute, and Three will come into range soon enough. "She didn't seem scared at all."
He wakes up, because now the pain in his rib area - if he even has ribs - is a little too pronounced to ignore, and because he is moving.
"Wh-?" He gets as far as a syllable into his question before movement stops and some kind of vial is shoved into his hand.
"Drink up. We have work to do."
He drinks and winces as the elixir works its way through his system. Does he feel better? Absolutely! Does it feel like the aftershock of being hit by one of Three's lightning blasts? Also absolutely!
"This- tastes awful," he protests weakly, though he drinks it all anyway. He tingles with energy, though the taste sours his rejuvenated self a little.
"I don't care," One says mercilessly. "I had to drink one as well, after being buried under snow. Can you contact Three yet?"
"Ah. Um. Let me try."
He feels for the mental bond they have and finds only the impression of static.
"No luck, sadly," he says, after a moment. "Where is he?"
"Up in the air. We'll need to fly - or teleport."
"Or both," he grumbles. "You take the supplies. I will have enough trouble concentrating as is. And why have you tied me to this bird?"
"You were unconscious. Unless you wanted to be tied like a sack of potatoes..."
"Yes, I understand." He works at the knots, pulling them loose and gathering the ropes up. "You have made your point succinctly."
"What a nice vocabulary you've got."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I mean what I said, and no more. Are we going or are we not? Three is going to blast someone's brains out on that cargo ship if we don't move fast."
"Very well." He huffs, wrapping his arms around Number One, beating his wings and lifting his burdens. He has a distinct feeling that the supplies weigh more than the mage he's carrying.
It doesn't take long for both of them to find the cargo ship; the echoes of Three's anger are incredibly obvious, even at such a distance.. All he has to do is follow it.
It helps that the ship can't go very fast either, of course. Three's connection blazes into life.
You're about to do something you regret, One says dryly. Aren't you?
I don't regret anything! The snarling tone is almost absentminded; they are thoroughly preoccupied. And-you're supposed to be dead! Stop talking to me!
Don't blow anyone's head off until we get there.
Shut up! Silence! I can't think! My orders are-my orders-
Vivi didn't know what had happened; one minute the Black Waltz on deck had been just about to attack the assembled mages that were trying to protect him, and the next it was looking around wildly, gesturing at thin air with its staff.
Despite his better judgement (and Dagger trying to drag him away) he stands up and wanders forward, cautiously.
"U-um-"
"Shut up," it snaps distractedly, sparking wildly, searching for something.
I'll drop you off?
Go ahead.
There's a flash and a thud, scant inches away from where Vivi is standing. As soon as it clears, Zidane's voice rises clear above any other noise.
"Vivi! Get away from him!"
"I didn't mean literally drop me-"
There's a soft jingle, and the winged mage stands up, adjusting their hat. Vivi can't help but note that it's a familiar gesture; he does that all the time when he's nervous, after all.
"U-um," he begins, softly, and then more loudly. "Uh, could...you're not going to try and kidnap Dagger, are you?"
"It would be a waste of time, seeing as the princess has powerful guardians," they say softly, eyeing him. He feels strangely embarrassed.
There is a smack sound, and the other mage turns, apparently enjoying the dramatics as Number Three is slapped across the face by Number Two. Vivi can only watch, wide-eyed.
"Woken up yet?"
"Y-Y-You dare-"
Number Three bristles, feathers fluffing outward, crackling with lightning; Number Two seems entirely unfazed by this turn of events.
("Hey, Rusty," Zidane says, leaning on the wheel and gesturing at the fluffed up Black Waltz on deck. "He talks like you."
"You impertinent-"
"See, there we go!")
"Now, now. Calm down. You were the one who said we had our own minds, did you not?" He holds his palms up; his voice is soothing.
"...I suppose." They settle somewhat, loosening their grip on their staff; their ruffled feathers settle. "Did you have to hit me?"
"Did it hurt?"
Number Three looks to the side, fidgeting a little. "...It was embarrassing."
The last word of the sentence is so quiet that he can barely hear it, but he giggles anyway. "Hee hee hee! Well, never mind. If you can complain about your stung pride, you are not hurt."
He floats down (Vivi notices that Number Two doesn't seem to have any feet) and stops in front of the regular black mages. Number Three is right behind him, leaning on their staff, casting glances back.
"Would you be so kind as to let us pass?"
Vivi blinks, looking at the mage again (who has since turned back to him.)
"Does...does he always talk like that?"
"He sounds like Lord Avon, doesn't he? Yes, he does."
Vivi laughs, despite himself, despite the situation. He's relieved, somehow.
They're just like him.
"I heard that!"
Three cackles, smacking Two on the head with a wing and causing him to slide forward; they stalk past the mages, wings outstretched. "Don't be offended, Number Two. It's true."
Zidane has the distinct impression that Two is making faces at Three despite the total lack of facial features and decides he likes him already.
"Now," Number Three says, stalking over to the cabin. Zidane and Steiner instinctively position themselves to shield Dagger; the mage waves a dismissive hand. They still don't relax. "My creators are not far from here, in a two-person flight craft. They will be expecting me to come back with the princess, or else come back damaged. Seeing as taking the princess is not an option-"
The mage jerks forward suddenly, gesturing with their staff; the thief and knight brandish their weapons. Number Three cackles again, stepping back and holding their hands out, before continuing their sentence like nothing had happened.
"-we will have to arrange something different. Do you have any ideas?"
"Aren't you the one with all the superior talk?" Zidane asks, leaning on the wheel and squinting at the Waltz. "Why don't you come up with a plan by yourself?"
"Shooting myself in the chest with lightning would be obviously self-inflicted." The mage rolls their eyes, or at least seems to. "And you have the capability to think, unless I have vastly underestimated your intelligence. Which could be a possibility."
"Insulting people who are trying to help you is a wonderful start, I am sure," Number Two says snidely. Three rounds on him, suddenly crackling with lightning, wings outstretched.
"Need I remind you that I'm going to be the one damaged here? I'm doing them a favour, you-!"
"Every minute we spend arguing is a minute wasted, and Zorn and Thorn are a little closer," Number One interrupts. "If you can't come up with a suitable plan, we'll implement mine."
"Which is?" Two crosses his arms.
"What else? Get this boy to do it." They gesture at Vivi. He makes a choking sound that seems to worry the other mage.
"Oh. You're not hurt, are you?"
"N-no, I-you want me to hurt Number Three...? I thought you were friends...?"
"We are. We'll be friends afterwards, too, but right now he needs to distract some people who will make all our lives very complicated if they catch us all up here, so-"
"Hey, Vivi." A comforting hand lands on the little mage's shoulder, and he looks up to see Zidane. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to, alright? Just letting you know that."
He glares at Number One, who seems faintly amused. "Don't pressure him into things, okay? You should know better. He's having enough trouble as it is today."
"Ah, you've adopted him. I see."
"What's that supposed to mean?!"
"I mean exactly what I said, and no more-"
"U-um," Vivi says nervously, interrupting them both. "I-I can do it. I just have to hit them once, don't I...?"
Number One nods at him encouragingly. "Just aim and fire, that's it."
It takes a few moments; every fibre in his body doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to harm someone who is like him - both in body and mind now. But the magic flows, as it always does; it's almost too easy.
He lets it go.
The magic hits its target, exploding in a rush of flame, and Number Three stumbles - and falls off the deck.
