Title: The Way We Walked
Characters/Pairing: all members of Organization 13
Genre: gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: very minor spoiler for KHII, I guess.
Word Count: 1240
Summary: The way they walked, and why it mattered.
One always knew when the Superior had a bone to pick with them because, moments before they were on the receiving end of an amber glare and long, droning ultimatum, they could hear brisk, authoritative steps outside their door. Xemnas held himself with a precisely aloof air that left the heels of his boots clicking along the tile floor like sharp staccato snaps. Tap, tap, tap. It was the sound of scholarly aristocracy, fitted into the form of a maniac man with everything left to lose.
Xigbar was irritating because he liked to zoom around upside down and tended to track ice, mud, slime and blood on the ceilings, which also tended to melt and drip or sporadically flake off and dust the hair of unwary passerbys. He once tracked in cakes of rainforest mud containing parasitic worm eggs, and following a horrifying screech that resounded through the hallways of the Castle, was later seen looking slightly electrocuted and on his knees, scrubbing footprints off the ceiling. The only reason anybody took him seriously anymore was he had yet another bad habit of inverting his victim's gravitational pull and leaving them suspended in vertigo for days.
Xaldin moved surprisingly lightly for a man of his size and bulk. No doubt his element rushed before his very feet and rushed into the chokingly silent corridors, noiselessly sweeping away the proof of his presence, assimilating their master to their likeness. Xaldin chose to walk rather then fly, however, because the more deeply he slipped into his element, the more often he was reminded that he and his dragoons were stranger pieces of fiction then scientific truth could swallow.
The way Vexen lurked about the basements of the Castle was difficult to hear for the constant muttering to himself that he carried on, continuously adjusting burners and pouring chemicals and making lengthy notes. It was almost as if he was rooted into the place, for anyone who stepped even inches into his territory immediately drew his cold, calculating gaze to their person, eyes that quickly catalogued their features for their potential scientific worth. For this reason, few people did.
Naturally Lexaus could not hide his identity or conceal himself well for all efforts. Unlike Xaldin, the sheer size of his body and its insatiable connection to the earth made his stride boomingly loud. He resonated. He could leave craters where he walked, if he wanted to. Instead he fissured the solid quiet of the Castle, forming cracks and veins in its integrity, a map that one could read to trace his life.
Zexion was perhaps the most frightning out of all the members of the Organization because he simply could not be seen or heard. Despite the stark contrast between the black coats they wore and the whiteness of the walls, VI had a way of working into the shadows and lights so that--even if you knew he was standing in front of you--you couldn't see him. And you could not breathe for fear when he was pressed up close to your back and held the hands of your best friend, your wife, your son, your lover, armed with a dagger that rested against your throat, their--his--lips working through all your worst words and best regrets.
Saix was bestial. He seemed perpetually angry, sometimes simply because he theoretically couldn't be. He could no more hide his current then a shark in the ocean could: instead, he took advantage of it, knowing the best way to pursue his prey was to flush it out of hiding and into hysterical flight first. He had a surprising amount of patience, given the way that he continuously stalked slowly about his missions, never quite breaking into a run or even a fast walk. Saix, you see, had a way of knowing exactly iwhen/i was the end.
Axel's step was cat-like, quick and not quite silent, but agile, as if each foot barely touched the ground, no matter how slowly or solidly he seemed to walk. He had an assassain's pace: the cadence of his movements blurring continually, hypnotic to your eyes, until the next thing you knew your retinas were searing with the force of his fire and the terrible beauty of burning alive. Axel was purposeful, no matter how slouched his posture or relaxed his pose: the jealous-green eyes, cat-like also, never left you.
You could never quite tell when it was Demyx approaching or somebody else. The way he walked was never the same as the last time you'd seen him coming; he was continuously bouncing around to a melody he'd heard, or there'd always be a spring in his step, or a tune he whistled that made his approach jarringly different, a noisy walk that ran screeching into your ears and clawed at the dull numbness the nobodies filled themselves inside with. Almost everyone in the Castle avoided Demyx, partly because he annoyed them, partly because they could not bear him for envy.
Luxord's movements were entirely unassuming. His appearance was unassuming. His element was unassuming. His weapon, of course, was unassuming, until the cards flipped over and the face that leered at you was your own, and you were trapped within his paper dimensions. Luxord was arguably the most normal out of the whole lot of them, and this too was a reason why he was dangerous. Luxord smiled, had terrible posture, spent a good deal of time drinking rum and being untidy, cheated at cards and always knew the exact moment to show his hand. For you, then, it was much too late.
Marluxia, everybody generally agreed, was a complete and totally conniving fruitcake of a man. He didn't walk. He glided, his carnivorously sweet smile brushing along your countenance, before you found thorns nailing your feet to the ground and parasitic flowers blooming out of your skin. Marluxia, like Axel, had an assassain's walk. Unlike Axel, he made little to no effort to hide it.
Larxene, like her co-conspirator, couldn't be bothered to hide her true nature. She was rapid, she was witty, she was scathing, she was fierce, and she was kind of a bitch to everybody. Larxene walked like there was a tightly coiled spring trapped inside her body, straining against the folds of tendon and bone, waiting for the least bit of loss in self-control to burst out and hurl what was left of her into oblivion. On her best days, she snarled quietly between her teeth. On her worse, she smiled and beckoned you to come closer.
The thirteenth and last member of the Organization, Roxas, did not walk. He ran. He ran everywhere. He ran on his missions, he ran up and down the stairs of the Castle, he ran through the short span of his relative "life" as if he tread on the sand of an hourglass that slipped away beneath him. Roxas was always in a hurry, and no matter how hard Axel tried to slow him down, he could not capture the boy long enough to hold him. Roxas ran from the numbness that ached in his body, he ran from the shallow justifications the others accounted for their actions, and eventually he goddamn ran away from the Organization itself.
And this, you see, made all the difference.