Title: Kingdom Hearts: Worlds Colliding
Chapter: Prologue: "Is Any of This Real, or Not?"
Worlds: [Kingdom Hearts] [Original Characters]
Beta Readers: Asteres, Janika, Jupiter-Lightning, RaiPhoenix015
Kingdom Hearts: Worlds Colliding
Prologue: "Is Any of This Real, or Not?"
"I've been having these weird dreams lately.
I see people I don't know, doing things that are impossible.
But somehow…
It's like they're real."
It was the same monochrome room. Everything was black, white, or some shade of gray. He had seen it before, in his other dreams. Sleek, black bookshelves, fully stocked with cloudy-hued tomes of lore and science, lined the white walls and rose above concrete-colored carpeting. Here, an impeccably dressed man sat at an ebony piano. His fingers, covered in rich, black leather gloves, danced across the ebony and ivory keys. A soft, light melody filled the air.
With a deafening crash, the slate-tinted double doors of the room were forced inward. Three crusaders strode into the man's study, one marching ahead of the other two. He was diminutive and round, with radar-dish ears and wearing humble garments and clunky shoes, clothing that belied his royal standing.
He pointed something large, something resembling a house key, at the pianist. He brandished it threateningly and accusingly, suggesting it was a powerful weapon.
"Moreau Mephistopheles," he announced, his voice high and squeaky, like an operatic bass singing falsetto. "You have to stop this!"
Moreau Mephistopheles went on playing his serene piano piece.
"Yeah!" his compatriot coughed out. The duck wore a wizard's tunic, and nobody seemed to notice that he didn't have on any pants. He spoke in angry gurgles. "We're on to you!"
The man didn't even bother looking at them.
The tallest of the three, a lanky dog in baggy pants gestured clumsily as he spoke, waving the shield strapped to his left arm. "Gawrsh! Yer messin' with some dangerous stuff, Moreau. It's gonna come back on ya, just like it did with Xehanort!"
At the mention of Xehanort's name, Moreau finally stopped playing. His face was unchanging. He rose from his bench and groomed himself for a few seconds, straightening his charcoal suit and silver tie, then slicking back his jet-black hair. He walked to one his many bookshelves, not deigning to even make eye contact with these rabble-rousers.
"Yes, poor Xehanort." He spoke calmly and quietly, as if recounting an everyday event. "Seduced by the powers of the Darkness, our dear Xehanort lost his heart, then lost his soul. Ultimately, thanks to a group of do-gooders, he lost is life. Twice. Now, you've come to thwart me in my efforts to improve upon his work, is that right?"
"Doggone…!" spat the duck. He waved his wizard's wand in anger. "You're not taking us seriously!"
Moreau slid his gloved fingertips across a shelf, then examined them for dust. His poker face remained unaltered.
"Donald Duck, Court Magician. Your reputation for skill in sorcery is eclipsed only by your notoriety for wrath. I presume that is Goofy Goof beside you, Captain of the Guard. A curious thing, you are, a soldier who uses no weapons. Tell, me, good sir, how is your son?"
Goofy knit his eyebrows together and frowned, wagging a finger at the villain. "Well, you just leave him outta this!" he warned.
"We don't have to fight," said their leader. "It's not too late to turn back."
"King Mickey Mouse of Disney Castle," identified Moreau. "We all know how this little drama will play itself out. You tell me to stop and abandon my evil ambitions. You say that we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way, you convince me to surrender and I give up peacefully. The hard way, I scoff and we fight to the death in an epic struggle."
He faced the interlopers. Moreau's eyes shone blood red. Goofy and Donald staggered back, but Mickey was undeterred. Moreau reached forth. At first, he seemed to grab at the air. In an instant, he gripped the meter-long handle of a beryl-handled zanbattou. The blade, a foot wide and long as a man, was composed of red crystal. Its aura glowed like crimson fire as he leveled it at the trio. He smirked and narrowed his eyes, the first sign of any emotion at all.
His question was purely rhetorical: "Nobody ever does it the easy way, do they?"
The dream played itself out exactly like this at least a dozen times. Aerol Petersburg always stood and watched from a dark corner. Just as all the other nights, the dream ended right as King Mickey and Moreau advanced on each other.
This time was different... he didn't wake up.
He stood entranced, watching the king leap into the air in slow, slow motion, brandishing his key and leaving a trail of multi-colored particles behind him. Moreau began to crouch and bring his blade around, a crescent of ruby dust in the wake of his weapon. Goofy and Donald began to dash into the fray, both of them dissolving into sandy bits at glacial speed. The entire scene disintegrated, people, furniture, and the world itself crumbling and dissolving into sediment.
That's when Aerol suddenly felt the floor drop out from underneath him. Clutching his head so as not to lose his Lucky Red Cap, his unbuttoned overshirt billowed all around him, and he fell into a pitch-black abyss. His body tilted forward, turning, until he was shooting, head first, into the depths of the unknown. His shirt fluttered like a cape behind him, then stopped as he slowed and his body righted itself.
He came to rest gently on a large, round platform. The platform, from above, resembled a stained glass painting. The three heroes from before dotted its perimeter, along with two people he didn't recognize: a silver-haired boy and a girl with auburn hair. The central figure dominating the artwork was a boy about Aerol's age, decked out in red and holding a key just like King Mickey's.
Once on his feet again, he regained his faculties and freewill. He swayed to and fro, unsteady on his legs for a moment.
'Where am I?' he wondered. 'Where is this place?'
It was then that a voice spoke to him, the disembodied voice of an old man.
"Just take a step or two. You'll remember how. It's easy."
He did what he was told. First, his left foot. Then, his right. Then, his left again. His stiff muscles resisted, and he wondered how long he had been sinking into the dark abyss.
"Good," said the voice. "Now, there's no time to dawdle. You have a choice to make. Be careful, but be quick." Three objects appeared around him, dull and blue like cheap plastic, but made of something else – something magical. He turned and studied the first.
A shield, the symbol of defense: It carries the power to support and protect your friends.
Was he thinking that to himself now, or remembering it? Or, was the old man talking to him? He wasn't sure.
He spun on his heels a little too fast, still struggling to command his body. He nearly tumbled, face first, into the second item. He examined it hazily, and more words ran themselves through his mind.
A wand, the symbol of magic: It channels inner strength, in the way of the mystic.
His eyes shifted from one to the other, then felt drawn to the last remaining object.
A spear, the symbol of authority: It bestows great strength, but at the cost of tremendous responsibility.
He reached out tentatively, feeling the length of its smoothness with the tips of his fingers. Cautiously, the boy wrapped his hand around it and watched it suddenly shower him with sparkles as he pulled it to him. It was near weightless in his hands, almost an extension of his own arm. He swung it timidly in the air, watching it leave azure streaks behind its tip.
By accepting this power, you accept its obligations.
Did he know that or remember it? Or was the old man speaking to him again? He couldn't quite distinguish between the three.
"Good." This time it was the old man. Aerol knew that for sure. "Congratulations," commended the disembodied voice, "You've taken your first step into a much larger universe than the one you know. Be careful, though. You'll encounter many dangers along the way."
Aerol just half-heartedly considered what kind of dangers the voice spoke of. He was still mesmerized by the glowing spearhead that left neon trails of luminous energy.
"Behind you!"
The boy spun around, causing his red overshirt to wrap around his body. Nobody was there, but much to his surprise, there were still shadows cast by absent figures onto the floor. He saw them everywhere, crawling all over the circular platform he stood on, puzzling over where the figures were that caused these. Nobody on the floor, nobody in the air, nobody walking around. What could be casting these shadows?
The flat, black figures oozed up from the ground and became three-dimensional. Their stubby arms and legs were topped with bulbous heads, adorned with wiggling antennae and round, glowing, yellow eyes.
In the midst of shock and disbelief, accosted by waist-high Shadows, the young man finally rediscovered his voice. "Holy crap!"
He swung his spear blindly, making wide arcs of sky blue all around him. Some hostile Shadows jumped back out of range. Others were knocked about by his wild swings. One, struck squarely with the spearhead, exploded in a cloud of dark vapor, releasing a glowing core that floated off into the heavens.
"Get away!" he yelled. "Get away!"
The frightening creatures swarmed him, climbing up his legs and scaling his back. Some began to grab at his arms and pin his feet, eroding his mobility one joint at a time. He toppled over, still clutching tightly the spear he could no longer wield. The Shadows dogpiled him, and he thrashed his head from side to side in a vain effort to break loose.
"Somebody HELP ME!!"
Fifteen-year-old Aerol Petersburg shot up in bed, panting, sweating, and grabbing his comforter tightly. His green eyes, wide from terror, shot all around his room. It was his room. It was not Moreau Mephistopheles' study, and it was not a weird stained glass stage adrift in infinite darkness.
He was in his room, safe and comfortable.
He cupped his bronzed face in his hands, finding it slick with nervous sweat. Heaving a sigh of relief, he ran his fingers through his untamed, spiky red hair and collapsed back on his bed. Kicking off the covers, he decided to let the breeze from his open window cool him by blowing away the sweat from his suntaned skin.
It started off as the same crazy dream, the one he'd had every night for two weeks. This time, though, it ended differently. It dissolved into something different, something he had never seen before. It became something absolutely frightening. Staring up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but marvel at its realism.
'It's almost like it really happened,' he thought.
