So, apparently, reasonable means nearly two months to the day. At least I didn't make any promises...?

Summary: Because humanity should have never asked for something it could never handle...

Rating: M for violence, but mostly as a precaution at the moment.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts or Disney. All characters mentioned in this work belong to their respective creators. I do, however, own the plot and would appreciate not getting robbed. It's not on my to-do list at the moment— check back next month.

Thanks: I would like to thank all of you who have reviewed, favorited, or alerted this story. I'm kind of just hoping I don't disappoint you at this point.

I would also like to thank Besieged . Infection (minus the spaces) for betaing this chapter. However, still let me know if you find any problems, because there was a bit of a transfer issue between programs and I'm not sure if I caught all the spacing issues on the copy/paste email.

Also, the formatting is still a little weird, but it's growing on me. Expect it; I'm a creature of habit.

Hope you enjoy the chapter!


September 28, 2011


Pale, skinny fingers pulled along the cupboards, sliding over empty cereal boxes and soup cans that had expired so long ago that their lids were corroded. The pantry had already been emptied, and what was left in the fridge had spoiled, the power having been cut off over a week ago. With a shaking sort of sigh and a hacking sort of cough, he slid off the counter, sinking to the ground and pulling his knees to his chest, fighting off the late night cold that was beginning to sneak in. Hollow Bastion was not a particularly warm city at the best of times and fall was already at its breaking point. Winter was coming early.

And he was already out of food.

There hadn't been much to begin with. His family had never had enough money for snacks or treats. They had always only bought the essentials, and barely that at times. He worked after school at the bookstore two streets over; his mother worked as many hours as she could waitressing at the local diner. And sometimes, sometimes the bills came first. He didn't really mind it. He could go a day or two without eating anything easily. But now, there really was nothing left. His stomach had already stopped growling at the thought of food. Now, it just hurt, the flat skin going concave around his navel, his ribs protruding beneath his clothes.

Rubbing at his deep blue eyes with bony knuckles, Zexion pulled himself up, balancing his weight against the rickety counter, knobby elbows and knees shaking dangerously. He stopped once he was upright, blinking rapidly to fight away the fussiness at the edge of his vision, the nausea threatening his throat. His eyes rested on the living room, taking in the boarded over windows and dingy carpet coated in cigarette burns.

Part of him didn't even know why he had stayed. The house held nothing for him— nothing but emptiness. He'd lived in this house for his entire life. It had seen his first steps, his first report card. It had heard him the first time he'd cried, the first time he'd screamed. This house had watched him grow up. Everything was right here, yet he didn't feel anything towards it. It was just a place. A place on a map in the middle of nowhere. He was indifferent to it. Every memory he had in this house had been tainted— there was too much sorrow mixed in with everything else. The last eight months had seeped in and poisoned everything. First, there was the incident, followed by the trial. And now there was this— what the extremists were calling the end of humanity.

Honestly, he should have left. He should have left before it had gotten so bad, when he still had enough food to fill up a bag and disappear. That would have been the smart, logical thing to do. It would have been the right thingto do.

But he had been fooling himself, fooling himself into thinking that everything would go back to the way it was before. That he and his mother could be a family again. That she would come back.

She had left one day to get supplies. It had been normal. The news stations were telling everyone to prepare for a few weeks at home, so it hadn't seemed out of the ordinary for her to leave early that morning, barely even saying good-bye. She'd had a backpack with her—one of his old school bags, so full of tatters and holes that it was nearly useless—but he had assumed that it had been for provisions. It had certainly looked empty when she had left.

Or maybe it hadn't.

He hadn't really looked because he hadn't really wanted to know. It was easier that way. It was easier to barely cast a glance at the bag and focus on the way his mother wouldn't look him in the eye. And really, he didn't know. He didn't know if she had just left. Maybe she hadn't been able to come back. There were stories. There were stories on the news of people leaving home and then never coming back—not being able to make it back. It wouldn't be unheard of, especially since Hollow Bastion was located right outside the epicenter.

But it didn't matter. None of it really mattered. No matter what had happened, he was still alone. Besides, he would rather think of her just leaving rather than dying somewhere out there. Eaten by those things. It didn't make things any easier, but at least he could keep telling himself that she was still alive. She was still his mother, no matter what choice she may have made.

Finally, he blinked, shaking his head, watching as the burns in the carpet danced behind his eyes. This place wasn't safe. He wouldn't be able to defend himself if anything happened, and he really couldn't live much longer without some form of food. His mind made up, he made his way to his bedroom, fighting the stiffness in his muscles as he poured his schoolbooks onto the floor and packed his backpack with supplies. It was kind of funny, really, all the things he wouldn't be able to bring with him. He had never thought of himself as having many possessions, just as he had never seen himself as someone who got caught up in material things. But looking at everything he owned, stretched across his bedroom in that organized sort of chaos that most teenagers seemed to understand, he found himself hesitating.

There were things he never wanted to get rid of—pieces of himself that he didn't want to let go. Books that he had stumbled across at the park, birthday cards from the elderly woman who lived across the road, an old set of playing cards…They weren't the kind of things that most people would consider, but they were the kind of things that he wanted to be able to look back on someday. It was stupid and sentimental, but it was his life. Every little bit of it all crammed into one tiny little room.

He scoffed at himself, biting at his lower lip and turning his dark blue eyes away. Desperately, he tugged at the bag's zipper, slinging the thing over his shoulders and barely managing to force his shoes on his feet before he was headed towards the front door. Stupid. He couldn't take it with him. He couldn't take any of it with him. It would just slow him down. It was better if he didn't think about it.

Suddenly, he stopped, hand poised above the doorknob. Right inside the door, positioned so carefully to the left, there stood a set of drawers. The first two held nothing but legal documents. They were filled to the brim with old bills and court papers. He knew this for a fact. But the third drawer—He didn't know if it was still there, but he could vaguely remember his mother looking at it sometimes, holding it to her chest and running her fingers along the pages when she thought he wasn't looking. With shaking fingers, Zexion slid the drawer open.

And it was still there.

It was a silly little thing really—just an old picture album that he had made in the second grade. The pages were held together with construction paper and twist ties, and the titles were done in the most atrocious colors, stickers decorating the thing. But the pictures. The pictures were of them. They were of all three of them, back when they were still a family, back when the money didn't really matter.

He'd given it to his mother for her birthday, and she had been so happy that day. She had smiled so often back then—she used to always smile—but that day was special. He and his father had made her a cake. It hadn't been very good, the icing falling off and the edges blackened in places, but she had eaten it anyway. They'd all laughed and smiled. He didn't remember very many specifics about that particular day, but he wanted to hold on to what he did remember.

It was the least he could do.

Tucking the album away, securing it safely against the bottom of the bag, he finally slid out the door. And the second his shoes hit the rotting porch and the door slid shut behind him, he knew he wouldn't be coming back.

This wasn't home anymore.


September 30, 2011


Worn black and white high-tops balanced precariously along the railroad tracks, their owner moving forward with his head down, calloused fingertips tapping against his old jeans. He could hear Axel up ahead of him, his heavy footsteps clanking against the metal, his bag rocking back and forth against his hipbones. If Demyx was being honest with himself, he would say that his feet hurt. He would say that he had blisters in places that blisters were never meant to be, and he would say that he felt like he would never be clean again. He would say that he was hungry and cold and tired.

But he wasn't going to be honest. He was going to be hopefully oblivious and pretend that they might actually survive this.

Letting out a long sigh, Demyx shook those kinds of thoughts from his head and looked forward, taking in the surrounding woods and blackening sky. They had been walking for days, only stopping for supplies and rest when absolutely necessary. Axel had pulled them towards the wooded areas surrounding the city during day one, saying that they would be less populated and easier to maneuver. Luckily, he had been right. They hadn't seen any more of the infected—zombies, creatures, monsters? — leaving Atlantica, which he was grateful for. He didn't think he would have been able to bare it.

They were terrible. Horrid. Heartless. Atlantica had always been a beautiful city. The streets were always clean. The buildings had that sort of old charm to them, the kind that kept anyone from guessing how much they were loved. The beaches had beautiful white sand, and the water was always crystal clear. Even the people of Atlantica were unnaturally pleasant. But after the outbreaks had taken over, Atlantica was in shambles. The infected had coated the city in blood that ran in the water and lapped at the buildings. They had destroyed the pleasantness of the city—his city—and replaced it with mass hysteria. What the infected hadn't managed to destroy, the survivors had. The once cozy little shops that resided at the street corners were reduced to broken windows and overturned shelves. Everything of any value was taken. What was left was broken.

Demyx shook his head at the mere thought of it all. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look at his city the same way again, even if the world miraculously righted itself. All he'd be able to see would be the wreckage, what people were reduced to when they no longer had a choice or any kind of control. He could never go home, not back to that city, not back to that house where every sense of security had been ripped away. Funny how life turned out sometimes—wasn't he joking with Naminé not so long ago? Wasn't he winning the state swimming competition? Wasn't he playing his sitar at that little café right around the corner?

Funny. Or tragic. He wasn't really sure anymore.

"Dem?" He stopped, one foot instantly leaving the metal tracks to lay flat against the gravel beneath. Axel stood up ahead, completely still and turned towards him, his red hair billowing around his lean face. His face was dirty, coated in a sickening mixture of dust from the tracks and blood from the infected. Leaving the city had been a battle for the both of them, but Axel was always up ahead. He was always the one fighting for them. And Demyx—He honestly didn't know if he had it in him to fight like Axel did.

"Yeah," he answered hesitantly, eyes subconsciously pivoting to see if he had missed something. He hadn't. The world around them was still just as barren as it had been before.

Axel smiled a little as if to reassure him, straight white teeth glistening in the late afternoon sun. He shrugged his shoulders in just the slightest way, hoisting his bag up a little higher and taking a step back towards him. "We're on the outskirts of Twilight Town."

One dirty blond eyebrow lifted, a set of sea foam eyes widening. "Really? How can you tell?"

The redhead rolled his eyes, shrugging his shoulders and sliding his hands into his dirtied pockets. "Just good like that. Me an' Reno used to come this way on our way into Radiant Garden sometimes," he smirked a bit at this, quirking his mouth to the side while scrunching up his nose. "Besides, there's a shop through the trees with a sign out front that says 'Twilight Town: half a mile.'"

Demyx just stared at him, laughing a few seconds later with just the slightest shake of his head. This wasn't really the Axel that he was used to, but this wasn't the same Axel that he had watched murder those creatures outside Atlantica either. He wasn't even the same Axel that had helped him pack up his things and say goodbye to his home. But that was okay. This Axel was still Axel, just a different version, a mixture of them all. And he could live with that, because it meant that his Axel might be coming back someday.

"I didn't get a really good look before I came back this way, but the place looks abandoned. I mean, who knows with all those—whatever-they-are walking around, but I don't know. It might be a good place to stop for a little while. The windows looked like they were still okay too, so it might still have some supplies and," he slid his bag of his shoulder and shook it, pausing to let the cans in the bottom rattle together, "we are in some serious need of more food."

"And water," Demyx added, scrubbing at his gritty face with the heel of his palm. "Are we sure it's safe though? I mean, shouldn't we take a closer look just to see if there are any… if there's anything already there?" Mentally, he cringed at his words, watching as Axel's acidic eyes studied him, that boney frame of his turning away and looking farther along the tracks.

"The way I see it, Dem, is that we have two options: we can check it out and maybe find somewhere we can rest up, or we can keep going and hope we find somewhere else." He turned back, running a hand through his red hair almost subconsciously. "Honestly, though, I don't think there is anywhere else for a while and we're losin' daylight. And I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be out here for another night while we're this close to Twilight Town. Too many people to get infected there; you know that."

The blond swallowed heavily, letting his eyes focus on his dirtied shoes, his heels digging against the gravel as he shifted his weight. "What if there are other people there? People like us? We can't just kick them out."

Axel bit the inside of his cheek, sucking on the light stream of blood that flooded the inside of his mouth and tingled as it hit his tongue. He shrugged again, like he really didn't have to think about it, like the answer was already obvious. "We share. And if they don't want to share, we grab what they'll let us take and we keep moving."

"And what if there are more of them in there? What do we do then?"

He smiled crookedly, that red hair of his glowing against the sunlight. "You still have your cousin's gun, don't you?"

Demyx nodded, sighing under his breath as he slipped it from his back belt loop, the metal warm against his calloused hands. He had found it hiding in the top of his closet before they had left, and Axel had insisted that he bring it along. He knew why he needed it—he wasn't nearly as stupid as people seemed to think he was—but he still didn't want to have it. He didn't want to hurt anyone, even if they weren't really human anymore. They hadn't asked to become one of the infected, and it just seemed wrong, killing a creature that used to be someone, that used to have a family and friends and a life. But he supposed that he didn't really have a choice. If it came down to it, he would kill them without hesitation. He still had to find a way to get to Naminé, no matter what it might cost him.

"Awesome. Just be ready for anything."

If Demyx was being honest with himself, he would admit that he wasn't.


November 3, 2011


Huffing brokenly, he fell against an old willow tree, the darkened branches barely holding him up as his chest rose and fell unevenly, his tinted hair falling heavily against his face, matted down with a sickening mixture of sweat and grit. He knew that he should keep running. He needed tokeep running. It wasn't safe here; it wasn't safe anywhere anymore. And he was out in the open, unprotected and weak. If they tried to attack him now, he wouldn't be able to get away.

He just didn't have it in him anymore.

Every part of him hurt. He had been running for such a long time, and it felt like he hadn't properly slept in days. And he hadn't. He honestly didn't remember ever feeling safe enough to sleep. There was nowhere for him to hide. Every time he tried, there was another one of those things waiting. Even when he couldn't see them, he could still hear them.

And then there was the screaming.

He never saw anything. He never saw them tearing at whomever they had managed to catch, but he could hear their prey screaming. It always started out so loud and desperate—and then it would just die out, like the pain had never been felt, like there had never been a life there to begin with. He couldn't handle it. Every time, the sound would travel down his spine and make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, that dreadful feeling of death pulling at his stomach and threatening to gag him. And in the next second, he would be running, trying to get away from that horrible, ghastly sound.

But he couldn't do it anymore.

He couldn't run anymore. He didn't have the energy to keep moving like he had been; he just didn't have the strength to keep it up. There was just nothing left for him to give.

He had been running from them since leaving Hollow Bastion. In the beginning, there had only been one of them behind him, but then there was another, followed by another and another and another—they just kept coming. With every turn he took, there was another one waiting for him. He had run down streets and through abandoned buildings just trying to get away, but nothing had worked. When one gave up, there was always another one to take its place.

And maybe he was being punished for everything he had done wrong. Maybe running away instead of fighting back was cowardly and useless. Maybe it was all for not. But he had to try. He had to at least try to get away.

He didn't want to die. He didn't want to be eaten alive, those things crowding around him and pulling at his legs, all teeth and claws ready to devour whatever they could reach. He did something terrible, something that he could never be fully forgiven for, but he didn't think he deserved to die like that.

No one ever deserved to die.

Zexion jumped suddenly, deeply set eyes widening and searching the area in a panic, shaking hands barely keeping him upright against the tree. He could feel the bark grating against his fingers, pulling at the already tender skin and breaking through in places, but he didn't care. He had heard a noise, and he had to find it. If it was another one of the infected… he would just have to get away. Somehow, someway, he would have to get away.

After a moment of silence, he relaxed, his knees buckling under him, the stress of the past few days finally seeping into his bones and pulling him towards unconsciousness. But he couldn't sleep yet. He wasn't safe here. There was no cover; he wouldn't be able to see them coming.

He blinked a few times as if to will away his exhaustion, his head lolled back against the tree's bark, blue eyes focused on the rustling branches up above him. He wouldn't be able to climb it.

He knew that. He wasn't very athletic on a good day. All he had ever been good at was running, and the thicker branches were too far from his reach anyway. He wouldn't be able to make it even if he tried all night. Exhaling through his nose, he allowed himself to slump back a little farther, back hunched, backpack still slung over his shoulders. There had to be something he could do. Otherwise, he wouldn't have to worry about being eaten. He would simply die from exhaustion.

Or starvation. Whichever happened to come first.

With that thought in mind, he forced himself to his feet, barely catching himself against the tree as he stumbled, palms absorbing the impact. He just had to keep moving. That's all he had to do. If he kept moving, he could keep lying to himself, telling himself that there was a chance that he could survive all of this. That he could see his mother again.

It was stupid and idealistic, but that thought kept him moving for another half hour, legs heavy and knees threatening to drop him again. And just as he was about to give up on finding shelter, he saw it.

The tiny little shop nestled against the trees.

The place had obviously seen better days, the paint peeling away and front steps rotting in places, but Zexion nearly collapsed with relief upon seeing it. He didn't hesitate in walking towards the front door, leaning heavily against the guardrail, lungs never taking in quite enough air. He felt the door give way under him when he pushed against it, a little less than a foot of space revealing itself, whatever was on the other side sliding noisily against the treated hardwood.

He didn't care. He just wanted to sleep, to forget about everything for just a little while.

Slowly, Zexion slid inside, pulling the backpack off his back just long enough to squeeze through the sliver of space. The inside was dark, his eyes too heavy with exhaustion to properly adapt to the change in light. He stumbled forward, knocking into a shelf, the sound of metal clanking against the ground ringing in his ears and startling him backwards, his slick-bottomed shoes sliding with the lack of traction, knocking him against a counter of some kind, papers rustling to the ground. He blinked heavily, the faint sound of nylon scrapping against nylon in the background.

Someone else was here.

He felt his breathing pick up, that feeling of panic and death and please don't let them get me rushing into his lungs. Slowly, carefully, he grabbed onto the smooth surface behind him, using it as a guide to pull him farther away from the sound that he wasn't even sure he had heard in the first place. He felt along until his fingertips met bare wall, his feet sliding beneath him, kicking at some unknown piece of metal.

He stopped, muscles tensing, eyes widening even though he still couldn't see.

And then there was nothing but deafening silence. His breath was caught in his throat, and all Zexion wanted was to run. To get away. He should have never come here. He should have stayed outside where he could at least run. Here— he was cornered. It wasn't safe.

Holding his breath, he took a step backward, eyes still wide and unseeing. All he had to do was get to the door. Then, he could get away. But where was the door? He wasn't entirely sure which way he had come from and one wrong move could be the end of him. Shaking his head at the thought, he took another step back, pivoting on his heels and taking his chances, running back the way he had come, not bothering with the noise, just letting his body hit whatever happened to be in the way.

And then he felt it. The unnatural blow to his head.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was light and fire, green acid and exhaustion pulling him under.


"Is he dead?" Axel just shrugged at the hesitant question, standing over the disheveled body with his head crooked slightly to the side. Demyx scowled, eyeing the frying pan his friend still held tightly in his hands and taking a step closer. The redhead put a hand against his chest to stop him from coming any nearer. And all he could do was stare at the offending fingers, weary eyes narrowing.

"He could be infected," was all he said, letting his hand drop back down to his side with a muffled thump.

Demyx huffed under his breath, chapped lips thinning. "And if he isn't?"

Axel took a step forward at the question, pushing the tip of his foot under the boy's ribs and flipping him over, his head flopping to the side, uneven hair covering his face. The blond brought his hand to his mouth and took another step closer, leaning down over him and ignoring the way Axel was trying to pull him back.

The boy was barely breathing.

From his head down to his toes, his body looked beaten. The old shoes on his feet were discolored, the holes along the rubber showing his bare and bloodied toes. His clothes were no better off, the black jeans on his legs baggy and ill-fitting, the hoodie barely hanging on to his torso. His fingers and palms were bleeding, the area around his forearms bruised and scratched with thin red lines where the faded charcoal sleeves had slid upwards. And his face. Beneath the matted hair was nothing but sharp angles. His cheeks were sunken in, the area around his eyes blackened with something a little more sinister than exhaustion. And there was more blood, dripping down from the broken skin on his forehead where Axel had hit him, a barely recognizable lump already forming.

Honestly, Demyx didn't even understand how he was still alive. He looked like he had already starved, his body nothing but a broken skeleton.

Hesitantly, he extended his hand toward him, brushing some of his hair back out of his face, revealing more of those gaunt looking cheeks. Up close, he could see the thin veins running underneath the boy's snow white skin, the slow but steady rise and fall of his thin chest. "Axel…"

"What are we supposed to do with him?"

Demyx sat up a little straighter, looking back at his best friend over his shoulder. "What are we supposed to do with him," he parroted, voice an octave higher than it should have been, eyes a little narrower. "He's a human being, Axel!"

The redhead sighed, leaning back against one of the shop's shelves, lanky frame relaxing, acidic eyes looking away. It wasn't like he was saying that they should kill the guy; it was really just a matter of self-preservation. "He's deadweight, Dem. He might be fine here where there's food and water, but out there? In the condition he's in now? He won't be able to keep up."

"But that doesn't mean we can't give him a chance."

"Demyx…"

"No." Lean arms crossed, Demyx stood, standing tall in between Axel and this boy he didn't even know. He didn't know why he cared so much, but looking at him made him think of Naminé. They were the same in build: little and lithe. If something like this was happening where she was, if she was the one whose fate was in the hands of someone like him, he would want them to do everything they could to give her a chance. He had to believe that they would give her a chance. And there was someone out there who needed this boy to be given a chance too. And he could do that. He could give him a chance. "He made it this far on his own, who says he won't be able to keep up? If we just give him a few days…or just help him now— He doesn't have to come with us. He might not even be going the way we are. We don't know."

"There's not enough food to last three people for very long, and who knows how hungry he's going to be when he wakes up. I mean, look at him, Dem." He made a vague sort of hand motion, gesturing towards the raggedy clothes and shallow cheeks. "What if he's sick with something else? We can't take that kind of risk, man. What if something happens? You want to get out of this, don't you?" And, as harsh as his words were, they were spoken with a quiet sort of desperation. He was just as torn up by this as Demyx was, but it wasn't quite the same for him. He wanted— needed— both of them to make it through this. And he wouldn't jeopardize that for anything.

"Axel," Demyx swallowed, bending down once again and just barely grazing the other's skin with his calloused fingertips, "we can't just leave him." His voice was desperate, wavering slightly when his index finger came to the tip of the boy's button nose. He had to make Axel understand that this wasn't okay. Bad things were happening all around them. They had seen some things that they never should have had to see. But all of that, all of those bad things, didn't make it okay to hurt another person.

They didn't make it okay to stop being human.

For a while after that, they were quiet, sea-like eyes watching the rise and fall of that thin chest, acidic green pools staring off into the woodwork. Finally, Axel sighed, running his hands through his hair and moving to stand by those bloodied feet. "Dem?" He bent down and grabbed the boy's ankles, inwardly cringing at the feeling of bones beneath his palms.

Demyx cocked his head to the side, watching him wearily. "Yeah?"

"Just... Just help me get him cleaned up."


A/N: So...Word vomit. I'm honestly not even sure how this chapter happened. I think I have even less of an idea about this than I did about Keys and Kissing.

Anyway, I think I've lost a lot from a writing standpoint over the past few months. The improvement I made in conversations between characters in my last story has all but vanished. It's probably gotten even worse than it was originally. I apologize for that, and I'm working on it. Let me know if you have any pointers or just want to share something that you think might help.

Also, I don't think I'm getting Axel's personality across in the way I want to. He just comes off as strange... And Zexion and Demyx are a bit wishy-washy at this point. Hopefully, I'll be able to get more of them across with the next chapter when they properly meet.

Production: I honestly don't know when you should expect the next chapter of this. I only have parts one and two planned (a carry over from this chapter, because I figured they would be better served somewhere else) and there should be at least five, if not more. However, I will try to have it done within a month. I still make no promises though, as I'm currently filling out a scholarship a week and school has officially become crazy.

Extra: I don't have very much planned for the rest of this story, so feel free to send me ideas. I can't promise that everything will be used, but let me know if there are any specific characters you'd like to see, anything you'd like to see happen, etc.

A Little Word Math for You: Reviews = Motivation; Motivation + Time = New Chapters (Also, all signed reviews are responded to). ^_^