Disorganization
Stage II
Riku vs. Roxas. vs. Milk vs. Dark
Roxas is out in the city, and it's raining heavy, chill drops because Roxas is angsting — and it's hard to work up a good angst-fest when the sun is shining and the birds are singing and the rainbows are — rainbowing. Thus the downpour and the Shadows creeping along in bright yellow slickers and galoshes and hand painted umbrellas covered with pretty roses and vines and carousel horses. The Shadows — are rather ruining the gloomy atmosphere of the dark, dreary city.
Demyx, sitting on the street corner with his sitar case open and collecting water, is downright cheery as he croons to the passing Heartless. "Drip, drip drop when the sky is cloudy…" A Neoshadow gives him a thumb's up and drops a coupon good for 10 percent off a manicure at Madame Poof's just down the way; it's not the fortune Demyx was hoping to earn, but he's torn a nail — and just yesterday Saïx was complaining about his nail biting. Encouraged, he raises his voice to be heard over the distant rumble of Thundaga. "Your pretty music…"
Spotting a figure standing atop Memory's Skyscraper, Roxas tromps over to Demyx, his socks squelching with each step — 'cause colorful galoshes would have killed his cultivated melancholy. "Hey, Demyx," he greets the musician. "Could you play, I dunno, something a bit… edgier? I mean, I'm about to have this huge showdown with a mysterious adversary — and listening to your Bambi tribute is sorta bringing me down."
"Really? The Shadows seem to like it well enough…" Demyx would have ran his hand through his short mohawk, but the rain has plastered his hair to the sides of his head, leaving no mohawk to run his hand through. Instead, his hand hovers an inch above his scalp for a minute before realizing the futility of its task and returning to the twisted metal strings of the sitar. As if with a mind of their own (and, hey, with the Organization, you never can tell) his fingers begin picking out bright, ringing notes. "Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey—"
Roxas forever tarnished his ultra-cool tuff-guy image when he yelped and jumped up a nearby lamppost to escape the capering water forms. (Had the casual viewing public known that they were also groping, lecherous, perverted water forms, they might have judged his panicked reaction more kindly, but Roxas would never admit to being goosed — 'cause that's an image he would never live down.) "Umm…" he stammers, trying to figure out how to summon his Keyblades without letting go of the post, "that'd be fine — if I were fighting Bulky Vendors. Couldn't you play something more, er," he makes a face, all cute baring of teeth and wrinkling of nose and sparkling of eye, "grr-ish?"
"Oh." The water forms dissipate back into puddles and soggy newspaper while Demyx (or his fingers — we aren't positive who's in charge of making important decisions, although we're pretty sure his elbows call the shots when it comes to Civics) mentally sorts his vast repertoire of ditties, jingles, and folksongs. Reluctantly, he begins playing The Encounter. "How's that?"
Sliding down the post to the empty street (if you discount Demyx ((like everyone else does)), and the Shadows who've been watching the entire encounter curiously, and the mysterious adversary who's long since climbed down from the Skyscraper, tired of waiting for his opponent and a bit leery of staying in the vicinity of the largest lightning rod in the city) Roxas shrugs, brings forth his Keyblades, and poses as heroically as a dripping wet, scrawny adolescent who's expected to fight accompanied by Pete's battle theme can pose. "…I guess this'll do." He twirls Oblivion before tossing it to his adversary (because fair's fair — and there can hardly be an epic battle between Keyblade Masters if one of them has no Keyblade to swing) and raises Oathkeeper with pained resignation: It's hard to be cool when your legendary 'blade takes the shape of pretty, pretty flowers.
"Why, why do you have the Keyblade?" his adversary asks — and it really throws him off his stride, 'cause he's been wondering the same thing. Why does he have the Keyblade? Why, when the X is taken out of his name, does it spell Rosa? Why does he prefer sourdough over whole wheat? He then slaps his forehead; those weren't his questions, they were Axel's — and his roommate hadn't been all that sober when he'd been asking them.
"Shut up," Roxas grates (though to his adversary, the memory of Axel's annoying voice, or Demyx who has started humming along to his playing we can't be sure. Let's point fingers at Naminé, she's easy to blame). "Shut up shut up shut up." He waves Oathkeeper wildly (so no one can see that it looks like pretty, pretty flowers, one supposes), and nearly trips on his waterlogged shoelaces. "You I kill now!"
'Wait, Liege!' A Nobody appears (well, of course it would be a Nobody; if they had an important part to play they'd be a Somebody, wouldn't they?) before them, holding a gaily colored cardboard box. 'You can't kill him.'
"Why not?" And really, Roxas is rather set on hurting someone this evening (after all, his Other got all the niceness; he was left with hate and a hankering for coconut cream pies, neither of which stands him in good stead when dealing with the public).
'Why not?' the Nobody repeats incredulously while shaking the contents of its box. 'Besides the fact he'd rot? Remember the Plan, Liege!'
"Oh, right. The Plan." Thoroughly dispirited, Roxas allows Oathkeeper to fade back into nothingness (though it left a pretty, pretty flower-shaped afterimage) and takes the box away from the Nobody — banishing the Dusk with a snap (which he somehow managed with his middle finger pointing straight up; he's just talented that way, I guess). "You, adversary…"
"Riku," the other man says, pulling off his (wet and rather icky) blindfold.
"Riku…" He tugs at the silver beads dangling from his coat's drawstring — and wishes he'd worn his bolero, since it's much more impressive. "I'm Roxas. That," he points to the humming, strumming boy sitting on the curb playing to an appreciative crowd of Dancers and misplaced water kigh, "is Demyx. Would you… like to buy a bar of chocolate? Proceeds support the Organization."
"…Chocolate?" Riku might have been flabbergasted — if he weren't so amazingly awesome. Instead, he's mildly confused. "You're selling chocolate?"
"Yeah. It's Xemnas' idea, since none of us have jobs and he's tired of our freeloading." Roxas lifts out a bar and stares at it dubiously. The wrapper reads Dizzy Knee Delite. "At least, that's what Axel said. Personally, I think we'd be better off using the bars to roof the castle."
"But…" Riku's having trouble understanding. "The big, bad Organization is selling chocolate — for munny?"
"…Yeah."
The silver-haired boy (who might be pretty pretty but will never be fairest in the land according to the city charter established by Xemnas, as seconded by his flattering magic hand mirror) pulls out his Soul Eater key chain along with a handful of munny and the tabs from a six-pack of diet cola. "Umm, you do know," he carefully pulls back the shiny foil covering one of the smaller denominations, "that munny is nothing more than chocolate coins?" He pops the candy into his mouth and chews. "Cheap milk chocolate at that."
"Huh?" Roxas catches the coin Riku flips his way — then pockets it. "Figures. But since you paid for it… here." He passes over a slightly squished bar while wondering how he's going to be rid of the nineteen others still lurking inside the by-now dank box. "Thanks for your support, the Organization appreciates your continued patronage, your donations are tax deductible bladda bladda…" He turns to Demyx, hoping he hasn't forgotten anything. "I can bash 'im now, right?"
"Sure you can." Demyx pushes back his scraggily bangs — then gives into temptation and bites off the torn nail that's been plaguing him. "Only, I think you're too late."
"What?" Twirling around (actually pirouetting, thanks to the ballet class he'd been attending with Xigbar, but let's keep that a secret for now, shall we? Xaldin thinks they're off duck hunting; if he knew they were taking dance, he'd want to come, too. Why else do you think he wears a mint green tutu underneath his bulky coat?), Roxas comes face to chocolate-smeared face with Riku. "Wait a minute; you're not supposed to eat the bar! What are you trying to do, poison yourself?"
Riku staggers, and clutches at the lamppost with smirched fingers. "Dark. It's too — dark. Ugh. I'm not strong enough…" With a last, lingering whimper of, "So bitter!" he flees, the partially eaten bar of chocolate left behind the only evidence he'd ever been there (besides the discarded Oblivion, King Mickey's To-Do list, scattered munny, a bewildered wooden puppet boy, and DiZ's platinum credit card).
"Great. Just great. Now who do I get to whack?" Roxas pouts as he slumps next to Demyx, chucking fundraising bars at passing Shadows in the pensive hope it would shake munny loose. "A perfect angst-filled rage, wasted, and for what? Chit-chat with Riku."
"Don't forget DiZ's card." Tucking his sitar into its case (the instrument was made from water, so the rain puddled in the bottom would scarcely hurt it, and might even keep it in tune, but would most definitely mold if the various coupons and subway stubs weren't eventually removed) Demyx tapped the square piece of plastic against his friend's nose. "With this, our dues are as good as paid!"
end Stage II
Roxas: Unlucky XIII of the Organization, a Nobody with few memories of who he once was — and little ambition to find out who he might be. His favorite hobbies include walking disconsolately through rain showers, nagging Axel to clean his flaming hair out of the shower drain, and pondering why exactly he let Xemnas talk him into leaving Twilight Town. With the sudden (and suspicious) departure of several Organization members, he expects to be promoted to VIII any day now — which he claims is even unluckier than XIII; it's Axel's designation, after all.
Demyx: Number IX of the Organization, sitar player extraordinaire; he longs for the day when he'll take his proper place as a Dapper Dan. Unable to attract groupies, he instead surrounds himself with water forms — some of which look suspiciously like Xemnas (who denies any culpability, but can't help smirking lewdly from time to time). He's an easy-going fellow until you get him angry, at which point he'll camp outside your bedroom window and serenade you with the easy-listening versions of the newest hits from Atlantica. Needless to say, he is properly feared by the other Organization members.
advance to Stage III
you've got a friend in me
End Notes: Little April Showers — Words by Larry Morey. Mairzy Doats — Words and Music by Milton Drake, Al Hoffman, and Jerry Livingston (performed, of course, by the Dapper Dans!)