Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the Final Fantasy franchise, especially not Dissidia and FFVII. But everything not associated with such (original plot, original characters, original author rants, etc.) does belong to me.

Hello everyone! And welcome to chapter two of Phobic. The Emperor and Kuja try (or don't) to make friends, but of course Sephiroth... anyways. Please enjoy and review!

~greyrondo

Chapter Two: Delusions of Grandeur

You would think that if I put forth the energy to drag myself to Garland's joke of a strategy meeting, then everyone else could somehow find it in themselves to do the same. But no, I only count nine. I don't yet know everyone's names, so I don't know who couldn't have been bothered to show up.

If this straggler was planning on being fashionably late, then he or she missed the opportunity. We soon part ways, leaving Garland to either fume or meditate.

The one who wears too much gold, the Emperor, comes up to me. But as dazzling as he tries to be, something more catches my attention. What? What was that I just now saw? Just now, I could have sworn that I saw…

No, it's nothing.

"So which one of us will it be, I wonder?" the Emperor murmurs poisonously in such a way that it's obvious I'm the one he wants to hear his voice. "Which of us will win the battle for Garland's position? Who shall earn Chaos' blessing?"

I want to turn to him while the others are still near. I want to shatter his self-composed zone of comfort and draw outside attention to his whispers so he won't try it again. But I'm curious to know why he selected me as his rival. One would assume that I, comparatively, draw little attention to myself.

"I didn't realize that was what was at stake," I say pointedly.

He chuckles. "Please. Like everyone isn't already thinking of it. Luckily, not everyone can act successfully upon their schemes. So the question is, do we declare a truce until the weaklings have killed each other off, or do we waste no time?"

"Tell me, Emperor," I respond. "What makes you think that you've endeared yourself to me enough so that we can even have this conversation without it turning into a farce?"

I do believe that he's temporarily speechless, so I rid him of the awkward burden of a response and continue. "Next time, why don't you think more carefully about who you choose to threaten?" I suggest casually. I wonder who I should allow to walk away first, him or myself. But then—

I stop. I breathe in sharply and the air stings with sunlit warmth. I know what I just saw. There, contained in the fraction of a heartbeat or a single frame of film, I saw a cloaked figure in a wheelchair. But I won't even deny the impossibility. It denies itself.

Everything returns to the established norm.

I watch as the Emperor makes his exit. I feel that he would get offended if I used such a simple, plebian word as 'leaves.' He's so absorbed in the display of power, it disgusts me. You can't become strong by showing off or pretending that you're someone great. If you are strong, greatness will come in itself, if it's something that by then you still desire.

True power often has a way of disillusioning its possessor.

"And trespassing upon the pharaoh's gilded lands are winds that shift the ceaseless sands. Gaze upon his mightiest works and despair, for naught but ruins tremble there."

I look to my side just as that serpentine voice begins another stanza. Judging from looks, he must have been the one who didn't bother answering Garland's call.

"A king of kings—"

"Do you have a name?" I ask him to give him something else to talk about. He sounds too much like someone else's poetry I had to listen to far too often. But unlike Genesis, I don't know this one well enough to start a fight in order to shut him up.

He stares at me, and says blankly as if it should be obvious, "I am Sephiroth's death wish."

'I am Sephiroth's death wish.' I want to laugh. He looks like he could fall over if a breeze struck him the wrong way. "Are you sure you aren't merely projecting your own?"

Why is the look that he gives me filled with pity? "Call me Kuja," he says as if he's doing me a favor. "Must have been quite a shock, learning that there's a god after all. More specifically, a god tailored for us, and most importantly, a god who isn't you."

I don't so much stare at him as stare through him.

"Don't take it personally, I told Kefka the same thing," he laughs. There's a bitter and desperate edge to his voice, one that sounds like it hasn't always been there. But it seems to have taken to him well, so it must have been sleeping inside for quite some time.

"You didn't forget yourself, now did you?" I ask, amused.

He just shakes his head. "We're not like the Emperor, who just does it for fun. For people like us, it's not about the power. It's about being in control, just for once."

"'People like us'?" I echo. I mean for my words to strike him, but his attention is fixated on his nails. "Don't include me in your therapy circle. We're nothing alike."

He just smiles at his perfectly applied blood-red lacquer. He's not like Genesis. He's even worse. "Of course we aren't. I don't like Kefka much either, truth be told, but test tubes are thicker than water…"

Now he has my attention. "What are you saying?"

That's when he looks up and meets my eyes. I hate his self-satisfied smirk. "You don't think Kefka was born like that, do you? Do some research. I heard you're good at it."

Did he really just say that? Since I can't kill him, I tell the boy with the death wish, "don't worry. Eventually, everyone dies."

I've upset him. A dark shadow passes over him as he replies, "And everyone is reborn. What are you waiting for?" he says oddly. "Figure it out already. This play has only just begun and I want it to be over."