Disorganization

by Esse

They have an objective. Now all they need is venture capital, a bit of luck — and a better plan than panhandling. All good things must come to an end: So too all things mediocre.

10. Stage VI

Disorganization
Stage VI
there is nothing left to throw of ginger, lemon, indigo

It wasn't so much the sifting he was having problems with as it was the creaming. That's not to say that the sifting was going well — or that it was even going — as the flour had no problem being poured into the top of the sifter (three cup capacity with a spring-loaded handle that gave off an air of confidence rivaled only by Xemnas after a rousing game of Pin the Tail on Eeyore) but seemed to have issues with falling gently out of the sieved bottom. (Fear of abandonment, perhaps, or a touch of agoraphobia; he wasn't all that conversant with the psychological failings of finely ground wheat.) He'd tried shaking the sieve, and slapping the sides; had used a spoon in an attempt to force the flour through the mesh but had only succeeded in raising a choking white cloud that dusted the counter (and the floor, and the expensive gadgets indicative of culinary proficiency; Demyx could whip up a mouthwatering crème brulée like noNobody's business — and Demyx was going to be less than pleased if he walked in on his ((once sanctuary, now insane asylum)) flour-coated kitchen).

Momentarily giving up on the sifting (thus quite literally turning his back on the flour, the cinnamon, the ginger and cloves and nose-tickling nutmeg, the soda, the salt, and the stray weevils that had been the main reason he'd decided the flour needed sifting in the first place), he'd focused his attention to the creaming; butter and sugar, molasses and egg (the type of egg hadn't been specified, but in the fridge ((umm, that would be, inside IV, wouldn't it now?)) there'd been a dozen large, fresh gull eggs that he was positive he'd encountered before, though he couldn't recall exactly where, so that was what he'd cracked — several times over, before he found one that hadn't already been otherwise occupied). The stainless steel mixing bowl turned, and the beaters beat, but the mixture looked no more ready to turn into cream than Xigbar (who'd come into the kitchen in hopes of discovering Xaldin's secret Jolly Time stash). And that was an achievement, since Xigbar usually resembled nothing so much as a giant cream puff.

"Hey, little dude. What's the matter?" Xigbar wasn't a comforting sort of person naturally — but things had changed when he'd entered his unnatural notlife — and he got antsy whenever the younger Organization members pouted, for it was usually a prelude to catastrophic strife within their happy domicile. "Experiment not working out?"

Roxas shut down the mixer and poked his index finger into the sweet goo. "It's this newest scheme of Xemnas'," he said, sucking his finger clean — and deciding that, even if it wasn't creamed, the glop was good enough to add the flour to, if ever the flour decided to make its way out of the sifter. "I'd swear the man's deranged; I'd just got back in when he sprang this on me. I don't know what to do, Xigbar. I've never baked in my life. Unlife." He smacked the sifter, raising another obscuring puff. "That is, I don't remember ever baking, and if this mess is anything to go by, I think it's safe to say I never have." Disgusted with the flour's misbehavior, he dumped it — weevils and all — into the mixing bowl (and if the weevils survived the mixing and the baking ((and the eventual eating)) then more power to them).

"…What new plan?" the graying man asked, worry pitching his voice into the falsetto range. "This… He's still not on that fundraising kick, is he?"

"You haven't heard?" Turning on the mixer (to its highest setting, not only making it impossible for us to hear what he's whispering in the older man's ear, but also flinging gooey lumps of spicy cookie dough our way, forcing us out into the hall so we don't even have the opportunity to practice our lip reading), he explained the latest torture their Superior (as advised by XVII) had devised.

"That's totally bogus!" Xigbar picked blobs of dough from his coat and slowly ate them, nodding approvingly when he bit into a chunk of crystallized ginger. "I'm second in command; when was he planning on telling me this? Day of, so I'd look a total loser? That's it, isn't it? He never planned on me succeeding as II. Xaldin's got his ear—"

"I think it's more like XVII has his ear," the blond boy cut in thoughtfully. "I saw him out in the hall earlier, not the hall," he flung his hand to the side in dismissal, "but, you know, the Hall. And he was flexing his itty-bitty arms, and waggling his great big ears, and he kept shouting over and over, 'Who da mouse? That's right! I da mouse!' It was creepy." Reading the (flour-coated) recipe, Roxas plunked the ball of dough on to the cutting board (likewise flour-coated, saving him a whole fifteen seconds that otherwise would have been spent ruining yet more flour). "I think we need to keep closer tabs on XVII. Where did he come from? What's his agenda?"

"You worry too much." Digging through the utensil drawer, Xigbar eventually found the rolling pin (and by setting it on the counter, it too was miraculously flour-coated) though the cookie cutters were nowhere to be found. "We all keep secrets. Take Saïx: He came from an off-Broadway production of Cats. That's bound t' give a man issues. And Luxord? He was nothing more than a cog in the system. Bona fide desk jockey too afraid of the commodities market to make a go at anything. What of yourself, little dude?"

"I — don't know." Roxas rolled the dough then stared at it in dismay, stymied by the missing cutters. "I just woke up in Twilight Town one day, this dopey orange dog in my face; I don't know who I used to be, and no one'll give me a clue."

"Like, that's exactly my point. Maybe you're not the only one whose past is MIA. XVII's harmless enough — even if he does wind Xemnas up." He'd opened up the pantry, and was staring at the stacked cans of pickled beets with an expression of mild (and abiding) loathing as he went over possibilities for his own mandated project. "Then again, he coulda been a total whack job in his previous incarnation; I was. But being a pale shadow of my former self has really chilled me out; best thing that's ever happened to me, according to my ex. And the highway patrol. And Nick, my parole officer. Heh, just about everyone agrees I'm better off this way, except my cat. Buttons was never the same — but she makes an adorable Heartless. Ain't no loss without some gain, am I right?"

"Umm…" Futilely searching through the drawers and cupboards himself, Roxas eventually concluded that the cookie cutters weren't in the kitchen. "I thought cats were Heartless to begin with."

"Only if you don't scritch them under their chins properly," Demyx answered the rhetorical question as he staggered into the kitchen to collapse in a tired heap by the bubble-filled sink. He blinked stupidly at his flour-coated (hey, they touched the floor, of course they're floured, it'll be months before the residue is eliminated) gloves, then raised his head to survey the kitchen. "Has anyone else noticed how — white — it is in here? It shouldn't be white; I spent days wallpapering this section, all pale green vines and teapots…" He cradled his head in his hands (and, well, you know the drill) to escape the brightness. "Do I want to know?"

"Xemnas' orders." At an impasse over how to shape his cookies, Roxas walked over to the slumped musician and patted his shoulder soothingly. "And you don't want to know, but you'll find out soon enough. Are — you okay? I was expecting you back last night. You and Axel—"

"Axel's a lush, and I was buffaloed into taking care of the bill. If I ever see another dirty dish in my feeble parody of a life…" Demyx purposefully ignored Xigbar ah he quickly pushed the grubby measuring cups into the sink. "My water forms have blisters. I can't play my sitar 'cause my fingers are waterlogged. And Axel spewed on my new braided rug once I got him aware enough to portal home. Might as well tell me what's up; let me deal with all the disasters at once."

"You asked for it," Xigbar sneered (not because he had anything against Demyx, but because he despised the task set before him, and he'd temporarily ran short of good will and general rad-ness; not even Xigbar can be awesome 24/7, though he makes a good go of it). "Boss man's treading the shallow end of the pool on this one."

Roxas explained their newest trial, and Demyx listened with dull, unsurprised eyes. "And that's why I'm making gingerbread Shadows — but I can't find the cookie cutters anywhere, and it's really strange, because I'm sure I saw them not all that long ago."

"You did." Demyx got to his feet slowly (and with much moaning and creaking of abused joints — VIII was heavy for a twig-man) and began making his way towards the door. "Axel was selling them at the rummage sale. I think he traded them to XVII for a box of matches."

"All the cookie cutters?" Xigbar dropped a jar of pickled hearts of palm on his foot in surprise. "He voxeled those things; used them to trace out patterns for his mobiles, and swore he'd rather give up his finger paints than lose them."

"It was a big box of matches. He voxels those more."

"I told you there's something fishy about XVII!" Roxas shook the rolling pin sternly at the other two (accidentally dropping it, but the three-second rule came into play — no worries). "Conspiracy! Why else would he purposefully take possession of all our cookie cutters, then talk Xemnas into — this? But what is his goal? What is he truly after?" Roxas crossed his arms, and stared up into the starless sky (the NBCC had roofed the kitchen, but Saïx'd promptly brought it down when he'd lost control of his temper, jumped up to attack the espresso machine, and smacked head first into a ceiling that hadn't been overhead the day before; as you can surmise, the ceiling didn't survive the encounter. Neither did the Wake Up Grumpy mug). "He's not trying to climb the ranks of the Organization, or he would have called dibs on IV… And it's not like the fridge is gonna fight him for it. I just can't figure it out."

"Maybe he's secretly working with DiZ against our Master Plan of…" Arms now filled with apricot-pineapple jam and Crisco, Xigbar tried to find a clean spot anywhere to set them down. "Um, sitting around on our duffs while we wait for Sleeping Beauty to awaken. That's a crappy Plan, by the way. It's what we've been doing for, like, ever." Unsuccessful in his search, he dropped his supplies in a heap on the counter next to Roxas — then held his breath for the next minute while he waited for the cloud to settle. "DiZ doesn't need to sabotage us, it's not like we've accomplished anything this decade."

"We built Oblivion." Demyx (who, due to fatigue — and the fact that he couldn't be bothered to care about what Xigbar was up to — hadn't realized the older man was purposefully going to provoke the weevil-infested flour) sneezed behind one hand, ruining both the glove and his fragile appetite. "Well, our Nobody peons built it. Then Marluxia went and filled it with gardenia-scented sachets; absolutely destroyed its resale appeal. Now it's a rental property, and Prince Charming's been given sixty days' notice. He says he's taking us to court as slumlords. Luxord believes we have a fair chance of proving libel — but I'll believe it once I see that fugly pumpkin coach out of the driveway."

"Like I said, D-dude: We've accomplished nada. Which makes your—" he pointed at Roxas with his recently acquired slotted wooden spoon "—paranoia so cute! You are the cutest thing; if you weren't, like, one apple bob away from being dead, the girls would be lining up at the door! That is, if our door wasn't in a World of Eternal Shadow and Despair. But hey! The goth chicks totally dig that. As I was tellin' D-dude yesterday, just… Um… D? Where're you going?"

The musician winced (although not even he's sure if it's from being caught sneaking out, or from Xigbar's enthusiasm, even though the likeliest culprit is the rolling pin Roxas had just dropped on his foot; not wood, not nonstick silicone, but marble meant for the most delicate of pastries, of which XIII's aromatic cookie dough most definitely wasn't). "T' ask XVII if he's a spy busily orchestrating our downfall. Duh! I'm gonna ask if he'll lend us the cookie cutters."

"Could you check up on Axel while you're at it?" Roxas asked, nimbly bending over to retrieve his wayward chunk of cylindrical rock. "It's not like him to miss an opportunity to create a mess, and this — this is going to be messy."

"Going to be?" Demyx once again surveyed the kitchen, then shook his head (and moaned, sure he'd felt something important clunk). "You mean it's going to get worse?"

Finely honed knife in one hand to carve out Shadow shapes in his gingerbread and heavy rolling pin in the other to beat said shapes into submission should they decide to come to life — always a possibility when there's weevil Heartless involved, Roxas tilted his head, obscuring his eyes behind a profusion of dough-sticky spikes. "Xaldin's not here yet — and he's into meringue."

"Touché. I'll be back. Cookie cutters, Axel, goggles: Is that everything?"

"More flour. We're gonna need tons more flour." Xigbar fished the soapy measuring cups out of the sink, ending up with a fine collection of teaspoons in the process. "Three pounds lost through attrition for every cookie successfully created; found the formula in the guidebook; finally got around to reading it. Did you know that not only do we not have hearts, we're missing our appendixes as well? And two out of three Nobodies are short a kidney. Makes ya think twice about being an organ donor, don't it? Lose your heart, and if you don't reform as a Nobody fast enough, lose your liver, too."

"First — eww!" There was a distinct possibility that the musician's appetite might never return; his cherished memories of baking cookies with his Mama had never included casual conversation about organ harvesting (and he couldn't help poking himself lightly in the gut, and wondering). "Second, I'll ask about the flour. Not quite sure who I'll ask, but there's bound to be somenobody standing outside our room that won't be able to run off fast enough. I'd say try not to burn down the kitchen while I'm gone — but I'm bringing Axel back with me. You should be safe enough in the meantime." He left the kitchen, and the sink full of water sloshed to the floor and followed aimlessly after him, taking various bowls and beaters with it.

Roxas and Xigbar worked in companionable silence (Roxas whacking the dough whenever it tried crawling off the cutting board, and Xigbar snooping through Xaldin's recipe cards, hoping to find his favorite dessert bar recipe amidst the clutter) while they waited for IX to return from his errands. Mostly, Roxas filled the time by worrying about his roommate (not over the fact that he'd returned from their night out inebriated to the point of needing Demyx's help, but that Axel might be holding a grudge over being left in the restaurant to begin with).

"'M back," Demyx announced himself, cookie cutters dangling from his fingers and a fifty-pound bag of flour apparently wandering about by its own volition behind him — until the bag fell to the floor, displaying the ever-helpful always-cheerful XVII. "Had to dodge Saïx; he's finalizing his war plans against the espresso machine, and is recruiting shock troops for the first attack. With any luck we'll be finished before he shows up."

"If not, he can duke it out with the gingerbread." His attempts to contain the evil yet deliciously fragrant Shadow cutouts had been less than successful; they'd gathered by the oven en masse (and pity the Nobody that tried to cross their picket line). "What about Axel? I thought you were bringing him back."

"He's still sound asleep." The older blond passed over the cutters, then helped XVII drag the bag of flour further into the kitchen. "Should wake up in a good mood, though. Apparently he never heard his Other knocking on the door. There was a note; said he wanted t' wait around, but there's a seminar he needed to catch. He figures they'll catch up later. Looks like Axel's off the hook."

"For now," Xigbar chuckled, still flipping through increasingly bizarre recipes.

"What do you mean: For now?" Instead of trying to round up his wayward cookies, Roxas decided he'd be better off making a fresh batch of dough.

"What? I didn't mean anything by it." Triumphantly pulling out his (handed down from dealer to dealer) recipe, Xigbar chucked the remaining cards into the trash compactor. "A statement like that just needs a 'for now' at the end of it. Makes it sound all foreshadow-y; you know, like, dire. Whoa…" He examined his arm (which he'd lifted to turn on the compactor). "See, little dude? Suspense gave me goose bumps. How gnarly is that?"

XVII, assuming Xigbar had been addressing him (for he was the littlest dude), dutifully examine the arm. "That's pretty neat!" Opening one of the cupboards underneath the counter, he pulled out his step stool and positioned it next to Roxas. "IX told me you're making cookies. I thought I could help. I love making cookies."

Roxas glared at the intruder from the corner of his eye. "Nobodies can't love. That's it. I can't ignore your suspicious behavior any longer. Are you some kind of hero of light come to ruin our attempts at recreating the lives brutally ripped away from us by the darkness?"

"You're so cute!" XVII laughed nervously and pulled his hood further over his whiskered face. "Of course I'm not! I have the coat, don't I?"

"Oh yeah, you do." Shrugging philosophically, Roxas began measuring flour once more. "Sorry for the accusation; can't be too careful nowadays. Pass the molasses, would ya?"

end Stage VI

XVII: mysterious member of the Organization, he appeared at the Castle not long after Marluxia failed to show up for his biweekly report (on the current status of his hybrid tomato plants, the largest of which he'd fondly dubbed Mr. Grubbs). XVII has yet to reveal his name, leading to rampant speculation amongst the other members, ranging from Xerryj to Gyxmith Oxemus. Current confidant to Xemnas, XVII's true motives have yet to be revealed — but certain members have noticed that he seems to be profiting greatly from the fundraising ventures he's talked their Superior into trying. All that's actually known about him is that he's fabulously rich, owns several lucrative businesses, and has several expansive vacation properties that no one in the Organization can afford to visit.

return to Stage I
howdya do, howdya do, howday do?

End Notes: Am suffering aggravation. This part was written while housesitting (and dog-sitting, and Grama-sitting) my mom's place, in WordPad, on a screen I could not see. Grr. Part I'm currently working on obviously tweaked Word's nose wrong, 'cause the program won't spell check. Period. It just won't. Double grr. So, since notes are written right before posting — this isn't checked. If it bothers you, you're welcome to a hank of my hair.

Lesse, am busy making Disorganization icons. So far got two:
calicodragon dot com slash IVamana dot gif
and
XIIIgrumpy dot jpg
If for some reason you want one of the ugly things, let me know: e-mail or review, 'kay?

Talkin' 'bout reviews! Gogo-chan, you're flat-out a beautiful person. This'll eventually wind down to an AU meeting with the KHII story line, and I'm glad you noticed :) It's not all fun and games… well, it is, but we can't really forget about Sora snoozing past his expiration date, can we? May I give you huggles? I feel the need to huggle. AngelFlare, I'm thrilled you're enjoying the story — but stories eventually have to end, otherwise they get stale and start to do nasty things on the carpet. There will be eventual sequel-age, but hardly no one will want to read it, 'cause it's serious and, uh… Yeah. Ri2, youse gots it! Not too big of a mystery; it's the best my lazy mind could come up with. You win a drabble! Tell me what you want. Legnalos — come back with my Demyx! I need him; can't write without him. Honest.