Title: Drag
Coupling: Vox x Albel, Cliff x Albel
Disclaimer: Star Ocean is the property of Squeenix.
Summary: Vox returns from the dead. Albel Nox is less than pleased with this development, to say the least.
Rating: M (or R) for violence, language, non-con, character death, and weird shit. Lots of the last one.
Notes: Considering how this story was supposed to be short, it perpetually amazes me how damned long the last chapters are. Well, not the very last chapter (that one is pretty short in my opinion, which is surprising but there wasn't exactly any way for me to just… drag it out, no pun intended), but this current group of chapters.
Anyhow, not much to say. Sorry I was a little later than usual in updating (time of daywise, not day); I was out most of the weekend, and what with Harry Potter eating up the time I did have at home… yep, this sorta fell by the wayside.
With that said, thanks to the readers, reviewers, and the dearest beta Sahara!

fourteen

He takes an automatic step back, and immediately his mind screams curses at this reaction. Stepping back means fear. Stepping back means weakness, and that isn't quite the impression he wants to give, especially now. But he can't help it and even as he orders his body not to take another step, it's already too late.

Romero's expression hasn't changed, but something about his face, his being, has. It's like he's not bothering to hide the fact that he isn't human, isn't really alive, isn't really anything that can be comprehended because he's not quite of this world. And the world for Albel is already a pretty damn big place, encompassing all those other planets and people that he didn't even know existed just over a year ago. But even including them, Romero is too different from all of that. There's something wrong with him, almost like those 4-D beings that just didn't seem right despite looking quite normal. It's just a feeling—or if it was Fittir, a hunch, he thinks sneeringly. The fact that he can still sneer even when he's busy trying not to have (another) mental breakdown is promising, and he brightens up slightly at that thought even though it doesn't change the way Romero is eyeing him like a piece of meat. If Romero could have actual human expressions, he might have compared it to the look in Vox's eyes on their 'wedding night', but he doesn't like to think about those sorts of things—too late, too late because he is masochistic and he is obsessive and most of all he is an idiot—so he fumbles for a different description, only to be stuck on the one he doesn't like.

"Are you scared, Albel Nox?" And it's back to the human-esque voice, but it's so fake that he nearly shudders, although that modicum of self-restraint touched with a substantial amount of arrogance manages to save him from such humiliation. "From my observations, I thought you of all people would be least affected by this revelation, especially considering how much you had already figured out on your own. Or did I misjudge? It seems that people are not quite as easy to figure out as I thought they would be."

"Figure out?" he repeats, the tiny remaining amount of control quickly dissipating in favor of a damnable need to know what the hell is going on, just as he had once told Zelpher. Granted, he'd just been trying to get rid of her at the time because the last thing he'd needed was an Aquarian spy breathing down his neck, but he'd meant it too. It's not that he needs to understand the logistics of everything going on, but he does need to know at least the general picture. It helps him decide how to act and what to do because as wonderful as it would be to simply say that he is going to kill Vox and that is that, there're still too many half-dead maggots to deal with to make that the end all. If he wants to ensure that death will claim Vox and his army of fools permanently, he needs to know the entire how behind all of this. "Figure out what? That people are really as idiotic as they seem to be?"

Romero shrugs, his face so impassive that Albel wants to dig his nails into that white skin and rake a few bloody gouges down those unmarred cheeks. "You didn't answer my question."

The chill runs down his spine again, despite his growing anger, "I didn't hear one."

"I asked you if you were scared," Romero replies calmly.

He snorts. Apparently his acting skills have not completely vanished. Yet. "That's redundant, isn't it? I'm sure you already know the answer to that question."

"I should, should I not?" Romero asks, staring at him instead of through, and he nearly takes another step back except there aren't any more steps that he can take anyway. He's stuck, just like before, and he curses his helplessness, although he hides that by glaring defiantly at Romero. Deep down he knows that it's more pitiful than anything else, but Romero chooses not to comment on it, instead continuing, "But that is the thing about you. You are scared, but you are hiding it. Why is that? What is the purpose of that when it will not change anything?"

"Fear isn't something you just admit so easily," he finds himself replying, although he wonders why he is even bothering. It's not like he's decided to be Romero's instructor in exactly how people acted and how most of the time it doesn't make sense and that perhaps it just isn't supposed to anyway. But somehow that's what he's doing, or is he just trying to explain it to himself again? Every time he thinks he's been forced into accepting his inadequacies, something happens that makes him start all over again. It's terribly annoying.

"Why not? It seems that the reason why you lost that arm was because you could not let go of your feelings. Perhaps that should have been a lesson to you?"

He bristles at the reminder. Not just of his failure that had led to his father's death, but the fact that the arm in question is not even missing anymore. Because he has his left arm again. It just came with some other things that he really does not appreciate, and he still doesn't know what the hell was the point of that. Doesn't know why he had to undergo that change, doesn't know why he's a woman right now. It's a fact that is easy enough to ignore until they're in bed, and then he's so busy trying to convince himself that this is just a nightmare that it's almost like dissociating himself from his physical body. He's coping with it, but he's not coping well. He doesn't want to accept that something like his gender could be changed so drastically, and maybe it's not a mature reaction but exactly how the hell he was supposed to react to this is something he would very much like to know. People don't usually get their genders changed like that, and he wonders for the millionth time exactly what was in that damned poison that Vox had shoved down his throat. More than that, he wonders if taking it again would reverse its effects, but somehow he doubts the universe would be that accommodating.

He wonders abruptly if Romero had something to do with that too, although he'll be damned if he asks. He's pretended well enough that the change hasn't affected him nearly as much as it actually does, and he's not about to reverse that work, especially in front of him.

So instead he snarls, "What would you know of the affairs of the living? What does it matter to you?"

"Must I have a reason?"

A reason? Even though Romero hasn't outright said it, Albel can figure out that the cause of this war is Romero, although why he would want to go through the trouble of raising the dead to make more dead people is beyond his comprehension. What does a king of the dead need with more dead people? It's not like the dead pay taxes or do anything remotely productive that can actually benefit him. Personally he thinks more dead people would mean more boring work because it seems that Arzei is always busy doing boring tasks, and that's without an influx of new residents. Although he supposes the dead won't need a residency anyway. Why would they? They were dead.

Romero gives him a look, as if he's been reading his mind all this time, "You do not believe in an afterlife, do you?"

"Should I?" he bites back. And regrets it immediately when Romero suddenly reaches out to grab his wrist, and he nearly screams.

It's not that it hurts. It does—a lot—but in a way that is unexplainable. It's worse than the time he got blasted by those Vendeeni weapons—which according to Maria would have completely vaporized him if it had been a direct hit instead of just a graze, how he would like to have one of those damned things right now—or getting pummeled by a multitude of 4-D creations. The only word he can think of to describe the touch is that it is cold, even more so than Vox's icy death-touched skin but to the point that it seems like everything has momentarily stopped working, too overwhelmed by this unnatural pain. A damning gasp escapes, and Romero might have looked bemused but the bastard still does not let go even though he feels like he might just faint soon and he really does not want to have that happen. But pulling back or struggling seems like a distant and impossible prospect, so all he can do is try to push his awareness beyond that pain and try to focus on something else but what?

"Mm. Most people would not have lasted this long. You are very proud. Can all your reactions be explained by pride, or is there something else?"

Arrogance. Obstinacy. A thousand words present themselves as other explanations, but they're all swept away as Romero pushes his chin up with a single finger so that they're eye to eye, and how could such a simple movement be accompanied by so much pain? It doesn't make sense, this. It shouldn't work like this, but it just goes to show that a part of him has become used to this sort of thing because he's not surprised. He just doesn't want to accept that something like this could happen, and that's fine because accepting wouldn't make it any better anyway. Accepting what he's become is one thing, but accepting that pain can come simply from being touched by someone? No point in accepting that. No need. So he won't. Not right now anyway.

"You interest me, Albel Nox." This is really not what he wants to hear right now. But even though Romero can apparently read his mind, the fool obviously doesn't care about what he wants as he continues in that dull, emotionless voice that still manages to convey a sense of triumph, "It would be a shame for you to go so soon. Perhaps I could persuade you to be one of my servants?"

And perhaps he can take that persuasion and shove it up the bastard's ass. But the implication is that permission is really not necessary, and if he doesn't figure out something soon, he's going to find himself tied for the rest of eternity to this maggot. For the strangest reason, that just doesn't appeal to him, and he snarls—or at least makes a decent attempt at one, considering the circumstances. Needless to say, it's less than adequate. Yet it is all he can manage to do right now, and at least there's no way it can be interpreted as consent. Which is an improvement.

For a change.

Things take a turn for the better when Romero lets go of him instead of waiting for him to do something embarrassing, like faint. Of course, he does get a little help from the fact that there's a celestial ship bearing down on them, and in a blink of an eye several of Vox's soldiers are now gone. Well, not gone technically. Just dust.

That is a definite improvement, although it's difficult to admire it from his position on the ground. He recovers quickly though and gets to his feet, and blinks at the spectacle before them. He doesn't recognize the ship, but knows immediately who is in it because who else would be meddlesome enough to get involved in something that obviously isn't their problem?

"I see this might not be the best place to continue this conversation," Romero muses out loud, causing him to growl. The king of the dead stares at the scene for a moment more and then turns back to him, as expressionless as ever. "I will be waiting for you in Airyglyph. In the dungeons under the castle."

"What the hell makes you think I'll go back there?" he snaps back.

They both know the answer to that. Romero doesn't even bother to respond, doesn't even bother to look back at him as he sinks into the ground. His disappearance does not leave the area empty though; the Crimson Scourge falls to the earth in his wake.

It takes him a moment to approach the sword, a moment to stand there and revel in the screams of corpses falling to the ship's far superior weaponry. He doesn't doubt that those Aquarian cowards are using this moment to indulge in their damned runology, although he doesn't begrudge them this for the time being. Any enemy of Vox is someone he will allow to live for a little longer, at least until the common threat is dealt with. But the dragons are already being summoned and if a few of them were to ram the ship, as Vox is clearly intending to do, the outworlder fools won't stand a chance.

Not that any of that is his problem, he tells himself firmly as he finally picks up the sword. He can practically feel it bristle at his touch, unfamiliar with this change. It recognizes him but then it doesn't, and he scowls at the fact that a damn gender change can cause even an inanimate object to have issues. But as he has come to accept the biological difference, the Crimson Scourge follows likewise, quickly calming down and probing ruthlessly at his mind. There are a thousand new things it can probe through, but oddly enough it does not question him as it did the last time. Instead, it's reminding him, as usual, that its services are a favor that can be revoked at any point, any time. As soon as he becomes unworthy, it will take him over, but apparently the joke of his current existence is not grounds for annulment just yet.

"Same to you," he growls, pulling the sword from its sheath and giving it an experimental swing. The difference between it and the crap swords he was using before is immediately apparent, and then for the first time in a long while, he laughs. It's a sharp bark of a laugh, but by this point, who the fuck even cares?

"We've got our work cut out for us," he grins, and walks towards the battlefield.

Towards the fighting and the screaming and most importantly, the action.

It turns out that cutting corpses in half is a rather effective course of action, given the circumstances. He'd learned some basic symbology from his time with the maggots, but it's been a while since he's bothered to use those insipid spells. He didn't like using them then and he doesn't like using them now, so he decides to play to his strengths and just attack.

He figures out quickly that slicing an undead soldier through the torso might be the most efficient way of dealing with the lot of them. They don't die from it, seeing how they're already dead, but with their spinal cords shattered like that the brain isn't able to inform the legs to get a little closer so that the pieces can attempt to meld, resulting in the arms having to drag the upper body half closer to the bottom. It takes time and he doubts that it would be so easy to just put the pieces back together, but he doesn't bother sticking around to find out.

For the most part the soldiers don't really notice him until it is too late, what with having their attention mostly held by the fact that comrades are being blasted left and right by shiny lasers. The Aquarian army is also there, the cowards aiming their runology spells from afar. No big weaponry this time, as the peace treaty had stipulated their destruction. One of the only benefits to Airyglyph, incidentally enough. Maybe not such a good idea now, but who could have predicted something like this happening? Anyway, it's not like Aquaria is actually fighting against Airyglyph—just its remnants. Between the two the army of dead has its hands full, although they're quickly recovering from the surprise attack and scrabbling to be on the offensive. At which point neither the maggots nor the Aquarian scum will stand a chance, but that's none of his concern right now. He knows the source of the problem now, and removing that source may very well stop all of this nonsense in its tracks. For if Romero is the reason why Vox and his army are moving, getting rid of the monster will get rid of the entire problem.

Simpler said than done though. Not only does he not know how to defeat a demon, but there's the more immediate issue of transport. Walking is certainly not going to get him to Airyglyph before every single person on this battlefield is dead—although over half of them will still be up and about afterwards—but the other option isn't immensely appealing either. He doesn't like dragons. It's been years since his failure but his feeling towards those accursed beasts have not changed in the slightest, and one of the nice things about training in the Urssa Lava Cave was the large number of dragons he got to kill on the way there.

He doesn't doubt that the feeling is mutual, as the dragons have little reason to like him either. They know very well that he doesn't like them, as much as stupid, brainless animals can know such things.

And yet despite this, despite the fact that he swore never to depend on one of those damned creatures again, he finds himself finally making it off the main battlefield to where the dragons are stationed, grabbing the harness of one of the only living monsters before it can take off into the air. The animal turns sharply to stare at him, its large gold eyes clearly wondering who would be suicidal enough to treat it like the animal that it actually is. He doesn't care, glaring right back at the creature in a way that makes the dragon snarl at the insolence.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" its rider roars. Albel recognizes that screech immediately—Schweimer, someone who may possibly be even more useless than Shelby and Demetrio. Combined. Which begs the question of where the hell does Vox find these people, although he supposes that right now may not be the best time to be figuring out such things.

"What does it look like?" he snaps back, before proceeding to do his remaining brain cells a favor by ignoring the moron. Instead, he turns to the dragon, who is looking seriously torn between biting his head off or just setting his hair on fire. But he's lost enough to these foolish creatures, and he doesn't plan on losing anything else no matter how slight it might be. The other things were already more than enough. Glou Nox was a better man than he ever will be, and that is a loss he is prepared to pay for with his life if it comes down to it. Nothing Albel does can measure up to his father's accomplishments, so he strives to do everything he can just to be remotely comparable.

The dragon. It all comes back to that. He hates the dragon. It's nothing personal, not really. But he hates it for what it represents to him, for reminding him of his failure and loss and weaknesses. But right now, he needs the dragon. There is no other way for him to get to Airyglyph so quickly, and so he must simply face all of these things. Such a simple concept, really, but not one that he is particularly fond of. If it was as easy as it sounds, he would have done it years ago.

"Listen to me," he hisses, his words barely audible over Schweimer's screechy protests. "You don't like me and I sure as hell don't like you. But one advantage I have over that fool riding you is that I'm still alive and he's not. Plus I don't scream as much," he adds almost as an afterthought. The screeching becomes even louder, although he's not sure if that's because of his last comment or because Schweimer has gotten off the dragon and is now coming at him, apparently intent on making them all deaf.

Even the dragon looks irritated. Is the fool trying to make his job easier? Not that he's complaining (much) or anything of the sort, but there's only so much utter idiocy he can take before his head starts to hurt. It's also getting more difficult to ignore what the maggot is saying, but he grits his teeth and pulls harder on the dragon's harness, forcing the creature to look at him.

He can tell that the dragon knows his feelings about this. He doesn't even try to hide it this time. He needs the dragon's help, as much as it galls him, and the dragon doesn't need his help. It's not a proposal to work together; it's more of a plea, and the monster has no reason to do as he asks.

He knows that and he hates it, but what other choice does he have right now? This needs to end, and to do that he needs to get to Airyglyph. To Romero. And it's not for Airyglyph or Aquaria or Fittir or the other maggots or anything as noble as that; he wants this to end simply for himself because he can't be tied to an incompetent fool like Vox for the rest of his life, and he can't spend everyday looking over his shoulder and hoping that the bastard isn't anywhere near him. He's dealt with these past few weeks as best as he can, and he's survived. But he doesn't know how much longer he can survive that because deep down, although he tries to ignore it, he knows exactly what Vox is doing to him. He's been helpless to stop it, as helpless as being locked in that stink hole of a dungeon, and this may be his only chance to finally do something about it. Because he doesn't know how much more he can take of it, and if he needs to face a dragon in order to even touch the possibility of having this stop, having Vox be done with for good so that he no longer has to dread the nights, then so be it. He will.

And all of this, he lets the dragon know. It's incoherent, and pathetic at that. The dragon snarls and tosses its head, the force of it making him lose his grip on the harness. Its mouth is now dripping flames except he doesn't have time to worry about that as Schweimer grabs him. His reaction is automatic and the Crimson Scourge slices Schweimer's arm off, although he's too out of it to really take note of what is even going on right in front of him, having dropped all his barriers to communicate with the beast. Is this what it is supposed to be like, to have some other creature know him this intimately? He doesn't know how anyone can stand it. Or maybe it's because he's just closed himself off from others for so long that it's unfamiliar, but still it feels like some horrible intrusion. It's almost like being tested by the Crimson Scourge all over again, but the dragon is a (somewhat) sentient being, more so than a chunk of finely wrought steel could ever try to be.

Slicing one arm is nowhere near enough to slow the bastard down so he quickly lops off the other. It's somewhat disconcerting to watch Schweimer fall and yet never utter a scream, but apparently these corpses don't feel the same pain that the living do as all of the others had reacted in precisely the same way. But he doesn't have long to dwell on that fascinating fact of life—or unlife, to be more accurate—as then there is fire so close he nearly faints from the heat, followed quickly by the smell of flesh burning that is so damn familiar that he nearly chokes on a scream of despair. He keeps it in and tries to clear his mind and then the dragon is before him, indicating that he has approximately fifteen seconds to get on its back before it changes its mind and burns him to a crisp for wasting its time. And eardrums.

He barely thinks on it as he sheathes his sword and does as the dragon demands. He's barely got his hands on the harness when the winged abomination takes off, the motion very close to making him airsick if he hadn't already dealt with that particular annoyance with riding Crosell and spending all those times on those celestial ships. Still, the rocking motion is enough to force him to cling to the harness as if his life depends on it—which it does, as much as he doesn't want to admit it.

The dragon seems somewhat amused by this gesture, and he snarls. But if he is to be honest—something that he doesn't have much of a choice about at the moment, seeing how his mind is still terribly open to the dragon—he'll have to admit that quite possibly, he doesn't hate this particular dragon quite as much as he used to.

End Notes:
I love the next chapter. Just as a FYI.