7.

Ienzo, the increasingly gentle soul, invites them all to dinner. Even can't pretend to understand the ulterior motives. Does he truly want to see them all in one space? Them, that betrayed him? Perhaps he has not even processed this betrayal. And it is awkward; he tries to shore up for the boy's sake. He notes that Demyx looks as uncomfortable as Even feels, saying little, keeping his eyes mostly on his plate. In this light he looks washed out, bony, bruise-colored circles under his eyes. Even finds this somewhat fascinating; in the past, Demyx always sought to ingratiate himself where he wasn't wanted. Now, offer duly extended, he seems like he would prefer to crawl out of his skin. Even knows the feeling.

Ienzo asks his for his advice about all the corrupted data; at least they have this much they can talk about painlessly. Even bides his time until it is polite to excuse himself. Demyx, after uncharacteristically clearing the dishes, disappears, pale; Ienzo says the young man is feeling unwell and needs to rest. Even notices the purple ascot missing from his throat; was it feeling too tight against the scars?

"I thought he was looking a little peaked myself," Even says. "He was in hiding an awful long time. It was difficult enough for me to cope when I hid too. I can only imagine."

"Well, your sacrifices are not in vain," Ansem says. "Here's to a full recovery."

Cheeky bastard.

The next morning, after a mostly sleepless night, he pores over pages of old notes from the time before, trying to humanistically calculate the damage he's done. If he has the scope of it, he can devise ways to bring himself closer to zero.

(Will it truly help? Any of it?)

In all this, there's a gentle knock. "What do you want?" Even asks dully. He can feel his assailant, but they're silent. Tiredly, he turns.

There's Demyx, a bandage wrapped tightly around his left palm. It takes Even a moment too long to realize that it's an ascot, namely, one of Ienzo's, the one that had gone missing.

"What did you do to yourself now?"
"Last night, at the dinner party. Cut myself when I was doing dishes."

Very well. At least this could be dealt with quickly. He takes the young man's hand-fingertips firm with calluses, no doubt from his years of musicianship-and unwraps the cloth. The wound is angry, red, but seems otherwise a clean cut. "Right across your lifeline. Some cultures would consider that unlucky."

Demyx reaches for the cloth. Why hadn't the boy mentioned Demyx was hurt? "This thing's filthy. I might not have any magic, but I can at least provide adequate care." He cleans and bandages the wound. He turns back to the report. "Well, if that's all you came for, would you do me a favor and leave me be? I'm in the middle of something important."

Demyx huffs a little. "That's not why I came. Remember how you told me to keep track of my dreams?"

"My memory is very good."

"They weren't dreams at all. They were memories. But I don't think they were his." He exhales. "They were mine."

And how is this impressive? "Oh. Is that all?"

He wrinkles his nose, as though deciding something.

And then drops a bombshell.

"Xemnas said I… have a Keyblade legacy. That it sleeps in me. That we weren't… from this time."

We?

The four neophytes? No wonder they had arrived in such quick succession-not when it had taken six years just to find Demyx. The bastard must've been fussing about with time travel the whole time. The thought of it is giving him an odd sort of vertigo. "Are you… quite sure?"

He flushes. "Of course I'm sure!" Or as sure as Demyx can be.

Even feels like he can't breathe. He tries to recall what he's read about the Keyblade War, the X-blade, and their fairy tales. "That was… from the time of fairy tales. Many, many years ago. I had believed that was all legend… but then… well, if the X-blade has been forged again, who knows what else might be true?" He crosses his arms. "Biologically speaking, you're barely in your twenties. If that were all true, then somehow you would be hundreds of years old." He stares the boy down; it's the idea that Demyx is older than him that makes him nauseous.

The boy seems just as shaken.

"And if that were the case, then-how did you get here? And why?" Can it possibly be time travel? No-can't. A heart can only travel to where it's already been, or will be. And if that were hundreds of years after Demyx's natural life would've ended-

He's turned green. "I don't know. I barely remember… everything's gotten so fuzzy."

No… memories… which would track if he'd traveled through time-but time travel isn't the only way to blank one's memories.

But has Demyx always lacked memory?

"I don't believe it," Even says. "It must've been some sort of ploy… something to give you neophytes purpose… then again…" How can he have found four humanoid Nobodies so quickly like that? It goes in circles… There must be some black-and-white explanation. He approaches the boy, takes hold of his hair, and pulls.

Demyx yelps. "Hey! What are you-"

He places the hair in a sample bag. Not quite sterile, without gloves, but no matter. "You've piqued my curiosity. Sit down. I need blood."

He freezes. "What-"

He pulls on gloves, takes a phlebotomy kit from one of the cabinets. He preps the boy's arm almost on autopilot, his mind boiling with the possibilities. (He has to admit, it feels good to be curious again, better than drowning.) "I need samples. I wonder if there's any dating technique that could tell us more about this situation."

"...Dating?"

The boy's been in and around scientists for so long, yet he hasn't gleaned this much? "For your DNA. And to see how your other cells might have been impacted by whatever means of preservation that brought you to current day. That is, if any of this is true and not some lotus flower Xehanort was feeding you. There must have been something. This is your original body, yes? I think I'd have remembered making a replica for you." Unless one was co-opted without his knowledge… no, his record keeping was too pristine. Twenty vessels made, not one missing.

"It better fucking be," the boy mutters. He flinches when the needle pricks his skin, but doesn't outwardly complain.

Even takes as much as the boy is willing to give; spit, nail clippings, cheek swabs, and some other skin cells. It will probably also be prudent to take a lumbar fluid sample as well, but he figures Demyx will like that painful process even less. "I dearly hope this isn't a waste of my time," Even says. "But imagine the possibilities… and why you? Why not? I don't pretend to understand Xehanort. Not at all. It's an awful lot of effort for vessels he could have just made…" He's thinking aloud, embarrassingly so, and cuts himself off. "I've all I need. I let you know if there's more. You may go."

He starts almost immediately. It's been a while since he's done work like this, but it all comes back. He analyzes the boy's blood count, isolates the fine strands of DNA in the other samples. He sets this aside and examines the actual makeup of cells, noting with displeasure-and befuddlement-that they seem to be normal. He freezes them for further study, and turns back to the DNA.

And is again frustrated. A simple gene pool analysis tells him the boy is completely healthy-no mutations to speak of out of the ordinary-but it offers no deeper insight to anything. He sets a few of the samples aside for some of the dating techniques. By this point, it's been hours, and he's exhausted.

You need to sleep, you dunce. If you don't shut your mind, your body will do it for you.

He crawls onto his cot. It's been years since he's done this, crashed in his lab like some kind of undergraduate. It's incredibly uncomfortable, but perhaps for this reason he's able to fall asleep. He's used to discomfort.

Even dreams.

It makes sense now, how Demyx dreamt his memories (if they are that); he sees his own, reflected back at him. Ienzo, dull eyed, childish, and traumatized; Ienzo, as Even throws himself over the boy to block the darkness. Ienzo, tentatively grown, panic coursing through him.

In a way, Xehanort had been right all those years ago; his record truly is two for two.

That boy…

Again he finds his heart aching, for a different reason. How long has it been has he thought about that boy?

Even leaves the castle for the first time since returning. The sunlight hurts his eyes, and the air tastes almost too fresh. He notes with an odd sort of coldness the desolation of Radiant Garden; it's supposedly much better than it was shortly after the restoration, but signs of destruction are everywhere-holes punched out of walls, houses in rubble, weeds poking through the cobbles. And the people, when he sees them (will they recognize him? Will they exonerate him?) look tired. A marketplace has taken over for the shopping centers, the clinic he once interned at has been reduced to a pile of rock.

But the cemetery, Even notes, seems to have been tended to at least somewhat. The grass has been cut, broken stones lodged back in their places. Some sticks of incense still freely burn, filling the air with jasmine and dragon's blood.

He doesn't remember where it is as much as his body does.

There they are, in tandem, their engraved names worn with weather and darkness, but still legible. Even wishes he'd brought his own incense.

He realizes he doesn't feel much, if anything, when he looks at the memorials.

Will being sentimental really help me?

He does what he always does when he is unsure; he acts. He kneels and bows his head, though he does not pray. He can feel the split ends of his hair brush against his face. He finds that he's thinking more about cutting it than the truth of his dead spouse and son.

At least they never saw him like this.

"...So you're here."

He looks up, seeing, of all people, Dilan, who's holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums and a box of incense. Even realizes he has nothing clever to say. He just feels tired, on a vaguely spiritual level. "Paying your past dues, as well?" he asks, dryly.

"It is… only prudent."

A few beats of silence. "I'm sure you would rather visit your own dead, not mine," Even says softly.

He nods. For just a second, the incredible hardness in Dilan's eyes is gone. He offers the small wooden box to Even, a lighter. "It's only proper. But you were never religious."

"...Thank you. How kind." He lights the sticks. The smell evokes more than the sight of the stones did. He isn't sure if he likes having these feelings. For a second he actively tries to make himself cry, but can't find the need. Or else he is numb; he can no longer tell the difference. Once the sticks are merely ash, he brushes the debris away with a handkerchief, bows once more, and stands, wincing at the painful rush of blood back into his legs. He passes Dilan bowed in his own sort of reverie. Even realizes he cannot recall who Dilan had lost, and feels something like a pang.

He's at the gates of the cemetery when he hears something chime in his pocket.

It's so odd to have this tiny computer with him. It's simple to use, would've made life infinitely more convenient in the past. He checks the gummiphone, find that Ienzo has given him a call. He sighs, and dials.

"Even, I need your help."

Even chances one last glance over his shoulder. He can just see the mass of Dilan's braids; the man is shuddering, crying.

He takes as brisk of a pace as he can manage, and finds Demyx unconscious in a study room where they used to tutor Ienzo. He's is kneeling near him, his face drawn. "We were working on a project," Ienzo offers as prelude. "I had found a musical score-I figured it might be of interest of him, and it was. So I asked him about his training, who taught him music, and so on-he says he can't remember. I very gently asked if he has forgotten anything else… and he had this reaction."

Even checks his pulse. "Oddly… his heart rate is normal." He can't help but think of their conversation in the lab. Is something manifesting? Or could it perhaps be that Demyx's adjustment is more physical than his own, that feeling strong things has this reaction? "I'll take some blood and run a few tests."

Demyx isn't a large man, but they're both physically weak; they finally maneuver him into bed. He's relieved to find that there is a by-the-numbers explanation for Demyx's condition; the boy's malnourished, his sugar and iron low. He explains this to Ienzo, who is waiting with a perturbed expression on his face. "...What you consider a trigger is no doubt a coincidence."

Ienzo shakes his head. "I'm not so sure. He had mentioned something about lacking memory. Why is it that when I tried to prod, he had this reaction?"

How to begin explaining? Not to mention, nothing is proven; nothing more than some possibly tall tales fed to Demyx. "Ienzo, you know as well as I do that Demyx has a bit of a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps he just wanted some attention. Your worry is misplaced."

Ienzo frowns, scratches his cheek. "...Even, do you have all your memories?"

"Of course I do! I think I would know if that were not the case."

"How odd. How odd…"

Best offer the boy something before he gets too curious. The last thing he needs to worry about is Ansem's newest stray. "His heart is not yet complete. That may have something to do with it."

His eyes have that same faraway look that Zexion's did when he tried to figure something out. "I'm going to take a look at my notes regardless."

"Still, this brings up the matter of our diet. I had suspected it is somewhat lacking, too high in carbs. Perhaps we can go down to the marketplace and find something more nutritious…"

Ienzo gives him a look, one that tells Even he suspects more is going on. The boy is too perceptive for his own good. "Aren't you at least a little curious?" he asks.

Best be placating. "I am. But at the same time, it's still so early on. We know now that this recompletion process favors entropy. If we woke with our physical wounds, wouldn't it make sense to wake up with psychological ones as well?"

He buys it. "I… suppose."

"He will recover," Even says gently. He's touched by Ienzo's concern. He takes two bottles out of his pocket. "This is just some medication for him. Iron and a painkiller for that hand. I should have noticed how bad it was."

"I'll bring it to him. Thank you, Even."

"I'm the only one here with a doctorate in medicine. My burden to bear." He smiles-it feels odd-and immediately retreats to his lab. His gut is telling him something; he's not sure what. He's forgotten how much he relied on it as Even. Cold intelligence can only get one so far.

He's tried a few types of radiocarbon dating-likely the half-lives were much, much too long, but this is all a process of elimination. There's no conclusion to be drawn. It all looks normal.

Vexen, seeing this data, would likely have shrugged, given up, and worked on something else.

Even knows there's more to the story.

In a flash, it comes. A genome is so simplistic. Naive of him to think it would tell him anything. In his studies as Vexen, he learned more about human DNA, its sequencing, the moving parts that influence the growth of a person. He returns to the untainted samples, and hopes that the next test he runs will illuminate the truth.

But when Demyx comes to him several days later to have his stitches removed, he's drawn no conclusions. Best not to worry him, either.

"I've come to no conclusions with your samples," Even says. "So far… everything seems utterly ordinary. Disappointing. I'm running a few tests which will take longer. I'm not sure these memories of yours are as displaced as you think."

He looks relieved. "That makes more sense."

"I'm sure with time your memory will return. It just takes some patience. I know that's not your strong suit."

He shakes his head. "You'd be surprised. See you at dinner."

Despite the changes to the computer, it's taking a long time for it to sequence what Even needs. And it should; the epigenome is infinitely more complicated. It's clear this will take some time. He has no choice but to wait. But without anything else of substance to do…

He's back to feeling hollow. And helpless.

Pull yourself together. You're a grown man.

He tries to organize his lab, to clean it back up, to take stock of what he has and what he might need. It keeps his body moving, not so much his mind. The silence is almost piercing, and, ironically, he almost finds himself wishing for music, for conversation. He wants to be distracted.

Should he seek it? Distraction, that is? Then again, it might be useful to research other methods of DNA dating, in case there's something he's not considering.

He goes to the library. And finds it almost a much of a mess as anywhere else. "Blast," he hisses under his breath, wanting a stronger word. "Must I do everything?" He spends some time rearranging the titles, but considering how vast the place is it feels something like a fool's errand. It will be a job for many more people than just one. The tomes feel heavy, dusty; he's so used to the clean, smooth volumes from the Organization. Nothing quite so old. The smell is a nostalgic one. One that inevitably gets him thinking about Ienzo, and then more dimly, about the other boy. Holding him. Reading to him.

Visiting them was a mistake.

"It's a disaster, is it not?"

His head snaps up. "Master," he says coolly.

Ansem scoops up one of the books he's set onto the floor, brushes off its cover. "This place used to be my pride and joy," he says. "And now-it's all been pillaged."

"Not to mention many of these volumes would benefit from some climate control." Some of them are ancient, priceless, one of a kind. He's never been a bibliophile, not as much as the others, but he knows something valuable when he sees it.

"...I agree wholeheartedly. Was there anything in particular you were seeking? I'm trying to put it together, piece by piece. But we all have so much on our plates."

"...That so?"

"I've been doing some letter writing. Old fashioned, what with the gummiphones now, but more permanent." They're holding eye contact, but Even can just feel the tension in the air.

"Anything of interest?"

"There may be. You know Ienzo is trying to figure out a way to help Sora?"

"Yes."

"Mickey had created one of data. I wonder if that data might point us onto the right path-so to speak."

"It may very well." A few beats of silence. Even clears his throat. "There's something I need to tend to," he says politely.

Ansem smirks. "There always is, isn't there?"

"I'm a scientist. It's how I fill my days."

"To me it feels rather like you're avoiding everyone. Yourself included."

He feels himself flush. "Forgive me for not bouncing back so quickly."

"I don't think any of us have."

Even hesitates. How does he begin? "I… had an interesting conversation with Aeleus, not so long ago."

"...About?"

"The moment of our greatest betrayal." His voice sounds loud, though he knows it is not. "I-"

Ansem watches him, the way one might watch a mouse in a kitchen; at what point to stop it? "The moment I heard of those missing people, I knew what you'd all been up to," he says. "Admittedly… it never occurred to me you'd lie to my face."

His heart is starting to race, heavy and coppery in his throat. "I'd like to say it was difficult-but that would also be a lie."

Ansem nods once. "Darkness always hungers for the hearts of men," he says softly. "Once you're around it long enough, it… twists everything. I had thought at first… well. That none of you were redeemable."

He feels that like a punch to the stomach-but is it not true? "And now?"

"Now I know I am not redeemable either." He gives Even an odd, dark smile. "As you said. We have matters to attend to."

Even feels vaguely shattered.

Perhaps it is for this reason that he seeks their old research. He looked at it occasionally as Vexen, but now he knows everything will be different.

Worsening his dread, he recognizes that another IP address has been accessing the data. He knows instantly who it is, but checks anyway. The IP address belongs to Ienzo's gummiphone.

Even understands the boy's need to see it, but that doesn't make it any less painful. There must be hundreds of gigabytes of data-reports, photos, simulations of experiments. Even reads slowly. He reminds himself that each and every single one of these subjects- victims -was a person, a person with hopes, and dreams, and feelings. He finds himself feeling more and more detached; he realizes he can't breathe. What's wrong? Why is he reacting this way?

Oh.

It's not just guilt, but panic. He does not possibly have time to put it right.

The boy's DNA has been sequenced. Now it needs to be analyzed.

Even never realized how rusty he'd gotten in some subjects. For a while he has to study , like some sort of student, to grasp again the mechanics of genetics, the biology behind it. His replica project was all engineering, not cause and effect.

In the midst of these studies, time seems to be passing. He's constantly exhausted, not used to these long, hard hours of work. He no longer sleeps as well as when he was young; just as much to do with his body changing as the guilt that keeps him awake.

He prepares for his day, forces himself to eat a full meal. One can't live on coffee and toast. Ansem pokes his head into the kitchen. He's holding a sheaf of papers. "Have you seen Ienzo?"

"I believe he's with Demyx. They're supposedly working on something." Would it be so bad, if the two become friends? Goodness knows Ienzo needs one. Then again-what can Demyx possibly provide him?

"Mickey answered my letter. It is quite… illuminating."

This is a lead-in to a conversation, but all Even can think is "not redeemable." "I'm glad. It sounds like your work may very well be fruitful."

Ansem hesitates, seems to stumble for words. "Well-perhaps."

"Funny. Sora was always looking for his friends-now he's the one who must be found."

"That seems to be the way things go. Karmic payback is never absolute."

Even has to fight to keep his face neutral. "Quite."

"Should you see him, can you point him my way?"

"...Certainly." Doesn't Ansem have a gummiphone? Can't he just text the boy?

The man leaves. Even does the dishes. Odd, how much mundane tasks factor into his life again. The Dusks used to do everything for them. With a jolt, he realizes this is another abuse he's committed; they were basically slaves. It's this that's on his mind when he bathes, when he sees Ienzo in the hallway. "Ansem was looking for you. When you've a moment, go join him in the lab. Aren't you still dallying about with Demyx?"

Ienzo's eyes are harsh. "It's not dallying. We're actually working on a legitimate research project. It's a very old score with lyrics in runes."

Not his wheelhouse, but if the boy is interested he can't fault him. Goodness knows he could use some lower-stakes work."I never had much patience for anthropology, but it is very important to understand the past. I can see why you'd be drawn to it. Though I can't help but wonder. What is it like working with him? I can't imagine it's easy."

The harshness becomes a full-on glare. "Actually, it is somewhat refreshing. He's smarter than he acts. I wish you would ease up on him just a touch. He's as vulnerable as I am."

"Is that so." So he's feeling vulnerable.

"Might you do me a favor? He's fainted again. Could you check up on him in a few hours? I was going to, but I should see what Master Ansem needs." He explains it-the rapid heart rate, the fever, that Demyx seems to be weak and in pain. Nearly the same exact symptoms as when the heart fragment perished. Was it possible that some trace remained, only to now be killed? Or-more concerning yet-begin some kind of takeover?

Did it merely have to do with the boy's heart? Even's own emotions were more volatile and incapacitating than ever. It's possible he was feeling something. But what? Does Even want to know?

Even puts a hand to his chin. Perhaps all the more vital that he studies Demyx's results. "Yes, I suppose. He is quite sickly, isn't he? It's a wonder why I'm not as well."

His voice is very tired, almost exasperated, when he says, "We're all handling it differently. Thank you, Even."

He listens to the boy, and checks in on Demyx. He seems to be asleep, breathing deeply and evenly. Even checks the boy's pulse; he seems to stir at the touch, blinking disjointedly. "Your vitals have returned more or less to normal. Whatever this spell is, it's passed."

"Where's Ienzo?"

Since when are they on such good terms? "Called away by Ansem. You realize I am also capable of providing you with care, yes?"

"...Sorry." He touches his breastbone.

He remembers what Ienzo said, to ease up. He tries softening his voice. "He did describe your symptoms to me. Quite perplexing on the surface, but no more than a trick of biology. Your heart is still growing. No doubt any strong surge of emotion or memory would be debilitating. I've yet to experience it myself, but I'm certain that's the case." Demyx watches him warily. "What is it you were feeling, exactly? Hatred for your work? I'm told that's what you were doing." So much for kindness. Where is all this volatility coming from, and why can't he control it?

The boy grits his teeth. "No. It was something else. Guilt." He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "I want… I want to be a better person."

Something like empathy floods him, but then he remembers Demyx's face during their encounter in the square. How confused he was when Even mentioned atonement. "As much as that warms the cockles of my heart, you must tread carefully. Dive too deeply into the mistakes of your past, and you might not escape. Your new heart is too brittle for that strain. Break it, and you might not be lucky enough to get a new one." Is he telling Demyx this, or himself? "Good day, Demyx. Rest well."

Even's thrown. So the boy feels guilty, does he? Then they're all hurting.

He turns back to the boy's epigenome, spread out on paper after paper, one long accordion. He sighs. This is going to take some time.