I exist only to kill...
Amber flares. Inferno flash. Engine whine. Careening down.
I exist only to kill...
Blue arcs. Propellers roaring. Searing heat.
Flame!
I exist only to kill...
Red bloom. White flash. Black view.
Pain...
I exist only to kill...
Cold steel.
I...
Visions roared before his eyes. He couldn't keep up with the flashes. Like cards thrown by, they blinked past.
Wrenching pain burned in his shoulder. He pressed his palm there and drew it back covered in blood.
A wild roar burst into the air, backed by shots of lightning. "Thundara!" Bolts tore from his hand; he threw the source soon after. It exploded in a brilliant flash that left a burned, sharp smell in the air. The acrid smoke stung his nostrils, drawing his attention forward and to the pain. Anything to keep his adrenaline up and mind focused.
A harsh blow to the side of his head. His vision spun like a Lindblum pinwheel. His left eye's view drowned in darkness.
One...Two...
Somehow, numbers were important.
A stentorian shout reached his ears, but he couldn't decode the words. His wing buckled under a slash.
His chin struck the ground.
One... Now that meant a face. He saw it in a blur of black and yellow and brown. Two...
Someone speaking. Melodic yet frantic. He loathed it. Even though he didn't know what it was. Sounds. Voice. Vague breaks between. Words? He couldn't understand words now...
The words spelled hatred in his mind...he raised his gaze from the blurry earth and dragged it up to something pale. Dark smears looked back. Capture...the princess... His hand rose as if under its own power, reaching toward her, purplish-black claws glinting in the light.
"I...exist...only..." he could barely pull his voice out; his tongue was sticky with something thick and congealed "...to...kill..."
He tried to push himself to his knees, but his hands slid in the dust and his arms sprawled out before him.
He couldn't lose. Not yet. Not now. Not when his mission was here.
Not so soon...but he was falling away...
Wings weighed heavy on his back
Head rose once and then dropped to the sand
Staff fell to the ground from his limp fingers
Flashes ran by his eyes again and again
Blood pooled in his mouth and cut off his breath
Is this...what the humans...call...
He dared not say it
...death?
He couldn't tell how much time had passed. The air around him grew cool, then warm, then cool again, but he didn't know what that meant. All the world was a haze; he couldn't think, only feel, and all he felt now was a profound darkness, a hollow void in his chest as if someone had reached into him and pulled out everything and left him a shell. The blood in his mouth drained onto the ground beside him, forming a sticky pool of mud near his chin. He could barely breathe, but what air he could find kept his mind just above the abyss.
Sometime during that delay -- it could have been ten minutes or ten thousand; he couldn't tell the difference -- he dragged himself inch by inch from the bare dust and into the darkness of a niche in the rocks. There, he lay in silence, feeling the sand under his cheek, the wind brushing his feathers, the air slowly change from warm to hot to warm to cool.
He was alive. The deep slash wounds had stopped bleeding, and his clothes stuck to the wet smears as they congealed and dried. When he shifted or rolled over, the scabs pulled away, freeing more blood, but the flow was much less than before.
Terrifying. That's what it had been. To see all his memories rushing by, replaying his existence for as long as he could remember it...it struck him as frightening. He saw hundreds -- no, thousands -- of mangled tan bodies, cut to shreds or burned alive or scarred with the telltale black spots of lightning strikes. Scores of stocky dark forms lying among them, the casualties of war and of his own wrath. Oddly beautiful, but frightening, and he didn't know why.
He couldn't remember a name, but something had goaded him on, reminding him how wonderful it all was, how all the power was here, in his hands, the power to strike awe and fear into the hearts of man and mage alike. And what a beautiful power that was...but he was too tired to call up the exact memories...he drifted into darkness.
A time after that, after the long hours of sleep and half-sleep, of feeling the dry blood cling to his skin and wings and tongue and teeth, he pulled himself to his knees. His head ached; his pinions were limp and useless; his right leg was shaky. Nevertheless, he staggered to his feet, stumbled once, and managed to balance.
A cloth from an old tent lay nearby, torn and bleached from days in the sun. No matter. It would work. He reached for it and managed to pull it to his shoulders and over his head. He felt as if he were lifting from a fog, rising to the surface of some dark ocean, the light somewhere in the distance, close but ever so far. What was the light? Why couldn't he rise from confusion? What was this confusion? And where was he going?
He couldn't answer his own questions, but he knew he was headed somewhere. And that was good enough.
He began to walk.
Something dripped onto his nose. He wanted to open his eyes, but the lids were so heavy, and he could do no more than shift his head the tiniest bit. The drop rolled off and fell to the ground. Splat.
Now on his chin. He tried to move his mouth to reach the dampness. Something about it was good...
A voice said, "Oh."
The stream rolled over his lips. He parted them as best he could, letting it pool around them until it trailed over the side of his face. Water? It tasted like water. Although he was parched, he could only swallow about half of what reached his mouth, but he kept drinking as long as the water kept flowing. Wonderful water...it was already giving him some energy back, albeit very little...
Wait.
Water. From the sky. But only on his face.
That meant...someone was pouring it. He sat bolt upright -- how, he didn't know -- and snapped his eyes open. The sound of glass shattering startled him. Two glowing yellow eyes stared back at him.
That face. The very sight of it sent a tremor of rage and hatred through him. He couldn't put a name to the childish amber glow on black mist, but a searing flame ignited within the foggy void that was his mind.
His talon-hands clenched wood. His wide inferno-red eyes locked onto the shadowed face. The golden flame spelled a name now: Vivi Orunitia.
Also known as that Black Mage to his irate subconscious.
The target of his glare stood with hands still raised, holding the glass that was no longer there but shattered at his feet. They held each other's gazes for so long that he felt his eyes would dry and shrivel, but then something snapped within the boy.
"Th...th...Zidane!"
Zidane doesn't start with "Th," a voice muttered in the back of his mind. He told it to shut up.
And it did. It shut up. Everything had shut up. The choked hiss that snarled to him over and over the words of his mission. The roar that drove his purpose into him like a spear, day after day, hour after hour. The constant words that now, he couldn't even remember. What was his purpose? What was his mission?
His mind called up the image of blood, scarlet stains on his claws, the sensation of sinking his talons into pale flesh and tearing it apart, elements coiling around his hands as he rained catastrophe upon stone walls and trodden paths...how...how amazing it felt. So much power. So much fury. He embraced rage; it was a source of strength, an undying flame.
A word interrupted him. He jerked, startled.
Why?
His thoughts came to a screeching halt. Why? What kind of a question was that? He had never bothered to ask it before. Why not, then? Why ask why? And why not live for something, even if it were the rush of battle and the sense of power? The fury that would leave his enemy dead, here, now?
He raised a claw, reaching out for the mage that stood before him. Vivi took off like an arrow, one hand clinging to his hat. At the door, the mage ran straight into a man with a tail.
That name came more quickly than the one before. Zidane Tribal. Just the thought of speaking those words sickened him. He narrowed his eyes at the pale face, imagining five long, red scars from forehead to chin. Clenching his fist, he could nearly feel the flesh under his claws.
Several seconds of silence before the man shook his head. "Bahamut's flame. You're alive." Vivi ducked behind him.
Despite the water Vivi had given him, he still couldn't speak well, his voice caught up in his still dry and sticky mouth and emerging as a hoarse whisper. "Get out of my way, Monkey Breath." He stood, stepped forward, and snatched Zidane by the shirt. With a yank, he threw the man aside.
Or, he tried to. His mind halted and retraced its steps to realize the fact that no, Zidane had not moved. In fact, he was still shaking his head. Vaguely smiling. Staring in disbelief at the same time.
What?
"Man. You know, not that I care, but you look bad, Waltz."
Waltz? Isn't that some kind of dance? He felt vaguely moronic for a few seconds as half of his mind struck the other and woke it up. Oh, that's me. Yes. I am Black Waltz Number Three.
Self-realization crept over him, his scowl loosening to a look of astonishment and frustration. He wasn't strong enough to push Zidane, let alone call up any elemental power. Staring down at his claws, he traced the edges of his unnaturally prominent, purple-tan knuckles. Each tendon in his hand stood out as his fingers tensed. His skin stretched tight over both visible forearm bones. Despite the tense-looking grip he held, Zidane could have pulled the talon open easily.
How long had it been since he had eaten? He didn't even remember. But now, his recovering mind registered profound hunger, and the sight of his arm only shocked him further into the sensation.
"How long has it been?" His eyes snapped to the man's, boring into the dark holes in their centers.
Zidane's brows drew together. "Since what?"
"The train. I was there. Lindblum to Alexandria. The princess." Memories trickled back into his mind. "How long?"
"A little over a month." He stepped back; Three had to release his collar or risk falling over. His legs were so shaky now that he had to sit down again, wings drooping. Rage gave way to fatigue, second by second.
He took a long, weary breath. "Why didn't you leave me to die, human?"
"To be honest, we didn't know it was you." Zidane glanced down at the holes in his shirt. "We just saw someone unconscious and covered in tent cloth. So we decided it would be worthwhile to help." His tone added, Though now, I'm not sure.
Whether Three wanted to admit it or not, that meant something. Zidane and Vivi had saved his life. The thought disgusted him. What did that mean? Did he have to help them?
No. Of course not. He didn't have to do anything for them. He had his free will. Yes. Free will. The freedom from voices, freedom from a master, freedom from the weight of the invisible hands pulling the strings and guiding him like a marionette. And with this free will, he would act as he wished. Helping Zidane was out of the question. He'd rather take that little mage by the collar and bash him against the wall a few times.
"Stay here." The simian's words surprised him. "If you leave, we'll tie you down. If you try to burn down the building, you'll die. I'm going to talk to Freya. Come on, Vivi." He turned and disappeared out the door.
The black mage, though, stood frozen in place, still staring. Three glared at him from the corner of one eye, his gaze tracing the brim of the floppy hat, running over the edge of either yellow eye, reaching out as if to snatch the mage by the head and crush the black skull in his hand. "Be gone, puppet. Leave." All his will to smash the pest came out as a snarl.
A vague whisper came from beneath the hat.
"What do you want?"
Another whisper, somewhat louder but still too faint to understand. Vivi wrung his hands but refused to move.
"What? What do you want with me?" Standing once more, summoning his few shreds of energy, he turned to Vivi and bellowed the question, his voice finally tearing from his throat at full force. "Well?"
Vivi stumbled back, eyes wide. "M-murderer!" He dashed from the room and slammed the door as he left.
Oh, is that all? Three slumped onto the bed, eyes half-closed, and lay back on the pillow. Stretching his wings to either side, he let them fall over the edge as he stared up at the gray stone ceiling. He reached up to straighten his hat and spotted a mirror in the crook of his elbow, holding his arms there while he thought. His hands clutched the torn hat. Terrific, now he could see just how horrible he looked, if he could just muster the will to get up and go over there.
Temptation and humiliation wrestled in his mind until the former won, and he dragged himself over to the mirror, one wobbling step at a time.
Monkey Breath was right. I look horrible. The specter in the glass reminded him of no one at all. Three was a strong and confident being with glossy, deep blue-violet wings and burning red-orange eyes hovering in its darkened face. This shadow was frail and shaky, its wings bony and dull and missing some feathers, its gaze dim and sunken deep into the mist around it.
This is me now. He scowled at the pathetic sight. His tattered clothes clung to his ribs as they expanded with each breath, every ridge clearly visible. Even his cloak ruff showed the damage; the downy feathers were matted, limp, and stained with blood.
He managed a joyless laugh. Two would say his claws were chipped. That they were, and he didn't care, but he wished Two were there to complain about it.
Of course...Two couldn't be there because Two was dead.
The realization dropped onto his shoulders like the weight of Gaia, so heavy that he visibly hunched forward, his knees bending slowly until he had to sit.
Dead. Zidane killed her. Zidane, Vivi, Garnet, and her knight Steiner. The sound of their names brought fresh rage, but Three didn't have the energy to retain it. The fire wisped away into the ether, and he slumped forward and buried his face in his bony talon-hands. Running a finger along his jutting cheekbones, he felt a half-healed scar.
The same steel that had slashed apart his sister had left its eternal mark on him as well. Yes, he had a purpose. His mission, his existence, his life, was to kill these so-called heroes. All of them. He wouldn't slow, wouldn't rest, until he felt his claws in their necks and saw their charred corpses on the ground.
One, Two, I'll repay them for what they've done.