His memories were not his memories and his heart had long been taken.
He was a shadow-being now, an almost-being, a not-quite-human.
He was a body, and thankfully a mind (unlike the dusks and the samurais and the dragoons and the rest), but he was not a heart or a soul or anything like that.
He was a pale thing, thin and small as he had always been, back when he was real, colorless. His skin was white, his eyes were gray, his hair was black. He was a shadow of a shadow, and Ienzo had barely existed to begin with.
He was a once-technician, an ex-scientist and- ironically enough, a failed experiment.
He was something that had almost lived, but not quite. Something that had maybe managed to be happy before he forgot how, and something that could almost get angry sometimes but never quite.
He could almost manage malice, but he wasn't close enough.
He was a schemer. He thought rather he was a dreamer, but that was conceited and that was something he didn't have the ability to be. Besides, dreaming denoted wishes and wistfulness, and he most definitely couldn't manage that.
He didn't exist, not really, was a husk of a man that had always catered to the other scientists anyway. He hated them- almost, but he couldn't really hate them.
He was not quite sad at the lost of his soul.
Zexion was almost everything, and he had even managed to be almost nothing, but not quite.
Zexion was a dozen thousand half-finished puzzles that tore into emptiness and nothingness, but never managed to dissapear altogether.
The Superior told them they could not feel, and Zexion believed him- although, not quite.