Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.

Okay guys and gals, this is another one of those ideas that comes out of nowhere and you just have to write it down. This fic will be pretty short, and it's kind of dated, just reposting an older story to actual finish writing it...

about three or four chapters, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway. Without further ado, I give you: Escapade (Or, My Fucked-Up Weekend With Kairi Kerrigan)

It's a Roxiri, something I've always enjoyed reading, but never had the gumption to try and write myself until now. Hopefully it turns out alright...

Here goes nothing...

Chapter I: Spontaneous Show-Business

Roxas

The only reason I know who Kairi Kerrigan is is because of my ex-girlfriend, Naminé.

I mean, I'm sure I would've discovered her eventually—she's in the news more often than any ridiculously famous celebrity you care to name—but Naminé was the one who really got me into her. Naminé is obsessed with the girl—and evidently, so is the rest of the world, because, apparently, Kairi's newest album Jigsaw has sold more copies in a month than the annual sales for One Direction and Justin Bieber combined.

For some reason, people assume that the term 'ex' means that we parted on bad terms, but we didn't. We're still great friends. We've known each other since diapers, and we've been best friends since nursery school.

Personally, I think that's what did us in—we knew each other too well. Things started out just fine, but after a while, it became apparent that our love was more a brother/sister kind of thing than a romantic attraction. I mean, don't get me wrong or anything, I'd give my life for her in a heartbeat if it came down to it, but I'm sure as hell not going to be fathering her children. We're just too close to be that close.

Sora, Naminé's new boyfriend—and my brother, incidentally—is also a fan of Kairi's music, but he isn't a superfan like Naminé is. I don't really care for it to be honest—I've never been into the pristine Disney-Channel-Wannabe pop stars; Kairi doesn't quite go that far, but she's close enough that I can only listen to her for a few minutes before she becomes irritating.

I mean really: what the hell's happening to music these days? Everything on the radio is cookie-cutter pop shit. Speaking of which... Kairi's currently in the middle of a feud/dispute/pissing contest with her manager, the details of which are hush-hush, but hopefully that means she'll be changing things up a little.

I have to give her credit though—when it comes to playing guitar, she kills. Sora's good for Naminé—she's an incredibly introverted girl, and my tendency to be a loner certainly didn't help her come out of her shell. Sora is the complete opposite of me; he's always talking to people and if he isn't hosting a party, he's going to one.

I think Naminé's become a little happier now that she's getting out more. Because of Sora's extroversion, I'm not the least bit surprised when he comes into my room, despite the blatantly obvious Do Not Disturb sign I've posted on my door. I work in a metal-working shop, and my boss, Xemnas, is a real prick—today he was in a particularly shitty mood, so I don't really feel like being around Sora's happy-go-lucky attitude at the moment. Sora, however, can always be counted upon to completely disregard my need for personal space, and he enters anyway, his dark hair as unruly as ever with a massive grin on his face.

And, as if the invasion of my privacy wasn't enough, he proceeds to further irritate me by dropping a ticket stub on my desk.

"What the fuck is this?" I snarl. Get out of my room, Sora.

"Dude, Kairi's playing the Sandlot tonight, and I just scored front-row tickets!" I don't bother to mention to him that the Sandlot is standing-room only; Twilight Town's mayor is an old-hat, and a persnickety, fat bastard with no interest in the arts. The only reason that the Sandlot exists is because the townspeople were fed-up with not having a place to express themselves creatively, and they wrote a letter to Congress, who then proceeded to tell the mayor to quit being a dick or they were going to step in and find someone else to govern the town.

Needless to say, Mayor Cid was pretty pissed about that, so he stuck a pole building in the middle of a field, built a stage inside, set up some lights and sound equipment and called it a day. I don't think he expected it to become the town's go-to place for entertainment. We've had some pretty sick bands grace the stage: Green Day, The Cab, Motion City Soundtrack, and Good Charlotte, just to name a few.

However, Sora and Naminé both complained for weeks when Kairi's tour schedule came out and Twilight Town wasn't on the list of stops. So where the hell did these tickets come from? "I thought you said Kairi wasn't stopping in Twilight Town for her tour..." Before Sora can answer, Naminé practically bounces into the room, all blonde hair, bright blue eyes and ecstatic squealing.

"It wasn't on the schedule, but I think this might be kind of a 'screw you' to her manager. Maybe she's trying to carve out her niche in the world, or something. Either way, I'm not complaining..." Sora adds.

Wow.

When did Sora become so philosophical?

"Isn't it awesome?" Naminé grins, jumping up and down with glee. That girl has way too much energy. "Sure." I say. "Whatever you say, kiddo." she hates it when I call her that.

True to form, Naminé scowls at this and kicks me in the shin. "Stop it."

I smile then—she's just too easy to mess with. "What time are we leaving?"

Sora shrugs and checks his watch, a massive nerdy-looking contraption. "I'd like to get out of here as quickly as possible so we can get in as soon as the doors open."

"We can stop for food on the way." Naminé interjects.

I sigh.

There goes my nice, relaxing evening at home. "Okay, just gimme a few minutes to get ready."

*.*.*.*.*.

I never planned on wearing the fleece-lined black bomber jacket from last years Christmas—I'm more of a hoodie kind of guy—but I'm glad I have it now.

My ensemble is considerably less colorful than Sora or Naminé's, with their graffiti'd concert tees from their previous shows—my black jeans and canvas sneakers are strictly comfortable, and my gray button-up is only being brought because it looks nice with the rest of the outfit

. The Sandlot is packed; if the amount of people crushing up against me is any indication, every teenybopper from here to Radiant Garden has heard about this concert and decided that there's nowhere else in the world they'd rather be than right here, spreading their apple-cinnamon perfume all over the place like fucking tear-gas at a riot.

My eyes are watering at the overpowering scent, and the longer these emo/hipster/scene kids keep pulling and pushing at me for a better view of the stage, the more tempting becomes to tell them all to fuck off. Sora's insistence at getting here when the doors open has paid off—I hope—because we're right up against the security railing that keeps crazed fans from jumping onto the stage.

The opening band, Organization XIII, I think is their name, steps onstage to a burst of polite applause as the house lights go down. The redheaded guy on lead guitar opens with a riff that sends everyone who has a clue about the music scene into a frenzy—the opening tabs to Sweet Child o' Mine.

This might not be such a wasted night after all, I think, and I almost believe it, until the guy leans into the mike and says:

"My name's Axel, and we're Organization XIII. Got it memorized?"

Is this guy serious? He wants us to remember his band before we've decided whether it's good or not?

They launch into a cover of Green Day's American Idiot, and they only succeed in making me realize how good the original is. The crowd at large seems to appreciate the effort, judging by the halfhearted attempt at head-bob-thrash-dancing. The mass-media slaves give a lurching smatter of applause in response, while I resist the urge to shove my hands in my pockets and groan.

Sora turns to me and smiles apologetically. Sorry for the sucky opening band, he mouths.

No big deal. I respond.

A half hour later, after a few more pathetic attempts at music. Axel—a.k.a. The Tool—motions for quiet, and then looks disappointed at the length of time it takes for people to settle down enough for him to talk.

"Ladies, and Gentlemen...please give it up for Miss Kairi Kerrigan!" The roar of the crowd is deafening. The house lights go down, and it's pitch black, until the stage lights flare to life. The crowd reacts in opposite ways simultaneously—they cheer and scream and yell, waving and flailing like they're all hopped up on meth; but they also give a short, surprised gasp, presumably because of Kairi's outfit.

She's wearing a yellow crop-top, low slung cargo capris, and a flat-rimmed hat. It's certainly a change from the overly-modest clothing her producers usually push to cater to the younger fans. The only thing that hasn't changed is the guitar strapped over her shoulder.

It's different, but I'm certainly not complaining about her showing more skin. Kairi clearly hits the gym; she's all flat stomach and lean muscle. Kairi doesn't waste any time with an introduction, not that she needs one, she just takes the guitar and starts slashing it with the pick and rips into a fast, punky cover of Boston's More than a Feeling.

The pulse of the kick drum reverberates through the floor, and shadows my heartbeat as Kairi slays the chords. The crowd is a living thing, flailing and thrashing and swaying to the beat, fist pumping like it's going out of style—the older half, is at least. Kairi's voice has this wicked, sultry rasp to it, I discover as the set blasts on, shredding through the classics like nobody's business, and she also does a decent job of replicating the heavy metal death growl.

She really is a talented musician when she's not bowing to the corporate yuppies who are killing music with all this pop/punk and pop/rock shit. Kairi launches into a cover of The Fray's Cable Car, heavy on the guitar. That's when I really start to notice the way she's moving, twisting and thrashing in the blinding strobe of the stage lights, all sinuous motion and dripping sex appeal.

Her violet eyes burn with an inner fire, so viscerally alive, so undoubtedly ravenous in their quest for connection that I can't help but be drawn in. And then, as she hammers the chords, backlit by the harsh lights, she looks at me, and winks.

In that moment, I realize: I've found the girl of my dreams.

I understand what she's doing, that this surprise concert is less of a publicity stunt and more of a statement. She's done catering to the masses, producing run-of-the-mill music to appease her manager.

She's a rebel now.

And that's pretty damn sexy.

Too bad she's famous.

Kairi keeps eye-contact with me for a moment and gives me this sultry little smirk that reads 'come hither'-probably playing to the crowd, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it.

And then, as if the outfit and music overhaul wasn't impressive enough, she lays down her axe and goes for the mic instead.

And then, the beat for Tyga's Rack City drops, and I wonder just what the fuck is going on, until Kairi leans into the mic and starts spitting some verse.

The die-hard Kairi Kerrigan fans in the crowd seem to be appalled at the vulgarity of her lyrics, but the older portion of the crowd doesn't seem to mind—Kairi can bust a rhyme

with the best of them.

The number is short and to the point, and Kairi thanks us for coming out before disappearing backstage.

Naminé's leaning into Sora now, her grin rivaling his. "So, what did you think?" She's yelling over the cheers of the crowd, but it's still hard to hear her over the ringing in my ears.

I shrug. "It was...interesting."

Before I can say anything else, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, and a burly guy who I assume is part of Kairi's security team comes up to us and lays a meaty paw on my shoulder.

"Excuse me sir," he booms. "Miss Kerrigan would like to speak with you in private."

Thoughts?

~Script