axel x roxas, sora x kairi, awesome x win

Ahaha, I'm thoroughly enjoying this story, if I do say so myself. I get so excited writing psycho Axel, angsty Roxas, frazzled Kairi, and cute-as-a-button-and-completely-oblivious Sora. It's seriously a blast. Ana's plot is insane, too. I love writing for it.

Oh. Since I figure there will be confusion as soon as this starts, one, it's Axel's P.O.V. this chapter. And two, the first two segments are scenes set in the past. I know, I know, it's a pain in the ass, but it parallels the prologue situation that was in Kairi's P.O.V., and we just crammed it in here instead of making a second prologue. DON'T HATE. :D

Because it's badass. This whole chapter IS COMPLETELY BADASS. And epic. And my god, crazy Axel is so fucking crazy. You better enjoy this as much as I did writing it and spamming it. Oh, yes. I fail at that completely hard. But without further ado, here's the best thing that's happened since akuroku was invented. I am that sure of this awesome win, I really am.

Disclaimer: We no has awesome win tiemz of game, plz.

-- - --

It's two o'clock in the morning, and Axel is pissed, because Roxas has been gone all day. The boy had left early in the morning – he had even woken Axel up from his beauty sleep – with some lame excuse about visiting his cousin, Cloud, in Hollow Bastion, but he had promised that he would be back in the evening. Frustrated, Axel takes a swig of his beer and glares at the black television screen, feeling the darkness sink in around him as he waits out the passing minutes.

Axel shoots a glance toward the alarm clock perched on top of the television, and he glares at the time. Two hours and four minutes have already come and gone on his twenty-third birthday.

He doesn't normally care when Blondie breaks his promises, because that's always a rare occurrence and there's always some plausible reason behind it, but it's his birthday, dammit; and Roxas never misses a moment to get drunk with him and have celebratory sex on the kitchen table. Growling in aggravation, he sends his fingers scouring through his hair, the nails raking his scalp as he resists the urge to hop up from the cushions and stomp to the screen door yet again. He tries to keep from listening for the blond's rust heap of a car to come clunking down the driveway.

He furiously bunches the material of the cushion into his left hand, taking an angry swig of liquor with his right, and he sits in the darkness as he imagines the blond slinking into their shared little shack of a home. They'll probably fight; they always do. The lights will turn on and Axel will be revealed on the couch, scowling dangerously and pointing at the time in frustration; and Roxas will turn from sheepish, stuttering apologetic excuses, to defiant when he realizes with hurt that Axel has dared to suggest that the blond has been unfaithful. Passing a hand over his face tiredly, the redhead groans and wraps his fingers around the neck of the beer bottle until his knuckles turn white. He's worried. He would kill to protect that fact from anyone, but he is worried.

He just wants Roxas to come home. He doesn't care that the boy has lied. He doesn't care where the boy has been. He just wants to be shaken awake by a ridiculously excited blond, who finds it perfectly reasonable to rouse the redhead from his alcoholic stupor so they can count down the seconds until midnight together. He wants to attack Roxas with a pillow for being so stupid, only to wrap his arms around the blond's thin, lithe waist and drag him close, nibbling affectionately on his ear. He wants to trail his fingers through stiff, blond locks and fall asleep to the sound of Roxas's breathing.

Furious, he clutches the bottle tight and whirls it with all his strength at the wall. It shatters in an explosion of sound and color, glass shards glittering in the darkness and shadowed alcohol showering against the wooden floor. With a frustrated huff of breath he rises from the couch and turns away from the mess that Roxas will berate him for tomorrow, and he stomps off towards their room, slamming the door behind him and causing the picture of the blond and his three friends to fall to the carpet. With a growl he kicks the frame away from him and stalks over to the bureau, viciously dragging the top drawer open. With complete disregard he flings boxers and white undershirts across the room, until his fingers brush against an envelope and the paper crinkles loudly. Hesitating, he smooths a wrinkled pair of pure black boxers out of the way, and he delicately pulls forth a letter addressed to him in Roxas's hurried scrawl. Slamming the drawer shut, he sighs and trudges over to their bed, collapsing onto the mattress and tearing the envelope open as he flops back into the pillows. His eyes pick out key phrases swirling on the white paper.

'…of all, you're an idiot for going through my drawer. Again. And a pervert.'

Grunting with laughter, he runs a hand arrogantly through his hair, as if the blond himself is perched at the end of the mattress, his legs folded stubbornly and his arms crossed over his chest.

'…knew you'd find this here, since you can't keep your stupid hands off my stuff…'

"Such a flatterer, Blondie," he mutters with a grin, scanning ahead to avoid his boyfriend's written reprimands.

'…your birthday tomorrow. I have a big surprise planned, so stop being a baby and pouting while I'm gone. Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. I love you, you idiot.'

He's unable to suppress a smirk, no matter how angry he's been the entire evening. Exhaling heavily through his nose, he folds the letter neatly and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. He doesn't need to read anymore. He doesn't care. Stretching out fully on the bed, he throws his arm across his forehead and waits for the blond to stumble in, exhausted with his journey, excited about the day. Axel might just take the boy to the beach he has been dying to see, too. That would be nice. A birthday on the beach.

The darkness weighs in around him, and he slowly finds that it's harder and harder for him to remain awake. He wrestles with consciousness for several minutes, perhaps half an hour, but the liquor and his exhaustion win over, and soon enough he's dreaming.

-- - --

The room is cold when he wakes up, and the bed sheets are bunched up by his knees. Groaning miserably at the ache throbbing at the back of his eyes, he flops over onto his stomach, letting out a heavy sigh as his hand brushes against his cheek. He wriggles his butt in an attempt to steal more comfortably under the blankets, but he only succeeds in kicking them off the bed, and with a muffled curse he buries his face fully into the pillow and lifts his arm off the mattress, tangling his fingers into matted strands of hair.

"…Roxas," he groans, sighing in frustration as his toes prod uselessly at the bed's edge, "would you get the damn blanket?"

Another ache jackknifes through his skull, and a bitter chill descends upon his body. Shivering, he moans in aggravation and painstakingly slides his weight onto his left shoulder, his eyes staying shut as his cheek nudges the cool cushion beneath his head.

"Roxas. I'm hung over…" Lips vibrating as he forces out a breath, he rolls his eyes beneath their lids. He regrets it instantly as a sharp pain stabs his brain. "'s your fault, too."

Silence rings true throughout the bedroom as the cold persuades goosebumps to trail across his skin. Grunting indignantly, Axel at last opens his eyes, blinking sluggishly in the gray morning light, and for a while he can only stare vacantly at the wall across from him. His evergreen gaze slowly narrows to slits as he comprehends that he's alone, and then, limply laying his hands flat against the mattress and then pushing himself on shaky arms, he stares in confusion at the empty space beside him. In a tangle of limbs he crosses his legs and settles his wrists in his lap, and once more he cocks his head at the mattress, lifting his hand only once to scratch at his head.

"Jesus, Blondie," he finally breathes out with a sigh, letting his head loll back and then wincing when his brain throbs in defiance. "What the hell?"

Painstakingly he slides himself to the bed's edge, and when his feet touch the floorboards he cringes, planting his hands on his bare arms and fiercely rubbing the skin. The room is freezing, but when he looks around he sees no window open. He only makes out the splash of gold and pink on the horizon, and he swears under his breath when he comprehends that it is sinfully early in the morning.

Threading skinny fingers through his hair, he rises to his feet with a grunt, left arm falling to swing in a limp arc to and fro against his jeans. He can feel the way his hair has matted to his neck, and his shirt smells of smoke and sweat, but he doesn't care, instead scratching idly at his throat as he drags his feet across the wood. When he passes through the threshold he knocks his knuckles against the door frame, then pocketing both hands and hanging his head when he feels his fingertips brush against the letter.

"Roxas?" he shouts. His voice reverberates against the walls as he stalls in the middle of the family room, the brown and patched couch swimming into his sight, the crooked door leading out of the house haunting his peripheral vision. "You better be here! And you better not be hiding! I fucking hate surprises."

Retrieving his right hand to massage the bridge of his nose in aggravation, he shuffles away from the couch towards the kitchen, separated from the family room only by a linoleum-topped counter. His hip strikes a corner and he hisses out a string of garbled curses, kicking a stool out of his way as he heads towards the fridge propped against the wall at the counter's end. Grasping the handle immediately, he pulls the door open and leans down, retrieving a beer from the top shelf before slamming the door shut. He then twists the top off and tosses it into the sink, staring at it angrily as he leans against the linoleum surface.

"Fuck," he mutters bitterly, assessing by now that the younger blond had not returned the night before. He must have stayed the night at his cousin's, which pisses Axel off, because he hates Cloud with a passion. "The least ya could'a done was called," he continues to rage under his breath. "Then I could've traveled the four fucking hours up there and dragged your ass back."

He slams his left fist against the sink's edge to emphasize his anger, before muttering nonsensical threats to himself and crossing the room to the pantry guarding the back door. Shoving aside chairs with his foot, he finally reaches the cupboard and purposefully digs through it, raiding through Roxas's carefully-organized drawers and shelves before decidedly pilfering two slices of bread. Satisfied, he kicks each door shut with force, feeling triumphant with the rattles and shakes of jars, as well as how several packages teeter and drop to the floor before he seals the pantry shut. Beer in one hand, a slice of bread in the other, and the final piece between his teeth, he marches out of the kitchen, kicking the stool again for good measure, and as it clatters against the wood he heads towards the couch with purpose.

Sinking into the cushions with a scowl on his face, he sinks his teeth all the way through the bread. It falls to his lap as he chews, and while he takes a swig of his beer he lets the other slice drop, reaching instead for the remote sitting precariously on the couch's left arm. With one eye open as he leans his head back and downs the liquor, he calls the television screen to life, lowering his chin as the images stall and the sounds buzz. Shadows flit across the screen, and then he's staring dully at a car commercial, taking another swig of his beer as he extends his arm and tilts the remote, opting to channel surf.

"Crap," he mutters, swinging his legs onto the coffee table and crossing his ankles. Roxas would murder him if he knew about the mess Axel is currently making, but the redhead notes with bitterness that the blond is in Hollow Bastion and has no reason to worry about his furniture. "Bullshit," he growls, teeth clenching as he paces faster through the channels, wishing that instead of being wide awake he could pass out on the bed and not move for hours. "Retarded…"

He reaches the news channel, and with aggravation he tosses the remote back onto the cushions, groaning as he presses his fingers against his temple. He would rather listen to reporters bitch about weather, politics, and festivities than sit through some godawful sitcom canceled after only two episodes. Taking another sip of beer, he swishes the liquid around in his mouth and slouches against the cushions, knocking his feet together as he glowers at the television screen. He's not really paying attention to the words as Breaking News pans across the bottom, and he wrinkles his nose as an anchorwoman with a whiny voice stands at the scene of an accident, her hair slightly drenched and her business suit crisp-looking in the weak morning sunshine.

Aggravated, Axel reaches for the remote at his side, unable to stand the whine of her voice.

"…approximately three this morning, two vehicles collided on the main road just out side of Twilight Town. Kairi DiCasco, a fellow resident, was driving her friends…"

Thumb poised over the button, he freezes. He knows that girl. He's heard that name before. She's some friend of a friend of Roxas's, whom the blond isn't too acquainted with but has spoken to once or twice. Suddenly interested, he lets the remote drop into his lap and watches as the girl's gaunt and wretched form focuses into view. She's sitting with her arms across her legs and her head buried within the folds of he sleeves, her fingers raking through her hair as beside her two friends sit, one cradling her arm gingerly, the other oddly familiar as she fists her hair forcefully and shakes with uncontrollable tears.

"…eighteen-year-old Roxas Hikari, another resident of Twilight Town, was riding his motorcycle along the dark road…"

There's an explosion of sound that fills the empty ringing in Axel's head, and belatedly he realizes that his beer bottle has slipped from his grasp. He's staring hard at the news on screen, and he's trying to will everything that he sees into oblivion: the red-haired girl sobbing into her hands; her ugly, yellow bug with its front end smashed and warped; a once beautiful black and red motorcycle, lying crumpled and wedged against the cliff, smashed beneath the car's front wheels. He fights against the feeling prickling in the back of his mind. He wants to purge the vague memory of Cloud owning that very same bike from his mind.

He wants more than anything to forget how Roxas had taken a peculiar interest in that exact motorcycle.

But the pieces have already all fallen into place.

"FUCK!" He's screaming, and he hardly realizes it as he leaps out of his seat. "FUUUCK! NO! GOD DAMMIT, NO!" Howling in rage, he throws himself to his knees in front of the television screen, digging his nails against the sides. "FUCKERS!" he hollers at the reporter still speaking faux-sympathetically into the microphone. "YOU FUCKERS!" he screams at the EMTs, who have wrapped up a body, that precious, sacred body, that has probably been cold and abandoned for hours and are now carrying it toward the ambulance. "DON'T TOUCH HIM!"

Slamming his hands wildly against the television, he watches as the images shake. His expression contorts when he watches the girl shake her head and decline comments, collapsing into sobs. He notices just how sad and guilty she looks, and he is overwhelmed with the insatiable desire to wrap his hands around the rotten whore's swan-like neck and snap it in two.

"…made the sudden, narrow turn around this road when th—"

"WHEN THAT BITCH TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY FROM HIM!" he rages, acidic tears scouring his cheeks as he shakes his head. "BRING HIM BACK, YOU FUCKERS! SEND THAT WHORE TO HELL AND BRING HIM BACK!" His eyes narrow to slits as he continues to glower at her, feeling his lips slowly curl into a vicious snarl. His shoulders shake from the force of his anger, and finally he snaps, howling furiously as he leaps to his feet. "I'LL KILL YOU. I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU."

Lashing out wildly, he whirls around and flips the coffee table on its side, snarling as it scatters magazines onto the ground and knocks against the couch. He grabs hold of couch cushions, throwing them everywhere in his blind rage. One hits the end table and strikes the lamp, which is yanked from its power socket and crashes to the floor, where it cracks against the wood. Another hits the wall and the pictures resting there. One even knocks the alarm clock off the television set – the time reads 6:37. His screams of agony fill the empty room, and he feels as though he's being torn apart from the inside out.

"ROXAS!" he howls, kicking the end table to the floor, listening to how it crashes onto the wood. "ROXAS!"

Choking against his sobs, he trips over his feet and claws at his face, nails sinking into his skin. His knees buckle, unable to support his weight any longer, and he slams his knees against the floorboards as he collapses, doubling at the waist as he screams into his hands.

Roxas was never coming back.

"…devoted student, caring friend. He will be sorely missed…"

-- - --

Axel leans against the magazine rack, cigarette ashes falling onto his map; he flicks them off with one long finger. The cashier has been glaring at him for half an hour, but he takes another long drag, ignoring her.

"You know, smoking kills," she states, looking at him with disapproval. For the first time, Axel really looks at her. She has short, choppy brown hair and a scar across her forehead. Jade eyes stare back at him – he can even see his reflection in their orbs, and he looks like shit. His hair is sticking up wildly, and he can really use a shave.

"So do car crashes," he replies coldly, and she freezes. He blinks, and suddenly everything clicks. Pushing off the wall, he goes over to the cashier, the register standing as the only thing that separates them. "You're one of them, aren't you?" Fear flickers in her eyes, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't even move. He's used to it. People give him that look all the time. They think he's a monster.

If only they knew.

She glances down at the map he's holding, not daring to look him in the eyes. "You need to pay for that, you know."

He leans forward, ashes falling on her hands, and looks her in the face; she stares back, mesmerized. Suddenly, he slams the map down, breaking the spell, and she gasps in horror at the blood stains, the edges singed at the corners, and pieces of hair taped to the sides.

"It's mine," he growls, carefully pulling his wallet from his pocket. She just stares at him, wide-eyed and mouth agape. With one hand he opens the wallet, using the other to close her lips. "You'll catch flies."

He gently places a photograph on the table, and she looks down. It is an image of the boy they killed. She touches her scar, remembering.

Axel smiles fondly at the picture. It is one of Roxas and him two weeks before the accident. "It's the only thing I have left."

"I'm sorry," she says said automatically, and he just shakes his head with a chuckle. Switching from remorse to confusion in seconds, Axel smirks – he likes this girl. Maybe it's her open hatred for him from just one look. But there is something about her, and he can't help but laugh.

"No, sweetheart, you're not. But you will be if you don't help me find her." And that's how Selphie Tilmitt joins his cause – Axel had always been quite the sweet talker, after all. Or maybe it is the shiny metallic gun jammed into her spleen that relays the message. Whatever the reason, she follows him out into the night to his motorcycle parked directly outside the store. She shifts uncomfortably at the sight of it, and he thrusts the helmet at her, grinning. "Afraid of helmet hair?"

"It just reminds me too much of the crash." Remorse hits the last word, and Axel sighs as she touches her scar, her hand shaking.

"Are you going to spend forever pretending it didn't fucking happen?" He stares at her dully, and he watches her transformation.

"Are you going to spend forever trying to kill her?" She shoves the helmet back into his arms. "It was an accident."

Suddenly, he doesn't like Selphie very much.

"There are no accidents, got it memorized?" He points the gun at her head. "I should fucking kill you."

"It's not going to bring him back!" she hisses, walking into it. He blinks, his arm shaking. What the hell is the matter with her? Is she insane? "It won't change anything! He'll still be dead."

"Shut the hell up, just shut the hell up!" She doesn't know what she's talking about. She's crazy – a monster. Just like Kairi, just like Olette. He blinks, heated tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

"We're all living the nightmare." She breathes out, loudly and deeply, and puts her hand on his arm. He flinches. When was the last time anyone had touched him. "Kairi…" he hisses at the name. "…Olette. Yuffie. Me and you." She leans into the gun again, the metal pressing into her forehead. Another deep breath. "She used to visit him every day. We all did."

He knows. He'd had to wait until they left.

"I'd see you sometimes," she whispers.

It clicks. Her words dig in deeply. "Not another fucking word, or I'll blow your fucking brains out!" He shoves the metallic butt against her forehead, and she lets go of his arm. For a moment, neither of them says anything. The silence is nearly overwhelming; deafening, even. Selphie takes another deep breath, and he glares at her, but she just opens her perfect mouth anyway.

"Would he really want you to be like this?"

He snaps. He fires the gun. And nothing happens. There is no noise, no gunshot, not even Selphie screaming in pain. There is nothing. No bullet to be shot. Selphie shakes her head, and there is pity in her eyes. Grinding his teeth together, he rears his arm back and strikes her across the cheek with his gun, hard. She is knocked over, and without thinking he turns the key and the engine sputters. The bike roars to life, and he speeds off, leaving Selphie and his helmet in the dust.

-- - --

He brings rain and wind into the rundown, motel bedroom, his teeth chattering in the silence as the door slams against its frame. Clunking in soaked boots and a weathered jacket towards the single table, he slams his map against the wooden surface and then fishes through his coat for his cigarette carton, his fingers shaking and his eyes bloodshot. He hasn't slept for a while. He's lost track of the hours that he's been awake, since they are far too many and have started to run together. With a long-suffering sigh he collapses into the room's one chair and swings his feet up onto the table, kicking off his boots and listening to them clunk hollowly on the floor.

Jittery fingers start to pick at the carton's top, slipping against the glossy surface, shaking too hard for him to get a firm hold under cardboard. Cursing, he throws the white box against the table and watches it bounce, and then he lurches forward and sends trembling hands through his hair. He's living off coffee and nicotine most of the time, and his body feels as though it's unraveling at the seams. Rocking back and forth, he feels the gun hidden within the folds of his jacket rub against his hip, and his heart lurches. Whether it's from fear or thrill, however, he's unable to figure out anymore.

He feels sick. He keeps picturing his gun against that Selphie girl's forehead. He hears the click echo in his mind. He feels the dead weight of that sleek, lethal weapon in his hand as his arm goes limp and his thought process stalls for a moment, before he strikes her across the face and gets the hell out of there. He knows that, had she been Kairi, he would have bothered to put bullets in his gun. Had she been that red-headed whore, she would have been bleeding on the convenient store's tiles, her face blown off, before she'd been given the chance to run.

He wouldn't have been sorry, either.

Outraged and desperately craving the reprieve of nicotine, he chokes a little bit on his spit and reaches again for the carton, clawing with fury at the cardboard until the top is shredded and his fingers have claimed a cigarette from the package. Forcing it between chapped, cold lips, he struggles to evoke a flame from his lighter, rolling his thumb against the striker and lifting his shaking hand to his mouth. The lighter trembles and the flame stalls, sputtering to life and fading to sparks before it can catch. His eyes narrow, venom brewing in his bloodshot, tired eyes, but finally heat curls around the cigarette, and smoke swirls towards the ceiling. Taking a long, much-needed drag, he lets the lighter drop and sinks against the chair's back, his shoulders shuddering and his hands smoothing the wrinkles from his jeans. In the silence he hears a crinkle, and his eyelids, which have slid closed, fly open. A grimace crosses his face as he drags the letter from his pocket, his other hand pulling his wallet free.

"…almost twenty-three doesn't mean you can get wasted when I'm not there. I don't want you fucking puking all over my house. I don't care that you're hopeless without me. I'm not cleaning up after your messes…"

He laughs softly, tears burning in his eyes. "I'm in a big mess this time, buddy," he whispers, smoothing his hands over the letter that has been stained, wrinkled, and folded with much wear. It shakes in his grasp, and he brings it with trembling arms to his face, crinkling it against his forehead and closing his eyes against its feel. The cigarette continues to burn, dropping ash into his lap, curling smoke around the paper. "I need you." His voice cracks in the silence, breaking off from his throat and withering in the air, until it then falls in his lap along with the ash. A stray tear falls and joins the mix.

Pressing shaking fingers against his forehead and prodding the pointer and middle into his skull, he takes a long drag and with his left hand lays the letter gentle against the tabletop. Arching against the chair's back, he withdraws his cigarette and lets the smoke swirl towards the ceiling, lifting the photograph to hover several inches in front of his face. He coughs softly, his throat itching from the smoke, and his eyes water in the silence, moisture slipping from the corners and collecting in his hair.

Roxas is smiling sincerely, one of those big-ass, honest-to-God happy smiles that no photographer can get a person to fake. He's stretching one arm out and giving some stupid peace sign, reaching the other around Axel's head to fist red hair and pull the man's face close. One foot of his is propped up on a rock, and he looks like one of those goddamn supermodels, he shines so perfectly in the sunlight. He's snuggling comfortably into Axel's frame, his head resting against the older man's shoulder with his blond locks tickling the redhead's chin, and Axel wraps his arm around the boy's waist as he smirks, because he's already vowed never to let the boy go. Roxas is laughing so freely here. He's so happy. So safe. Nothing in the world can bring him down.

The picture continues to hover over Axel's face, but the redhead cannot make out the image any longer. His vision has blurred, and he squeezes his eyes tightly as he lifts his cigarette back to his mouth, pressing his shaking palm fully against his lips as he sucks in a deep, long drag. Tears dribble down his cheeks, and he clenches his jaw as he leans forward and drops the photograph onto the worn and weathered paper, blowing smoke into the air just above the image. Roxas swims in and out of his sight, and with shoulders shaking he digs his elbows against the table's edge, grasping strands of red, untamed hair.

"I'd give anything to have you look at me like that again, Roxy-boy," he whispers, his voice crackling and splintering in the silence.

The rain hisses outside the room and splatters against the uncovered porch, sounding almost like footsteps to his weary mind. Groaning, he leans the back of his right hand against his eyes and puts the cigarette out into the wood, carefully avoiding the two precious papers placed in front of him. What does he care about the burn marks? He'll be gone by morning.

Grunting, he reaches over the letter and wrinkles the map within his hand, dragging it close and planting it firmly on the table. His leg swings out and kicks his pack, scattering it across the carpet, and as he entangles his fingers within tousled, rain-dampened locks he squints at the print, tracing the path he has already taken with his eyes. The gun burns against his hip, and he scowls at the large, red x's that cover Twilight Town, Traverse Town, and Hollow Bastion. He lost track of her in that large city. He'd almost had her then.

Rubbing his hand fiercely over his stubble, he nails and curls a section of the map into his hand. He will find her. She can't run forever. She'll get sloppy, and she'll think she's finally safe, and that's when he'll take everything away from her. He'll ruin her, just as she ruined him.

He'll teach her what true suffering really is.

-- - --

He wants to get the hell out of the stinking, rundown motel unseen, so he packs his bag quickly, pulls his hood over wild, uncombed locks of hair, and steals softly out of the room. He slips down the staircase and into the quiet morning, where only the first touches of gray lightened the road, and splashes through puddles with his boots as he quickens along the sidewalk separating the parking spaces from the bottom floor. He digs through his pockets for munny, frowning when judges that the few worn bills and tinkling coins won't be enough for a meal.

Luckily, a vending machine stands in broad view, catching the light of the rising sun. He stalls his step, glancing beyond the edges of his hood for any spectators. When the world remains silent and empty, he drags his step the rest of the way to machine and reaches into the folds of his cloak, pulling forth the weapon that he keeps fastened to his hip out all times. With a final furtive glance cast around him, he sends the gun crashing through the glass, his hand catching on jagged shards as it shatters and then litters the ground. He slips his pack down his shoulder, unzips its mouth, and crams its half-empty bowels full of ninety-nine-cent snacks, not bothering with the munny locked away – gathering it would be too much effort. He almost gets away, too. Slipping the bag over his shoulder again, he is in the midst of stowing his gun back into the depths of his jacket when a voice rings out loud and clear in the parking lot. From beneath his hood he shoots the Good Samaritan a venomous glance, warning him not to get involved.

"You better pay for all that," the man shouts, quickening across the vacant lot. "Do it, or I'm calling the cops."

Whirling on him, Axel extends his arm in one, swift motion, sporting a bleeding hand and wild eyes as he tilts the gun and aims it toward the man's eyes. His accuser freezes, the blood rushing from his face, and Axel glowers at the pathetic person as he stops, takes one step back, and cautiously raises his arms.

"How 'bout you give me your fucking munny and you don't die today," Axel purrs softly, his voice deadly velvet. His eyes are flashing, and his gun is waving mockingly to and fro. "I'm really not in the best mood, you see. Haven't gotten my beauty rest yet."

"Please," he reasons quietly. The redhead sneers. "You don't have to do this. Don't shoot."

Axel rolls his eyes in impatience. "That talking thing. I want less of that. What I really want is your wallet." He jerks his gun forward in inch, and the man flinches. "So why don't you play my little game and cooperate." The man's shaking, but he hands over his wallet without further question. Axel snatches it away. "Now, was that so hard?"

He doesn't reply. Good. At least he knows on what grounds he stands. Axel flips idly through the wallet, his right hand never letting go of the trigger. Absently he pockets the munny, but not before catching sight of a picture of the man with his family. He has a small family, a wife with bright red hair much like his own, a little girl with black locks tied tightly up in a ponytail. She's young, standing next to her parents with a careless smile. They look so happy, and Axel wants nothing more than to spit on them. "Eric, is it?" he snarls roughly as he sights the driver's license. The man nods, sapphire eyes widening but never moving from the shiny gun that Axel holds in hand. Eric's smart. He thinks the minute he gets comfortable Axel will shoot him dead. "Married?" Axel remarks conversationally, though there's an edge to his tone that causes Eric to mumble a reply. Shoving the gun into the man's forehead, he warns, "Answer me."

"Y-y-yes." Eric clears his throat. "Yes."

"She's pretty." He watches Eric closely, and the man flinches in dread. "What's she doing with a coward like you?"

"I don't know." His voice is soft, and his eyes fix themselves pointedly on the gun. Axel smirks, wondering if he's going to be a hero today.

"She could do better." Staring at the eternal smile, he thinks of how he can make her suffer the very way he suffers right now. She can feel her insides rip to shreds, as though they have blown out and she has been left to die. Or he can let her live on happily. It all depends on his mood. "Don't you think?" Eric doesn't answer at Axel's lethal tone, fearing that he will make the wrong choice. It makes Axel smirk thinly. It's a simple answer: yes, or no. Of course, in the foul mood that he's in, he's completely capable of shooting the man should he answer wrong. "How many years?" He'll be merciful for the moment. He'll change the subject.

"One." His voice is steady, and Axel doesn't like that. He shoves the gun into the man's jaw, yanking at the chain around his neck so that it spills out over his rumpled and stained shirt. His thumb runs along the ring that rests faithfully against his broken heart as a constant reminder of what can never be.

"I was supposed to get married," he shows off the ring fondly. "He even got down on one knee, the little dumbfuck." Axel chuckles, remembering. "And then this stupid bitch ran her car into him, spewing his guts all over the street. Such a lovely whore, isn't she," he snarls, his voice ripping through his former reminiscence, his eyes brimming with venom as his palm swallows the ring whole.

"I'm s—" Axel slams the gun into Eric's jaw, and the man staggers back, tumbling to the ground. He doesn't want to hear it. Not today. Not right now. He just needs answers. The good memories fade as the present erodes. Axel kicks the fallen man hard in his side.

"Get the fuck up, Eric. She's calling you," he growls, indicating the trilling ring of a cell phone. Slowly but surely Eric stands, but fear swims in those crystal-blue orbs, and Axel looms close in his face. "Ya better fight for her," he leers dangerously, his eyes slanted as the cell phone screams its final ring. "Fight for her, before that fucking whore comes and takes her away from you." He grins grimly, his eyes mirthless as he watches the man reach for the phone in his pocket, and then with a hiss he shoves the gun deeper into Eric's skull.

"What do you want from me?!" he yells, his voice shaking. He's so afraid. Axel pulls the gun away an inch or two, his head cocked to the side, his expression placid.

"Calm down, just calm down." Innocently he raises both hands, gun in right, wallet in left, the shadow of a smirk darkening his lips' corners. The man had issues, yelling at him when he was just trying to get information. "I'm not the bad guy here," he assures.

Eric doesn't take his eyes off the gun.

"Do you know anything about Kairi DiCasco, Yuffie Kisaragi, Selphie Tilmitt, or Olette Doyle?" Eric blinks, staring at the gun, searching hard for the right answer. Moments go by, and finally Eric shakes his head. Axel, frustrated, throws his wallet at him, where it strikes the man squarely in the chest. "Then get the fuck out of here, and enjoy you're fucking, grand ol' life. While you can, of course." He whirls away from Eric and goddamn happily-ever-after, the fairytale ending that had been robbed from him by a red-haired bitch whose time is slowly dwindling to an end. "She's coming for you," Axel hisses in farewell, cackling wildly, hysterical laughter meeting one after the other. And then, in a whirl of dust and the grind of a motor, he's gone.

-- - --

He cuts the engine and kicks another bike, watching with contempt as it wobbles and then crashes down. It's not a good day to be an automobile. Shoving his gun in his pocket – he won't be needing it here – he kicks the door open, and smoke hits his face. His eyes water, but he's smirking. This is home. He had to come back. Had to. She has slipped through his fingers, and there is only one person who can help him get back on track. He does't bother to say hello to anyone. Instead, he walks right over to her, to where she's sitting on some pink-haired guy's lap. They look cozy, kissing each other while her friends played pool. Axel doesn't care. He yanks her by the arm, up and away.

She hasn't changed much since the last time, blonde hair still put up in the same bug-haired style, green eyes staring at him with a pissed-off expression. The only thing different about her is the bloody lip she sports. "Larxene."

"What the hell?!" she hisses at him. He looks over to the man she had been locking lips with. He's staring at the both of them – at Larxene with longing, at Axel with hatred. His eyes flicker back and forth between them.

"Who's the dyke?"

Larxene digs her nails into his arm, but he doesn't mind. It's just another reminder that this isn't a nightmare, that this is actually happening, that Roxas is dead while he is somehow still living, despite all the beers he has drunk, despite his chainsmoking, despite his lack of sleep and reckless driving. He's alive, and that bitch is going to die, die, die. He just needs Larxene's help, and then he can get back onto the road, track that stupid whore down, and really make her pay. Make her cry and sob and scream for mercy. Oh, she'll understand the meaning of true heartbreak. He'll rip her goddamn, fucking heart out of her chest and make her watch with the last remants of her life as he squeezes it as hard as he possibly can. He'll grind her face into the dust and crush her bones until they're fine as powder.

He'll kill her thirteen times over.

"He's my fiancé." Shock hits Axel, soon followed by rage and an emotion he doesn't recognize. Envy. His face betrays no emotions, though. He's calm and collected as he stares into her olive eyes.

"Better run while you still can, Pinky." The remark earns him a punch in the arm, but he's hardly bothered. He doesn't care for Larxene or her love life. He only cares for revenge. "I lost her." Larxene watches him carefully, her eyes raking over the resolve in his eyes, before she holds on manicured hand hand up to him and walks over to her fiancé, whispering something calmly into his ear. Axel hands explore his pockets in the meantime, taking comfort in the small object, cool and metallic, that slips against his sweating palm. He can kill them all if he really wants to. He can walk out of there with his drink in hand, blood covering the walls and sloshing onto the floors.

Flash. Larxene is pulling him back outside, and the change is not a breath of fresh air. He yearns for the warm indoors, forthe familiar smell of cigarettes, sweat, puke, and alcohol. But she knows something. She has that look in her eye, that mix of maliciousness and what Axel knows everyone sees in his eyes: chaos. He can trust Larxene. They're one in the same. He knows better than to do it, but he knows the option is always there. Calmly he grips his gun, thinking of how he could blow her head off, too. It's always good to know his options.

"Dipshit and Zexion saw her last in Port Royal." She waits as a young couple passes them. It seems as though Cupid wants to taunt him tonight. "They've been tailing her to Pansyland."

"Wonderland." He smirks. He has his destination. It's time to go. He turns on his heels, the levers already moving, his next plan already in motion. He doesn't notice Larxene following him to the bike. He slides on his helmet, ready to leave, and is startled when she put her hands on both handlebars. "Let go," he tells her in frustration, but she's not listening to him.

"If you're not convicted, I'd like you to go to my wedding…" She's full of surprises tonight. He narrows his eyes at her in brimming hatred. "Every wedding needs a drunk." Lips quirking, he chuckles briefly, and her olive eyes fill with hope. It's a strange emotion, almost foreign in her eyes. But she wants to be solid again. She wants order, and he can't deal with that. She's the one person who understands, who knows that he's no monster, yet now she's moving on. But he has vowed to never let go of Roxas.

And he never will.

"We'll see what happens." It's lie, but she doesn't notice his bullshit smirk; subtly and wearily he shakes his head. He can't begin to understand what she's becoming. But she seems satisfied with that, and she lets go of the handlebars. The engine roars to life.

"Shoot her in the head for me!" she yells over the clamor. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of the old Larxene, stuck in mid change, fighting the new one. And he knows for sure that he won't come back for her. He can't bear the change.

She turns around, flipping him off as she goes back inside, and he leaves her and her silly hope behind. He had a blondie to avenge, and he won't come back home until that bitch is dead. He rides with haste. The time has come. She has made her flaw, has succumbed to homesickness. Wonderland is just a mere twenty miles – she must have visited friends but hadn't dared to get too close – and he can get there in twenty-five minutes flat.

In no time, he arrives.

He parks on the sidewalk outside of Demyx's apartment. Their lights are out, and he scowls. They aren't home. Digging into his pocket, reaching past his gun, he searches deeper and deeper until he finds his phone. Angrily he punches in the numbers he knows so well.

"Roxas is calling from the undead!" yells Demyx in the background, and Axel wants to punch him in the face. Before he can speak another stupid word, Zexion picks the phone from his hand and says in familiar deadpan, "In the first district." Blunt and to the point – Axel always knew that he liked the bookworm. "Her hair's been dyed black. Wait for the address…"

Axel commits it to memory as Zexion finds it, recites it, and hangs up his phone without another word. He mounts his bike and starts the engine, riding along the sidewalk, getting cussed out by pedestrians with threats of "off with your head!" He flies down the sidewalk, challenging bystanders, smirking wildly beneath the visor of his helmet. When he turns off onto the street, he almost hits a car, but it narrowly swerves past him up onto the curb, where it slams with a thunderous crash into a pole. He almost dies, but he won't allow that. Not just yet. He has one more thing he had to do before he joins Roxas in the next life. Excitement whirls within him. He even wrenches his gun from his pockets and shoots it off a few times, calling on chaos, defying all forces. Finally, after months of waiting, he'll see that blessed sight – her body on the floor, bloody, hardly recognizable anymore. She'll finally pay for the biggest mistake of her life.

He's grinning so hard, and he can't stop. He cuts the engine a block later, and the thrill of the chase is over. He has her cornered. She's done for. He parks, stands up, and walks. "There's a madman!" people scream. Sirens blare. The little town of Wonderland will never be the same after this night, after him, but it's not important.

After this, he can die happy.

After this, he can hold Roxas again.

The numbers are shrinking. He's getting close. Then it's there, right behind the door, and he pulls out his gun and shoots the barrier open. The bullet flies right through the door, and Axel stares at it for a moment. This is it. This is the end. He takes a few steps back, and then, suddenly, he's off like the bullet he has just shot.

He slams into the door. One second it's closed; in the next, out of nowhere, it has opened, and there she stands, right behind the door. She's staring at him as though he's some sort of monster, like she doesn't know the truth. He grips his gun, moving it slowly from his side. She has changed her looks, and her hair is ebony and short. Not her blue eyes, though – they look the same, widened with fear.

Contacts do wonders these days.

"Gotcha, Kai-ri." He cocks the gun and shoots it in the span of a second, and the bullet hits her straight in the face.

Or it would have, had she stood still long enough. She ducks, but not well enough. The top of her head is soon covered with blood, and she's screaming shrilly. He pushes up on his elbows, stumbling back to his feet up from the spot of ground he had fallen to. She's on her knees now, cupping the side of her head and whimpering, and he wonders why she isn't moving – even when he had set her arm on fire she ran. He picks her up by her hair, viciously gripping the darkened strands in his fist, and she screams and thrashed around. Furiously he rams her face-first into the wall. "You won't get away this time, Princess."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she sobs heavily. He drops her instantly. This isn't Kairi. This isn't Kairi, and that very fact is a very big problem. She curls up in a ball, and that's fine with him. He staggers away from her, blood on his hands – Kairi's blood on his hands. No. NO, not Kairi's blood – that girl's, in that room. She's not Kairi. Her blood. Her blood. On his hands.

"FUCK!" he screams. He throws the gun across the room. "FUCK!" he screams again. It isn't fair. He'd been so close – so close, yet not fucking close at all. Innocent blood is his hands, but she's still moving for now. Still, he panics. "Don't fucking move. Don't fucking move, or I'll fucking blow your brains out!" He needs to find his gun. "Where's your fucking bathroom?"

She doesn't answer. He runs down the hallway anyway, finding the gun sitting abandoned on the ground. It's covered in blood – not Kairi's blood. He picks it up and pockets it, and he opens the bathroom door. Water is running into the tub – she must have been about to take a bath; a nice bath after a long day. She doesn't deserve this – this isn't her fate. It's Kairi's. He falls to his knees, putting his hands into the sweltering water. He cringes, but it does the job. Clear mixes with red, making the water bloody and disgusting, cleansing his hands. It's not on his hands. When clean, he pushes up away from the tub, glancing toward the mirror.

He could use a shave.

Not now. He has to take care of that girl. Lifting her purse that's sitting on the sink, he pulls out her wallet and then throws the bag into the bloodied water, where it sinks to the bottom. Grunting, he walks away from the bathroom. The water is starting to overflow, but he doesn't bother to turn it off. He likes it the way it is, in complete chaos.

She hadn't listened to him – she'd crawled blindly to the door, and she's pretty close to it. Too bad she'll never make it. He picks her up by the hair again, and she screams. That's enough of that. Winding lithe fingers around her throat, he chokes the scream out of her and slams her hard against the wall. It's Kairi. No. Fuck, it isn't Kairi. "Does the name Kairi mean anything to you?" He loosens his grip, just enough so she can talk. Just enough so she can breathe. "Answer wisely, or I swear to Roxas you'll fucking regret it."

Her tears are falling onto his hand, but he doesn't care. This isn't his fault.

Her blood is drying on her skull.

It's all Kairi's fault.

"No, no, no," she moans, her voice raspy. He throws her in fury, and she slams into the coffee table, instantly unconscious. Walking over to her, he leans down and carelessly pushes hair out of her face, disgusted that he's touching her

"Consider yourself lucky," he says with a sneer, retracting his hand. "It's her fault. All her fault." Straightening, he pulls out his cell phone, punching in numbers that hardly knows. "Yes, I need an ambulance." He's walking out of the apartment, retrieving her wallet from his pocket and flipping it open. "There's a woman here. She's been mugged by some psycho running around." Xion Desylva. She would have had a normal life. She could've lived a happy life. But now she's tainted by Kairi DiCasco, just like everyone else. He hears the sirens as he gets on his bike, and he looks back. All he can see is red.

The motorcycle roars to life, and he makes his getaway.

-- - --

End chapter. Please review.

P.S. MIO FAILS OUT LOUD - THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT.