A/N: Urgh... I have been so sick. Thankfully I wrote most of this chapter before the fever muddled my brain. Most. I hope the rest of it isn't too terrible.
Thank you Wounded Wing, ren7720, Lunar Loon, AllOtherNamesHaveBeenTaken, and Anony for reminding me to keep pushing forward!
I liked reading your guesses and suggestions, too. I can't wait to show you what comes!
::XI::
illogical usurper
No matter how hard she tried to not think of it, the image of him, pressing her against that brick wall, continually blinked in her mind's eye.
The heat of rage screamed its draconian battle cry, shame bellowed low and mournful, and confusion carved its path through Dexné like a twister.
She and Lea were friends—the urge to lash out at him shouldn't exist. Yet it did.
Dexné's condition did not improve. She hoped avoiding them would diminish her feelings. Instead they only festered.
"Hey, wait up!"
Dexné, out of habitual obedience, halted.
Curly ran up to her—a girly sort of trot that Dexné could easily outwalk. "You're - - - -? Listen, Lea's been really worried about you. Can you go talk to him?"
Dexné stared at the intruder, dark eyes gleaming with the storm that brewed within.
The girl tilted her head, regarded her with wary confusion. "Um, you're…you're not still sick, are you? I can take you down to the nurse..."
Dexné wondered how long it would take to choke her out.
Curly shifted. "Are you okay?" She sounded genuinely concerned and, for some perverse reason, this made the pressure in Dexné's chest worse; like a dagger, twisting.
Stop, commanded Dexné's mind. Shut up!
Her heart didn't listen.
Before the wretched thing could take control and make her strike out, Dexné spun on her heel, leaving Curly in a cloud of bewilderment.
Stop. She's a nice person. There's no need to feel this way. Stop.
No matter what she told herself to feel, or not feel, the desire to hurt someone remained.
There was a beast roaming inside of her, stalking and growling, and it wanted to maul. It would not be placated, it would not be talked down, and nothing distracted its feral focus. It was the heart, the thing people drew on cards and notes to express love and devotion—but it was so much more. It was a usurper, it was the monster whispering treachery to the logical mind. From sunshine happiness to thunderclap rage in a single beat. It could not be trusted. But neither could it be ignored, for to ignore it would not be human.
And how Dexné wished in that moment to be more machine than man, to do what was right and what was needed—and not be hindered by what all people possessed.
It wasn't the first time Dexné hated being human. It wouldn't be the last. Her heart pushed her to act on the feelings it shaped, feelings born from misunderstood illogicalities, and not necessarily facts. Why did she feel the way she did? Her mind said no to hurting Lea, but her heart commanded scream, kick, claw, bite!
Feelings are not facts, she repeated like a chant. Feelings are not facts.
Even when Isa's premonition came true, when she heard from whispers of the gossip vine that Lea and Curly parted amicably, the hurricane in Dexné refused to calm. Typical of a high school relationship to end quickly, not so typical for it to end peacefully; she couldn't help but be curious. She didn't know why they broke up, but the whisperers didn't give any concrete reasons beyond their own assumptions.
Her mind was apologetic, murmuring discontent. Had she creeped the girl out, chased her off with silently projected animosity—and ruined everything for Lea?
Her heart, meanwhile, shamelessly crowed in victory.
But with mind and heart merged, it wasn't long before shame enveloped both.
She slinked in shadow like a reproached dog.
She didn't know how long she'd be able to keep hiding from him but, knowing Lea, it should have been obvious she couldn't outrun him forever.
Padded footsteps whispered in the empty hall. The bell had already rung and Dexné assumed she was safe. Classrooms had their doors shut and rows of lockers stood vigil like silent armored sentinels. Again she moved and lived on the outside, away from others. An isolation self-imposed. And it was familiar.
Cold, but safe.
She turned the corner, intent on retrieving books from her locker, and there he was. An ambush, laid where he knew she'd return to.
He leaned against her locker, red hair splayed like wild flames painted on the dark metal, arms crossed, a pensive expression pulling down the corners of his mouth and pinching his brow. He looked up, eyes brightening on her. He said her name, but she did not answer him. She hesitated, but ultimately decided to forget the books in the locker and walked on, head down, chest tightening.
He called after her again, quickly catching up. He grabbed her elbow. "What's been going on with you?" When she did not answer, he persisted. "Hey, tell me."
She yanked free, tried to keep walking.
He was in front of her in an instant. His frown was harsh, eyes burning hotly. "Have I ever mentioned how much I hate being ignored?" he said lowly, the closest to dangerous she'd heard from him at that point, at least towards her.
She stood still, but did not look from the floor.
He leaned down to stare her in the face. "Tell me what's wrong," he ordered, then, softly, "Did I do something?"
She said nothing, emotions rushing in like thunderclouds on her brain. She couldn't think. What was she supposed to tell him? She didn't understand it herself. She hated that girl, hated how close they were. Again the picture of them touching and kissing flashed hot as a knife and the dark rage seeped from her black glare—just a little more and the floor tiles would melt from the potency of it.
"You know, I can't read your mind." He let out a gust of exasperated breath, muttering, "Why do girls always play this game?" so quietly she wasn't sure if she was meant to hear it.
"I'm not well," she got out, finally. She side-stepped, but again he blocked her.
"You don't avoid humanity just because you don't 'feel well', - - - -!" He put emphasis on her name, a name she couldn't remember hearing. But at that time, in that moment when she could decipher the label that defined her, it made her flinch like a child slapped.
She gripped the strap of her shoulder bag. Her hands didn't shake that way.
"What—did—I—do?" he tried once more, bemused anger crackling like fire in his green irises.
"Nothing," she bit out swiftly. "It's nothing. Just—leave me alone. You're annoying."
She regretted it as soon as she said it.
He drew back, hurt melding into his face, damping the fire into smoky hisses trying to catch back on. He stared at her for a long moment, seconds ticking by in excruciating silence.
The knife twisted with each tick, and the impulse to flee seized Dexné. She rushed past him, and he let her go.
Not yet five feet from him, she stopped. What was she doing? He was one of the only friends she had. Sense finally broke through the dark waters of her heart, screeching for air, screaming for her to do something, don't let those fires go out. At last, heart and mind were in agreement.
"I'm sorry," she threw out, voice small but clear. "I just…"
"We're friends, - - - -, aren't we?" he asked, and the guarded, almost undetectable vulnerability in his voice sent her over the edge.
She whirled. "I want to choke a puppy!"
Lea's eyes widened. "S'cuse me?"
"I want to choke a puppy, and I don't know why! I don't want to want to, but—but that is the way I am feeling and I don't like it, I…" She went mute, feeling incredibly stupid. She blinked rapidly, desperate for composure. "I have to remain isolated," she said, tone flat, "or else I'll punch someone in the face. I am unable to process my state of being—it is no fault of anyone but myself. And quite frankly, if I were to hit you…I would be on the floor with a broken face, and you wouldn't have so much as a black eye. Goodbye."
She spun, speeding off.
"Punch me, then!" he called after her.
She stopped, snapped around. "What?"
"Punch me," he said simply, throwing his hands up and down in a conceding shrug, "if it makes you feel better. I won't hit back."
She gaped, mouth open, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, in the firm line of his mouth. Dexné felt like she was the one being choked now. "You're—you're weird!"
"Better than being a robot. Come on, hit me. I can take it."
Her knuckles turned white, but all of her was shaking now and it did nothing to hide the fact.
So she ran.
It was the only thing she knew to do.
Dexné entered her home, the old door creaking shut behind her.
The squeaky floorboard by the powder room announced her arrival to the empty living area. She dropped her bag at her feet, staring off into space, thinking about Lea. About Isa. And how unfair, how incorrigible she was being. She thought about what started the entire mess, and immediately the flare of anger overwhelmed her.
That stupid girl and her stupid, bouncy hair. And stupid Lea for—for…
Dexné knew the real reason behind her anger. She knew, deep in the back of her mind, but refused to acknowledge it, refused to bring it out and examine it, ask herself why.
She wanted to pretend it wasn't there.
Friends, we are friends. Just friends. Stop feeling like this, stop.
A sharp light stabbed her eye. An antique mirror hung on the wall, reflecting the sunlight from the window. She went to it, drawn in like a moth.
She stared back at herself. A dull stare from a dull girl. She noticed traits about herself she hadn't before: Her roundish face with its full cheeks and deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes that always made her appear sleepy. The round tip of her nose that made it look slightly larger than it really was. And when she smiled it made her cheeks look fatter. All her life, she never liked nor disliked the way she looked—she never took time to analyze or criticize.
Until that moment, staring in a tarnished, old mirror.
She was frumpy, she was pudgy—oh, so many things she could count off that were unsightly, and she'd be there forever if she tried.
She sucked in her cheeks, but all that did was make her look like a fish out of water. Frowning now, she thought of the traits she wished she had, and, unfortunately, it made her think of the one person she wanted as far from her mind as possible.
Curly's face was refined, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. Curly had beautiful golden-brown hair, sleek and shiny.
Dexné had neither the luminescence of a true blonde nor the dark allure of a brunette. She was stuck in the middle with floppy hair the color of wet sand.
Curly, on the other hand, had the best of both. Curly wasn't stocky like Dexné, either; her long, slender legs stretched high into that short skirt. Dexné looked down at her thick thighs. Her legs weren't hulkish, but they were strong; they propelled her through the air when she ran—it was the reason for her speed. She should have been proud of the swiftness her legs provided. Instead she covered them in shame. Long skirts, long shorts, or pants—never anything above the knee.
Staring in the mirror a moment longer, Dexné came to a conclusion: she was ugly.
Ugly, ugly—your looks and your feelings.
Glinting, spiteful black eyes glared back at her, nose and brow wrinkled, disgusted. She plucked a book from a nearby shelf and flung it against the far wall in a childish flare of indignance.
Rushed footsteps resounded from the kitchen. Her mother came bustling into the room. "What was that? What's wrong?"
"Nothing…"
Mirron's eyes darted from her daughter to the book on the floor. "You don't throw things over nothing. Tell me what the matter is."
Dexné paused, swallowing. "I'm ugly," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders as if it weren't a big deal.
Mirron frowned, her wrinkles deepening into shadowed grooves, hands perched on her hips. "You most certainly are not! Who told you such a thing?"
"…I did." She turned and ran upstairs to her room. The locked door let no one in.
Dexné didn't want to be ugly—who did? She wanted to be beautiful like Curly, as much as she hated to admit it.
In the early days Dexné read many books, some of which contained stories of castles and dragons and princesses. Though she'd never confess it, Dexné sometimes imagined herself as the princess, the lovely being who gets rescued from the ferocious dragon by a handsome prince.
But she was no princess.
And, remembering it as Nulla, she never would be. She was not the princess; she was the dragon. But she did not kidnap or hold hostage. She saw herself as the protector of the castle, her master, her comrades. She was there for their benefit, not their expense, and perhaps that was how all those dragons in the storybooks saw themselves as well…
But as a Somebody, she wasn't aware of her future role. She believed she could still be that princess.
So the next day she tried being beautiful, something she never attempted before. Taking note of what the other girls her age wore, she donned a similar styled shirt—the only one of its kind in her wardrobe. It was tight and a little low-cut, but not much, and its thick straps made up for the lack of real sleeves. She donned a long skirt with it—no way was she making compromises there.
Dressed, and fairly pleased with herself, she left for school.
Her entire day was miserable.
Other girls got away with similar, even skimpier, tops. But not Dexné. She failed to take her bust size into account. She was an early bloomer, and though she would be considered a little above average in that department as an adult, as a teenager she far surpassed her peers. Therefore the teachers called her out on her attire—even when a girl with a smaller top, and chest, was sitting in the desk next to her.
She could've borne it. And she did.
Until she got to Ms. Cranky's class.
Ever since she began ignoring everyone, Lea had been taking advantage of the only class he shared with her. He'd make hard eye contact with her when he walked in, or when she arrived, depending who was first seated, and would throw notes at her when that irate teacher wasn't looking. He popped her in the side of the head with one particularly large balled up paper the day before, irritation set in his expression.
That day, however, as soon as he laid eyes on her his gaze widened to saucers. He looked down, the top of his desk suddenly very interesting.
She went to her desk, sinking down, hoping to fade amongst the students. No such luck. As soon as Ms. Cranky got her in her sights, that was it. And she couldn't handle it like the other teachers, to just give Dexné a warning and move on. No, the woman had to make a spectacle of it.
Dexné was made to stand in front of the entire class, berated before the sight of everyone.
"What were you thinking when you got dressed this morning? Were you thinking at all?"
"I just—it—" she sputtered weakly, her brain clawing for an excuse. "It was—lau-laundry day, I had nothing—"
"You expect me to believe you had nothing else?" The teacher crossed her arms, looked sharply down her pointed nose.
Dexné said nothing for a moment, frozen in the glare of a predator. "I—I was led to believe it was acceptable. I've seen plenty of girls who have worn—"
The teacher's face contorted. "I assure you no one has been to this school wearing that!"
Pressed under the needle glare of the teacher, feeling the weight of all her classmates' eyes, Dexné couldn't breathe. Her entire body heated up, dizziness rolled in her head. And when she thought of Lea witnessing her disgrace, her heart sank its own fangs in, tore itself to pieces—anything to escape the utter humiliation.
Her eyes stung, her vision blurred, and she swayed, fearing for a moment she would faint.
"Now, you can march yourself right down to the principal's office and change. Perhaps in the future you will actually think—"
"Lay the hell off her!" Lea's enraged voice followed the screech of his chair as he abruptly stood.
His outburst lent enough strength for her to retain consciousness, but too late for dignity. Lea had been tough enough to take multiple beratings from the entire class with a mocking grin and straight back, and held his head high during and after the incident; Dexné was too weak to withstand even one, having already shrunk in on herself like a morning glory under the spotlight blaze of the noonday sun.
Dexné whirled and blasted out the door, the hinges shrieking, the knob hitting the wall with a bam. She left her books. She got out just in the nick of time as it was.
Hot liquid stung her cheeks as she ran, not to the principal's office, but to home.
He brought her books to her house. Mirron answered the door. He wanted to see her. She wouldn't come out of her room.
She made a fool of herself. That was what she got for trying to fit in, for trying to be beautiful.
Never again.
She wasn't permitted to skip another day. She begrudgingly went to school dragging her feet the entire way, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and baggy black pants. She intended to hide in the excessive cloth, not caring if, or perhaps not realizing, it made her look like a homespun blob. She sat, before the start of school, in her usual spot in the usual hall, waiting for the bell to ring. She would not look, or speak, or even hear, any of the people around her.
She was a shadow, and she preferred it that way.
Shadows and light moved, sneakers squeaked, and clothing rustled as someone sat next to her. They did not speak, or look, or touch. Just sat.
Silence blanketed and hid. It calmed and yet provoked. She wanted to remain aloof yet curiosity barked a grating high-pitched yip, not letting up until she took a chance and spared a glimpse to her side. Lea stared thoughtfully at the wall opposite of them. Dexné looked back to the floor.
"Isa told me something yesterday." His smooth, unprickled voice startled her more than if he'd shouted. "He said…he said you were sad when I started spending less time with you guys and more time with—" He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Anyway, he said you might've felt ignored…"
Dexné went ridged, wide eyes glued to her feet. She felt his stare.
He spoke her name. "…We're friends. Just 'cause I hang out with other people doesn't mean I'm gonna forget you or Isa."
She nodded stiffly. He didn't get it—well, no, he got part of it. The part that truly mattered. And she was thankful he didn't realize—she wouldn't even think it.
Just friends. Just friends.
He carefully placed his hand on her shoulder, like she was a skittish mare who would bolt at any sudden movement. Gently his grip squeezed and the contact made Dexné's heart leap in contradicting intervals of glee and fright. "We're okay. Right?"
She nodded.
He leaned in with an odd spark in his eye, whispered in her ear, "We're skipping the witch's class today."
Dexné's eyes hardened. "Yes."
He ruffled her hair, his bright grin breaking out with a sheen of white teeth.
They met out in the meadow in the woods. He goaded her into a game of tag, something Dexné had felt too old for, but as he teased and prodded and playfully darted between and behind trees her hesitant steps blossomed into full-out sprints as she ran to and from him. After which they laid in swaying grass, less than an arm's length away from one another, talking about nothing in particular, about subjects they hated, things they liked, and when was the cafeteria going to serve chicken tenders again so they could drown their plates in ketchup.
The snowy emotions that had gagged Dexné gradually melted under the smile of dawn's sun.
They returned before the next class, and Dexné went through the day feeling lighter and warmer than she had in weeks. At the end of school, she walked with Lea to the stone wall. Isa was there, waiting. When she and Lea approached, though his face kept stony and passive, his gaze softened.
"Finally," he said, none amused.
Lea rested his arms behind his head, grinning broadly. "All together again, huh?"
Isa regarded both of them, gaze landing on one then the other, before matter-of-factly saying: "Morons. Both of you."
"Wha-?!"
"Okay."
"- - - -, that's not something you agree with!"
Isa laughed at them, a quiet rumbling sound that started in his chest, and held up a bag of frozen delights.
Just like that, they were together again, laughing and smiling as they did before.
The memory faded out into golden-red sunsets with blue and red and tarnished gold glowing in the ethereal light.
The friendship had not ended on the petty note of jealousy, and Dexné woke in her chamber feeling as if she had dodged a thousand bullets.
A thousand bullets dodge, but still more to come.
Dexné was relived to find her friendship with Lea and Isa survived the green-eyed beast, but knew in the depths of her soul it had not survived in the long run, and the strain of digging to find that which she did not want to face leeched more energy from her than even her countless missions.
She stalked the halls like a starving wolf, eyes always looking, ears always listening, and found that cursed marked Dusk following after her again.
Later on she turned the tables and skulked after it, and the Dusk for all its twitching and bending did not see her, for she was like the shadows themselves. No more was the little pitter-patter of her girlhood. If she had the skill back then that she had now, Lea would have never caught her, would have never ambushed her, and—
—and they would have…never reconciled.
She tossed the thought out so violently it almost made a sound—she suppressed the scoff and swallowed it. She could never be anything than what she was, and why change now? Why revert? She was an improvement, far superior to that stupid pubescent girl and the nervous ticks her heart had instilled. If she stilled possessed—or rather, if that thing known as the heart still possessed her, she would never be capable of her duties. She would stand in the Round Room with it pounding in her ears, shaking like a scared rabbit as the hawks on their thrones peered down at her.
She was free from that curse and became more machine just like she wanted. She didn't know how she got there, but she had and was glad for it, and the only thing she'd change was her correlation with Lea and Isa.
If only they could be the ones sitting on that clock tower…
Dexné followed the marked Dusk, tracked it all the way to Saïx.
Remaining in the dark hall, she stretch her neck like a horse looking for sugar cubes, listening for wisps of exchanged words.
The Dusk reached out with its slithery, snake-like hand and offered a cylindrical object which Saïx took. It seemed familiar to Dexné and when Saïx spoke she knew exactly what it was.
"My ink cartridge. Where was it?" The Diviner said it so loftily, he made it seem like it was the Dusk's fault for losing it, and anyone overhearing wouldn't spare it much thought because it was like him to do that.
As the barely audible whispers of woods and twilighted towns were snatched from the air, Dexné went cold. So it was a trap, or had been, and if she had tampered with it he would have known from the stains on the metallic container and the smell of ink in her gloves. But she hadn't tampered with it; she hadn't been caught in his snare.
He had tested her, and she had passed. She tried to comfort herself with this knowledge but it did little good, for who was to say she would succeed the next one?
Days went on and Dexné did all that Saïx asked, never questioning, never visibly hesitating. She acted as if every order came from the Superior himself and did not permit even a hint of the doubt mounting in her soul to show through. Of course not every order came from the Superior—Saïx was acting of his own accord and she knew it. But if she let on for even a second that she knew it would be the end for her.
The marked Dusk spied on her for Saïx, but all the others spied for Xemnas.
She was in a too small cage being pressed from all sides. If she still had a heart she would have broken already, but as it was her instincts were clamoring for control. Fight-or-flight begged for reaction but she forced herself to stay poised.
In a reconnaissance mission in Halloween Town, her stress reared up more so.
Shadowing through the dreary town, with its black sky and yellow moon, which cast both shadows and a glow on the tombstones, put Dexné into a state prickly and skittish, moving swiftly just so she could get out of there sooner. Though the eerie lighting gave her advantage there was a strange aura about the place that sent shivers down her spine—and how she wished for just a spot of red or blue, anything to take off the edge of the sight of gray and purplish grave soil.
It was not red, but orange, that caught her eye.
Chains materialized and chinked as she threw and snagged them on rusted wrought iron topping granite stone walls. She climbed, leaning back and walking up the walls while her chained arms held her aloft, and vaulted over the stone barriers once a foothold was established at the brim. She came into a patch of pumpkins, jagged faces carved and glowing. She frowned, sighing despondently.
A scratching noise made her jump and she went rigid in preparation for evasion, but was quickly calmed by the sight of a black cat dragging its claws against the wall. When it came nearer she tried to pet it, and when it ducked she did not pursue. Another sound snapped her upright and she knew right away it was no cat.
Dexné was well concealed by the time three children, all wearing horrid masks, barreled into the yard, whispering and snickering amongst each other. A witch, a devil, and a skull; she identified the masks while scrunching her brow and wrinkling her nose. She knew of those children—brats, more like it.
Out of morbid curiosity she followed them and was surprised to see them lead to Roxas. Dexné had been to Halloween Town a few days ago, digging up ever migrating Heartless locations for the keybearers, and either Roxas was greatly ahead of schedule or Dexné was severely behind because they were not supposed to intersect like this.
"Trick or Treat," chorused the three children before the devil hurled a pumpkin into the Key of Destiny's face. Dexné noted it exploded upon impact, and filed the information away for the later report. As the children laughed Dexné could not smother a feeling of irritation. Irritation at them and at Roxas, who stood blinking stupidly.
Dexné crouched and moved through shadow, crawling along the ground like a puddle of dark, and when she reached them she straightened her legs and towered over them like an undead corpse coming up from the earth.
There was a tense moment, silent save for the slight clinking of Dexné's chains, in which she and the three children merely stared.
Then the witch girl threw the pumpkin bomb she'd been hiding under her hat and everything flew into motion.
Dexné flung herself to the side, landing and pivoting on her foot, pushing off and flying towards them, chains rattling.
"Little wretch!" she said, voice far too guttural and masculine, as she whipped the chain across the devil boy's mask, cracking it. Why she attacked the devil and not the witch who threw the bomb she wasn't sure. The children squealed and were quick to flee, hurling insults over their shoulders as they ran.
Roxas still looked like he was in a daze, even as Dexné approached him. "Nulla...?"
"Number XIII—do you dodge?" She spoke abruptly, coldly. Though amidst agitation humming like a hive of hornets she was relieved to hear her voice, or lack thereof, back to its whispery rasp. Although it would have pleased her more to hear it return to the gentle, yet rickety, voice of her human days. Perhaps Axel would recog—she crashed the train of thought. Better that he didn't recognize her, at least until she knew the cause of their dissolution.
"Do I—? Of course I know how to dodge!"
"Why didn't you?"
"They snuck up on me."
"As will all your enemies—the smart ones, at least. If you wish to remain unharmed you should improve your evasiveness."
Even as she spoke this she saw that the blast had hardly damaged Roxas. He was stunned and that was all. If it had been Dexné she'd likely have sustained bleeding, a possible concussion, flash blindness—just to name a few. And it drudged up nervousness that Roxas had taken it with nothing to show but stupor, made Dexné wary of him.
"And how am I supposed to…" He started, then gaped as if he had just realized something obvious. "You're offering to teach me?"
Dexné blinked flinchingly like her face had been spit in. How in the world did he get that conclusion? All of her was ready to hiss a venomous No when suddenly all thought stopped and rebooted into a different strain entirely.
Standing before her was the ward, the…friend…of Axel. If anything happened to him, if a powerful enemy was smart enough to sneak—and weren't all the smart ones powerful?—and strike him down, wouldn't Axel be…sad?
It was such a human thought and it startled her.
So startled she was she nodded without thinking.
A/N: Reviews are much loved! I appreciate every input.
Thank you for reading.