#obsidianrite

“    wouldn’t you like to be real?    ”    it’s funny,    almost──    how they are more real than he ever will be.    a nobody,    at least,    has ties to humanity;    a forgotten heart,    a missing link.   but what does that make him,    then?    the replica stands,    with false memories that were never his own,    in a body that was never his own.    wouldn’t you like to be real?    their number eight asks,    voice as heavy as a hand    /    on its shoulder    /    as a hand guiding it’s own,    soul eater pointed towards zexion’s heart.

“    all you need is the kind of power that the real riku doesn't have.    if you can get that,    ”    axel says,    “    you can be a new person──    not riku,    nor anybody else.    you won't just be a copy of someone.    you will be unique,    your own self. ” 

isn’t that what it wants?    not the unloved copy,    not the forgotten promise──    its own,    beating,    living heart.    (    an echo of something,    something similar,   beats in its own chest.    )    to tear into,    tear asunder──    at least then,    that heartbreak would have been its own.    tendons snapping between teeth,    viscera stained canines──    at least then,    that decision would have been its own.    not pushed into,    not forced into.    his own self.    his own self.    his own──    self?

(    an echo of something,    something similar,    has already been born.    )

its footsteps feel heavy,    moving in a haze──    one,    two,    three,    towards the body of a being he remembers──    faintly,    only faintly,    seeing on the other side of that glass tube──    one,    two,    three,    guided hand pulling back as the other moves forward.    the hood of that black coat entangled between its harsh grip,    threaded like a spider’s web──    one,    two,    three,    darkness gliding across the room to meet him.

(    his own self,    his own self,    his own self.    like a mantra,    like a prayer,    repeated over    &.    over.    eyes glassy    &.    grip inhuman,    the replica stands there,    clinging to the promises that will never be fulfilled for him.    his own self,    his own self,    his own self.    what does that mean,    in the first place?    how can he    /    break free    /    find a self,    in the midst of the broken boy    &.    the bad friend    &.    the star-charmed memories he’s laid to waste in?    his own self,    his own self,    his own self.    how does it rip it out of them,    rip it out of him,    rip it out of itself?    how does it hold it,    between bloody claws    &.    a hollow chest    &.    a hungry mouth?

his own self,    his own self,    his own self.    he doesn’t care how.    )

can i please have a puppy pleasepleaspleaspleaseplease i promise i would feed it but also i do not want a normal "dog" i want this strange bug-eyed looking one.

even looks at the 'dog'. even looks at ienzo.

even is not going to explain why he doesn't want to give a yes to the quandary placed before him.

"ienzo..." he sighs. "we can't keep it as a pet. you know this. you might find it endering now, but it's dangerous. you could get hurt."

(whispering) hey do we know whats up with this xehanort guy?

      ❛ do you remember a lot about...before? ❜

she hoped that she wasn't disturbing them from their work. with the day off from training & the restoration committee unanimously agreeing that she was due for a break, she'd found herself in the castle's library. but, not everyone had the same off time that she did, & the last thing she wanted to do was interrupt them while they were busy.

still, she couldn't help but ask. as they were a few years her senior, she hoped that their memories were clearer than her own.

      ❛ i just...i don't remember that much. most of what i know is from what others have told me. so i'm curious. ❜

it's always been difficult to determine where himself and zexion have stood in relation to one another—they were never close during their time in the organization. zexion was always distant. just as difficult to reach as they were to read. (luxord had his own thoughts about why at the time, of course, but it was never anything he had a chance to ascertain.) he only knows their name through conversations with others.

and now here they stand in a hall of the castle of radiant garden, lighter blue eyes level on darker teal. and it's too late an hour for him to claim a house call to ask something of even. what he hadn't counted on was anyone still being awake and about at this hour for him to bump into on his way to that computer of theirs—but that's just another thing on the list of how little he knows about ienzo. he's more startled than he looks, bristling internally as he does what he can to avoid showing his hand.