Starter for @umbralined
Xion w/ Xigbar
Xion stood at the end of the station, hands dipped into her coat pockets, and the abyss, an empty, black fall into the darkness at her back. Pale blue and dark purple hues stained the surface of the glass, mingling like running paint. The colors blurred and segregated into shades, and shapes: a scarred face, a black coat, a single gold eye, and a hand gripping tight a favorite weapon. Stars speckled a night sky, bold in the face of a new moon. Cracks spread through the glass but some unseen force had soldered the edges back together with silver and gold. Brilliant light emanated from below Xion's feet, burning an ethereal glow into the vibrant colors. The presence here, the scratch of memories and the whispering murmurs of forgotten ideals, was familiar, yet foreign. Like Xion knew this heart and yet, had never met it.
A tangled web of connections brought her here. Dozens of friends, enemies, allies, and acquaintances, whose inter-locked memories and hearts, paved a road for her. Xion had learned, even mastered, in the past year - a way to dive into the hearts of her relationships. At each station, the hearts gave way to memories, old recollections, and distant thoughts. She'd let those ideas, the secrets they reveal remained locked away, but used their roads to venture deeper. Searching, for something, digging out the scraps of scenes and ideas long locked behind closed lips. The things that Xehanort had tried to hide: the big picture of his quest for Kingdom Hearts.
And now, she had found Xigbar's station.
It was an accident. Xion had not been searching for Xigbar tonight but her arrival was not unwelcome. She walked around the edge of the station, observing, thinking and then crossed to the center of Xigbar's heart. Xion reached-out. Brief hesitation slowed the spread of her fingertips. This was intrusive. She had been measured in her search, careful not to pry open boxes that the owners did not want opened. But then again, Xigbar had never cared to keep her secrets, or anyone else. So, she scraped, pulled up from beneath the glass the first memory.
His voice is cold and coarse, like gravel, scraping at his ears. The white walls of the castle are banal and sterile, the light burning his retina, forming a headache behind his eyes. His skin crawls, all too aware of his own skin, the leather of his clothes, and the scrape of his teeth along the inside of his lip.
Xemnas asks: "Is the project progressing well?"
Xigbar answers: "Well enough, 'ole Vexen's got some good ideas..."
The memory played forward, digging-up this old conversation between the Superior and Xigbar. Their manor of dialogue was professional and efficient, lacking warmth. Xion expected nothing less from Xemnas. But as if relating to the idea, an example of contrast, the next memory arose just as easy:
"Aw, c'mon," Braigs's voice is easy and teasing, his arm slinging across the young man's shoulders. "Ya gotta loosen up. If you're all work and no play, no one's going to take you seriously."
The young man, Xehanort, sits in the desk chair, the pencil pressed to the paper. His work is furtive and constant, as if rest is not just foreign to him but repugnant. Xigbar sees the notes, the equations, the scrawled-out ideas, and the theories. He finds them to be sound but still - Xehanort must know, deep in the blank abyss of his amnesia. He knows more.
"I haven't time to get drinks," Xehanort says dryly. "i'm not one of your friends... Ansem the Wise wants this report tomorrow."
Xion looked deeper. This Xehanort, the young man, was the elder possessing the body of Terra. So, if she kept digging... there. Memories of Xigbar speaking to the old man. They debated, discussing the nature of light and dark, the matters of the heart, and science. They were quick witted and clever, both seeming to enjoy testing, pushing the other. Together the two laid the foundations of the Organization and their plans. Unfortunately, Xion learned nothing much more than what she already knew.
So, she switched tactics. Xion pulled forward a memory of Vexen. It had been years, really, since she last saw the nobody. His demeanor, the curves of his face and his posture, were stark compared to Even. He appeared cold and callous, unemotive.
The body was small for efficiency. The smaller the latices, a complex interweave of magic, the less chance there was for redundancy. Less opportunities for failure. Crystallized and set, the surface of the body appeared porcelain white, without feature, but its hands were delicate, each joint a fine, articulated detail. Vexen stooped over the table, carving, working, calculating. His hair fell across his cheekbones, his eyes half-lidded with focus.
Xigbar threw, then caught, a small rubber ball. He leaned against the far wall and watched Vexen.
"If the magic is too dense," Xigbar said. "Won't it collapse?"
"No, not if we allow it to introduce organic material," Vexen said. "It easier to allow DNA to shape itself, than to recreate the complexity of humanity."
And the memories played out. Xigbar and Vexen in discussion about, their, creation. Ideas about what is should look like, how it should function. The replica on the table had not been her. It had been a failed prototype. Xion came about later, a product of their intense, ongoing collaboration. Vexen did the work, the research, the crafting, and yet, it seemed as though Xigbar's ideas guided the project. She watched and she dug, until she could take no more. Xion closed the connection to these memories.
Finally, she looked deeper. Searching through Xigbar's memories, past his introduction to Xehanort, to even younger. Until she met a hard wall, a sudden stop, and resistance. Xion pushed and the wall gave.
Cold, immense, the words failed, the young man drowned, black. Now, something else, a usurper, taking, scratching together from the boy - Braig.
The connection snapped closed. It was sudden, as though someone had slammed a lid shut. Perhaps it should shock her that the owner of these memories, the real owner, was territorial. Xion glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of who had joined her at the station. She returned her hands to her jacket pockets and turned.
"Even never told me you took such... care, in my creation," she observed.
