KH AxR - The Twelve Teeth

The Twelve Teeth in the Key of Destiny


The Enigmatic Man

He was not allowed to release his keyblade. If he lost his focus or if the hilt was dropped or if the black abyss of unconsciousness flooded his vision and the weapon began to dissipate, an intense agony would situate itself inside his chest, a parasite of breath and thought and being, and even the oblivion of nothingness was no escape from it. On these days, if the torture became too much or the fatigue too great, he was cured just enough to keep him from passing out. On these days, he learned not to eat, because inevitably the food would end up an ugly brown stain on the pristine white floor, a humiliating testament to his weakness.

He learned to dread these days.

“For the weak, there is death.” Even in his dreams, years later, he would hear that voice. It rang out from nowhere and everywhere at once; it was in his head and through his body, it was a jagged vibration through his bones. The hood always obscured the face of the man who spoke, but he knew who it was. You listen to the voice that names you.

Only your god can name you.

“You are nothing. You were born to fight. Every other ambition, every other desire you have, is the worthless echo of a forgotten life.” In one regular exercise, he would be chained to a wall. He was taught how to make shields with the light that coursed through him in this way – first, searing bolts were flung, and if he did not deflect them, his flesh was burned. And again. And again. And again. He learned quickly to summon a protective barrier to himself, but even after days and weeks and months, sometimes…he would miss. Occasionally, his dreams would smell of rancid, burning flesh and the stink of charred hair. Those nights he’d wake himself up with this own gagging.

“This is your home. There is no other place for you. There is no other purpose for you. You are a soldier, and that is all.” Another implement they pitted him against was illusion: other members, raids of dusks, Heartless, the Real. They would come in wave after wave after wave, and they did not stop, even when his hands were blistered so horribly the blood dripped through his gloves to smear on the ivory of the floor. In his room he often peeled off the leather only to take the skin covering the palms of his hands with it.

Only at the end of the session did the black phantom, the Other, come. If he defeated it, he was allowed to sleep without punishment. If he did not, the outcome varied. He never remembered the penalty; only the searing behind his eyes immediately after it began. On those days he would awaken in his room and even the fresh burn of the bile evacuating his throat could not distract from the agony of his body. Sometimes he would find blood, or fresh wounds, but not often. There were worse things than bleeding. Far worse.

“You are Roxas. You are Number Thirteen. One day, they will come for you. You will fight, or you will disappear.”

He hated this man, this self-appointed god, and he fantasized about what it would feel like to bring the cold black steel of his weapon singing down through the flesh of his throat. But more than that, he would not disappear.

Roxas shouldered his keyblade, and began the fight again.


The Freeshooter


He would pick his nails with the point of a knife twice as long as his index finger but not as sharp as the lines of his face. The flesh of the scars crisscrossing his features was pink, a new pink, the pink of an infant's skin or a newly healed wound. His hair made him look older than he was.

"Y'wanna know how to get out of here alive, kid?"

Sometimes his hands would slip, and the edge of the knife would dive into the soft pads of his fingers. He never winced. Slowly, methodically, he peeled the halves of the severed wound apart and watched the blood drip down into his curled palm.

"Tell me," was always Roxas' answer, who had never seen the man's hand slip with a knife at any other time.

"Don't breathe."


The Whirlwind Lancer


The forest was lush and warm, making the weight of the coats they wore ponderous, heavy and uncomfortable. Overhead birdsong curled around and through the foliage to mingle with the light of the sun as it fell. Even the wind was humid when stirred, causing the ends of long black hair to wave in a snakelike dance as the metallic point of a wickedly sharp lance whizzed past his ear. It sunk, quivering, into the wood of a tree several feet away, a long violet exclamation point amidst greens and reds and browns.

"I dislike noise," he said, and continued to walk. When the lance dissipated, Roxas watched the feathered body it impaled fall from the wood of the tree with a heavy thud, trailing multicolored feathers behind it like a radiant afterthought.


The Chilly Academic


"Does this hurt?" was the question immediately preceding something that always, always hurt.

"No," Roxas lied, in spite of whatever was spiking into his flesh or sending a plume of carcinogenic smoke up from his body. The examination table was the only surface kept free of equipment. Everything else was covered with machinery, vials, fluids, tubes and piles of forgotten and discarded notes. The room smelled faintly of sulphur, and not so faintly of the metallic bite of cold steel. The lights were too-bright and he never blinked.

"Have you remembered anything since your last examination?” Whenever he leaned in close, Roxas would feel the tickle of heavy blonde hair against his body. It was cold and lifeless and faintly oily, and the only thing in the lab that made him release an involuntary shudder.

“No,” he said again, even as the dream from the night before was recalled to his mind. Boats. An ocean. The distant cry of gulls.

He had to be careful now, not to summon both of the blades whenever he summoned the one. The black weight of Oblivion was handed to the scientist, who inspected it with a careless eye. Behind the thin veil of reality, Roxas could still feel the other one waiting there, humming, like a dog anticipating a call.

Stay.

“Well, everything seems to be in order. If you remember anything…you will let me know…”

“Yes,” he lied for the third time, and somewhere a rooster crowed.

He knew these examinations were only an excuse.


The Silent Hero


He was big, too big, bigger than anyone there, and sometimes Roxas caught him bending slightly as he went through doors: a secretive, furtive movement that made him wonder what emotion the man might be feeling the remembered echo of -- shame, or irritation. He was gone often, and they said he was working on building the Other Place, but they never really spoke of what that Other Place was. Roxas wondered if he was building doors in that place he wouldn't have to duck in order to go through.

When he was present, many times he found the giant speaking in the hallways, and Roxas suspected it was to save himself the face of having to enter a room and bow his back to an inanimate object. He was proud and tall and whenever Roxas walked by, he could still feel himself eclipsed by the man's lengthy shadow long after the murmuring resumed and they stopped watching him pass. For such a large man, he had a very soft voice, and Roxas could never hear what it was he was talking about.

He always looked at him in that way, like he was a puzzle that was almost solved.


The Cloaked Schemer


"Do you really think that he cares for you?"
"He told me he did."
"You're a fool if you believe that. He lies."
"I believe him."
"Would you believe him if I told you he says that to everyone?"
"You lie, too."
"True. But at least I'm up front about it."
"How noble of you."
"Indeed. Tell me, if he cares so much for you, has he told you about Sora?
Sora.
"Ah. I can see by your face the answer is no. Well, don't believe me. Ask him for yourself. After all...

...I'm just a liar."


The Luna Diviner


You know why everyone respects him? I'll tell you. Because he's the one they send to deal with you if you fail. And out of all of us, out of everyone? He is the only one who shows true emotion.

He takes pleasure in watching your pain. Remember that. And whatever you do, don't scream.


The Flurry of Dancing Flames


He couldn't remember who'd portalled into who's room first -- it long ago ceased to be a violation and instead became an expected practice. He always made up some excuse when he did it, saying he came to check on quarters, or to see if he was healing properly. Strangely enough the touches had never been unwelcome ones. He had eyes Roxas understood, eyes he could decipher. They were guarded and cold and calculating, but underneath all that they were something else.

Alone.

He didn't say anything when Roxas climbed into his bed and curled up next to him to sleep. The silence stretched on, stiff and dark, until one hand was moved to drape across his body just underneath the curve of his chest. The room was always stifling and hot -- there was no need for blankets.

"You can't keep doing this, you know," he said without really meaning it.

"I know."

Sometimes it happened the other way around.


The Melodious Nocturne


"Wanna know why I don't like to fight?" They were sitting on a rocky ledge overlooking a curtain of water. Below, the mist churned up into the air to form a wet, damp cloud that clung to everything. He could smell it even from here, the earthy, fresh smell of damp, and it made the twilight of gathering evening seem that much deeper.

"Sure." The other had a leaf he was shredding, an oversized elephant ear that he tore into different length strips. He tested each one between his thumbs before releasing it, letting the brisk, high-pitched note ring out over the chasm once before watching the slice of green fall, fall, fall down to disappear into the chilly pillowy water below. If Roxas closed his eyes, he could almost hear the song mingling in with the noise of the waterfall.

"Because I like to live more."

Roxas secretly thought he was the smartest of everyone.


The Gambler of Fate


He didn't understand the game.


The Ace could be high or low, one or fourteen, caused your hand to both win or lose. If you lined the numbers consecutively it was good, but better if they were of the same mind, and they almost never were. The higher the numbers the better you sat, which was never true in real life, and the ten was the last card before Royalty. The Queen, the only female, could kill you if you held her too long, and the Jack could sometimes do everything, sometimes do nothing, and was always, always made out to be the fool.

"What about the king?" he said, watching as a card was held up depicting the image of a man wielding a sword. He was old and the blade was blunt and he held it with all the seriousness of a man leading his troops to war.

"Why, the king?" the gambler asked, his smile widening so far as to almost split his face in half. "The King is Thirteen."


The Graceful Assassin


He saw the girl only once, as she was being lead away by the guidance of his heavy hand on her shoulder. She was short, and looked too-pale and too-frail, whiter than the white walls of the castle they lived in, so white as to blend in and disappear and make you forget you'd ever seen her. But he wouldn't forget, he'd never forget -- her eyes were shockingly blue, a color he knew couldn't possibly exist in reality, a blue so deep it hurt to look them, and he was sure he'd seen a blue like that somewhere before in his dreams.

"Did you like my pretty flower?" he asked the next day, and walked laughing down the hall, as though he had just told every joke ever created within the short span of six easy words.


The Savage Nymph


"Do you know why I'm the only woman here?" Watching her fight was like watching a string of music in fluid motion: everything about her bled liquid electricity. She produced the knives from nowhere, pulled them out of nothingness, out of the air, she wove them through her fingers and made intricate patterns that dazzled your eyes as she lunged. Her movements were wild and reckless and still they held a calculation to them, the slow and measured thought of a lioness stalking its prey.

The air whistled when she sent the knives cutting through it. They always hit the mark of her target, no matter how far away it was. Head. Heart. Stomach.

He knew why she was the only woman.

"Because they're afraid," he responded, and she would reward him with a wide, predatory smile.