Chapter Text
"—hear me?"
The voice sounds faraway and foggy. Her eyes sting and her whole body hurts, a dull, throbbing ache that radiates from her chest and makes her fingers twitch. It's the only part of her she can move. Yes, she thinks, I hear you. But no words come out. Her tongue isn't working. Outside her eyelids is a bright light. It takes every ounce of effort to drag her eyes open enough to see the blurry shape of someone leaning over her—someone with black hair and dark eyes, the light shining behind her. The sky, she realizes. The sun.
"Oh, thank goodness." Next to the black-haired one is an indistinct blur of brown and pink. It hurts to try and focus. "Hey, stay with me. Are you okay? What's your name?"
It's like there's something lodged in her throat. The sensation makes breathing painful. The questions swim in her mind, so she pulls at her memories, and recalls—
And recalls—
Nothing. There's nothing there.
The sound of shuffling, then footsteps. "I'll get one of the guards." It's a different voice, getting quieter.
Her eyes drift closed. "Hurry, Aerith," she hears. "I don't know if she—"
And—
And then—
Outside, the world tears itself apart, wind whistling through the tower and rattling the gears and machinery. Cold metal presses against her back. A great tremor shakes the pods. If they dislodge, there won't be any way left for them to escape. This tower and crumbling world will be their grave.
Tears sting at the corners of her eyes. She wishes—
She wishes a lot of things.
"I'm glad I don't have to face the end alone," she whispers.
And then she closes her eyes, and everything goes dark.
The first feeling she registers is the discomfort of a hard, cool surface, pressing against her shoulderblades and the back of her skull.
Then: The distant SLAM of metal echoing down an unseen corridor. The sound rings in her ears, then fades to a low, irregular static before coalescing into something else entirely—voices, indistinct and unfamiliar, too far away to make out. Or perhaps only one voice. Trying to focus on it makes the pain in her head spike.
When she squeezes her eyes shut, noise dances behind her eyelids. Her heart pounds. Every muscle in her body feels stiff and leaden, protesting at the thought of moving. Thoughts race too quickly for her to grasp; she tries, instinctively, to reach for a memory, for something to ground her, and finds nothing. Nothing.
"—why he insists on keeping her here." One voice comes into focus. It's loud and sounds—unhappy. "Making us walk down all those stairs. Really!"
The other voice only grunts. They're getting closer. She jerks up, head spinning, and reaches out blindly to steady herself against the wall. Blinking her eyes open reveals only a dim, blurry sliver of light. The footsteps stop, there's an odd noise, and then suddenly, the light gets brighter. A lot brighter. She raises an arm to her face to block it out.
"Ah," the unhappy one says. "She's lucid. Good. Go tell him, would you?"
None of the words make sense to her. She slowly lowers her arm as her eyes adjust to the brightness, and sees an indistinct figure standing in a rectangle of light. She can just make out a long white coat and the glint of glasses.
"With me, child," the figure says. "Can you stand?"
Legs wobbling, she maneuvers them over the side of the surface and carefully touches her feet to the ground. And then—yes, she can stand. The world blurs a little and then comes into sharper focus as she does. She stands and stares. The man in the doorway—that's what the light is, a doorway—stares back, eyebrows knit, mouth downturned.
"Right," he says. "Come along, then."
He leads her down a long, tall corridor lined with identical closed doors, up a huge spiral staircase, and through a twisting path of hallways and archways. She stares wide-eyed at the decor, none of it familiar to her. Where are they? Who are those paintings of? Where are they going? Questions bubble up in her throat, but she can't find her voice.
They enter into a large, rectangular room with cabinets lining one wall, a counter against another, a cot, and a bright overhead light that makes her squint. One section of the room is partitioned off with a long curtain, and he goes to it, rummaging through one of the low drawers.
"Here, child." She approaches. He hands her a bundle of thin white fabric that feels light in her arms. "Put this on, and be quick about it."
Then he leaves, drawing the curtain closed behind him. She's alone. A lump forms in her throat. She hasn't gotten to ask any of her questions, and her feet ache from all the walking. She unfolds the bundle to reveal a plain gown, nearly as long as she is tall and with long, loose sleeves. It would be easy to put it on over her clothes, and it wouldn't take very long. But he left her alone, so—that probably isn't what he meant by put this on.
She looks down at her own attire. She has on a zippered shirt, a short jacket, a pleated skirt, fingerless gloves, and long socks, one of which is falling down and getting bunched around the top of her boot. There's a chain hanging from her belt, too, with lots of little metal stars dangling from it. Looking at it makes her feel a bit better. But—the man told her to do something. So she should do it.
She changes into the gown, and after deliberating over it, leaves her other clothes folded in a neat pile on the nearby counter. Then, in absence of further instruction, she pushes the curtain aside and slips through.
The man is still there, leaning against the counter and staring down through his spectacles at something on the clipboard in his hands. He looks up when she appears.
"Good," he says. "Drink this—you're dehydrated. And sit there, if you would."
He gestures to the cot, so she gingerly sits down on the edge of it and takes the cup of liquid he hands her. It's clear and odorless, and when she brings it to her lips, it doesn't taste like anything. So—probably water. And it does help, a little bit. The knot in her throat loosens and the gnawing in her stomach subsides somewhat as she sips.
The man uses a metal instrument to listen to her heartbeat and her lungs, then shines a light down her throat and in each of her eyes; after she finishes the water, he has her stand on a scale and measures her height and weight. Each time, he makes a "hm" noise and pauses to write something down on his clipboard. None of it is as bad as she expects it to be; just odd and a little uncomfortable.
He stares down at his writings, tapping the pen against his chin. It's quiet for a moment, and it makes her feel tense, like a coiled spring. Maybe she should say something. Is she allowed to ask questions? But the words get caught in her throat, and before she can work up the courage, the man beats her to it.
"What's your name, child?" he asks without looking up.
And she freezes. The temperature of the room seems to drop, sending a deep chill through her veins. It's a simple question. She understands what he's asking of her. But she can't answer. Can't even begin to approach it.
What's your name?
He looks at her, frowns, then snaps his fingers next to her ear. She flinches. His frown deepens.
"Are you able to speak?" he asks.
An easier question. "Yes," she whispers.
"Ah. Good." He crosses something out. "Did you hear my question?"
She nods her head, clenching her hands in the fabric of her gown. Suddenly she doesn't care to speak at all. Her head spins and throbs.
"Well?" he goes on. "Have you a name?"
She shakes her head the slightest amount. It feels like an admission of guilt.
His eyebrows go up. "You don't have one, or you don't remember?"
He said it, and now she can't avoid thinking it: I don't remember. Where her name should be is a void, and if she traces the edge of it she can find a vast swath of nothingness where memory should live. She won't panic. She won't. She swallows hard, struggling to construct a response. "I—"
For a moment, she's saved. The door opens and the man turns at the sound. In walks someone new—another white coat, tall and straight-shouldered, with long, striking silver hair that cascades down his back. He looks the wrong way at first. She's sure she's never seen him before.
And then he turns and meets her eyes, and she isn't so sure anymore.
His eyes are bright and golden, intent with focus, and they flicker across her face as if searching for something. Her muscles tense, pulse quickening, fingers clenching.
"Xehanort," the bespectacled man says sharply. "It's about time. Your pet stray here is—"
The sharp-eyed man—Xehanort, Xehanort, Xehanort—steps towards her, and she jerks backwards, further than she'd meant, sending her tumbling to the floor in a painful sprawl; in her peripheral vision, she sees his eyes widen, and he takes another step, hand reaching out—
She collapses, lungs heaving, strength spent. Her fingers twitch around empty air. It wasn't enough. She doesn't have the energy to plead or cry or be angry. Let it be quick, she thinks as they raise their blade. Let it be quick. Let it be—
”—breathe. Breathe. Look at me."
A pair of firm hands grasp her shaking shoulders, holding her steady. Those bright yellow eyes meet hers, narrow and intent. She gulps in air, lungs burning, and presses herself back. She's on the floor, wedged between the cabinets and the corner where two walls meet. When did that happen?
"Do you hear me?" he asks.
"Yes," she breathes.
He looks at the other one, the one who took her from the small room, then back to her. "Do you know where you are?"
She blinks, the corners of her eyes stinging. No. She doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know what place this is, or who these people are, and she hasn't understood anything since she woke up in the room.
"Where are the others?" she whispers.
He frowns. "What others?"
"The—the others." An uncomfortable feeling wells up in her chest, like a dam about to overflow. "My friends. Where are my friends?"
The silence drags on for a long moment. She struggles to draw breath, hiccuping with every inhale. It suddenly seems clear: Her friends. Yes. She was with her friends.
But when she woke up, she was alone.
Which feeling is true?
"I'm afraid there was no one with you when you were found," the bespectacled one finally says. "Were you—"
"Quiet," the sharp-eyed one says. His fingers clench around her shoulders and she winces. "What else do you remember?"
"I—I don't know. Nothing."
"You do know. Try."
She squeezes her eyes shut. It's as if the memory were dragged from her, tearing painfully at her insides on its way out, but now that she's said it, she knows it—can feel it in her heart. My friends. Who are they? She draws a shuddering breath and tries, tries, tries to remember—
A red scarf and a bright smile. Pink hair and a tattered waistcoat. A feathered hat. A bright, shining light. Yes. Yes, she remembers.
And—something else, too. Stained glass and a choice. Darkness, light, and a key. It's a warm feeling; something she knows by heart. Something she couldn't forget, even if she tried.
"What was that?"
She startles, jolted out of the feeling. The images slip away like sand through a sieve. "Huh?"
He holds her gaze with her own, fierce and unblinking. "What you just said. Repeat it."
"I—" She wants to look away, but she can't. Trying to hold onto the memory hurts, like pinprick needles behind her eyelids. "I-I don't—I'm sorry. I don't know."
The sharp-eyed man slowly draws away, releasing his grip on her shoulders and rising to his feet. He towers over her, silhouetted in shadow, his eyes seeming nearly to glow in the darkness. Her blood feels cold.
"Do you know this girl, Xehanort?" comes the bespectacled man's voice.
The sharp-eyed one studies her, their eyes meeting. Yes. She wants to shout it. In that moment, she's certain of it. You know me. Tell me you know me. Tell me who I am.
Then he looks away, and the moment passes. "I've never seen her before."
"She's clearly confused. Perhaps Master Ansem—"
"No. Master Ansem needn't know of this."
A pause. "Do you really think that's wise?"
"He may be our master, but he is short-sighted. If we could present him with our findings, he'd surely see reason. But if we act prematurely, we'll never have the chance. Don't you agree?"
"What exactly do you intend to do?"
"This girl is the perfect specimen. If we could find a way to evoke her memories..."
"This girl is a perfectly normal, healthy young woman. Whatever abnormalities she may possess are likely psychological, if anything. I don't know what you expect to find."
"'Perfectly normal' doesn't simply fall from the sky."
"You did."
He grunts, then takes the clipboard from the other man and looks through it. "Her name?"
"Don't you think I asked? She hasn't got one."
"She needs a designation."
"By all means, be my guest."
They both look at her then, and she shies away, the instinct to flee tugging at her, but there's nowhere to go. The sharp-eyed one—Xehanort—crouches in front of her again. He reaches out, and she jerks away, but he only narrows his eyes before grasping one of her wrists and easily pulling it towards him. It only hurts a little bit, and she tries to be still, then, because these people are—trying to help her, aren't they? There's something wrong with her, and they're trying to figure out what. That's a good thing. Isn't it? So she tries to be still.
Then his grip tightens, and it doesn't hurt a little anymore. It hurts a lot.
There's a sharp pain, an acrid smell, and a strange noise that she realizes a moment later is her own voice, a shocked wail drawn unwillingly from her throat. He pulls his hand away and dusts it against his sleeve, observing the mark left on her skin: where he gripped the inside of her wrist, just beneath the flesh of her palm, are two stark, precise lines, joined at a right angle to form a perfect X.
"The unknown variable," tuts the other man. "Really?"
"Are you a man of science, or aren't you?" He stands and hands the clipboard back without pausing. "See that she's returned to her cell."
Then Xehanort is gone, and the other man is looking at her with an uncomfortable expression. She stares at the new mark on her wrist, vision blurred with pain. It still burns, and she has to bite down hard on her tongue to keep from making any more noises. There must be a reason. A reason why he did it. She just doesn't know it yet. There are a lot of things she doesn't know.
"Come with me, child," the bespectacled man says quietly.
So she stands, with shaking legs, and she follows.