Arms Race: This ain't a scene, it's an arms race

“This ain't a scene, it's a goddamn arms race...”

Once, it had been a proud city, ruled fairly by a generous and forgiving King.

Now it was ruled by fear and hatred; the King deposed by one of his trusted advisors. A small resistance still struggled to right the past, and return glory to the kingdom.

It had suffered a grievous blow. The unofficial leader, the once-Senator Xemnas had been slain, gunned down with eleven of his twelve faithful bodyguards while they entered the city incognito to smuggle out some protesters that had been imprisoned at the start of the War.

Without its head, the Resistance would crumble, fall apart, and easily be crushed beneath his heel.

DiZ- for that was what he called himself now- sat back in his comfortable chair, in his comfortable apartment, and smiled. Everything had fallen so nicely into place. Now he had nothing at all to fear.

Nothing at all.

***

Zexion imagined he was still dead. It was really the only explanation for the darkness surrounding him. Really. He'd been shot- what, seven times? Eight? He'd lost count.

It hadn't really mattered, anyway. Xemnas was already dead when Zexion himself fell. Or, if not dead, had suffered the fatal hit.

So he had failed in his mission.

How typical.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and jerked as he realized he'd just breathed.

In fact, he had to breathe.

Wallowing in self-guilt could wait. Obviously, something had changed. Trying to sit up, he realized he was trapped in a small area roughly the size of his own body. He immediately panicked, trying to throw his hands up against what was covering him. A coffin! He was buried, buried already? Alive?

*Rest easy, My child.*

Zexion sucked in another long, shuddering breath, feeling a wail build in his chest. He swallowed it down, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. “Who... are you?” he managed to croak, feeling out the ceiling of where he was trapped. “Where... where am I?”

*You are not underground, as you fear.* The voice was soothing, female, and a faint greenish glow filled the area he was in, showing it was much longer than he actually was. *You are where the dead rest only temporarily, before returning to Me.*

He was in a metal box. No- not a box. A drawer. A metal drawer.

I'm in a morgue. Shuddering, he bit his lip again. “Help me,” he rasped, unashamed of the begging quality to his voice.

 
*You must help yourself, My Child.*The voice sounded a bit abashed. *I cannot.*

The drawers were labeled one through twelve. He was in drawer number six. They are all dead, then. His hand shook as he reached for the drawer next to him, number five, barely daring to see if it truly was the Number Five of the Organization that they called themselves.

*There are some things you do not have to see,* said the same voice as before, and his hand stopped itself of its own accord. The green glow filled the room now, and Zexion finally let himself snap.

Throwing himself out of the drawer, he attempted to run for the door, desperate to escape. However, his legs wouldn't hold him, and, all his energy spent from freeing himself, he toppled over almost immediately. Unable to rise, he simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling. “Why?” he hit the floor, and was suddenly overwhelmed by feeling.

He wanted to sob, and held it back. Nine years ago, they had been experiments for the very man who had ordered their deaths. Nine years ago, he and his compatriots had been robbed of their hearts, their emotions, and their very selves.

Now, it seemed, Zexion had it all back- at the worst possible time.

“Why me!” He hit the floor again, bruising his knuckles. “Tell me!”

*There is something I require of you,* she said, and she sounded sad, but firm. *Something only you can do.*

“...who are you?” Zexion finally asked, realizing he had been talking to air since he awoke.

The green glow coalesced into the figure of a woman- or was she something... else? She was never quite solid, never quite the same from moment to moment. *I am your Mother, Ienzo. I am the Mother of your friends, your comrades, and your enemies. And My wayward children have done too much to anger Me now. There are things only you can do, Ienzo. Things I need you to do to stop them...*

“Why me!” Zexion shook his head, hands fisting up, unwilling to believe he was not only talking to a Goddess, but that She had hand-picked him from his comrades to return, and to have his greatest wish fulfilled, just as his reasons for wishing for it were taken away. “Surely anyone would have been better! Saix, Xemnas, even Demyx... Lexaeus...” His voice broke on the last name, and he hated himself for it. He hated Her even more.

*These are things only you can do,* She repeated firmly, reaching to touch his hand. It was like he'd plunged it into ice-cold water, and he jerked back. *Things will get worse before they get better, I will admit this to you. But I promise you, you will not be alone forever...*

Zexion shook his head, closing his eyes as tightly as he could. “I just don't understand.”

*You will,* She promised, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It felt... strange, but it gave him the strength to pull himself to his feet and limp slowly towards the door. *And I leave you this.* Her hand covered his, and when She pulled it back, a red summon orb lay in his hand. *Use it well, My child. I know you will succeed in this, where others have failed.*

Zexion looked down at the orb and swallowed as hard as he could, nodding. “I will,” he said, pushing the door open and stumbling into the next room. Looking up, he focused on the first person he saw- he didn't recognize her- and focused as much of his remaining strength as he could into his voice.

“Get me water,” he rasped, his voice sounding like he'd been dead for much longer than a few hours. “Now.”