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If any nation could embody the very concept of misery, it would be Sonora. Oh, how he could count the ways! Should he start with the weather, a near constant cold that seemed to defy the laws of astrophysics in its constant, biting chill? Even on a day such as this when the rest of the planet was gripped by the will of the blazing sun, Sonora seemed somehow immune to such pleasures, offering nothing but dismal skies and biting winds. Should he, instead, soliloquy on the nature of the Sonora’s citizens? The guards here were always on alert for the abnormal, the foreign, and the untrustworthy which was an unending source of irritation for him who happened to be all three. The common people fared little better. They eyed his silver hair, wild as a dragon’s feathers, the piercing blue of his eyes, and his face sculpted to an artist’s perfection with unending suspicion. Which led him, perhaps, to the most maddening aspect of them all.

Here, he was forced to blend in.

His first visit to the city had been careless. He’d found his way past the city walls on the back of his dragon (a shortcut that he still blessedly possessed) and then walked the streets in his usual style of plush violets, flowing white sleeves, and gleaming gold. He had stood out then, of course, but he was used to the eyes which questioned and reviled and lingered sensuously over the straps of his hips. At least he’d had the sense, as always, to hide his tail. Now he knew the dangers to a foreigner caught walking these dismal streets. He knew, as well, that the authorities didn’t take kindly to those who chose beauty over practicality and preferred color and style over the city’s constant metallic gray. And so he had adapted as he always did. And he hated it.

There was nothing he could do for the hue and style of his hair nor, naturally, the almost uncanny perfection of his facial features, almost doll-like in their symmetry. He refused to go without his lacquered lips or his striking orange eyeshadow which complimented the blue of his eyes. Removing his violet nail polish was also far more trouble than it was worth, and he kept his nails filed into murderous points, but his attire had to change. Gone was the regality of purple and gold. Instead, he embraced a pair of brown leather riding boots, high-heeled and extending nearly to his knee. His collared shirt was in the style of a Gaian commoner though he had rolled up the sleeves and unbuttoned it to keep it from stifling him. Far worse than that, however, were the pants.

A dull brown. Terribly restrictive to a body far more accustomed to free-flowing skirts. And then there was the matter of his tail. He could not merely alter the clothing as Zidane seemed to do so that his tail was open for all to see nor would he wish to even under less pressing circumstances. Instead, he wrapped his tail around his waist, securing it with a plain leather corset which also served to hide the unnatural spiraling lump beneath. When he gazed upon himself in the mirror, he looked if not like a Sonoran native then at least like a traveler from an adjacent kingdom. The effect was convincing and loathsome all at once. He could hardly wait to be free of it.

But unfortunately he had business in town. He almost always did in one place or another as he’d worked to build up his considerable list of contacts across the planet’s more prominent craftsmen, inventors, and sellers of oddities and artifacts. At times, his services as a purveyor of magical talismans and weaponry would be called upon with the promise of a decent haul of gil in return. At others, he would be sent word whenever an item of his specific interests had come into a collector’s hands. This was one of those times.

The door let out a terrible mechanical drone as he stepped inside, a poor replacement for the simple innovation of a bell to signal the arrival of potential customers. The store (or was it more of a warehouse?) smelled as always like decades of accumulated dust and old yellowing pages. He’d grown quite used to that smell among the halls of Daguerreo, and associated it with forgotten places rife with lost knowledge and artifacts that were his for the taking. The owner of the establishment, a human man ravaged by the unpleasant effects of aging, shuffled out to greet him, thumping unpleasantly with his cane with every step.

Kuja greeted him pleasantly. The owner responded with a grunt. Why was it that the elderly always seemed to dislike him on sight? Still, Kuja continued his well-mannered facade, smiling politely even when he felt like raking his nails down the man’s papery skin. The man may have been ill-mannered, but he had the sense to accommodate a patron he knew to pay well, and it had been his letter which had summoned Kuja in the first place. Kuja had left the man with a list of his preferred items should any come into stock. There were magical artifacts, of course, and old books on lore and legend from the region. Below that were interesting works of theater. And this one had most certainly caught his attention.

How a Gaian work had ended up here of all places was beyond him. Perhaps he would ponder the implications of such a phenomenon at a later time. For now, he wished simply to hold it, to possess it, to devour its pages as thoroughly as he always had. For in the shopkeeper’s letter, it had listed several new additions to his inventory in that neat, mechanical script peculiar to the region, and among its contents was one of most pressing interest to him: ”1 x book, stage play, ‘I Want To Be Your Canary.’”

A work of Lord Avon. His favorite, no less, among the playwright’s significant library of comedies. Kuja had readied his dragon immediately. That play would be his. By gil or blackmail or murder if need be, he would not leave without it in his possession.

He inquired after the play, keeping his voice steady so as not to reveal his desperation and raise the price on negotiations, and the shop owner responded that it was still in stock, he thought, somewhere deep in the warehouse. He led Kuja slowly, ever so slowly, down the dusty aisles in the back cramped with boxes and crates that likely hadn’t been touched in decades. Finally, they stopped in front of a shelf that rose up to the ceiling. The shopkeeper pointed to the top, ”Should be up there.”

Kuja watched him expectantly, waiting for the man to retrieve it. Instead, the owner simply turned around and started his slow, shuffling way back to the front of the shop. ”Ladder’s in the back.”

Kuja felt his eyes flare. His nails dug into his palms as he swallowed back his desire for blood. There would be time for that later. If negotiations fell through. If the old fool ever tried to report him to the authorities. If there was ever an item of interest that he was unwilling to part with. There were so many in his life that sought to strip him of his dignity, and there was always, he’d found, a time and place to have his long awaited revenge.

Kuja took a deep breath, steadied himself, and looked up to the highest shelf where his prize theoretically awaited him. A simple float spell would suffice to retrieve it, and once the shopkeeper was out of sight, he waved his hand to cast it. Nothing happened.

He blinked and tried again to no avail. Then he tried casting firaga on an adjacent shelf for good measure as his desire to kill grew exponentially. Still, nothing. It felt as though some core part of him had been cut off at the root. It was as though he had suddenly lost the use of his own hands. An anti-magic field. Kuja’s eye twitched with barely concealed fury. He could write a sonnet, no, an entire epic on his contempt for the city’s love of anti-magic fields.

With no other options left for him, Kuja went in search of the ladder.

It took him some length of time and another length more to find the lever to disable the breaks and start wheeling the unwieldy thing between the narrow aisles. He heard the front door’s atonal drone again and scowled if for no other reason than that his mood was already soured and another customer would hardly serve to improve it. He heard muffled voices up front as he finally directed the ladder in the proper position and struggled to reengage the brakes. Their conversation was short, a woman’s voice contrasted with the unfriendly grumblings of the old man. He heard the tap of high-heeled footsteps as this newest patron entered the warehouse alone. This newest potential customer was, it seemed, below the owner’s interest.

Whatever it was that she was doing, Kuja finally managed to lock the ladder in place and after giving it an experimental tug, he started his climb towards the top. His new boots weren’t made for this, he decided, nor was the box he found at the top which was, distressingly, wooden. He couldn’t see inside from his current angle and was forced to carefully release his grip on the ladder and take the rather heavy box in his arms instead. He cursed the shopkeeper. He cursed this warehouse. He cursed his own interest most of all and his complete powerlessness in the face of a simple anti-magic field.

How easy it would have been to merely move the box by telekinesis! Instead, he was forced to bring it down using only the strength of a body which had not, as it were, been created with heavy lifting in mind.

He shifted it towards him, first on one side then the other as he felt his balance waver, the box teetering ever closer to the edge. Kuja hissed a curse in Terran which, roughly translated, wished the box’s very existence to be stripped from the crystal’s memory. Its weight struck him all at once and Kuja grunted with exertion, wondering if it was worth the effort to bring it down one step by agonizing step down the ladder or if he should simply drop it and hope for the best. His trembling arms told him that he might not have a choice.

’Do it for the play,’ he told himself as he took a slow, laborious step down the first wrung of the ladder. ’Do it for Lord Avon.’

[attr=class,ooc-notes]Even I don't know how it ended up this long.

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Kuja was readying himself for the next step down the ladder when he heard a familiar voice call his name. Well, it wasn’t so much a call as an accusation. Kuja let out a laborious sigh that expressed every bit of the inconvenience he felt at that voice. Why here? Why now? Truly, the wheels of fate had a strange sense of humor.

Kuja glanced over to see her there, the young princess of Alexandria, his primary victim in another time and place. She stood at the end of the dusty aisle in a combative stance not entirely unlike how she wielded her staff only now that staff was replaced by…

Was that a candlestick?

He let out a short laugh despite himself. Short because his muscles were currently engaged in the extreme efforts of both keeping his balance while holding the box over his head. Certainly the shopkeeper must have hired someone to do this in his stead? Why not keep the hired help at hand in cases like these? It was as though he didn’t actually wish to sell any of his collection at all.

”Your Highness,” Kuja greeted her, his voice dripping with mockery as he took yet another strained step closer to the ground. ”I realize this might be a difficult concept to grasp, but as far as I’m aware, we’re both reliant on our magic which is, as you have so astutely observed, currently at a loss.”

Was she truly trying to intimidate him? With a candlestick of all things? The girl didn’t even have her staff to try beating him to death. Perhaps she thought she could trick him into believing she had any sort of allies at all. While he had no doubt that she did have them somewhere (her type always did) they were certainly not here. Otherwise, why try intimidating him herself? It was laughable. Thankfully, he had already laughed.

”If you would like to wait outside until my business here is finished, I would be more than happy to oblige your wishes. What shall you summon upon me this time? In a city as crowded as this? If I may make a request, let it be Atomos. I would love nothing more than for this dismal place to be swallowed by its gaping maw.”

He took another step. Only a few more and he’d feel comfortable dropping this damnable thing without damaging its contents.

”Otherwise, perhaps you could lend me a hand? Assuming you’ve given up your plan of lightly bruising me with a candlestick.”

[attr=class,ooc-notes]Maximum sass, engaged!

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The princess (or queen now as she reminded him) did not, it seemed, have a natural skill for wit and banter. He could hardly blame her, he supposed. She had been raised behind her castle walls, waited upon hand and foot by those who wouldn’t dare show disrespect to one of royal blood. How ironic it was then that she had none of it herself? Ah, but that would have been a blow too low even for him.

And so he waited for her to finish her oh so righteous speeches. She tried, at least. Did that not count for something?

”What are you here for, Kuja? What weapon have you found in Sonora? It won’t help you win! We’ll find a way to stop you!”

”Finally to the point, I see.” Kuja, now relieved of the accursed weight of the wooden box, leapt from the ladder and landed effortlessly upon the ragged carpet below. He crossed his arms, watching coolly as the princess searched the box, ever keeping him in her peripheral vision. What did she expect to find, exactly? A device labeled, ’Press here to end all worlds?’

That would have been quite convenient. But alas.

”You realize that bringing death and destruction is only one of my many hobbies, yes?” He watched her, unamused as she stood between himself and his prize. Assuming the shopkeeper had pointed him towards the correct part of the warehouse which was, in itself, doubtful. Life had never presented an easy path for him, and this was no exception. ”Today I come on other business. Though by all means, continue your skepticism. You know how I so love deceit.”

If only he could use his magic! His fingers twitched to take the box for himself, captured in telekinesis, and rip it from her hands. They did not quite twitch for her murder. Not yet.

Despite her persistence, she was, he supposed, quite justified in her hostility. As much as he hated imagining the experiences of another, it could prove useful from time to time. Perhaps if she had been someone else…

Perhaps if he did not owe Zidane a debt.

Not that he believed in such things.

”Though I must say your words offend me, Your Majesty. Do you truly believe I have only ever stolen my power? Ah yes. What would I, a mage, know of having power as part of my very being and honing it as my own? I am nothing but a common thief, as you say. Or perhaps that was my counterpart…”

He raised a hand to examine his nails. Painted. Pointed. Manicured, yes, but hardly unused to the stain of blood.

”And have you forgotten what I am? The purpose of my creation? Why would you assume I’ve had no weapons training? That would seem quite…counter-intuitive, wouldn’t you say?”

In truth, his time practicing the physical arts had been limited and dreadful. His body had been created with agility in mind. Dexterity was no foreign concept as his duller counterpart so clearly demonstrated. Still, a weapon had never seemed to fit quite right in his hands. It had been the first of his many failures in his creator’s eyes, but he found magic to be far more resourceful. Magic was elegant. Magic was versatile. Magic did not, as it were, require him to damage his manicured hands.

He glanced towards the box and its contents, eyes narrowing. ”Do keep in mind that the piece I’m after is one of extreme rarity. I have it on reserve. And I’d rather hope that you would not be so stupid as to steal away what is rightfully mine.”

[attr=class,ooc-notes]Kuja fought me, but hopefully this is fine!

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Kuja’s patience had its limits. Generally, they were quite low though he managed to keep himself in check through sheer force of will. How long had he suffered indignity after indignity in the courts of Treno? Of Alexandria? He knew well how to hold his tongue, keep his expression placidly clear, and play along as though he didn’t long to clench his hand tightly around another’s throat.

How lucky that he had developed such a skill for a time such as this!

What had begun as a mere hindrance was quickly turning to an endless torment. It wasn’t that he feared the princess (now queen, he reminded himself). Alone and without her magic or her eidolons, he could have simply swept her aside if he so wished. Even without his spells, he had an advantage in height and general constitution. But that would only increase her insistence in the evil at his core, wouldn’t it? And it wouldn’t do to strangle her in the halls of a potentially hostile establishment.

Perhaps he should start to carry a small dagger on hand for cases such as this. It seemed to work for Zidane.

And so he had no choice but to play along. To listen to her self-righteous and often quite ill-informed accusations. Kuja was no stranger to such things, but he could generally find humor in it when his accusers truly knew nothing of him, his mission, or his origins. This was different. This was somehow more…personal.

And oh so very irritating.

”You hardly defeated me,” he said, scoffing even as he was aware of his own defensiveness. ”I grew tired of our battle and destroyed the crystal as intended. If anything, you gave me the push I needed to do it.”

Ugh. Now she’d goaded him into being honest with himself. If her life hadn’t been so precious to Zidane, he would have happily made her pay for that.

”Did I though?” Kuja asked with a wave of his hand. ”Not that I wouldn't have gladly stolen your kingdom, murdered your mother, and taken your eidolons for myself. But as it happens, I don’t recall taking the rule of any kingdom, the death of your mother was in self-defense, and your eidolons were extracted by the meltigemini on the queen’s orders to be delivered directly to her hands. I only ever controlled Bahamut. Again, in self-defense seeing as your hag of a mother had crossed an ocean to set its fire upon me.”

He paused. ”Granted, the siege of Alexandria was my doing. As was the destruction of Madain Sari, albeit on another’s orders. Your hatred is entirely justified though if you are to harass me with your speeches, I’d prefer it be for what I did, and not what you’ve implicated upon me.”

His eyes darted back to that dreadful, hated box. He could have searched it so much more quickly given she didn’t even know what she was looking for. And if she found it? Would she believe it was his only goal? Would she hand it over so they could be done with this farce? He swore, if she tried to take it from him…

Well, his patience had its limits. He could hardly be blamed for whatever happened next.

”By all means. Observe as you wish. As I am not currently scheming, I have nothing to hide.” Kuja pushed back his bangs with a wave of his hand, swishing his hair over his shoulder. ”Nothing more than you at any rate. As you may have noticed, this city is hardly welcoming of outsiders.”

[attr=class,ooc-notes]I love making him mad. It's so easy.