Welcome to Adventu, your final fantasy rp haven. adventu focuses on both canon and original characters from different worlds and timelines that have all been pulled to the world of zephon: a familiar final fantasy-styled land where all adventurers will fight, explore, and make new personal connections.
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year 5, quarter 3
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Nero opened his eyes slowly, his mind quickly attempting to restart and assess the situation before him. Not a stranger to unexpectedly being put to sleep, he found himself not awfully concerned that he’d woken up in a strange room with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. Perhaps, if he’d seen scalpels or chains, he’d have flown into a panic and flew the coop, so to speak, but here he saw nothing immediately worth worrying over.
Limbs stiff, the Tsviet stretched on the makeshift cot he’d been placed in, a mess of terrible bed-head twisted in a blanket, and began to mentally address all that he could. He was certainly alive and breathing, the darkness helpfully reminded him as it pressed against his waking, weaker state. His arms and legs felt moderately sore, as if he’d been lying in bed for far too long. He was lying on his stomach, face pressed into a small pillow, still free of the pesky mask he’d long worn to keep control of the void within.
Odd. Why was his back stiff? Nero flexed his shoulders, grunting as his sore muscles were pulled from the motion. It felt … tender, and light. Moving his head, he blearily glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on.
However, he saw nothing. Nothing. For the first time in many years, glorious nothing. The Sable stared over his shoulder, dumbfounded, as meager cheer began to creep into his gut. The wings were gone. Those awful contraptions that the Deepground scientists had surgically attached to the nerves and muscles of his back in some sort of sick parody, they had been removed. Nero finally began to rise, pushing himself up on his arms and knees, feeling light, feeling free.
But, how? Why?
As the sheet pulled down from his lithe, tattooed body, Nero realized the top half of his jumpsuit had been pulled down to allow for this surgery. Yet, as he reached back to feel for the stitches, his fingers only met tight, raised skin -- scars. How could he have healed so quickly? It had to be --
Idiot, what was the last thing you remember? Why are we here?
The Tsviet sat on the edge of the cot, running his hands over the exposed, pale skin of his arms. The last thing he remembered? Had he not been … passing out? Right, delirious and dehydrated in front of the stranger. Oh, that man. Nero recalled him in glorious detail. Silver hair shining in the sunlight that peeked in from the opening to the oasis. Bright, blue eyes, filled with concern and curiosity. His voice, soft and soothing, had relaxed his despairing soul, even as he passed out.
Is … Is he the one who did this? For me?
Nero immediately felt sick. No, no, not sick. Elated. His heart began to pound in his chest, faster and faster, as excitement crawled up and down his skin. His lips worked their way into a smile, quiet laughter bubbled up from his throat. He was grinning, quietly giggling with joy and happiness, his heart warm and endorphins surging through his body.
For me, he did this for me -- he helped me. I’m not sick. I’m not dying. I am free. He, he, who is he? I have to know. I have to thank him.
Rising from the cot, Nero took in the rest of his surroundings. He was in a room of its own, a cave, lit dimly by candles. His red eyes found a few items resting on the floor by the entrance of the room; a change of clothes, a small plate of food, and a cup filled with water. The Sable made his way over to the items, taking his time to stretch the stiff muscles in his thin legs, before reaching down to collect what had been left for him.
The set of clothes that had been left for him were clearly made for adventuring. The shirt was soft and tight, but stretchy, a dark fabric meant to protect the skin from the sun and repel the sweat one would experience in the desert. The pants were thicker, fitted with pockets for supplies, ready to repel the elements and keep the wearer comfortable and safe. Nero quickly tugged and fought with the bottom half of his jumpsuit, loosening the various straps and belts that had trapped him within it. The jumpsuit, powered with mako, was meant to keep his power under control when he was unstable.
But, this man, Nero could be stable around. He reminded him so much of Weiss. His brother was the only other person in the world that the Sable felt comfortable enough to remain in control of his power around. When they were together, there was no need for restraint, for caution. Nero would never, ever allow the darkness to hurt his beloved brother.
And now, he would extend the same promise to his man.
Nero slipped into the outfit that had been left for him, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt out of habit, and using one of his many discarded belts to keep the pants tight. It came as no surprise that the pants were too big, he was unnaturally frail and skinny, as the void took such a toll on his body. He grabbed his boots, stuffing the ends of the pantlegs down into them, and stood still for a moment -- trying to adjust.
He brushed off the odd feeling of the loose clothing -- well, much more loose than he was used to. He glanced around the small room, before eyeing the small plate of food and water left for him, as if waiting to see if anyone or anything else would dare take it from him. It was gone, quickly, Nero taking advantage of having a small meal for the first time in god knew how long. The water was crisp, refreshing on his throat.
Was this how normal people felt, every day? Waking up to good news, slapping on their own clothes, having a meal? He wouldn’t know, but he could imagine and dream.
Nero turned his attention to the doorway, as he used the darkness to take his Deepground jumpsuit away, into temporary storage. He needed to go out and find the man who’d helped him so, so much. To thank him for his kindness, to ask what he could do in return. There was a mixture of emotions floating through the Tsviets’ heart, things he hadn’t felt since long before he’d woken up on this strange world. Gratitude, peace, happiness, the warmth of love. Weiss still lingered in his mind, of course, and Nero ached to have him back. But, as it currently was, Nero would return to his brother someday in a much better condition than he had once before.
Mentally preparing himself to interact with another human, the Sable wrangled confident control over the darkness. Gone were the hungry, curious wisps and tendrils that typically surrounded his form. His shadow was of no concern. For all intents and purposes, he appeared as a normal human with a tattoo fetish. He attempted to fix the untameable mop of hair on his head, before quickly giving up on it. Nero released a nervous breath, before finally walking out of the small, side room he’d been left in.
Before him was a cavern, with many different caves and rooms dotted about. The cavern was lit -- was that by magic? He didn’t see any lights -- but not too terribly bright. Nero took a few cautious steps, listening as his boots echoed off of the stone walls. There was nothing directly ahead of him, nothing behind him. It was quiet, peaceful.
“... Hello?” Nero tested his voice, smooth and quiet, as it reverberated off of the cavern walls. Even speaking in such a silent tone as he did, it still traveled. If the kind stranger was here, he would likely hear it.
And Nero, he did not want to intrude where he wasn’t welcome. It was rude. He would wait, until the man made himself known.
Rise and take flight, darling Let's soar high For the first time in forever you're alive Don't you forget that
Kuja's laying it on thick. That means he wants something and he's intimidated. =3
Why should the world exist without me?
The surgery took six hours. It wasn't that the work was particularly difficult -- he could have stabilized the man's condition in less than twenty minutes if he'd hurried -- but Kuja was a perfectionist. He took to even his unwilling work with pride, and could hardly stop himself once he'd laid out the half-dead mess on a table before him.
First came the matter of the man's "wings," if they could be called that. Kuja touched at them curiously, tracing where metal met skin and examining the robotic connectors that ran from base to tip. They were body enhancements -- of that he was certain -- controlled by neural input along the spinal cord. It was highly advanced technology, likely the work of his world's brightest minds, to give him some secondary set of limbs in combat. Some engineer must have slaved away for months crafting them, and the surgery could only have been the thing of scientific miracles.
Kuja removed them immediately. Half to gain better access to his body and half because the application was crude and the aesthetic was offensive. Upon opening the man's back, he found the connectors fused to nerves and muscle fibers as though by a welding torch. The work of amateurs, really, without basic knowledge of magic and only a half-wit's comprehension of anatomy. Kuja scowled his disgust and started the painstaking task of slicing apart flesh and reconnecting it with magic.
So passed the first four hours.
The rest he spent on basic medical care with obvious priority on the gaping holes boring into the man's spine. Once the muscle was all in place, Kuja wasted an hour trying to remove the godforsaken scar tissue where the wings had torn through skin. The wounds were too old. The flesh too traumatized. In the end, he compromised on practicality rather than aesthetic. The muscle fibers connected smoothly. The nerves fired fine. What did it matter that two ugly gorges remained as a hideous reminder of his defeat?
Kuja nearly set the scars on fire and left the whole project to burn with them.
He spent the last half hour curing the man's dehydration, heat stroke, and fatigue. It was simple work accomplished with only obvious insight and casual flicks of his hand. Once finished, he prepared a room for him deeper in the caverns and tossed him on a make-shift bed he'd thrown together out of spare cloth and travelers' silks. He left behind a plate of food and water as a show of hospitality, and then rifled through some spare clothes because he couldn't stand to look at that tacky blue-lit jumpsuit any longer. Once finished, he spun magic around the room's entrance to alert him should the man awaken and start wandering into Kuja's business. Then he left without another thought given.
His original work sat abandoned and forgotten where he'd left it on his crafting bench. Kuja returned to it with his mind derailed and his jaw set.
Beyond scheming and world-shifting plots, Kuja needed money. If he was to set up a proper base, he needed resources, and for that he needed paying work. It hadn't taken him long to slip back into his first craft -- the one that had granted him his fortune in Treno -- weapons-dealing. He would frequent the nearby towns on the back of his dragon, buying cheap weaponry and amulets to charm and then sell back. There was an endless market for daggers which could poison on first touch or pendants which could clear the mind of confusion. This particular piece, a pair of leather bracers, he'd pilfered off an unfortunate adventurer which had stumbled into his desert caverns.
Weak and not particularly useful, Kuja had killed him, stripped him of valuables, and fed the corpse to his dragon. The clothes he'd tossed aside for later deconstruction. Now they found use as an offering to the strange man who'd fallen through his ceiling. So long as he'd cleaned them of blood, he hardly saw a reason not to repurpose them until he could buy better replacements in town.
Kuja had only just finished work on the bracers when his neck prickled at a disturbance in his magic. He paused, hand still sparking with his spells, before he gave a sigh and set the armor aside. The man had gained consciousness faster than Kuja had expected, but he supposed that only spoke of his resiliency. He set off to meet the man with a wave and a smile.
And to stop him from stumbling into anything he shouldn't.
He found the man lurking uncertainly in the cavern's antechamber. Without those hideous wings and the accompanying jumpsuit, he looked a little better if Kuja lowered his standards and squinted from the shadows. He was still as thin as a corpse with hair as unfamiliar to conditioner as it was to a comb. His limbs looked unnatural on him, slipping through clothes two sizes too large. Kuja wondered what a haircut and a half-decent cardigan would do for him. Maybe he could even stand to look at him one day.
Maybe.
"...Hello?" The man must have sensed his presence because he called out to him now, glancing around uncertainly as though he expected an answer. Kuja let out a long breath before straightening and plastering on his most hospitable smile.
The situation was delicate. If Kuja wanted a chance at either the man's magic or his loyalties, he would have to approach every meeting with utmost patience.
"You're awake, I see," Kuja said as he stepped carefully from the shadows. He tilted his head in interest, eyes as gentle as his smile. "You're not in any pain, I hope? It took some time to stabilize you. If you hadn't stumbled upon my oasis-..." He paused as though the thought was too terrible for him to complete. Then he turned to meet the man's eye. "But that's in the past. Perhaps it's time for an introduction?"
Kuja took a step forward, waving one arm in a regal flip of his sleeve as he slid into a formal bow as easily as breathing. "Kuja. I'm a sorcerer by trade and, as you'd noted, a dragon tamer." He straightened and let his eyes fall on the man before him. He touched thoughtfully at his bottom lip. "And what of you?" he asked. "Tell me of yourself. Your name? Your work? How you came to fall through my ceiling?" He gave a soft, chiming laugh behind the back of his hand.
Uh. Nero is fucking weird. I am so sorry, but also not sorry at all xD
The man’s soft, elegant voice broke the silence of the cave mere moments after Nero had called a curious greeting into the air. It didn’t startle him, however, not much of anything did. His red eyes quickly found the man, curious and cautiously excited. The smile on the stranger’s face was calm and warm, as he expressed his concern for the Sable’s well-being. As if Nero needed anything else to be said for his heart to leap and spread comforting warmth through the rest of his body.
Quickly motioning into a regal bow of sorts, the stranger introduced himself as Kuja. Kuja, so short and simple. The name was immediately stitched into his mind, repeatedly fondly in his head.
A sorcerer and dragon tamer, though? How … strange. So very strange. Sorcerer, where had Nero heard that word before? It was from a story that Weiss had told him as a child, yes? About kings and princesses and dragons and magic. Not magic as he knew it -- something that only really existed as a mass-produced weapon for a company that had it all, but free magic. Someone that could make fire with the wave of a hand, could summon a beast before him. A children’s fairy tale.
Kuja turned his inquiries quickly to Nero, whose eyes widened in partial confusion and alarm. He was not used to being called upon, at all. Growing up detested and feared, typically the only ones who ever spoke to the Sable had been his superiors, his fellow Tsviets, and his brother. Only Weiss ever spoke to him softly, gently, genuinely. His light in the darkness.
Right, introductions. He had no such formal bow, but he did have a salute, typically only used for his brother but -- what else was he to do? Were bows … normal? Did people not shake hands here? No one had ever shaken his hand in greeting before anyways, so perhaps that would have been equally as awkward.
Nero slid his left arm behind his back, his right coming across his torso to make a fist over his heart. He bowed his head, however, keeping his eyes focused on Kuja. It would be too heartbreaking to raise from that salute and open his eyes to see anyone other than Weiss on the receiving end, after all.
“My name is Nero,” he began, relaxing from his stiff salute, forming answers to Kuja’s questions as he went along, “I am … Well, I suppose I am still a soldier, of sorts.”
That was a difficult answer. Typically, telling someone that you were an experiment to create the greatest super soldier in the world didn’t quite go over well. Hell, it hadn’t gone over well for the men who had created him, as they quickly met their fates at the hands of an infant that had no control of the mad power they’d imbued him with. What else was he, other than a failed creation or a soldier? He was …
He was …
Nothing.
Nero turned his attention away from Kuja for a moment, suddenly and utterly terrified that the man may have seen the moment of pure worthlessness that passed through his eyes. He turned on his heel, glancing about the large atrium behind him, as if there were anything to even be seen there. His hand clasped together, the nervous habit he never quite realized he was even doing.
“I caught wind of a rumor,” Nero began softly, turning back towards Kuja, but refusing to make eye contact with the kind sorcerer, “Of a powerful man, with silvery white hair, who unleashed dragons and chaos on Torensten.”
The Tsviet brought his arms around himself, finally eyeing Kuja with some embarrassment from behind the long, messy bangs that fell over his face, “They said he was last seen headed towards the desert.”
As he ran over the words in his head, Nero realized how silly and strange they would sound to a stranger. That he mistook this vague rumor for some faint hope that it was his brother, that he took to the desert with literally no plan and had suffered the consequences. The shame slid easily onto his shoulders, a familiar cape he’d worn his whole life. Moron, idiot, now you must explain that you wasted his time and hospitality simply because you were a fool.
Nero worried on his bottom lip a moment, embarrassed, holding tightly to his own thin frame, “The rumors, they reminded me of my brother. I … foolishly wandered into the desert to find him. I was teleporting blindly when I fell through your ceiling.”
It was mostly true. He was teleporting blindly, but the darkness may very well have led him to that oasis purposefully. After all, he was naught but a host to it, and if he were to die once more, it would be vanquished as well. If anything, it was likely to take better care of him this time around, at least until it found a way to break free of him.
Nero’s head snapped up, suddenly aware he hadn’t thrown himself at Kuja’s feet in thanks yet. Ah, but what was proper protocol for thanking someone? The only person he’d ever thrown his thanks and gratitude towards was Weiss, and his usual ritual for such a thing seemed much too intimate for a stranger. Attempting to imitate normal humans was already beginning to tire his mind, and he’d barely started even trying.
“Thank you,” Nero began, the words beginning to gush over his pale lips before he could even review them, the urgency to finally get the words out obvious in the bounce of his heel, “For everything you have done for me. Truly. Very few people in my lifetime have shown me such kindness.”
He released the death grip he’d had on his own arms, now staring at Kuja with his strange mixture of emotions in tact once more. Adoration, thanks, curiosity, and odd hunger to pay back this kindness. Nero had never felt so strongly about another person that wasn’t related to him. He’d never known the kindness of a stranger. Much like a starving dog on the street that had finally found a loving home, he watched Kuja with bright, but dangerous eyes, begging for another touch of that wonderful, precious attention; I’ll do anything, anything, anything for you. Please, let me do something, anything.
“If there is any way I could repay your kindness,” Nero led on, his voice thoughtful and warm, almost airy in it’s obvious adoration for the sorcerer, “Please, tell me, Kuja. I will do anything.”
Oh, oh, just saying that name sent a chill up his spine. There was that familiar feeling; the eagerness to obey that had been bred into the Tsviets’ very bones. He craved that, an order, a desire, anything. The prospect excited him, he couldn’t simply leave without giving Kuja something in return, no, anything and everything in return. Whatever the man wanted.
Let me show you, oh please, please, tell me what you desire so that I may make it a reality. Anything, anything, for you, to make you happy, to please you.
Rise and take flight, darling Let's soar high For the first time in forever you're alive Don't you forget that
It became quickly apparent that Kuja had no need for such caution. Whatever had put fear into the man before was gone now. No, now his eyes were bright -- almost eager -- as he looked to Kuja with something akin to excitement.
Was that...Was that admiration?
At the request of his name, the man glanced away sheepishly. His hands twisted together in anxious thought, and Kuja couldn't help but wonder what on earth could have prompted such anxiety. He'd asked nothing but simple questions, or so he'd thought anyway. A name. An occupation. Why he'd barged into his secret oasis. And yet the man hesitated. Kuja half-expected the man to tell him he had no name like that ridiculous Warrior when the stranger suddenly straightened and met his eye.
He slid one hand over his chest and the other behind his back in a rigid and unfamiliar salute. Kuja raised an eyebrow. He had certainly never been greeted like that before, though he wasn't unfamiliar to it. It was the mark of a soldier, though Kuja hadn't the faintest idea why the man thought it appropriate now. Was it so ingrained in him that he knew nothing else? At least it came with the offering of a name and a confirmation that Kuja hardly needed.
"My name is Nero. I am … Well, I suppose I am still a soldier, of sorts.”
'Really,' Kuja mused behind a faint smirk. 'And here I thought you were saluting me for the fun of it.'
"A soldier. How interesting," he said instead.
It wasn't, of course, except as another means to understand this strange man. Nero, he'd called himself. The name brought to mind murder, tyrants, and insanity -- though that could only be a coincidence. The salute had told him far more about Nero than his words. The man knew nothing outside the military, or at the very least, he pretended to know nothing. Kuja had always loathed that kind of lockstep obedience, but he supposed it had its uses. Manipulation, for instance.
The man turned away, rocking back on his heels nervously as he looked upon the atrium. Kuja tilted his head in mild interest. The man's hands twisted together in an uneasy rhythm.
Nero told him that he'd come to the desert in search of a rumor. The nasty rumors of Torensten, it seemed. 'A powerful man, with silvery white hair, who unleashed dragons.' Kuja almost laughed at his own title. How little public perception could change! It was Gaia all over again -- a mysterious man on the back of a dragon. That was his way, he supposed. Always stealing attention and always shrouded equal parts in mystery and power. He paused to examine the chipping lacquer of his nails, a self-assured smirk creeping upon his lips.
The man, however, had no such self-assurances. He hardly met Kuja's eye as he fidgeted, arms tight around his chest and fingers digging into his jacket sleeves. “The rumors, they reminded me of my brother. I … foolishly wandered into the desert to find him. I was teleporting blindly when I fell through your ceiling.”
Kuja raised an eyebrow. "Teleporting?" he echoed. "Is that what you can do? That strange magic of yours?" He paused. Teleportation was a highly advanced art impossible to learn without complete mastery of the arcane. And yet, this man hadn't exactly given the impression of discipline. Kuja touched his lip thoughtfully. "I've managed teleportation myself, actually. I'd be fascinated to hear of your methods." Fascinated both for academic curiosity and for practical use. If the man could effortlessly teleport, then that could be worth something.
The man's attention snapped back to him. He stood at rapt attention, eyes wide, almost glistening with interest. It was the kind of look that nearly made Kuja recoil. There was intensity behind it and something else he couldn't quite identify. He didn't like it.
“Thank you." The words came in quick bursts accompanied by an eager bounce of his heel. “For everything you have done for me. Truly. Very few people in my lifetime have shown me such kindness.”
'Kindness?' Kuja felt his mouth open uncertainly. What kindness was he talking about? Saving his life? He supposed that would count, but-
Those eyes were on him again.
The man was beaming. Smiling. Bouncing like a child on his heel as he watched Kuja with such intense expectation that Kuja could only stare back at him, mouth agape at the sudden turn. No one had ever looked at him that way before. No one, but-
-Those bright blue eyes staring up at him -- watching him like they always did. He couldn't escape them. Those eyes, those scrambling legs, that idiot's smile, and all beneath a scrappy shroud of blonde.
'Kuja, can I come with you! Kuja, come on! Look at me, I'm-!'
Kuja's fist tightened. He hated those loathsome eyes.
“If there is any way I could repay your kindness,” Nero continued, watching him with that dim-witted adoration. “Please, tell me, Kuja. I will do anything.”
Kuja took a short breath. Every second spent with this man sent his tail bristling, but he prided himself on his control. If the man hadn't had something to offer him, he'd have taken pleasure in destroying that trust and watching the man's world shatter. But no. Nero had his magic. He was a soldier, which promised something of value. No matter how stupid, no matter how disconcerting, Kuja had little choice but to humor him. Not if he wished to make progress in his schemes, at any rate. And not while the Warrior was doubtlessly out for his blood.
And so he took the man's offer for what it was. A declaration of submission. The words twisted in his throat, but at least Kuja was on the proper side of it for once.
'Please, tell me. I will do anything.'
Those were the words of puppets and playthings begging for abuse. Kuja would have struck him across the cheek if he'd had less to lose and there hadn't been a dark humor to it all. He had never seen anyone so eager to place himself at another's mercy, and it sickened him.
"Well," Kuja said, and then paused thoughtfully. "If you don't mind, would you stay here for a time?" The words curdled on his tongue, but he didn't have a choice. His schemes were nowhere near fruition, and he hardly wished to waste an open favor on furthering his research. No, he would use it only when it came time to act, and for that, he would need to keep the man close. Assuming, of course, that Nero didn't object to the leash.
"I realize it is much to ask, but I'm in need of protection, you see." His eyebrows furrowed in worry as he bit lightly at the tip of his nail. "After that troublesome business in Torensten, there is a man who seeks my head. Several, perhaps, if he's been spreading lies." Kuja gave a delicate sigh. "You are by no means obligated, of course, but if you're lost and I'm fearful..." He glanced over to meet the man's eye. "It would make sense, I think."
Kuja straightened and lowered his hand, eyes wandering to the atrium as though in thought. "If you decline, I'm certain that I could think of some other task. I'd offer you transport back to town on my dragon. But really, I was hardly expecting payment at all." His eyes glittered with the lie as he took several steps forward. Kuja lifted his gaze to meet his, a smile playing at his lips.
"Well, what do you say? It would be a pleasure to have you, Nero."
Kuja was silent a moment, his beautiful, blue eyes stuck on Nero. The Tsviet wasn’t one to try and read people, he wasn’t one to try and interpret facial expressions, to observe changes in tone, to inherently know what another person was feeling or thinking. It was difficult, when everyone around you had always been broken, psychotic, murderous, or a lovely mix of all three. Then he, himself, had been diagnosed with a horde of apparent mental issues that he never bothered to memorize.
No, no, it was simply no good to guess. No, no, no he just had to be honest, and others would be honest back. If they weren’t, he’d slit their throats and move on. No harm, no foul.
The sorcerer opened his mouth to speak, and out fell a string of soft, promising words. Nero hung on every word, his red eyes wide with mounting excitement and fulfillment. He wrung his hands together again, filled with energy that had no route to escape, stuffing down the darkness that threatened to slip from his careful control, taking advantage of that strong emotional state. His fingers popped as they slid against each other, nails digging into the sensitive flesh of the back of his hand. Oh, oh, but he was so happy, so happy and pleased.
Kuja needed him.
He needed him to stay, for protection. A job that Nero could do, and could do beyond well. The Sable had acted as the shield for his brother for many, many years -- though, said shield tended to eliminate threats sometimes on sight rather than after they spoke or acted. He wasn’t good for much, other than typical operations as a Soldier, and a particularly keen mind when given a project. But protection, and devotion … Nero had written the definition of them personally.
Calming his nerves, the Tsviet forced himself still, other than a bow of the head, “It would be an honor, and a pleasure, to serve you.”
That much was the truth. As Nero raised his head once more, his gaze followed back towards Kuja’s eyes, so bright, so pleasant. His expression was so kind, his face soft. That smile sent a chill up his spine, and the Sable reminded himself to breathe, breathe, you mustn't lose your focus, you must protect him now, focus, focus, focus, you can dream later, ah but.. but...
Nero swallowed, settling those unrestrained urges back into his gut, where they could continue to float as angry butterflies that needed to be temporarily denied. He had worshipped everything there was about his brother -- he still did, right, right, think of Weiss, Weiss, my beautiful, perfect, loving brother -- but things with Kuja would have to be different. Weiss was his everything, the light in his dark, the day to his night, his reason for living.
Kuja would have to be … have to be …
Nero blinked, shaking his head for a moment, dark locks fussing over his narrow shoulders. He stepped back a few steps, boots scraping against stone, giving himself just a little space, as he pulled himself out of the crystal blue pool of those lovely eyes.
After all, there was no guarantee Kuja would want to keep him around for long. He needed to give the sorcerer a disclaimer, about his frightening and relentless power. While Kuja had gotten a rather embarrassing glimpse of it while Nero was dehydrated and panicking, it deserved a better explanation. A way to explain that he wasn’t some sort of complete failure that couldn’t keep his own power in check, but merely a partial failure that occasionally couldn’t keep his … all-consuming, madness and death inducing darkness at bay.
“Perhaps, before this goes any further,” Nero began, the words twisted and heavy on his tongue, taught in his soft voice, “I should …”.
Warn you to never stand too close, keep you at an arms length despite everything I feel, I should tell you, tell you, oh god why must he need to know.
The Tsviet released a calming breath, his heart nervously pounding away in his thin chest, “Speak of my strange power, a bit. You alluded to it a moment ago, and I made a terrible impression of it, and myself, when we first met.”
Another few steps back, one, two, three, and Nero raised his right hand in front of himself. The familiar black wisps began to circle his clothed limbs, as if curiously tasting the fresh air for the first time. Some of it pooled in his open hand for a moment, before rising and floating in his palm, pitch black and ominous, an obvious weight that he held effortlessly. Nero did not allow the darkness to pool beneath his feet, he did not allow it to stretch to the many shadows of the room.
He was in control.
“I refer to it more as a curse than magic,” Nero explained, his red eyes peering over the small, yet frightening ball of oozing, black magic in his palm, “This darkness, I am naught but its vessel and caretaker. It can be difficult to maintain full control of, as it consistently seeks to absorb everything.”
There was distaste in his voice, the truth coppery and unpleasant on his tongue. However, despite his current claim to lack control, nothing appeared to be further from the truth at the moment. The few free strands of black darkness curled loyally around its master’s arms, and the pool of it in his palm made no such move to do anything without his command. Because he was confident. Because he was happy. Because he was relieved.
For the moment.
“It will never touch you, but I will still maintain my distance. For my own sake.”
Nero was confident, beyond confident, that he could keep the darkness from ever disgracing Kuja with its touch. He would never allow it. And, perhaps someday, he would feel safe enough to approach the sorcerer, to touch him, to fulfill the odd desires that clawed at his heart and mind. But, it would take time. Only Weiss would hold such a position, for now, and perhaps always. The Sable touching others, and others touching him, would be off the table. While he was conscious, anyway.
The dark orb in his palm shrunk, fizzling back down into nothingness, the tendrils of blackness seeming to lay flat on his skin and simply disappear. Nero crossed his arms together once more, out of habit, fingers scratching at the purple tattoos on his wrists. A body controlled by darkness, stained by darkness, starved by the void. A mess, a mess.
“You called yourself a sorcerer,” Nero alluded to their earlier introductions, a hint of humor coating his soft voice as he tilted his head slightly, ironically curious, “You may very well be more acquainted with this power than I am.”
But, it was unlikely Kuja ever heard the strange mixture of screaming and nothingness. He likely never walked amongst the soul crushing void, curiously moving corpses, items, bones and pieces along, never felt the drive to throw the living in it to scream, just so he could hear something. Anything. Ah, it’s too quiet, too quiet, something will have to be done, something will have to die, it hungers, it hungers -- NOT now. Not now. Patience. Wait. Wait. Breathe.
The small smile on his lips was empty, but it felt better than nothing.
Rise and take flight, darling Let's soar high For the first time in forever you're alive Don't you forget that
The man relented. After all of Kuja's gentle smiles and sweet nothings, this man -- Nero -- had practically subjugated himself. What else could Kuja call it when the man's eyes beamed with pleasure and he called the process an honor? It felt easy -- far too easy, and Kuja couldn't help a prickle of unease at the back of his neck. Nero reminded him less of a fly struggling in a spider's web and more of a dog patiently awaiting its leash. Kuja masked a scowl behind the back of his hand.
The impulse came silent and sharp. He wanted to break this man -- to revel in his own power and watch that admiration shatter from his eyes. It would be easy when the man's defenses were so low. Just a whisper of magic, a swipe of his hand, and this puppet would fall. But that would get him nowhere. Kuja took a long, steadying breath.
He needed pawns if he was to play this game any longer. Powerful pawns that were easily manipulated. He only needed a little patience.
Thankfully, Nero had pulled away from him. He looked vaguely distressed by something, but Kuja hardly cared what. So long as his strange magic remained sheathed, the man's mood could swing all it wanted.
“Perhaps, before this goes any further,” the man muttered, "I should-," and then cut off abruptly. Kuja raised an eyebrow.
"Should?" he repeated. The man's breath trembled as he steadied himself. He swallowed before continuing.
“Speak of my strange power, a bit. You alluded to it a moment ago, and I made a terrible impression of it, and myself, when we first met.”
Well Kuja could hardly argue that, though in the man's defense, Kuja would have killed him if the magic hadn't caught his eye. Kuja recrossed his arms, head tilted and eyes sharp with expectation. 'Yes, if you wouldn't mind explaining yourself, perhaps we can cut this farce short.'
Rather than answer, however, Nero took several steps back. For a moment, Kuja was uncertain what he was doing or if it had any sense at all, but then the man raised a hand. There was an ominous chill, a prick of some grim energy, and then the shadows returned, oozing from Nero's skin like something alive. The darkness wrapped itself around him in creeping tendrils, folding and stretching about his wrist. It gathered in his palm and then floated there weightlessly. Kuja's eyes flicked cautiously from the orb to the eyes of the man who held it.
For once, Nero's gaze didn't waver. “I refer to it more as a curse than magic. This darkness, I am naught but its vessel and caretaker. It can be difficult to maintain full control of, as it consistently seeks to absorb everything.”
Kuja opened his mouth to respond and then closed it. He touched at his bottom lip uncertainly. A creeping darkness that hungered to spread. That was...slightly more than he'd bargained for.
Could he keep this wild man under his control? Was it worth the risk to even try?
The answer was, of course, yes so long as he played his hand well, but it was worrisome all the same. His eyebrows furrowed their concern. Why did this man have to keep complicating the game?
Nero, at least, looked relieved at the secret he'd shared. “It will never touch you, but I will still maintain my distance," he said. "For my own sake.”
'Wonderful. Just don't bother me and we'll get along perfectly.'
Nero's magic dissipated, and with it fled the last of the man's confidence. He crossed his arms again, though it felt more like an act of self-comfort than anything else. His nails scratched nervously at his wrists. His grip was tight around his chest, almost as though held there by a straight jacket. Still, his voice held a bitter kind of humor as he spoke. “You called yourself a sorcerer,” he said with a tilt of his head. “You may very well be more acquainted with this power than I am.”
Kuja couldn't help the smirk that touched at his lips. In all honesty, he knew nothing of that living, hungering power, and yet, the man was almost certainly right. His wild guesses were likely far more accurate than anything this dim-witted, feral man could have dreamed of. Kuja took a steadying breath and raised his eyes thoughtfully to the ceiling. Theories spun through his mind like silk.
"Perhaps. I must admit, I've never seen anything like that power before, but it's not completely unfamiliar. There are certain spells that drain away health and life. There are others that suck the victim into alternate dimensions entirely. The eidolon Atomos for instance..." Kuja paused. That was far too specific for this man's needs. He doubted that he'd appreciate the extra detail anyway.
"Regardless. Your power isn't completely without precedent, though its manifestation is certainly unusual." Kuja's smirk widened. Unusual was too kind a word for it. "Bizarre" or "Terrifying" might have been more apt, but insulting the man would get him nowhere. He kept his voice soft and his words even softer.
"Is there anything that I could do to help? You seemed concerned about maintaining...control." The word carried a sharpness to it that slipped past Kuja's careful facade. It had taken Kuja years to master his own magic, and the thought of it running wild sickened him. It had been the same way with Zidane, wielding magic like a sledgehammer -- inept and clumsy. Kuja felt his tail bristle with disdain.
At least Nero's magic wasn't Terran.
"If you wouldn't mind, I could try studying it for you. Perhaps there's another way to keep it in check, or at the very least I could offer you answers." Kuja tilted his head, eyes bright interest. "Were you born with it or...?" He let the question trail off without a proper alternative. Or was it a mage's curse? A genetic alteration, perhaps? Kuja paused and then blinked in mock surprise. "My apologies. I'm being too forward, aren't I?"
He gave a short sigh, shaking his head regretfully. "Pardon my curiosity. I merely find you...interesting." His eyes flitted to Nero's. Simmering red on placid Terran blue. "I'd like to learn more about you," he said and then offered the man the softest of smiles.
If previous experience told him anything, the man would sing like a canary.
Oh my god, I am SO sorry. There is so much talking in this post. x____x I just couldn't come up with a way to break it up properly, so Nero just... ranted. UGH. I'M SORRY.
Kuja’s face was alight with a smirk, interest dancing in his eyes. Nero watched the sorcerer carefully, his own bitterly humored gaze half lidded as he held his own body tightly. He’d seen that look before, across the eyes of everyone who wished to see, who wished to know the sole survivor of the horrid experiment that produced the Sable Tsviet. It was curiosity, and that, Nero would never fault anyone for. What came from that curiosity, however, was often what sent him spiraling further into madness.
But, this wouldn’t be like that. Kuja was kind. Kuja was nice. Kuja had helped him.
Proving to be quite the knowledgeable man, the sorcerer began listing the things he’d encountered in his lifetime that were similar to Nero’s own curse. The Tsviet was familiar with a few himself; spells that could drain life from another, for instance, were possible with the right materia. But, nothing else on Gaia could come close to, could compare to the hungry, crushing void that hid within the confines of his body.
Nero hid his lack of understanding easily, remaining silent and still as Kuja spoke on. The Sable was not built to comprehend complicated concepts, he did not have much training in the ways of academia. No, he was the book that scientists read, tried to understand, tried to write. His own purposes were so much more simple; be studied, follow orders. Many things Kuja would say, or would do, would simply go over his head -- and that was fine.
Kuja wanted to learn, and in thanks and gratitude, Nero would give him everything he could.
"Is there anything that I could do to help? You seemed concerned about maintaining...control."
There was the sharp bite he had been expecting this entire time -- control. Nero narrowed his eyes, glancing away in frustrated shame as his nails dug further into his skin, reddening the pale flesh under his fingers. He could feel his heart beating furiously away as the panicked adrenaline surged through his veins, and the apologies were already stinging his lips. Control, control, control. Nero bit his lip, keeping his mouth shut. He didn’t want to be a disappointment, not so soon. It was inevitable at some point, surely, given his nature, but --
You don’t want him to know how much of a failure you are, not yet, not yet, keep it hidden, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t KNOW, you can do this -- you can -- you will not disappoint him -- he may not FORGIVE you like precious Weiss --
Nero drew a steadying breath, turning his gaze back to Kuja. There, he was drawn back in. The kind smile. The soft, curious words, eager to understand, to help. There was comfort, there was understanding. The Tsviet felt himself calming down quickly, soothing words washing over him like a warm embrace. Kuja simply wished to learn. Simply wanted to help him. The sorcerer hardly came off as overly forward to Nero at all -- in Deepground, everyone knew who and what he was. The brave dared to ask questions. The stupid made assumptions.
The intelligent did a mixture of both.
"Pardon my curiosity. I merely find you...interesting." "I'd like to learn more about you.”
Ah, there was that feeling again. His face was suddenly warm with nervous embarrassment, his heart fluttered with hardly known feelings of affection. The very breath was stolen from his lungs as he peered into those blue eyes, so warm and clear, the very opposite of his own. He had to swallow his natural urges to throw himself at the sorcerer’s feet, had to stop himself from thanking Kuja profusely for being so kind, had to dismiss his desires to give anything, do anything, anything, anything, for you, to you, anything.
When Nero opened his mouth, he was surprised to find anything besides a squeak come forward.
“I -- I couldn’t ask you to do any more for me. Really,” the words fell from his tongue quickly, as the Tsviet slowly unhooked his fingers from his arms, his body relaxing along with his soft voice, “But I -- if you truly wish to know about this power of mine, I will tell you everything I can.”
It was unlikely that Kuja would understand a lot of what he was about to explain, and so Nero would have to remember to try and explain certain concepts that people from his world would already know. It was … strange, to even begin formulating the story in his mind. He’d never told anyone what he was, or where he was from, really. Everyone already knew. Those who didn’t usually met a swift end, because Nero wasn’t released from Deepground on his short leash without orders to eliminate someone or something.
Tapping a finger against his pale lips, the Sable thought of how to begin explaining what he was, how he was.
“To answer your question, yes, I was born with this power,” his words were much slower than the fanatic praise he’d been throwing out earlier, his thoughts measured and weighed before speaking, “I was the sole survivor of a particular experiment, using a force of life energy, to create a new type of soldier.”
Dry irony slipped into Nero’s voice as his lips were tugged into a small, crooked smirk. Oh, how foolish those scientists had been. One would think, after the first ten or so dead babies and mothers, they would have given up on experimenting with stagnant mako. Yet, they pressed onward, driven by mad curiosity and free of morality or rules. And the result was Nero, who was more a basket case than he was a true soldier.
“On my planet, life is dictated by a force called the Lifestream. Everything is born from it, and everything eventually returns to it. The lifestream is responsible for all living things, for magic, for everything,” Nero cupped his hands together before himself, but instead of holding a pretend handful of water, the familiar, inky blackness filled his palms, an unnatural liquid swirling, “The lifestream is not immune to pollutants. Famine, disease, supposedly even negative spirits. These contaminants are cleaned from the lifestream naturally, and contained within their own pool, safely tucked away. When pure lifestream pools, it creates something known as mako -- which had already been used to create the ultimate super soldiers, such as my older brother. Scientists discovered this pool of stagnant, polluted mako, and decided to attempt a similar technique.”
Soul wrought of terra corrupt, those were the words so eloquently tossed around in the reports that Nero had pried from the cold, dead hands of a researcher. A soul born from darkness, created from the void. Or, as he peered at the pages in his shaking hands, sleepless eyes glazing over, a soul created from everything the planet did not wish to exist. He was born of the rejected, created by the trash. Something even life had discarded.
The darkness pooled over Nero’s hands, dripping unnaturally slowly towards the ground, disappearing before it could hit. The Sable watched it for a moment, a mixture of emotion hidden deep within his crimson eyes. As he stood there, still and contemplative, he could feel that he did not belong in this world just as much as he hadn’t on his own. A pile of rejections, waiting to be eliminated.
Unlike the darkness, which rebelled against its fate, and fought to one-up life itself.
“Stagnant mako was injected into my mother’s womb shortly after I was conceived. She was the only woman out of many to carry to term, and moments after giving birth, the darkness swallowed her.”
Her, several scientists, and part of the room. When he spoke of her, of his birth, there was no remorse, no sadness. Nero never knew his mother, never knew her warmth. He was thankful to her, for bringing Weiss into the world and surviving just long enough to do the same for him, but those were the only emotions he could possibly muster up for this faceless, nameless woman. Carefully, Nero leaned against the stone wall of the cave, the cold rock refreshing against his sore back. His broke his eye contact with Kuja as he folded his hands together, a thumb curling at the dark, swirled tattoos on his wrist; a stain from the void.
“Many men have tried to reason out why this dark, all-consuming void was created upon my birth, but no one has quite discovered an answer,” and those who came closest tended to find themselves consumed into the void they’d become obsessed with, after they’d sufficiently stressed Nero out enough, “Men and women treated with normal mako do not suffer anything like this.”
His thoughts drifted back to Weiss, as they often did. Stunning, beautiful, powerful. His older brother was everything he was not and more. He was perfection among the trash, the diamond in the rough. Weiss rallied an entire army to his side, he survived every trial Deepground could possibly throw at him, all while treating his sad, detestable excuse for a brother, weak, delicate, terrifying, truly, truly awful, like a real human being. Giving him love. Compassion.
Nero’s only light in a world of terrors.
“My lack of control is likely a mixture of problems. The darkness itself is overwhelming and powerful; it is constantly seeking a way out of this vessel, because it never should have been contained in the first place,” Nero seemed suddenly tired of speaking, his eyes filled with shame, with regrets, as he looked back to Kuja once more, “I have an, admittedly, completely broken mind and spirit from years of abuse, murder, experiments and what-have-you, making constant vigilance rather difficult. My handlers never wanted me confident. Constant, precise control of my power was likely more terrifying to them than random, panicked bursts. That suit I was wearing before -- they are the ones that strapped me into it. It helps to keep the void at bay, in my moments of weakness.”
Was there anything left to say? Surely, but Nero didn’t want to think of it. Having never told anyone about his past before, he found it terribly tiring. Maybe, it was in part because of how terrible it sounded coming out of his mouth? Or, because it made the scenes he saw nightly replace in his head again and again, bleeding, crying, begging for their lives, screaming -- shut up, shut UP, I hear enough screaming -- why do they give me these orders, do I not kill ENOUGH people every day, I’ll kill them, all of them, until the darkness silences them -- silence, quiet, quiet, that would be nice.
Life suddenly flared back into the Sable’s red eyes, his mouth opening in mild shock. How much had he said? How long had he been talking? Rude, rude, he’d spoken way too much. Shared way too much. Even if it was prompted, he felt a spotlight on him, and it felt unpleasant. He didn’t want to hear any more words out of his own mouth. Only words from Kuja. Soothing, warm, ah -- yes, no, no more of himself. Apologies were falling from Nero’s mouth before he could catch them, his gaze stunned and ashamed.
“I’m so sorry. I’ve rambled far, far too much.”
Rise and take flight, darling Let's soar high For the first time in forever you're alive Don't you forget that
Nero blushed at the interest. Kuja wondered why -- whether it was the attention or the way their eyes met. If it was the former, then Kuja needed only focus on flattery, but it likely wasn't. Not from the way that Nero kept seeking his gaze. Not from the nervous hunger in his eyes or how they would occasionally sweep over him as though in longing. Kuja could only smile back, mysterious and unreadable as ever. It was a smile that could have promised anything or nothing at all. And he had perfected it.
“I -- I couldn’t ask you to do any more for me. Really,” the man stuttered. “But I -- if you truly wish to know about this power of mine, I will tell you everything I can.”
Kuja's smile widened. "That would be lovely."
'You just love playing into my hands, don't you?'
And he did. The man spoke of mysterious power. Of surviving some experiment to hone soldiers from the energy of the planet. Kuja couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. Familiar. The man told him of something called the "Lifestream," a force of the planet that acted in an endless loop.
The Cycle of Souls.
It seemed odd that someone like Nero would know of it, but it could hardly be anything else. A force of the planet from which everything is born and to which everything returns? The source of life and magic? No matter what it called itself, Kuja knew the Cycle too well to not catch the reference. Nero's creators had attempted to harness the power of life itself.
So familiar.
Nero told him more of the Cycle. How it would filter itself naturally ('At least so long as there's not a soul divider,' Kuja added silently), and how its pure energy would collect in pools. Kuja listened and politely pretended as though this was all new information. There was one detail that did strike his curiosity at least. Nero’s people had learned to harness the planet’s power to create super soldiers. Or so he’d called them.
Biological enhancement. It was an archaic step towards the work of Terra and the creation of vessels, but it was a step all the same. Kuja’s eyes traveled from Nero’s thoughtful expression to the magic dripping and dissipating between his fingers. Its ephemeral path was almost mesmerizing.
“Stagnant mako was injected into my mother’s womb shortly after I was conceived. She was the only woman out of many to carry to term, and moments after giving birth, the darkness swallowed her.”
“Hm,” Kuja said, realizing too late that he’d sounded disinterested. What was the proper reaction to learning of a dead mother? Some kind of apology he assumed? He couldn’t summon the will to care.
No one knew the source of Nero’s magic -- just that it had something to do with a fetal injection of “stagnant mako,” as he’d called it. More accurately, it was the byproducts of the Cycle, similar to Mist. Yet Mist had never dripped in black droplets through a man’s fingers. Kuja eyed it with a mixture of interest and distrust.
The darkness, Nero said, was constantly seeking an escape “out of this vessel.” Ironic, Kuja thought, as that was most certainly the opposite of a vessel’s function. It was the opposite behavior exhibited in Mist and souls as well, though he supposed that contamination might have had something to do with that. Perhaps it sought to naturally rejoin the Cycle and cleanse itself. Regardless, Kuja felt little sympathy for the man before him. He imagined struggling to contain an extra consciousness to be far less invasive than struggling to keep several thousand out.
‘Except that I didn’t.’
The thought came as fleeting and undesired as all the rest as of late. A strange, cryptic little whisper at the edge of his subconscious. He ignored it as he always did. There was no use provoking his own malformed memories.
Kuja had imagined many answers to his question. He’d thought that Nero would tell him of some tragic accident at best or a miserable tale of abuse at worst. He’d prepared himself for sniveling confessions and the kind of self-indulgent drivel spouted by the weak. However, Nero did something then that Kuja had not often experienced, and had no idea how to handle.
Nero was brutally, self-deprecatingly honest.
“I have an admittedly completely broken mind and spirit from years of abuse, murder, experiments, and what-have-you.” The man said it almost casually. Sadly, yes, but so bluntly that Kuja could only blink at him, uncertain of what he’d heard let alone how to react. “My handlers never wanted me confident,” he said, and again, Kuja could do nothing but stare.
His handlers? He spoke of himself like a dog or some monstrous creature that lurked in the shadows. He spoke of abuse and murder and experiments as though they were as mundane as an unpleasant conversation.
How could he be so honest? So dismissive of himself? Kuja’s blood burned with something he couldn’t identify. A sparking, lurching something that made his fingers twitch with magic. The man was weak, and not in the way he’d heard from that idiot boy in the woods sobbing about how he’d been denied the luxury of the sun. That boy had lacked self-awareness. He’d pitied himself and that was something that Kuja couldn’t forgive, but Nero…
Nero…didn’t. And that was somehow far worse.
The man froze. His cheeks flared red. He looked to Kuja with widened, shameful eyes as though he expected Kuja to strike him. As though he wouldn’t mind if he did. “I’m so sorry. I’ve rambled far, far too much,” he said, the words tumbling over themselves. Kuja’s lips tightened.
‘Weak.’ No matter what his power or his strength, the man was weak. Apologizing like a whining pet. Ready to throw himself at another’s feet in exchange for the smallest kindness. This world only rewarded the strong. Nero deserved everything that had come to him and more.
“Please, don’t apologize. It’s hardly a problem. You sound as though you have been through quite the ordeal.” Kuja sighed to mask his own scowl. His fingers curled as he ran them thoughtfully through his hair.
‘Kill him.’
“To tell the truth, I think I understand.”
‘Kill him.’
“You see, I was also the product of genetic engineering.”
‘Kill him.’
Kuja winced at the taste of those words. He slid his hand over his eyes. His nails dug sharp into his temples as his mouth contorted and he tasted blood. Treat it like a lie. It would have been the best lie he’d ever told. Guaranteed to garner sympathy. Guaranteed to pull the man further under his thumb. It had to be a lie if he'd used that tone -- so kind and innocent and concerned. He only spoke that way with lies and vicious half-truths so distorted that he might have been a character in a play. Speak like an actor -- like you always have.
And don’t strike him. Kuja didn’t need the fight.
“My apologies.” The words came darker than he’d meant them. He allowed himself a long breath. He took a moment to focus on his rising heartbeat and the sweat coating his palms. When he exhaled, he released with it the hot pounding of his blood and the spinning nausea collecting in his stomach. Breathe. If you can’t handle this then you’re no better than-
His tail lashed violently. He grit his teeth and hated it silently.
Breathe. Breathe. There’s no need for murder.
“Would you like to have a look around? I’m afraid you caught me ill-disposed, but I would be more than happy to meet with you later.” Kuja forced a smile that had always come naturally to him. He doubted it reached his eyes.
“I would advise you only to avoid the deeper tunnels. I’ve trapped them to avoid monsters and unwanted intrusions. And should my dragon return, you would do best to keep your distance. She will attack unless you’ve been properly introduced.”
He flipped his hair over his shoulder, pushing a handful of it behind his ear. His fingers twitched. He needed to leave. “I’ll arrange a meeting with her at a later time. Perhaps even a ride if you’d like.”
Yes. Anything. Just let me leave, you pathetic, unsettling excuse for a-
And end scene? On all of Nero's crazy feelings and thoughts. SORRY KUJA.
Despite his nervous fidgeting, despite the shame in his eyes and cheeks, despite the fact that he wanted to just shut everything in his mind down and simply exist, Nero couldn’t help but pick up on the subtle cues of human nature he’d always been trained to. His red eyed gaze stared, unblinking and blank, as his ears picked up on the hardly-there restraint in Kuja’s voice as he spoke in reply to the Tsviet’s terrible story.
All of his life, people had spoken to him in a variety of different ways. Scientists spoke to him, or at him, with awe, curiosity, and fear. His fellow Tsviets spoke to him with barely-veiled disgust, but a begrudging respect. The general populace of soldiers, if they spoke to him at all, quietly sang a string of fearful words and pleas, behind mountains of distrust and lack of understanding. Even Weiss, when they were younger, looked down upon his younger brother, and spat venom at him for his weaknesses. As they grew, that disgust lessened, but could still be found, veiled in quiet, sweet nothings spoken in private.
Everyone despised Nero, and he knew that. He accepted it. He was an abhorrent creation, after all, some unnatural, disgusting creature, dripping in impurities, built cell-by-cell with everything deemed too dirty and toxic for mankind, for the planet. A plague, a disease, the cold, ever present grip of death.
So, as Kuja spoke, the Sable was unsurprised to pick up on the well-hidden, restrained sounds of distaste, of hate and disgust. This man, an artist with words and smiles who had wooed Nero with his kindness and sincerity, was just like everyone else. And that was, strangely, soothing to him.
Nero was not a man who actively sought change. No, what he sought was familiarity. A place to find comfort. Reassurance. What he needed was Weiss, or at least, how Weiss had treated him. The closest thing to perfection he’d ever felt.
And he’d, potentially, found it.
Nero did not speak, even as Kuja struggled with his words and became clearly frustrated. He would not speak unless asked to, he would not move unless instructed. All he could do was listen, and watch with wide, curious, thoughtful eyes. The mage was another product of genetic engineering, and like most normal people, he seemed less likely to want to speak of it. Kuja’s hand slid over his eyes, and Nero’s gaze narrowed, watching carefully while he wasn’t being watched.
Sweat. Heart racing. Frustration, frustration, that’s what it has to be right, right? He’s frustrated with you, he has no idea what to say to you, because you don’t deserve to be spoken to, he’s given you enough, enough, enough, let him be free of you. Leave, leave, run, he is far too perfect to keep pestering, look at how he bites his tongue to keep from hurting you, because he is all that is good and kind in this world.
Ah, it was true, so true yet -- even in this state, the Tsviet couldn’t help but admire all that he had earlier. The unspoken power in the mage’s form, the way his beautiful hair cascaded over his back and shoulders, pale, silken skin he would never touch, even the way he so clearly caught his own tongue to keep from giving Nero the harsh, lashing words he always, always deserved. Looking at Kuja made his heart flutter with wonder, the way it did the very first time he laid eyes on the moon in the outside world, watching Kuja was his very first breath of fresh air, refreshing and momentous.
Kuja’s hand dropped from his eyes, and Nero averted his gaze to the stone wall. He’d stolen his look at perfection, no more, not again, not for a long time. He was terrible for doing it when he did, thinking what he thought. Kuja’s request for apologies came from deep within, dark and harsh, yet Nero didn’t flinch. The man could have struck him, and he wouldn’t have taken a step away, he wouldn’t have avoided it. He would have happily accepted it.
The mage, so hauntingly perfect, even in his restraint, ah -- he sees you for what you truly are, how beautiful, how wonderful, gave him another smile, and suggested some time apart for now. Nero was allowed to explore, save for where there were traps. It suited Nero just fine, to have some time alone. To think. To ponder. To wonder and wander, lost in the darkness, feeling this new land, this new life. He needed to work on himself as it was -- if he were going to live like this. With less restraints. He needed to reign in his power and try to control it.
Try to control himself.
Nero simply gave Kuja a short nod, a small, half smile gracing his own face. He knew it was empty and strange -- trash had nothing to smile for, or about -- but it felt natural. Warm. He wanted to give all good that he could to Kuja, for the man truly deserved it. He’d done so much for Nero, who deserved nothing.
“Of course. Thank you.”
Nero didn’t even hesitate a moment, though he longed to keep staring at those blue eyes, so conflicted. He turned on his heel, an arm reaching outward and summoning forth his familiar, dark void. It reached for him, pulling him in as it silenced his boot steps, welcoming him back.
He would take his time to explore, mapping out the cave with his darkness so that he could reach any nook and cranny, so that he could be aware of anything else that may dare set foot on its rocky ground. He was given a job, to protect a kind, wonderful, pure soul from the forces that would dare threaten it. A job he would take seriously. A purpose. A reason to to keep breathing, to keep searching.
All, all, all for Kuja.
Rise and take flight, darling Let's soar high For the first time in forever you're alive Don't you forget that
