Kuja leaned an elbow on his armrest, legs crossed as he considered the stage. His finger trailed on red velvet. He let the music drift over him like a warm breeze. The production had none of the wit and wordplay of Avon, but it didn’t bore him exactly. No, it lulled him into a quiet sense of distraction that only let his subconscious run all the more rampant.

What was he doing here? Decompressing, of course. He needn’t confine himself to his studies forever, but that answer felt unsatisfying somehow. No. Why had he really come here to wallow in his own hedonism? It was an escape, nothing more. A distraction.

His thoughts had run uncontrolled for too long. His mind swam with an impenetrable mist. And at the center of it all was that puppet -- that mage. Vivi. He could still feel its piercing yellow eyes boring into him. Wavering with that insufferable sense of empathy. What had it been playing at, gifting him a wreath of flowers? They were pointless. Sentimental. And yet…

Kuja was supposed to be its jailor. What on all of Gaia had led it to even simple acts of compassion?

He rubbed at his temple. It pulsed with pressure, and he felt the first aches of a migraine coming on. Kuja scowled and stood, careful to avoid any stray feet as he shifted towards the aisle. This was useless. He’d need something stronger than an opera to numb himself.

The lobby came empty and bright. The chandeliers still scattered their crystalline light. The marble gleamed back its glaring reflection. Kuja took a direct path to the bar and ordered another glass of champagne. He sipped it far deeper than before, leaning against a polished column.

The floor tilted uneasily. The walls darkened into infinite space. Kuja clutched at his forehead, eyes closed. What was it about this light that left him feeling...unbalanced? It pulsed with something glassy and fragile. Like the reflection of a sun floating through endless nothing. Or was that him? He felt a sudden sense of weightlessness, tinges of red, and then…

The door opened. Intermission. Kuja gasped for air and touched at his temple again. He’d need something stronger than champagne. Stronger than theater. He needed…

His eyes drifted to the doors, scanning for that signature red. The poet, Genesis, had certainly served to distract him. Perhaps if they left together. Perhaps if he could lose himself to hedonism…

He caught a flash of crimson. Yes, the man would see him. He’d succumb to Kuja’s charms, and they’d meet again. Kuja only had to regain his composure. He straightened, shoulders back, expression cleared, and sipped at the edge of his glass. All the while, he kept that red at the corner of his eye.

'You know what I’ve promised. Let me use you.’

ulla

”Genesis.” The name pricked at the corners of his lips. It was a name that sang of drama and tragedy by a playwright that was trying too hard. He tested it on his tongue. It would do, he supposed. After all, the night would have been dreadfully dull without him.

”I’m much obliged. I’ve hardly met a soul who appreciates the finer arts in my world or this one. Though I suppose it does require a more eloquent taste.” His eyes shifted over the vibrant form before him. On closer inspection, the man had not dressed merely for practicality. No, there was a purposeful allure to his look from the glint of his earrings to the clinging stretch of his sweater. Kuja’s eyes lingered there for a moment longer than necessary. Yes, this would certainly do.

”You may call me Kuja.” He offered Genesis a practiced bow complete with a sweep of his arm. A smirk tugged at his lips as he straightened again. ”Sorcerer, scholar, poet. I’m a man of many talents though to which I owe my loyalty I couldn’t say.”

He tilted his head. ”And you? I assume you have an affinity for the blade. Not an uncommon skill in this place, but there can be a certain grace to it, I suppose. I’ve always considered a brutish art, but then, I’ve never known one to wield both his tongue and a sword in equal measure.” His eyes flicked to the curve of his sweater again. ”You intrigue me.”

Kuja let the hum of the crowd overtake him. His focus narrowed. His eyes simmered with a slow interest. Kuja hummed, eyes tilted, smile flickering before the moment left them. The doors to the opera’s stage had opened. The hall echoed its vacancy around them.

”I suppose we mustn’t linger any longer. Not if we’re to catch the opening act that is.” Kuja tossed his hair over his shoulder and let his gaze drift to the side. Someone had left behind a hardly touched glass of champagne. It sparkled in the artificial light. ”Perhaps we could continue this at another time? You’re certainly hard to miss, and I…” Kuja laughed under his breath. ”Well, I suppose you could say I make a habit of standing out in a crowd.”

Kuja drifted past him, letting his hand brush at the back of Genesis’ own as he went. His lips twitched into a smile. ”Until then, Genesis.”

ulla

Kuja hadn’t left his bed in fourteen hours.

That wasn’t altogether unusual. He’d made a habit of throwing himself into his research for over forty-eight and then lounging in bed for sixteen. But he’d done nothing before this and had no plans to do anything after. Instead, he simply stayed nestled beneath his blankets because he could think of nothing else to do and because waking seemed like more effort than it was worth. The echoing walls of his bedroom reverberated with every slight rustle. His hair splayed lazily across his eyes. Far away, he could feel the persistent hum of his own magic crafted into spells and charms.

None of it mattered. With the veil of delusion pulled back, he could no longer deny the obvious. Everything he was, everything he’d ever done, had all been meaningless.

Kuja shifted and rolled himself into a tight cocoon of woven cotton. Since his first moment of waking, his life had been defined by the purpose ordained for him. He was to be bring destruction so there could be no ties, no fondness, no care for the lives of mortal Gaians. He was to be perfect so he studied endlessly, brought himself to the brink of exhaustion, and plotted out every action, every word with unerring precision. He was to lose his soul so he rebelled, risked his life, disposed of threats and ultimately destroyed the birthplace that was never his home. But all of it hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference.

He had, from the beginning, been fated to die.

The realization curdled within him, and he curled tighter on himself, eyes closed, hands grasping. Garland, in his infinite indifference, had never intended Kuja to live longer than necessary. He’d been only a prototype, Kuja knew that, but he hadn’t imagined that he’d be disposed of so efficiently. Was that why Garland had always kept himself so distant, so disapproving, so cold? There was nothing Kuja could ever have done to prove himself or even to spite him. He was in his very existence a failure.

Kuja shifted again only to pause. A foreign magic tinged the air, wafting from somewhere in his subterranean halls. A trespasser. Kuja debated leaving them to their own devices before he scowled, thrusting the blankets off and pushing himself upright. He rubbed at his eyes, bleary and unfocused, before rising to his feet. No matter the circumstances, he had no intentions of leaving himself vulnerable to attack.

Kuja pushed his hair over his shoulder and started towards his dresser, but something stilled him. In the mirror, he caught himself at in his most natural form. He carried with him the same ghostly and ephemeral beauty and the same wild hair in its naturally styled layers, but the trappings were different. His eyes felt pale without their usual eyeshadow and mascara. His lips were dull and faded. And then there were his clothes.

Instead of his usual armor, he wore the cotton skirt and half-cut top that he felt most comfortable in while sleeping. His tail swept across the ground, dusting it with silver fur. He was, in fact, the mirror image of the genome he’d once been -- clothes and all. It was a shameful vision that he kept strictly to himself, but for the first time, Kuja lacked the desire to hide it away. Dressing himself in the bulk of his armor felt exhausting -- his makeup too much of a hassle.

Whatever awaited him could be dealt with however he dressed.

The magic wasn’t difficult to trace. It crept lethargically towards him, chilling all it touched with an oppressive hand. Kuja’s tail bristled at it. It sparked vaguely familiar in the back of his mind though he couldn’t say for the life of him as to why. Whatever it was, Kuja would extinguish it quickly. Every second spent upright was a second too long.

The magic led him to his oasis (wasn’t that always where intruders dropped in these days?), and he squinted as he emerged into sunlight. The warmth of it was jarring, and the glare even more so. He touched at his head, disoriented, and tried to regain his focus. There was the water glinting in its cool reflections. There were the sparse desert grasses swaying in a nearly nonexistent wind. And there, at the opposite end of the pool, were too figures huddled together by the water.

Kuja froze. He knew those figures, and he knew them intimately. On one side was Vivi with a book in his hand, sounding out the words in a painful drawl. On the other side was a skeletal man shrouded in darkness. For a moment, Kuja could do nothing but blink at him in surprise. That was a face he hadn’t seen for some time and hadn’t expected to ever see again, yet here he was as though he’d never left at all. Kuja’s first true pawn, his unstable weapon bound to him by forces Kuja couldn’t fathom.

”Nero.” Kuja’s eyebrows raised before he quickly cleared his expression. He glanced between them again in idle disbelief, his tail sweeping an uneasy rhythm against the grass. ”What are you doing here?”

ulla

The rest of the tale came and went. Kuja listened with his hands folded, his eyes closed. He focused most on keeping his breath even and his panic subdued. He’d lost his control at the truth of his impending death. That, at least, he could believe. Even now as irrelevant as it was, his teeth grit against the pain that threatened to rise there.

In his wrath, he’d destroyed all of Terra. Yes, that too seemed plausible -- rational even when he’d been denied everything and that planet stood as the mocking symbol of what he’d hated most. Its sterile air, its artificial surface, and the vacant-eyed dolls that populated it. Even now with his mind cleared and his wounds dulled with time, he wouldn’t mourn that place. In fact, its end was the only solace in this entire story.

Poor Garland. Conscious just long enough to see everything he’d built burned to ash.

The next part seemed…less plausible. Yes, Kuja had learned theories of Memoria. And he supposed it could have been possible to tear open a dimensional gate to it given enough power, but would he really have gone so far as to end all of existence -- both past and future?

Somehow he doubted it. Even so, he could imagine himself at the crystal’s edge, watching it with morbid fascination. It came to him in vague echoes like a dream lost within a dream. The violet expanses of unformed space. The disorienting sense of vertigo as he hovered effortlessly above it. And that sickly light engulfing him in ghostly potential.

Would he dare lay a hand upon it? Would he commit the final taboo? Would he take his own life…?

The rest was nonsense. He dismissed it mostly as delusion or perhaps a trick of Memoria. Yet still that memory remained. Would he have done it at the end?

No. Not unless he’d had his back against a wall. By Zidane perhaps. Such terrible irony that his end would come at his successor’s hands. After everything Kuja had done to prevent it. After all his tortured nights setting his plots into motion. It had all come to the same end. The hands of fate were nothing if not cruel.

"Zidane felt you were still alive in there. He...he....he went back for you. He said you were still alive, and that was the last time I saw him."

”What?” Kuja had almost lost track of the mage’s words, at least not until he and Zidane were mentioned again. Zidane had come to him. He’d abandoned his friends, his future, perhaps even his life for...what? ”That’s not...” Kuja shot the mage an incredulous look. ”I don’t understand.” The words reflected dully like light upon still water.

’I don’t understand you.’

The mage wiped at its eyes. Odd, its physiology shouldn’t have allowed it to cry. It was all for Zidane, he presumed. It seemed there were many left behind who mourned him.

"Everyone and everything matters, Kuja.” The words came foolish and naive, but the mage spoke them with a strength that opposed its nature. ”Because of you, there's almost no mist left in Gaia. All my friends learned something, and I learned what it meant to truly live and then to die.”

Kuja laughed to himself, hollow and humorless. Was that what his legacy had left behind? Nothing but puppets and meaning carved from trauma? At least he’d rid the world of Terran influence but that came as little solace. With him gone, none would remain who remembered it. None but his nebulous “sister”, he supposed.

”Why would he risk his life for me? That’s..” Insane. Foolish. And yet, it twisted something within him. Zidane had known. Everything he’d been, everything he’d done. He’d known it better than anyone, and yet as Kuja was at his most vulnerable, Zidane had come. The idiot. He’d been impulsive to the very end.

Kuja ran a hand through his hair. The sky above came clear and blue. A faint wind touched pleasantly at his cheeks, and the desert heat held him in its warm embrace. This was what he’d most enjoyed about life -- not his plots or his victories or even the revenge he only vaguely recalled. When he’d first stepped from the Invincible’s teleporter into a world that breathed, he’d been stunned by its beauty. He’d almost forgotten his initial admiration.

”That planet was doomed.” For once, the words came unbidden. Unplanned. Natural even in its own wistful way. He touched at the water’s surface and marveled at the cool sensation. It slipped between his fingers like silk. ”The people. It was my purpose to slaughter them in the end. It would have been foolish to-” There was that old pain. That old resistance. His lips pursed against it.

”To grow attached.” He trailed his finger across the water’s edge as though stroking the neck of his dragon. Yes, she was something he’d cared for at least. ”You said you found meaning in friendship. Tch. That’s such melodrama. Yet I can’t help but wonder if I…”

His reflection mirrored back a dull gaze. Sharp blue eyes like ice. Glittering orange eyeshadow angled into points. His ghostly pale complexion, his face sculpted as though by an artist’s hands. He himself was nothing but a living doll, a puppet he supposed, strung along by cruel hands. Garland had foreseen everything. Every betrayal, every thought, all of it except for the true extent of Kuja’s wrath. Garland had built in a fail safe of his own. Kuja could have laughed at the irony if it hadn’t been so painful.

”After everything, I don’t know what to…” He took a long breath and smirked to himself wryly. ”Perhaps you understood life better than I did.”

He rose finally to his feet. That was enough for now. Already, his soul ached for silence. ”I need time. And perhaps…” He ran a hand through his hair over that stubborn feather of his and the soft downy that tangled at its roots. ”Zidane.” The word came sudden as though it had been there all along, lying in wait for this moment of revelation. ”I need to speak with Zidane.”

The words felt wrong, almost blasphemous, but there could be nothing else. This mage -- this boy -- had taken him as far as he could. As for the rest, he’d need someone else. Someone who could finish the story in its entirety. He needed Zidane.

Kuja’s eyes shot back to the boy. Vivi. ”You’ve been searching for him. Perhaps I’ll do the same. If he’s even here. As though fate would grant me that.” There was that dry smirk again. He tilted his head to consider the sky. ”We’ll speak again. Perhaps I’ll even take you to the desert’s edge. I don’t care what you do so long as you don’t bring judgment upon me.” He gave the boy a dismissive wave and started away. Already his mind was churning. He needed time. He needed silence. And after that…

Well, he didn’t know what he needed after that, but perhaps Zidane would point him in the right direction. Oh, how low he’d fallen. Seeking advice from an idiot.

”Until then, Vivi.”

ulla