Author's Note: A random Ken-drabble that came to me after a psychology exam. I'll spoil you- it's Kase x Ken. It's short, and pointless, but entertaining to think about. I, of course, do not own Weiss or Ken. I do, however, own a little container in the shape of a smiling goldfish cracker whose sole purpose in life is to hold goldfish crackers.

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Gestalt
(noun) A configuration or pattern of elements so unified as a whole that it cannot be described merely as a sum of its parts.

Life. A conglomeration of events. Memories. Thoughts. A sequence of actions and decisions that would take a meandering path before arriving at the same, inevitable conclusion. Everyone wandered, everyone lived, everyone died.

Simple. It was so simple.

How had he gone so wrong?

Where, in his path of dreams, goals, ambitions, had he turned from the light into the fetid, endless swamp that was his current life?

Was it when he had woken up in the hospital, the light in his eyes, his whole body on fire, and the nurse smiled sadly, saying Welcome to Kritiker...

(But what's my other choice?
There is no other choice.)

Was it when he killed his first target, his claws slicing through life with a forceful push, blood splattering onto his clothes, his face, his soul, and the Kritiker agent grimly smiled her approval at a job well done?

Or perhaps it was before that, before this, before then. Perhaps his life had skewed badly when he had met Kase.

(We're just friends, really...)

He had met Kase and everything went just wrong. Complicated. Simple things became more important, easy things more convoluted. And he was happy but in an unhappy way, and it was delicate.

All things delicate shatter. It wasn't sudden, dramatic. There were slow cracks, chips, dents. He tried to tape it together, to hold on to it, to make it last, but eventually it broke and cut him to pieces, killing him with every shard, death by sadness and loss over and over.

That was it, then. The place where his goals became fantasies, his ambitions became far-off dreams, his whole life and death became something to discuss on page thirty of a random sports magazine.

And it was just so terribly fascinating how hard it could be to get used to sleeping alone. Months would pass and he would think he was over it, over him, when he would wake up one night when it was so late it was no longer night, moving closer to the other who was supposed to be there. Should be there, but wasn't, won't be, can't be.

It burned a hole where his heart used to be, burning and eating until there was nothing left to burn. Just an empty mark that would scream out in pain if ever anyone strayed close enough to touch.

(What are you doing, Kase?
Don't play stupid, Ken. You play stupid far too often.)

And he would roll back over, as far away from the empty, other side of the bed (Kase's side) as he could without falling off. There he would stare at the wall, the window revealing the night beyond, the stars gleaming wickedly of the dreams of people who deserved to have them. He would try, without success, to sleep again, thoughts of two, not one, running circles in his head until the sun erased the sight of the stars.

He was beginning to think he was truly, finally used to it- being alone -when Kase showed up again. And there was hope burning brighter than the stars that taunted the sleepless nights, and the charcoal remains that were his heart screamed out again in joyous pain at the if only that might be. Possibilities. Endless.

But of course it was wrong and impossible and wretched and it hurt far more this time than it did before- if that was even feasible to his mind -and the ashes of his burned-out heart scattered fruitlessly in the wind. Scattered.

Because this time it was him who brought about the end. He could have, should have, let Kase kill him. End the pain and the nights and the stars. He wanted it, deserved it. Because Kase was still better, more valuable. Worth dying for.

But things have a wonderful way of never working out and he was left with a carcass and the cooling body of Kase, and the carcass was him. He was dead inside, nothing left, nothing except his pretense and even that was cracked.

What was there to live for when all he did was kill? He was living for death and dying for life and struggling to just. Breathe.

And that, he supposed, was fine. He would continue, dead to the world, dead to himself. Continue his unlife of killing, his soul becoming bloodier, darker, smaller somehow.

(I don't believe in souls, Ken. People are nothing more than the sum of their parts.
But Kase, if that's the truth, what make us... well you know, us?
Nothing. You're no different from the person next to you.)

But in the end, Ken was happy again. Unhappily so. this was it, this was what it was supposed to be. He didn't deserve to have a perfect path, a winding scenic route to the end- he was meant to wallow here, lost in the endless trees far from the path, bogged down by pain and hope and regret and dreams. That was the sum of his parts.