Spoilers for the Organization, in a sense, but what are you doing reading Org13 fic if you haven't been thoroughly spoilt already?
But anyway, this is pure fluff fic-- vaguely related to some future KH2 fic I've got planned, but ended up being more humorous than serious, so I cut it loose and let it stand as a one-shot. :D
I own nothing here but my words. Enjoy the read, I hope.
A Taste Of The Spoils
Yet another crackpot story by Mana Angel
In the beginning, everyone's interest is devoted to examining
the oddness of no longer possessing their hearts, but after a time,
that curiosity wanes, and they turn their attention to matters ever
further away from themselves. While some of the others have long
shrugged the complications of their precarious half-lives off and
devoted themselves to the task of training individual clumps of
Nobodies for their own entertainment, Vexen continues to spend his time
in the laboratory, reducing the meaning of their existence to chemical
formulae and balanced equations, chasing down every enzyme that
contributes to their makeup.
When Vexen discovers that they are, for all intents and purposes, still made up of exactly the same material as the average human being, he decides that it's time to stop looking for answers by boiling bits of them down, and start making practical observations instead.
Vexen has seen Dusks form clothing around themselves, silk and steel and silver blooming out of their skin like deadly flowers. It happens often enough, this birthing of weapons and armor from their non-flesh, that he is not surprised, only intrigued; its the first step, after all, that separates each Assassin from being a Dancer, or a Berserker a Dragoon. He's seen Heartless do the same thing, behind sealed glass that seems like a lifetime ago.
With Xemnas' permission, he 'borrows' some of the others' personal Nobodies for experiments, and confirms his initial suspicions: however diverse the Nobodies may appear, every inch of them is essentially made of the same material, whether it appears to be cloth or steel or skin. Interestingly enough, none of the members of the Organization have this peculiar ability at their command. When Vexen evokes his shield, he knows inherently that it is composed of water that the magic has stolen from the air around him; not a single actual molecule of his self is in the shield's makeup, except perhaps for the occasional stray hair.
Still, it may simply be for a lack of trying. He stares at his fist, and clenches it tightly, imagining steel lifting out from his epidermis in the same effortless way it peels away from the Dusks. Visualization is, after all, a key part of what makes magic work, and he surmises that this isn't particularly different. So Vexen opens his mind's eye and lets it remember blades scissoring outwards from bloodless meat, cloth ballooning out as it lifts off like a second skin; then he stretches his arm out in front of him, opens his hand and wills.
Vexen wakes up with a sore head, to the unusual sight of Zexion dispassionately wringing a damp cloth out over his forehead. He could almost assume he's being tended to, except that Zexion hasn't made any effort to move him onto a surface more comfortable than the floor, and unceremoniously drops the cloth on his face the moment he finally regains consciousness.
"How long was I out?" Vexen asks, voice muffled.
"Dunno," Zexion shrugs. "I couldn't feel a pulse, so I thought you were dead."
He shuffles off, and Vexen peels off the cloth just so he can glare at the back of his so-called friend's head. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"
Despite the throbbing migraine, or perhaps because of it, Vexen finally concludes that whatever level of Nobody they classify as, the members of the Organization aren't malleable enough to form clothes or weapons out of themselves. The knowledge is comforting only in the sense that it means they're more real than the other Nobodies are; at the same time, it means that they're bound to more of the limitations of their former selves than their unstable brethren. Perhaps they might not be able to disgorge swords at will, but at least they remain fairly constant, and that's better than nothing.
It occurs to Vexen, then, that perhaps he should drop less-than-subtle hints to Xemnas about actually looking for spare clothing-- at this point, after all, they've been wearing the same ones for nearly a month.
The Organization discovers Demyx in the same warehouse they find the coats, cloth-and-vinyl constructs as light as they are waterproof and piled high as the roof. Xaldin comments, vaguely perplexed, that he's almost sure there was nothing along that alleyway the last time they passed it, but Axel shrugs philosophically, guessing that it's just another peculiarity of The World That Never Was. Regardless, the find is fortuitious in more senses than one: first, they now have an extra pair of hand to distribute work to, and second, they're now equipped a better means of defense against the perversely invasive rain.
The black coats shortly become standard wear for all of them, wherever they travel to, and with such a large supply of them at hand, there's little worry of ever running out of spares. Xemnas thinks that they're lucky they found the coats when they did: after all, if you're planning to assimilate several worlds' worth of hearts for your own nefarious purposes, you might as well do it in style.
However, months of missions, and the acquisition of three more members, inevitably prove that their travels are even less kind to their clothing than they could have initially guessed. Between running after Heartless, occasionally running from Heartless, and more frequently having to discreetly exit a world before their faces can be recognized, all sorts of mishaps begin to accumulate on their unsuspecting outfits. The number of coats on hand to replace the ones that are damaged (whether torn, or burnt, or completely shredded beyond recognition) steadily declines. Eventually they realize that perhaps its no longer in their best interests to simply change coats whenever one gets a bit battered-- after all, they may have a warehouseful of coats at their disposal, but only so many that fit, and Xaldin and Lexaeus are already having enough difficulties finding ones in their size.
It occurs to them, at last, that they're going to have to buckle down and actually engage in manual labor to keep their coats in functional condition.
At first, repairing the coats and checking them for wear is Larxene's task, one assigned to her under the mistaken assumption that somewhere beneath her abrasive exterior lies an inherently feminine predisposition for sewing. A few mangled coats and one noticeably more savage nymph later, the notion is discarded, and Marluxia is promptly voted into the chore.
Some time later, they conclude that he isn't much better at it than Larxene is, but he's the best out of all of them-- even if he doesn't sew so much as stick things together by punching thorns through them. Inevitably Xemnas finds himself announcing that alright, from now on, everyone is responsible for the care of their own damn coats, thank you very much. Collectively, the members of the Organization are more than slightly relieved that they don't have to put up with assorted bits of flora pricking them in delicate places. Marluxia tosses his head in disdain and sniffs haughtily, but he seems just as glad to have the chore taken off his hands, and the matter is left at that.
Saix's coat is the most conspicuously well-repaired, but then again, none of the others are inclined to ask for tips on sewing technique from a man with such alarming anger management problems. The Superior, they note, has a fairly pristine coat as well, but as Larxene complains, that's because all Xemnas ever does is lurk around the castle halls and order them around.
She doesn't complain too loudly, of course, and Axel's hard-put to hide his smirk.
At some point the seams of Lexaeus' coat burst, and he leaves them that way, claiming that it makes the coat easier to move in. Luxord's develops long slashes in the tails, where he'd had to tug it back from a couple of Gamblers who insisted they'd won it off him fair and square (they had, but that was beyond the point, since he was their boss, dammit-- it was like the dealers trying to tell the casino that the money they won off the gamblers was rightfully theirs). Both Zexion and Vexen sport impressive trails of chemical stains on their fronts and backs; Marluxia's coat is stained too, but no one dares to hazard a guess as to what with. In the middle of sparring with Xigbar, Xaldin ends up tripping on his too-long hem and nearly impales himself on his spears, unbalancing the other man and making him nearly shoot himself in the foot. Larxene comes back one night wearing nothing but the ribbons of what was her coat, and when Axel arches a brow in her direction, she makes short work of his in turn. Even when Demyx douses them both in mid-fight, the hallways stink of ozone and fire for weeks, and all of them are sporting impressive burns and thinking, clearly, that something needs to be done.
Namine turns out to be a godsend.
For the people who like reading notes, here's your 'bonus': lines that didn't make it to the final cut.
'... perversely invasive rain. Perhaps best of all, they no longer have to endure the sight of seeing each other in grotesquely tight leather pants and shirts with bewildering names such as "The Frontstreet Boys" or "Eastlife" emblazoned across them, which are apparently the only kinds of clothing that can be salvaged in The City That Never Was. The black coats...'
'...them in delicate places. Xaldin is particularly glad, since a mild but pointed allergic reaction to roses in his case had resulted in Marluxia's utilization of cactus thorns for repairs-- and he hadn't bothered to trim them properly, either. Marluxia tosses...'
I wanted to name the fic something that had 'gird' in it, but I couldn't think of anything witty, so this'll have to do.