Mask; disguise, cloak, facade, front, shield, veil.

Her life was a masquerade, true identities led astray.

None of them were what they appeared to be. Not the playful blonde sadist, not the quirky fire tamer, not the withdrawn bookworm, not the mad scientist, not the silent bodybuilder, and not the flamboyant flower-child.

Not even her. The broken artist, the white witch, the fragile little doll. It wasn't her; it wasn't her at all.

None of them knew; they thought they could read one another, and they thought they could read her, and they thought everyone around them was an open book in a library of easy reads. Everyone had a plan, their own little piece on the chessboard that Castle Oblivion had become.

But none of them knew.

Their chessboard was only a corner of her playground. They were all her pawns, every last one of them; and they were only a part of the scheme. While they were so busy trying to mislead others, they didn't bother trying to decipher the obedient little artist, the imprisoned puppet. Every opinion formed about her was woven of her own accord. Marluxia's infatuation, Larxene's hatred, Axel's indifference, were all created based solely upon the show she had put on for them.

And just as Axel had once upon a time requested of her (though she had never heard it for herself), she'd put on "one hell of a show".

They weren't aware of it, but once Sora had begun his quest through Castle Oblivion, gradually he had put every Organization member there in contact with his heart.

And that left them vulnerable to her powers, free to fabricate memories willy-nilly amongst the Organization…

And they never knew any better.

She alone had been their downfall; Sora had only done the dirty work.

And, thought Naminé as she looked upon the colorful mess of scrawls that reflected her memories of Castle Oblivion, I'm not done yet.