Chronicles of a Colourblind Rainbow
Hello everyone, I'm active again. Some of you may know, I've been replaying Dirge of Cerberus lately, and I reacquainted myself with my love for the Tsviets, particularly Nero, Weiss and Argent (online only, those of you who are unfamiliar) and I decided what better way to get back into my writing than with something I'm actually passionate about? So after an inspring conversation with Reading Chick (If you haven't read her stories, go and do so now) I came away with a series of prompts for one-shots, the first being this one. others will be posted as seperate chapters as and when I write them.
Relating to the title, I do not recall there ever being white, silver or black in an ordinary rainbow, hence the 'colourblind' bit, it's not just a random title. But I digress, I hope you enjoy this first one-shot, and thank you to RC for the idea. (By the way, this is not meant to be a Weiss/Nero pairing. Unless you count sibling bonds there is no relationship intended here, but you may choose to see it as such if you wish. And I apologise for the shaky start, I had some trouble getting back into my comfortable writing style, since I haven't written in a while.)
Disclamier: I, D., do not own any characters or locations in this story. They are the property of Sqeenix.
Beautifully Tainted, Terror and Shade
The Lifestream. He could feel it thrumming through him like a herald. A war drum that called to the warrior within him. Or, mused the substantial part of him that was Hojo, the steady, satisfying pulse of a creation given life by his own hands. After all, wasn't that what Omega was? It was he, after all, who had taken those lives and offered them to the purest of gods. The saviour and destroyer all at once. It was his genius that had made this possible, his genius that had fooled the boy-
Inside his own mind, trapped in that dark prison, Weiss the Immaculate forced those thoughts to halt. Boy? He knew to whom Hojo referred, and he would not have his own brother spoken of that way. Nero the Sable was no boy! The protective side of the Immaculate Emperor flared in anger and defiance, but even the passion of a brother couldn't suffice. Not enough to break the scientist's control, so Weiss railed against the walls alone and fruitlessly.
The struggle didn't last long, weak as he already was from the assorted events between the Restrictor's control and his infection with that accursed virus, and soon he found himself tiring. He found it ironic, perhaps, that now he was bound even tighter than he had been as Restrictor's pet, before merely collared like a mutt sitting at his master's feet. Now, unable even to have his own body without being forced to share it with some greasy weasel of a man.
At least, he thought with a twinge of bitterness, things were better for Nero now. At least it was Weiss that was chained, and not the darker Tsviet. The other half of his soul it seemed. Light and dark, day and night, shining hope and brooding despair.
At times, he deluded himself into thinking that maybe now he understood his little brother. There were certain similarities, after all. both had been restrained, kept from those they loved at some point in their lives. Both, and Weiss made no move to hide the disgust lacing this thought, had another presence within. And in fact, both served as an anchor to the other. In many ways they were so similar.
The thought caused Weiss to lapse, as he so often did now, into reminiscence. The memories flowed easily, this was something Hojo could find no way to purge. Some things, it seemed, remained to the Tsviet alone. There was some small comfort in this knowledge.
Hn. Comfort... Something he was quite familiar with. How many times had he taken the role of the comforting older sibling, after all?
He remembered, quite fondly actually, the first time. It might seem strange, to think fondly of a time when your own flesh and blood was tormented by nightly terrors of the mind. But he was, because that was all they had to fear. There was always Oblivion of course, and Weiss somewhat suspected that that was what caused the nightmares to begin with, but there was no Deepground. They were children, and they had been allowed to live, if only for a time. Even someone as heartless as Restrictor had seen the danger in bringing them to Deepground that early on in their lives. So they were left alone. Never allowed to the surface, but they were relatively happy...
Or maybe content was the word. Had they ever been happy? Yes, Weiss thought so, he thought he'd been happy when dear Nero had come padding in that evening, small jets of inky blackness shooting up here and there almost as wildly as his bed-hair. Weiss had not been afraid of the darkness, he knew that so long as Oblivion was Nero's he would never be hurt by it.
He remembered those impossibly wide crimson orbs peering at him in something akin to a mental plea for help, though even then the dark-haired boy had kept any outward signs of discomfort at bay. Weiss had chuckled then and scooted over to make room. No words had been needed. They were brothers, a look said more than mere human sounds, warped and distorted to form the crude language they spoke. A language with a thousand meanings for one word, but none of them the right one. They were brothers, and that had been all that was needed.
Looking back, maybe it had been wrong to laugh, but Weiss wasn't one for 'what-ifs', he never had been. It hadn't made an impact either, or if it had Nero didn't show it. He had merely shuffled across the room to the white-haired boy, swamped in pyjamas with arms so long they could have wound twice around his small frame. Weiss would later look at that horrible straightjacket and think back on this as some sort of perverse premonition.
The future-Tsviets had snuggled together in the admittedly quite cold and bare little room, the silence of night pierced by the occasional snuffle or sound of nervous fidgeting. Weiss had found it endearing that Nero was trying to be brave, trying not to show his fears. Trying to be more like his idol of an older brother. Endearing, and a little exasperating at times.
but Nero had always been transparent, Weiss even thought at times perhaps Shelke's title should've been his, and it had only taken a few coaxing words for it all to come tumbling out in a flood of tears and only partially coherent words..
At the time, it had seemed like just a fleeting bad dream. Something that would go away in time...
But it didn't. It got worse. And every time, no matter the year or their age, Nero would go to Weiss, and Weiss was happy. He was sure of it. Until Restrictor came. Then the true nightmares had taken shape.
And it all started with those Planet-forsaken wings. Even now, peering through his own eyes, though they were in Hojo's use now, he shuddered inwardly upon seeing them. He'd hated it from the moment it'd been proposed, how could they have even considered doing this to someone who wasn't even out of his teens?
But of course Restrictor wanted it, so Restrictor got it. Even now Weiss still felt revulsion when he remembered that day. Being the cruel monster he was, Restrictor had chosen a lab directly above where Weiss had been chained, choosing the perfect spot so his pet could here what happened to those who were 'tainted'. Weiss realised now, Restrictor had wanted to scare them all into obedience. What better way to do that than to reduce one of the Planet's most powerful beings to a shrieking wreck?
And shrieked he had. The Immaculate Tsviet could still recall it as though it were yesterday, forever emblazoned into his mind. Those terrified, and terrifying, screams. Wails of absolute agony. And amidst the howling of Oblivion's wrath and the sounds of whatever sickening tools they were using, the voice of a lost little boy crying out for the one person he thought could save him, not knowing that beneath the very table to which he was bound that person sat weeping, unwilling to listen further but unable to stop.
While Nero's screams had eventually died, Weiss' hatred and thirst for vengeance had only burned even brighter. Restrictor would die. His brother, and all the Tsviets, would be free. It had taken all of them, but they'd made it. Argent had been lost, and some part of Weiss missed her like the sister he never had, but they had won nonetheless. Or at least, they had beaten one enemy only to run smack into another. One that not even they could defeat. Because as loathe as Weiss was to admit it, Hojo was a genius.
Not that the Tsviets were stupid, but Hojo was a true genius, and completely out of his mind to boot. Out of his mind and into Weiss' the Tsviet noted dryly.
And yet despite this, the others were relatively free. Free to travel to the surface as Rosso had wanted. Free to revel in strength and blood as Azul had craved. Free to be more than a tool, as they all had needed. So Weiss didn't mind being Hojo's vessel, or Omega's vessel, because even though some of the things Hojo said to his brother were terrible and degrading, and the way he treated him like some errand boy was abhorrent, Weiss didn't mind so much.
He didn't mind because he knew that Nero wasn't the child plagued by nightmares, nor the lost little fledgling Tsviet wandering around in a drugged stupor as he had for days after the wings' installation. No, he was a true Tsviet now. Powerful, brilliant and utterly dark. For Weiss, the man that even now, on the eve of battle, stood loyally before his throne (Hojo's throne, he reminded himself quickly) was far from tainted. What did Hojo know about taints anyway, when he himself was a scar on existence? That festering infection that refuses to let go its malignant grasp on life. That was Hojo. That was tainted.
Nero was more. The counterbalance, the reason to Weiss' rhyme, the method to his madness, the point to all of his bluster. But even beyond that, Nero was vengeance. He was judgement come forth from unholy shade, swift and terrible and unendingly beautiful. Poetry in motion, Weiss might have said, if he was that sort of a man. He wasn't, but he could see where the expression might apply.
Tonight Nero would travel to the surface, to that place where their enemies gathered. Rosso would be there too, but the crimson would fade to a pallid pastel pink, almost unnoticeable in the shadow of depthless darkness. Oh yes, Weiss could almost see it.
This would be true freedom. Tonight the WRO would tremble in fear. Tonight Deepground would emerge victorious. Tonight there would be a bloodless slaughter, and shadows would writhe in a chaotic dance with the cacophony of Oblivion's lullaby. Tonight there would be glorious victory, but above all...above everything else there would be an eye for an eye, because tonight his dearest dark sibling would repay those sleepless nights in full...
Tonight, Nero the Sable would be their nightmare.
Bear in mind when reading this that Weiss isn't all there, hence why the subject of his thoughts switches around a bit.