A/N And now for something completely different to my usual style...I hope you enjoy it. Also, if I've slipped from 'you' to 'he' anywhere please tell me and I'll fix it.

I'm re-playing the whole game now I have the chance- I've just watched Fiora die, again. Which spawned this fic. Fiora isn't actually mentioned though because to Mumkhar she's just another Homs...


There's nothing worse than going through live being average. An average soldier. An average friend. An average student. You're not special, wedged somewhere between the worst and the best. No-one ever remembers you. And even if you try your very hardest, you know you'll never amount to anything more, forever living in the shadows of others. A member of the team but never the leader.

What kind of life is that, when you deserve so much more? When you give and give and give and no-one ever says "thank you" or "well done" or "I'm glad you helped us".

But Dunban noticed.

That's why you're part of his gang, one of his buddies. Dunban noticed. He noticed that you're the one who runs round town at three in the morning looking for a lost wedding ring. He noticed that you're the one who spends extra hours keeping the Bunnit population in control so no-one from the colony is harmed.

He is kind to you, Dunban. He invites you out for a drink, helps you with this and that. But he is nothing. Therefore his kindness means nothing. He is like you, an average. The only thing special about him is his weapon, a kind of sword you have never seen before-the Monado. A sword that wreaks havoc on Mechon.

You dream of that sword. That sword makes Dunban a hero. If you had it, surely you would be a hero too. You and Dunban are the same after all. Just average. And you are tired of the illusion Dunban weaves around himself. You are tired of everyone believing it, of looking up to him, of being impressed, when really he is just the same as you. An average. You long to pull the wool from their eyes- I'm just as good as he is, you want to say. Notice me. Be grateful to me. I'm here too.

This feeling grows over time. It buds and blossoms and then overpowers everything else, until you are constantly thinking of the Monado and ways you can steal it, of ways you can hurt Dunban. You used to hate the Mechon with all your heart but now you just hate Dunban. You hate so much your heart turns black and you lose sight of anything except your hatred. You have no more love to give, you no longer help out people who lose their wedding rings. You have given everything. Now all you want to do is take, take what rightfully belongs to you.


The metal is so, so cold. And now it is a part of you. You can never be rid of it. And you will never be warm again.

At least it doesn't hurt anymore. At least you no longer scream.

I hate the Mechon, you think.

But no, that's wrong.

You cannot hate yourself.

A man enters the room in which you lie. A man made of metal. You have never seen a man made of metal before.

"Are you a Mechon?" you ask and your voice sounds alien to your own ears. Louder. Harsher.

"I am not a Mechon," he says. He surveys you, walking around the table. "You, however, are a Mechon. You are not a Homs anymore."

He pauses. You have nothing to say to this. What are Homs anyway? A race of average beings. You are so sick of average.

"I am going to lead a war against Bionis and the Homs," he says calmly. "And you are going to help me. Get up."

You sit up, slowly. Your spine makes a hissing noise that you're unaccustomed to. You flex your muscles. Stronger. You have cool steel lining your bones. And then you realise what all the pain was for, what it is that this man has given you. He has made you into something special. Something strong. Part Homs, part machine. There is no-one else like you. You are not average.

"Move," commands the man.

"Yes, sir," you say automatically, because commands are not new to you. All your life you have been following commands. The familiarity is comforting. You follow Egil out of the room and down the corridor. There is a low whirring sound. Mechon. But where his old ears found it threatening, his new ones found it comforting.

"I am Egil," says the man. "Leader of Mechonis."

You say nothing to this, simply tucking the information away. Your new brain is like a huge data bank- information can be accessed and stored easily and effortlessly.

"What do I call you?" he asks.

"Mumkhar."

Your name has always been your own, even when you have had nothing else.

"I've got something for you, Mumkhar," he says.

They have arrived at another door. Egil opens it and they step inside.

It's a metal monster. A huge spidery frame with long metal claws. It's big, so big. The design is intricate, spines and grates and ducts. The word 'beautiful' lights up in your head. It's the only word you can think of that fits. At the top is a large silver panel that houses what can only be described as a face. A grinning face. The face of a winner.

You gasp and take a few steps back, but Egil shoves you firmly forward.

"That," he says, "is you."

"Why?" you ask.

"The truth is that you are an experiment. The Monado cannot hurt beings of Bionis," he says. "What about beings that are half Bionis, half Mechonis?"

"We're going to beat the Monado?" you ask, and you think of Dunban, who you hate more than ever.

"I wish to ensure my victory against Bionis is absolute. The threat of the Monado must be eliminated."


You are on your way to Colony 9. You have waited so long for this day to come. The day where you would take vengeance against those who ignored you. The day where Dunban would get what he deserved. You have kept your hatred inside you so long, the chance to finally unleash it upon the world is immensely pleasurable.

Egil laughed in the face of your hatred and promoted you. You are a leader at last- leader of the first assault. You have given everything to the Mechon- all the information about the colony that they desired. You gave everything and this time you have been given something back. Power. Importance. All you have ever wanted.

The anti-air batteries fire upon you. They tickle. Too late you realise that they have broken something. Something important, yet unimportant.

Your vocal circuit is down. You are mute. You cannot speak. This is a blow you had not expected- you had been looking forward to gloating. To relishing your win.

But no matter. You have your orders.

You go back to your old base first. All those men getting ready to fight. That idiot of a colonel, yelling the odds.

For all the times you took me for granted, for all the times you hit me, for all the times you made me feel small and unimportant…who's laughing now?

It's like squashing an Antol.

But Dunban is not here. Why not? You wish to find Dunban, for him to be the one who falls victim to your slashing claws.

Or perhaps…

Your hate is so strong and you are so cold.

Perhaps it would be more fun, more painful for him to see his colony fall...to make him live with the pain…after all, what will you do after Dunban dies? Your mission will have been fulfilled. You will no longer have his death to look forward to.

Still, a good brawl wouldn't hurt would it?

To your surprise, it is not Dunban who holds the Monado. He's there but it's not him. Still, the Monado cannot touch you. It's almost comical, seeing the blade slash and slice but no damage visible, your metal hide virtually untouched. It is magnificent and it is fun. It is fun to win.

A few minutes later, your orders come in. Egil is speaking to you and he is not happy.

"This is a harvest," he barks. "Stop wasting time."

And so you must leave, for you have learned that contradicting Egil is not a good idea.

Soon, you think, soon. And you mourn the fact that you cannot say the words. Cannot give Dunban a chance to recognise your voice.

But soon you will.