[ kuja's expression is no less sour for zidane's antics, and he sniffs derisively, his chin lifted in some semblance of pride. showmanship is all he has left, at this point. ]

I only said that to aggravate you. But of course you have no style. That's hardly a truth I'd ever feel the need to hide.

[ odd is a word for it, though it's not exactly new, goading zidane, though before it had been for rather different reasons. a peacock's pride, kuja found entertainment in it before - anything he could do or say to make himself seem (and feel) above zidane in any way was welcomed. now instead it is his last line of defense, his only armor, because zidane might be content with his decision to pull him from the iifa tree, but kuja..

he's reeling. where should he go from here? what should he do? how can he possibly move forward from this point? all he has lived for, from the moment he first opened his eyes, is dashed, and what is he without it?

well, that's something he'll have to find out for himself, should he find the courage to do it. but he's not about to ask for help. settling back against his pillows, kuja frowns, eyes hooded, and casts his gaze toward the window. ]

There's much and more besides that that separates us.

[ far more than he had ever thought about, perhaps. ]