It turned out that being sworded and magiced to a pulp on the outside translated to whatever place Vanitas had ended up on the inside, because he felt, not to put too fine a point on it, like shit.

Despite the urgency of the situation still hammering at the inside of his chest, waking was groggy and slow, and awareness coincided with his feet touching smooth glass.

He opened his eyes, and saw Ventus standing across from him, lit up from underneath, and felt a surge of spiteful satisfaction at the sight and words, with attendant smirk.

It was soured by a glance at the images below, and then dismissed, unescaped. He summoned his own keyblade. The eyes on it fixed on Ventus, and the rusted, chipped thing he was holding.

"You assume I even care about that." Vanitas straightened his spine, and shifted a foot back. "Why would I complete something so pathetic?"