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ultima_arena2013-05-18 02:22 pm
lightofeilia) wrote in ultima_arena2013-05-18 02:22 pm
6.03 - A Different Perspective (Voting)
6.03: A Different Perspective Voting
Below are the entries for this contest. Beneath each fic I've included a short blurb on which scene the story is focusing on for a little bit more context for those unfamiliar with the game (thanks to participants for clarifying the scenes). Hope that helps!
ENTRY #1 -- Riovanes Knight (Final Fantasy Tactics)
If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it possible: a nightmare brought to life by waggling tongues and vivid imaginations.
As it stood, he still thought it a nightmare...but one brought to life by visions of hell.
A monstrous creature, a human shape twisted into gigantic proportions, with a mane and facial features resembling a hideous lion. And empty eyes, a black so deep if you stared into them they’d swallow you whole.
How many of his comrades had fallen into those depths?
The lion’s mane was covered with bits of blood and gore, his hands--his claws dripping with it. He seemed to be slaughtering anything in sight, whether they fought back or not didn’t make any difference.
No light, not even a perverse relish at the carnage he was inflicting, ever seemed to enter those eyes.
They remained black and impassive, the last thing anyone who saw them noted...an invitation to what was awaiting them.
How had he see them and not died on the spot?
His vision was blurry, crimson warmth spilling from the gash on his head and trailing down his face.
It was nothing compared to the wound he felt at his side, the gaping hole that exposed far too much to open air. He could taste the copper filling his mouth along with bile, knew it dribbled down past his lips...felt the wetness at his side, placed a gauntleted hand there and drew back red--and black. He only looked once, and thankfully his vision blurred it...otherwise, he wasn’t sure he could have coped with the sight. He knew what it all meant, the knowledge of fatal injuries and their telltale signs literally beaten into him during his training.
How much of the blood on that creature’s hands was his? How much of the flesh underneath those claws torn from him?
He wasn’t even sure how he could stand, let alone walk...even if his "walk" was more of a staggering gait, his legs threatening to give out any second. Blood flowed freely down them, sickeningly warm.
He wasn’t running, knew there was no point. If he’d wanted to run, he should have done so the second he’d heard the rumors of Grand Duke Barrington’s involvement in shady undertakings. If he’d left then, maybe things would have been difficult...but at least he could have died with a clear conscience.
Perhaps it was just what he deserved for ignoring the signs, becoming too complacent.
His fingers numbly hit the lock on the door. He was feeling pain, yes...and it was bad, but not nearly as terrible as it should be given what he knew his wounds were--shock had dulled everything, slowing his reactions but fortunately dulling the agony he should be feeling.
Red smeared on the sides, the key in his hand was shaking. No, no...it was his arm that couldn’t stop convulsing--his whole body was jerking awkwardly, he couldn’t seem to get the shape to fit the keyhole...but he knew it was the right key.
...She didn’t have to die here.
The girl they had captured earlier wasn’t like them, the castle defenders who had been employed at Riovanes who had known something of what they had gotten into.
If she was slaughtered along with them, not even able to escape from her cell and have a chance...
He’d been stupid and had done a lot of selfish things, but he didn’t want someone else dying here.
There’d been far too much death here already, in this moment and before.
How odd that the thought of another one added to the pile terrified him so, spurred his dulling mind and aching, wrecked body to action.
Finally, finally...he was able to jam the key into the slot, the act of turning it to unlock the door nearly causing his knees to give out.
The lock fell heavily by his booted, crimson-slicked foot. He shoved the door open by staggering his entire body into it--the wood giving way.
And then he was stumbling, his limbs heavier than they’d ever been, a few feet into the dank cell, and he didn’t see the step--fell, the pain in his side flaring up at the jostling motion, and it was all he could do at that point to turn himself onto his back: shallow breathing and coldness seeping in, a sharp pain searing his body with every breath he took before the numbness took over again.
"What an awful wound!"
The girl rushed forward...kneeling down next to him. Brown eyes had darted to his side, and he knew that she knew what it meant as much as he did...because she looked away quickly, an unsure and sad look across her features.
The fact that she would feel pity for him at all surprised him, kept him grounded even as the edges of his mind started to soften. His arm wouldn’t stop shaking violently as he reached for her, trying to focus her attention from thoughts of his injury to what he had to say.
"U, ugh....help..."
She stiffened, listening.
"That....monster....."
Surprisingly, he felt two small hands wrap around his gauntleted one...ignoring the blood smeared there, fair skin became coated with it.
"C...come on!" She squeezed encouragingly, trying to keep his hand steady.
He almost cried at the kindness of an action he didn’t deserve, at the unfairness of it all.
Finally, what he’d meant to say the second he had entered this place came out in a torrent of wet stuttering.
"R...run...." The blood flowed freely from his mouth as he forced the words out, each breath becoming harder with the effort, "It’s....dangerous..."
And then, everything that he had left in him...whatever strength or will he’d carried with him until that point, fled.
Everything faded from his vision, the last thing he saw being brown depths that watched him with concern...
...He couldn’t help but feel thankful that there was a light to them still as he faded into black.
(A mortally wounded knight at Riovanes Castle chooses to free Alma (a prisoner of the castle), so that she can escape during Hashmal's slaughter of the castle inhabitants.)
As it stood, he still thought it a nightmare...but one brought to life by visions of hell.
A monstrous creature, a human shape twisted into gigantic proportions, with a mane and facial features resembling a hideous lion. And empty eyes, a black so deep if you stared into them they’d swallow you whole.
How many of his comrades had fallen into those depths?
The lion’s mane was covered with bits of blood and gore, his hands--his claws dripping with it. He seemed to be slaughtering anything in sight, whether they fought back or not didn’t make any difference.
No light, not even a perverse relish at the carnage he was inflicting, ever seemed to enter those eyes.
They remained black and impassive, the last thing anyone who saw them noted...an invitation to what was awaiting them.
How had he see them and not died on the spot?
His vision was blurry, crimson warmth spilling from the gash on his head and trailing down his face.
It was nothing compared to the wound he felt at his side, the gaping hole that exposed far too much to open air. He could taste the copper filling his mouth along with bile, knew it dribbled down past his lips...felt the wetness at his side, placed a gauntleted hand there and drew back red--and black. He only looked once, and thankfully his vision blurred it...otherwise, he wasn’t sure he could have coped with the sight. He knew what it all meant, the knowledge of fatal injuries and their telltale signs literally beaten into him during his training.
How much of the blood on that creature’s hands was his? How much of the flesh underneath those claws torn from him?
He wasn’t even sure how he could stand, let alone walk...even if his "walk" was more of a staggering gait, his legs threatening to give out any second. Blood flowed freely down them, sickeningly warm.
He wasn’t running, knew there was no point. If he’d wanted to run, he should have done so the second he’d heard the rumors of Grand Duke Barrington’s involvement in shady undertakings. If he’d left then, maybe things would have been difficult...but at least he could have died with a clear conscience.
Perhaps it was just what he deserved for ignoring the signs, becoming too complacent.
His fingers numbly hit the lock on the door. He was feeling pain, yes...and it was bad, but not nearly as terrible as it should be given what he knew his wounds were--shock had dulled everything, slowing his reactions but fortunately dulling the agony he should be feeling.
Red smeared on the sides, the key in his hand was shaking. No, no...it was his arm that couldn’t stop convulsing--his whole body was jerking awkwardly, he couldn’t seem to get the shape to fit the keyhole...but he knew it was the right key.
...She didn’t have to die here.
The girl they had captured earlier wasn’t like them, the castle defenders who had been employed at Riovanes who had known something of what they had gotten into.
If she was slaughtered along with them, not even able to escape from her cell and have a chance...
He’d been stupid and had done a lot of selfish things, but he didn’t want someone else dying here.
There’d been far too much death here already, in this moment and before.
How odd that the thought of another one added to the pile terrified him so, spurred his dulling mind and aching, wrecked body to action.
Finally, finally...he was able to jam the key into the slot, the act of turning it to unlock the door nearly causing his knees to give out.
The lock fell heavily by his booted, crimson-slicked foot. He shoved the door open by staggering his entire body into it--the wood giving way.
And then he was stumbling, his limbs heavier than they’d ever been, a few feet into the dank cell, and he didn’t see the step--fell, the pain in his side flaring up at the jostling motion, and it was all he could do at that point to turn himself onto his back: shallow breathing and coldness seeping in, a sharp pain searing his body with every breath he took before the numbness took over again.
"What an awful wound!"
The girl rushed forward...kneeling down next to him. Brown eyes had darted to his side, and he knew that she knew what it meant as much as he did...because she looked away quickly, an unsure and sad look across her features.
The fact that she would feel pity for him at all surprised him, kept him grounded even as the edges of his mind started to soften. His arm wouldn’t stop shaking violently as he reached for her, trying to focus her attention from thoughts of his injury to what he had to say.
"U, ugh....help..."
She stiffened, listening.
"That....monster....."
Surprisingly, he felt two small hands wrap around his gauntleted one...ignoring the blood smeared there, fair skin became coated with it.
"C...come on!" She squeezed encouragingly, trying to keep his hand steady.
He almost cried at the kindness of an action he didn’t deserve, at the unfairness of it all.
Finally, what he’d meant to say the second he had entered this place came out in a torrent of wet stuttering.
"R...run...." The blood flowed freely from his mouth as he forced the words out, each breath becoming harder with the effort, "It’s....dangerous..."
And then, everything that he had left in him...whatever strength or will he’d carried with him until that point, fled.
Everything faded from his vision, the last thing he saw being brown depths that watched him with concern...
...He couldn’t help but feel thankful that there was a light to them still as he faded into black.
(A mortally wounded knight at Riovanes Castle chooses to free Alma (a prisoner of the castle), so that she can escape during Hashmal's slaughter of the castle inhabitants.)
ENTRY #2 -- Fall (Final Fantasy XII)
It was meant to be a great day for Madur the “Locksmith”.
Madur’s days were usually great. Even though people tend to speak of his occupation with airquotes, he knew that it was never out of malice. He had been training with his father as a locksmith since the age of six, too early to know about occupational choices but not too early to draw crowd with his true talent. He’s been a mouthy wee thing before he started to walk on twos, and his gob could weave silkiest ribbons of words and knot everyone right into a butterfly.
Wooden stools in one hand, herbal tea in another; the locals would visit for his tales at twilight every day without fail. Only the outsiders would be misguided by his locksmith sign. This suited Madur fine, as he’d chat with the newcomer hours at a time. Madur’s thirst for exotic stories always left the visitors feeling important, and he was a decent enough locksmith too.
And his impeccable memory! People wondered if he was an alchemist in previous lives. He could pick up basket of shattered words fragment and rejoin them anew, and then distille the raw data through the Madur filter. He gave the stories spirits that even the original teller never knew that they had.
Uncle Raj said Madur could make a fortune as information dealer in Arcadia. Madur loved the outside world, but not as the one who lived there. He was not a travel performer, not like the mythological moogle Stiltzkin. Madur’s love was the one of people’s confessional tales, ones where the speaker and the events combined into something greater than the sums of the individuals, and Madur polished them up with his breathe of life.
Never mind last life. Madur was a word-alchemist of this era, and today, he was given one of the most incredible raw material to work with.
The traveller was a guard of Lhusu Mine. Underneath the airshipper’s stench, the guard’s leathery scales were of colours that no one dared to make a bet on. Yet her eyes still sparked when she told Madur about the guards’ superstition with the Site 11 Key. The guard reckoned it was just urban legends, but she still bought extra airship insurance just in case.
The key required special alloys, hence Madur could only deliver the replica next day. He wanted more flesh, more character to the legends, and a walk to the edge of Bhujerba was what he needed. Even if Lhusu Mine would be nothing more than a patch when bird-viewed from the land of the skies, it still exposed more of its souls to Madur, offering the intimacy and connection that he craved.
Madur first heard the cracking sound from within, then he realised that he was falling. It was as if the lower lands reached out to him, welcoming him into its bosom.
Let his skin lap up the cold lashes of the rushing air. Let him accelerate. Let him burn. When Madur heard the thud and the world enveloped him with just greyness, he was not afraid. For a moment he reached epiphany. He was one with his story.
He remembered nothing. None of locksmithing, none of Bhujerba, none of himself. Maybe the corpses of the stories cushioned his fall, for that the physiological existence of Madur was the only survivor.
It was a loss of unimaginable scale to the township, when they gathered around and found the shop empty. By then, the tales were already forever dead. It was not a loss of him, hard to grieve for what he never knew he had.
Plus anyone would enjoy just lying on the sand of Phon Coast, watching the seabirds.
It must have been a great day yesterday.
It would be a great day tomorrow too.
It was a great day for him. Whoever he was.
(The story of a man who fell off the skycity of Bhujerba.)
Madur’s days were usually great. Even though people tend to speak of his occupation with airquotes, he knew that it was never out of malice. He had been training with his father as a locksmith since the age of six, too early to know about occupational choices but not too early to draw crowd with his true talent. He’s been a mouthy wee thing before he started to walk on twos, and his gob could weave silkiest ribbons of words and knot everyone right into a butterfly.
Wooden stools in one hand, herbal tea in another; the locals would visit for his tales at twilight every day without fail. Only the outsiders would be misguided by his locksmith sign. This suited Madur fine, as he’d chat with the newcomer hours at a time. Madur’s thirst for exotic stories always left the visitors feeling important, and he was a decent enough locksmith too.
And his impeccable memory! People wondered if he was an alchemist in previous lives. He could pick up basket of shattered words fragment and rejoin them anew, and then distille the raw data through the Madur filter. He gave the stories spirits that even the original teller never knew that they had.
Uncle Raj said Madur could make a fortune as information dealer in Arcadia. Madur loved the outside world, but not as the one who lived there. He was not a travel performer, not like the mythological moogle Stiltzkin. Madur’s love was the one of people’s confessional tales, ones where the speaker and the events combined into something greater than the sums of the individuals, and Madur polished them up with his breathe of life.
Never mind last life. Madur was a word-alchemist of this era, and today, he was given one of the most incredible raw material to work with.
The traveller was a guard of Lhusu Mine. Underneath the airshipper’s stench, the guard’s leathery scales were of colours that no one dared to make a bet on. Yet her eyes still sparked when she told Madur about the guards’ superstition with the Site 11 Key. The guard reckoned it was just urban legends, but she still bought extra airship insurance just in case.
The key required special alloys, hence Madur could only deliver the replica next day. He wanted more flesh, more character to the legends, and a walk to the edge of Bhujerba was what he needed. Even if Lhusu Mine would be nothing more than a patch when bird-viewed from the land of the skies, it still exposed more of its souls to Madur, offering the intimacy and connection that he craved.
Madur first heard the cracking sound from within, then he realised that he was falling. It was as if the lower lands reached out to him, welcoming him into its bosom.
Let his skin lap up the cold lashes of the rushing air. Let him accelerate. Let him burn. When Madur heard the thud and the world enveloped him with just greyness, he was not afraid. For a moment he reached epiphany. He was one with his story.
He remembered nothing. None of locksmithing, none of Bhujerba, none of himself. Maybe the corpses of the stories cushioned his fall, for that the physiological existence of Madur was the only survivor.
It was a loss of unimaginable scale to the township, when they gathered around and found the shop empty. By then, the tales were already forever dead. It was not a loss of him, hard to grieve for what he never knew he had.
Plus anyone would enjoy just lying on the sand of Phon Coast, watching the seabirds.
It must have been a great day yesterday.
It would be a great day tomorrow too.
It was a great day for him. Whoever he was.
(The story of a man who fell off the skycity of Bhujerba.)
ENTRY #3 -- A Study in the Speed of Stars (Final Fantasy VI)
Life was filled with ambitions and certainly Daryl had her fill of them, dreams and hopes collided into the intangible future and her desire seemed to fuel her spirit. Because of this, she had no end of admirers, especially in men who wanted a strong woman to fly beside them and she welcomed them all into her temple of ideas and zeal.
But if there was one thing that Daryl could not stand, it was a life filled with regret. She had never been the type to be content with staying at home and conforming herself to what a man wanted or needed of her. When thinking of the future, she couldn't wrap the picture of a homebody wife around the personal image that she had of herself. There was that inner fire to make something of herself, to be the proverbial shooting star that lit the night sky up around whatever it was that she touched.
But it was hard especially when there was one man that she could see in her future, someone just as free spirited as her, someone who could accept all her quirks and foibles because he possessed just as many.
It was one evening that was spent in harmonious accord while they poured over ancient books on thermodynamics and attempted to tweak the system. He wanted to build the most advanced and state of the art airship while she wanted to fly it. He was a gambling man and to Daryl it was obvious that he was betting on her. The scratch of his pen was the only sound, while his slender fingers flipped through pages, that was until her voice broached the silence.
"I want to test The Falcon tomorrow.."
He raised his head from where he was reading and quirked a brow. She knew that his mind was going at the speed of light and he was making calculations based on odds and ante, she knew him to be 'that type' of man.
"Well, do you really think it's ready? We are clearly in the test stages." He put forth logically and rationally and she could see the hesitance there even as he set aside the book and then folded his hands against the table. Daryl could sense that another tactic would have to be had, one that played on the true nature of his heart.
"We can test it easily. A race across the world, and if anything happens you can back me up."
"You act as if I shall lose." Setzer said with a playful quirk to his lip even as the perpetual zeal of the gambler had been lit.
"Of course I shall win, I am going to be the woman who touches the stars!" Daryl declared quite cheekily and with much bravado, her pen tossed aside rather haphazardly even as she caught Setzer's hand in her own. She couldn't be quite surprised when Setzer took her hand and flipped it so artfully that her knuckles were exposed to the silent sweep of his lips.
"I believe that with all my heart, dearest Daryl. I would hope that when you finish touching the stars, that you will deign to come back." And then the sparkle in his grey eyes that made him all the more irresistible to her, "But I shall satisfy myself with waiting at our spot.. after I win, that is."
"If I hit the stars, I'm taking you with me. Promise." Daryl said, and because she couldn't leave him with the last word. "And don't be so sure of your win, Mr. Gabbiani."
(Based on a little flashback that happens in Daryl's Tomb where Setzer reveals "The Falcon", the fastest airship in the world.)
But if there was one thing that Daryl could not stand, it was a life filled with regret. She had never been the type to be content with staying at home and conforming herself to what a man wanted or needed of her. When thinking of the future, she couldn't wrap the picture of a homebody wife around the personal image that she had of herself. There was that inner fire to make something of herself, to be the proverbial shooting star that lit the night sky up around whatever it was that she touched.
But it was hard especially when there was one man that she could see in her future, someone just as free spirited as her, someone who could accept all her quirks and foibles because he possessed just as many.
It was one evening that was spent in harmonious accord while they poured over ancient books on thermodynamics and attempted to tweak the system. He wanted to build the most advanced and state of the art airship while she wanted to fly it. He was a gambling man and to Daryl it was obvious that he was betting on her. The scratch of his pen was the only sound, while his slender fingers flipped through pages, that was until her voice broached the silence.
"I want to test The Falcon tomorrow.."
He raised his head from where he was reading and quirked a brow. She knew that his mind was going at the speed of light and he was making calculations based on odds and ante, she knew him to be 'that type' of man.
"Well, do you really think it's ready? We are clearly in the test stages." He put forth logically and rationally and she could see the hesitance there even as he set aside the book and then folded his hands against the table. Daryl could sense that another tactic would have to be had, one that played on the true nature of his heart.
"We can test it easily. A race across the world, and if anything happens you can back me up."
"You act as if I shall lose." Setzer said with a playful quirk to his lip even as the perpetual zeal of the gambler had been lit.
"Of course I shall win, I am going to be the woman who touches the stars!" Daryl declared quite cheekily and with much bravado, her pen tossed aside rather haphazardly even as she caught Setzer's hand in her own. She couldn't be quite surprised when Setzer took her hand and flipped it so artfully that her knuckles were exposed to the silent sweep of his lips.
"I believe that with all my heart, dearest Daryl. I would hope that when you finish touching the stars, that you will deign to come back." And then the sparkle in his grey eyes that made him all the more irresistible to her, "But I shall satisfy myself with waiting at our spot.. after I win, that is."
"If I hit the stars, I'm taking you with me. Promise." Daryl said, and because she couldn't leave him with the last word. "And don't be so sure of your win, Mr. Gabbiani."
(Based on a little flashback that happens in Daryl's Tomb where Setzer reveals "The Falcon", the fastest airship in the world.)
ENTRY #4 -- The Child on the Train (Final Fantasy XIII)
The train powered ahead: mechanical, dark, and without emotion. Still, it had purpose. The boy knew the train's destination would be the end of him, the end of all the passengers onboard. Shackled to each other as they were, unable to move freely and clothed in the blue and white robes of sacrifice it did not take a genius to guess that they were all heading to something awful.
The train thundered on, unrelenting. It did not care for the lives inside it. But the boy could sense every feeling inside the train cabin. The emotions inside were palpable: the despair, the sadness, the sense of simply giving up. The feelings were all so heavy it made the air thick.
He found it hard to breathe, hard to function. He just wanted to cry, the need growing almost desperate as the train continued on the rails, heading to its inevitable destination: heading to the Purge, to the end for all of them.
A guard walked into the cabin. His helmet and gun should have frightened the child, but he had found himself numb to outside stimulus anymore. The quiet of the cabin was broken by whispering, so quiet it joined the sounds of the crying passengers. The words didn’t seem to make sense to him anyways, part of a conversation that had nothing to do with him.
"You serious?" ...A male voice asked the question to another passenger.
"Be quiet." ...A female voice replied.
"Best of luck." ...The male again.
The boy wanted to tune them out, wanted to tune out everything and everyone on this train.
He tried to recall his life before this. Looking back, it had all seemed so simple. Another person, in a different life, might have called it boring. They might have lamented at how terribly normal it all was. He vaguely recalled telling his mother how nothing ever seemed to happen, how everything stayed the same.
...That was before today. That had been before he had been separated from his parents and placed on this train.
He had screamed for his mother then. He had desperately yearned for her embrace and her soothing words. He had wanted that comfort, had wanted that sense of security she provided that he had not really looked for since he was a toddler.
In the back of his mind, the boy recalled that the old him would have been embarrassed by such a display. He could not decide if he had aged considerably or regressed. Did it even really matter at this point? Within a simple matter of seconds, his childhood had ended and his fate had been sealed the moment the train doors closed.
Now the boy felt nothing. He saw nothing going on around him. Sure, he saw the cabin visibly well enough. He was not blind entirely to his surroundings. He just did not process what he saw. He could not bring himself to break entirely out of his thoughts.
There were the other passengers and the guards onboard, but he tried hard not to see their faces of catch their glances. They were not the faces he wanted to see anyways. He would probably never get to see those faces again and he wanted to have them fresh in his mind, not sullied by these strangers in his last moments.
Just like with that conversation from before, the noise at first blended into the background as just another part of the train.
His numb senses did not register it as abnormal, but then it got louder and was accompanied by movement. That's when the boy realized it was not simply the train's mechanics.
It took another second for the boy to register that what he was hearing were the sounds of a fight.
It looked like one of the passengers had gotten free. She was graceful and fast moving, catching the guard in the cabin by surprise. A clang was heard as the guard fell to the ground as if he provided her no challenge, followed by the sound of the locks on their shackles being released.
The boy stared in shock at his hands and arms, no longer bound. He moved them just to be sure, took off his robe as if it burned his skin to have it on any longer.
The numbness took over again and he felt his legs give out. The boy's back slid along the wall of the cabin until he was sitting down on the floor. He brought his knees up, rested his head on them and tried to focus on what was going on in the cabin this time.
His vision was blurry and out of focus, as if something had gotten in his eyes. He knew he was crying, but he could not register if they were tears of joy or fear.
"She did it." ...The male voice from before, joining some of the happier cries of the surprised passengers on the train. ...Had an escape been their plan all along?
The joyful cries of the passengers turned to ones of distress as the cabin door opened and two more guards barged in.
The woman's robe was gone. She moved fast, like lightning. Her pink hair and red scarf the only things the boy could distinguish in her agile movements.
The two guards were down. She opened the next cabin door and ran in. He could hear gunshots.
A comforting hand on his shoulder pulled him back to reality. He recognized the kind gesture as something his mother used to do: "You all right?"
It was the face that belonged to the man who had spoken before. He had dark skin and his smile was reassuring, as if kindness came naturally to him: "I'm not a l'Cie."
A baby Chocobo emerged from the man's puffy hair and chirped. Suddenly the boy felt himself break out into a grin.
...He had not expected kindness on this train, but he was grateful for it all the same.
(This fic takes place during the opening of Final Fantasy XIII during the Purge, set from the perspective of the boy on the train Sazh talks to.)
The train thundered on, unrelenting. It did not care for the lives inside it. But the boy could sense every feeling inside the train cabin. The emotions inside were palpable: the despair, the sadness, the sense of simply giving up. The feelings were all so heavy it made the air thick.
He found it hard to breathe, hard to function. He just wanted to cry, the need growing almost desperate as the train continued on the rails, heading to its inevitable destination: heading to the Purge, to the end for all of them.
A guard walked into the cabin. His helmet and gun should have frightened the child, but he had found himself numb to outside stimulus anymore. The quiet of the cabin was broken by whispering, so quiet it joined the sounds of the crying passengers. The words didn’t seem to make sense to him anyways, part of a conversation that had nothing to do with him.
"You serious?" ...A male voice asked the question to another passenger.
"Be quiet." ...A female voice replied.
"Best of luck." ...The male again.
The boy wanted to tune them out, wanted to tune out everything and everyone on this train.
He tried to recall his life before this. Looking back, it had all seemed so simple. Another person, in a different life, might have called it boring. They might have lamented at how terribly normal it all was. He vaguely recalled telling his mother how nothing ever seemed to happen, how everything stayed the same.
...That was before today. That had been before he had been separated from his parents and placed on this train.
He had screamed for his mother then. He had desperately yearned for her embrace and her soothing words. He had wanted that comfort, had wanted that sense of security she provided that he had not really looked for since he was a toddler.
In the back of his mind, the boy recalled that the old him would have been embarrassed by such a display. He could not decide if he had aged considerably or regressed. Did it even really matter at this point? Within a simple matter of seconds, his childhood had ended and his fate had been sealed the moment the train doors closed.
Now the boy felt nothing. He saw nothing going on around him. Sure, he saw the cabin visibly well enough. He was not blind entirely to his surroundings. He just did not process what he saw. He could not bring himself to break entirely out of his thoughts.
There were the other passengers and the guards onboard, but he tried hard not to see their faces of catch their glances. They were not the faces he wanted to see anyways. He would probably never get to see those faces again and he wanted to have them fresh in his mind, not sullied by these strangers in his last moments.
Just like with that conversation from before, the noise at first blended into the background as just another part of the train.
His numb senses did not register it as abnormal, but then it got louder and was accompanied by movement. That's when the boy realized it was not simply the train's mechanics.
It took another second for the boy to register that what he was hearing were the sounds of a fight.
It looked like one of the passengers had gotten free. She was graceful and fast moving, catching the guard in the cabin by surprise. A clang was heard as the guard fell to the ground as if he provided her no challenge, followed by the sound of the locks on their shackles being released.
The boy stared in shock at his hands and arms, no longer bound. He moved them just to be sure, took off his robe as if it burned his skin to have it on any longer.
The numbness took over again and he felt his legs give out. The boy's back slid along the wall of the cabin until he was sitting down on the floor. He brought his knees up, rested his head on them and tried to focus on what was going on in the cabin this time.
His vision was blurry and out of focus, as if something had gotten in his eyes. He knew he was crying, but he could not register if they were tears of joy or fear.
"She did it." ...The male voice from before, joining some of the happier cries of the surprised passengers on the train. ...Had an escape been their plan all along?
The joyful cries of the passengers turned to ones of distress as the cabin door opened and two more guards barged in.
The woman's robe was gone. She moved fast, like lightning. Her pink hair and red scarf the only things the boy could distinguish in her agile movements.
The two guards were down. She opened the next cabin door and ran in. He could hear gunshots.
A comforting hand on his shoulder pulled him back to reality. He recognized the kind gesture as something his mother used to do: "You all right?"
It was the face that belonged to the man who had spoken before. He had dark skin and his smile was reassuring, as if kindness came naturally to him: "I'm not a l'Cie."
A baby Chocobo emerged from the man's puffy hair and chirped. Suddenly the boy felt himself break out into a grin.
...He had not expected kindness on this train, but he was grateful for it all the same.
(This fic takes place during the opening of Final Fantasy XIII during the Purge, set from the perspective of the boy on the train Sazh talks to.)
ENTRY #5 -- Untitled (Final Fantasy VIII)
As Orlana stood shivering in the cold mountain air, she couldn't help but think of the bad advice that had led her to that moment. Be in my movie, Phil had said. You've always loved the book, he had reminded her when she'd hesitated. It's better than trying to make your fortune at the tables, he'd added after a bad run of luck had left her with no choice but to go to her father for help. That last one had probably been the most persuasive, if only because she hated to listen to her father's lectures when she ran low on cash.
Phil had also promised world travel and a dashing co-star -- and what Orlana had gotten was weeks on location in what had to be the coldest place on the planet, and a co-star that could barely put two sentences together since he had been falling down drunk for most of the shoot. Him and everyone else, apparently, because Phil was off trying to wrangle up someone new to play the part of the Dragon in Scene 12 since the guy they'd hired in Timber couldn't be roused for anything.
"I'm freezing my toes off up here, Phil!" Orlana muttered into the wind, pulling her green shawl closer around her shoulders. She was just about to give up and hike back down to the tent that was acting as her dressing room when Phil showed up, dragging a guy in armor along behind him. He was definitely better-looking than the last "knight" Phil had tried and Orlana managed a smile when Phil introduced them, despite the chatter of her teeth.
Once the friends of her new co-star -- Laguna? -- had been recruited to take over for their drunk puppeteer, Orlana took her place and began to recite her lines. "Oh Sir Knight..." she said. "Save me from the wicked dragon!"
Given her great delivery, Orlana wasn't exactly impressed by Laguna's, but Phil seemed to like it well enough -- to voice over it later, that was. She was a little more impressed by the way Laguna whipped his prop gunblade around, especially when the dragon snapped back at him.
Orlana wished she'd been able to wear her glasses while doing the scene because maybe then it wouldn't have taken Phil's distressed yelp to realize that the damn ruby dragon was real.
She'd never ran so fast in her life, even though she did spare a heartfelt thought or two about her now-dead co-star.
Phil, however...
"I'm going to kill you!" she said once she caught up with the erstwhile director, both of them panting and heaving for breath as they listened to the din of battle above them. At least Laguna was doing to go down swinging, she decided. She felt another pang of guilt, but self-preservation continued to win out. "Travel the world, you said! Have fun, you said! You didn't say anything about being a dragon's breakfast!"
"Lana, I swear, the area was vetted," he panted back. "I'll just get someone up here to clear it and we can try again this afternoon."
"Are you crazy?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. "Third time is not the charm when it comes to co-stars. This entire production is cursed."
"That is entirely unfair," he said. "I didn't know the lamp was cursed when I tried to see what was inside!"
"Lamp? What lamp?" she demanded. "There was a cursed lamp?" There was roar above them and they both ducked, as if they expected the ruby dragon to land on their heads. "What did you do?"
"How do you think I got the money to launch my indie film career?" he asked her.
"Gambling?" she said. "That's how I would've done it."
"I found a lamp, it was cursed with some kind of demon in it," he said. "It almost killed me but then I sold it off to this guy. He seemed to like it. He paid a lot for it."
"You pawned a demon-cursed lamp on some unsuspecting guy for your career?" she screeched. "No wonder this film is cursed! That's so many years of bad luck!"
Phil rolled his eyes. "You gamblers and your damn superstitions," he snorted. "And need I remind you, you just left your co-star to die at the claws of a ruby dragon!"
"I hate you," Orlana said, grabbing onto her long, white skirt so that she could find her footing on the rocky mountain path. "I never want to speak to you again. I'm going home and I'm going home tonight. If I see you in my town again, I'm feeding you to the Anacondaurs."
"You can't afford a freight jump on a fishing barge to Balamb, let alone fare all the way home to Dollet," he shot back. "How do you plan to make it back?"
Orlana swirled back -- very dramatically, if she did say so herself -- and pulled her card deck from out of where she'd stashed it in her bodice. "I've got my cards," she told him. "I'll figure something out."
"Oh, that's a good career path," he shot at her retreating back. "I don't think there's much of a future in being the queen of a stupid card game!"
"We'll just see, won't we?" she shouted back. She paused, shooting him one, last venomous look. "And I'm keeping the costume!"
Orlana had almost reached the end of the mountain path when she heard another great roar from the ruby dragon.
Oh, Laguna, she thought, with a shake of her head. We barely knew you.
(The scene of Laguna's flashback to where he is making a movie for cash and ends up battling a real Ruby Dragon instead of a fake one. Perspective set from the actress who in author's head canon goes on to become the Queen of Cards.)
Phil had also promised world travel and a dashing co-star -- and what Orlana had gotten was weeks on location in what had to be the coldest place on the planet, and a co-star that could barely put two sentences together since he had been falling down drunk for most of the shoot. Him and everyone else, apparently, because Phil was off trying to wrangle up someone new to play the part of the Dragon in Scene 12 since the guy they'd hired in Timber couldn't be roused for anything.
"I'm freezing my toes off up here, Phil!" Orlana muttered into the wind, pulling her green shawl closer around her shoulders. She was just about to give up and hike back down to the tent that was acting as her dressing room when Phil showed up, dragging a guy in armor along behind him. He was definitely better-looking than the last "knight" Phil had tried and Orlana managed a smile when Phil introduced them, despite the chatter of her teeth.
Once the friends of her new co-star -- Laguna? -- had been recruited to take over for their drunk puppeteer, Orlana took her place and began to recite her lines. "Oh Sir Knight..." she said. "Save me from the wicked dragon!"
Given her great delivery, Orlana wasn't exactly impressed by Laguna's, but Phil seemed to like it well enough -- to voice over it later, that was. She was a little more impressed by the way Laguna whipped his prop gunblade around, especially when the dragon snapped back at him.
Orlana wished she'd been able to wear her glasses while doing the scene because maybe then it wouldn't have taken Phil's distressed yelp to realize that the damn ruby dragon was real.
She'd never ran so fast in her life, even though she did spare a heartfelt thought or two about her now-dead co-star.
Phil, however...
"I'm going to kill you!" she said once she caught up with the erstwhile director, both of them panting and heaving for breath as they listened to the din of battle above them. At least Laguna was doing to go down swinging, she decided. She felt another pang of guilt, but self-preservation continued to win out. "Travel the world, you said! Have fun, you said! You didn't say anything about being a dragon's breakfast!"
"Lana, I swear, the area was vetted," he panted back. "I'll just get someone up here to clear it and we can try again this afternoon."
"Are you crazy?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. "Third time is not the charm when it comes to co-stars. This entire production is cursed."
"That is entirely unfair," he said. "I didn't know the lamp was cursed when I tried to see what was inside!"
"Lamp? What lamp?" she demanded. "There was a cursed lamp?" There was roar above them and they both ducked, as if they expected the ruby dragon to land on their heads. "What did you do?"
"How do you think I got the money to launch my indie film career?" he asked her.
"Gambling?" she said. "That's how I would've done it."
"I found a lamp, it was cursed with some kind of demon in it," he said. "It almost killed me but then I sold it off to this guy. He seemed to like it. He paid a lot for it."
"You pawned a demon-cursed lamp on some unsuspecting guy for your career?" she screeched. "No wonder this film is cursed! That's so many years of bad luck!"
Phil rolled his eyes. "You gamblers and your damn superstitions," he snorted. "And need I remind you, you just left your co-star to die at the claws of a ruby dragon!"
"I hate you," Orlana said, grabbing onto her long, white skirt so that she could find her footing on the rocky mountain path. "I never want to speak to you again. I'm going home and I'm going home tonight. If I see you in my town again, I'm feeding you to the Anacondaurs."
"You can't afford a freight jump on a fishing barge to Balamb, let alone fare all the way home to Dollet," he shot back. "How do you plan to make it back?"
Orlana swirled back -- very dramatically, if she did say so herself -- and pulled her card deck from out of where she'd stashed it in her bodice. "I've got my cards," she told him. "I'll figure something out."
"Oh, that's a good career path," he shot at her retreating back. "I don't think there's much of a future in being the queen of a stupid card game!"
"We'll just see, won't we?" she shouted back. She paused, shooting him one, last venomous look. "And I'm keeping the costume!"
Orlana had almost reached the end of the mountain path when she heard another great roar from the ruby dragon.
Oh, Laguna, she thought, with a shake of her head. We barely knew you.
(The scene of Laguna's flashback to where he is making a movie for cash and ends up battling a real Ruby Dragon instead of a fake one. Perspective set from the actress who in author's head canon goes on to become the Queen of Cards.)
The entries, in case you need a refresher:
#1: Riovanes Knight (Final Fantasy Tactics)
#2: Fall (Final Fantasy XII)
#3: A Study in the Speed of Stars (Final Fantasy VI)
#4: The Child on the Train (Final Fantasy XIII)
#5: Untitled (Final Fantasy VIII)
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