Ancient Fic: Wild ARMS, Final Fantasy VII
May. 24th, 2021 08:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moemachinaAs fanfiction dot net begins to approach the heat-death of the universe, here are the extremely ancient fic from there that I've never liked well enough to archive on AO3.
Imaginary Things (Wild ARMs, 2001)
He traces patterns on the damp surface, disturbing the shimmering rings that spiral out across the table. The wet curves appear randomly twisted along the wood, but their slick intricacy seems to harbor some deeper rhythm. Are secret anxieties hidden within their sibilant shape? Or do they reveal the movement of the fateful universe, invisible as the wind until the smoke betrays it? He thinks about fortune-telling, divination, old women spilling chicken entrails across a gritty floor to predict a good harvest. His fingers pass through the glistening circles again, destroying the delicate pattern of destiny.
His companion made a soft sound so he looks up at her, but she isn't speaking to anything so real as he. She stares down at her lap, with her white fingers laced loosely together, and her lips occasionally shift slightly. She's not talking, but she's not silent; rather, she stands on the threshold of thought, forming shapeless clumps of consciousness into definite sound. He watches the shoal of ideas that slip across her face, with scales that glitter in her eyes and hair as they glide into her left cheekbone. She makes another soft sound in the back of her throat, and her gaze rises somewhat to lie on the tabletop. And then she looks at him.
Their eyes meet, and he doesn't blink. For a moment, they're both completely still, waiting for the other. The shoal pauses for a moment and trembles on the verge of articulation. Then she sighs and smiles a little.
"What are you thinking about, Rudy?" Cecilia asks.
He shrugs diffidently and stares mutely at the table, his fingers making new patterns out of old prophecies.
Cecilia tilts her head and smiles a little bit more at this, but she's already turning away, and the coruscating shoal is already slipping away to another interest. Rudy follows her gaze over and up and watches the approaching leather jacket.
It's a very nice piece of clothing, the leather jacket. The color is a light, durable-looking brown, and the long fringe hanging from the shoulders and arms swings slightly as its owner navigates the crowded common room. There is a small rip on the inner lining of the lefthand pocket and a mysteriously dark stain on the cuff of the right sleeve, but really, the jacket has thus far held up surprisingly well. There's a lot of miles left in that old coat. The little pieces of fringe especially. You wouldn't think some unraveled bits of leather would bear up so well under constant wear and tear, but they will, and they do, and those ragged edges will probably outlast the jacket itself.
The jacket arrives at the table, and Jack sets the glasses down with a dull thud. "Now, here's something to wash away the grit of that lousy cave." He slides into his chair and smiles a little too widely at his two companions. Cecilia gazes back at him without expression, but Rudy is concentrating on the narrow, glistening trail sliding down the leftmost glass.
"Well," Jack says at last, settling back in his chair and continuing to grin his too-broad grin, "I have to say that you guys are about as much fun as a corpse."
Cecilia shrugs and reaches for her glass. "We could get Rudy to dance on the table, I suppose," she says thinly. She gives the contents of the container a dubious look, and then couldn't decide if Jack's deepening smirk is meant for her or the raucous duo at the table behind her. Beside her, the dark-haired boy looks up to watch the scrambling shoals scatter across her face. She hesitates, and then with a slightly defiant gaze directed towards Jack, she tosses back the pale liquid in one frantic gulp.
Jack's face doesn't change expression as he surveys the room, but the leather jacket shifts in disappointment. "Quite a crowd here tonight," he casually notes before draining his own glass.
Cecilia carefully puts down her glass and folds her hands in her lap, white arms shining in the light from yellow lamps. "They're undoubtedly here for the Festival." Her expression is serene, but Rudy can see the congregation dappled with satisfaction in her cheeks.
Jack can see it too, and so he thumps down his glass with ever-increasing cheer. "Ah, yes, the Festival. I've heard that it will be quite a sight. All those ancient discoveries and everything." He leans in with a confidential air. "Do you suppose that professor will have that machine we saw today set up in time?"
Cecilia shrugs. "Emma has enough determination to drag that thing here on her own. She'll get it here even if it kills her."
The left shoulder of the leather jacket creases in interest. "Then, you know her? Are you from around these parts?"
The shoals pause for a moment. "Ah...only by reputation. My family comes from...farther north."
"Oh, right." Jack eagerly snaps his fingers. "Curan Abbey. You said you were from there?"
She shrugs, running her finger along the rim of her glass. "Yes, I graduated from Curan. I...came to Adlehyde to see the Festival."
"I've heard of Curan. Supposed to be quite the magic school." Cecilia says nothing to this, only runs her finger along her glass' edge until, returning to herself with a grimace, she forcibly removes it and returns it to her lap. Jack absently drums his fingers along the table top. "I was talking to someone about Curan only today. Now...now, what was it?" Rudy sees that the leather jacket lies quietly, in wait. "It was...oh!" Jack's eyes brightened. "The princess. Heard she was a beauty. Wasn't she supposed to attend Curan too?"
Rudy's fingers pause in their moist, meandering dance, and he turns to look at Cecilia. She stares back at Jack, her face gone still and silent. They seem to be a bubble of quiet that the rest of the common room seems to gleefully revolve around, a wild merry-go-round spinning around an island of calm. From out of the hurricane's eye comes a dull, "Yes, I believe she did. We didn't have any classes together, though."
Jack is silent for a moment, looking at her, but then his smile returns and his chair creaks as he leans back, and with an audible pop the bubble is gone and the roar of the common room inundates them once more. The leather jacket rubs against itself in good cheer as Jack nonchalantly reaches for his glass. "Not to quiz you or anything. Just curious. We didn't even know each other yesterday and now...now we're comrades!"
The shoals are gone from Cecilia's face and she is as pale as paper. "Yes. Well. It's...ah, it's rather late. I really should be going." She quickly stands up, and the knuckles around her pack are white.
"Where will you go?" Jack asks innocently.
"I will be staying with some friends here. Ah," she says, looking at Jack and Rudy. "Well. Today was quite an adventure, and I, ah, thank you for allowing me to take part."
Jack magnanimously shrugs off her praise. "It's nothing. Believe me, we couldn't have done it without your help."
Cecilia manages a thin smile and stands there awkwardly while Jack continues to grin up at her. She glances at Rudy for a moment, and Rudy can see the briefest suggestion of glittering scales. Then she shifts her weight from one foot to the other and apologetically says, "Well, goodbye."
"See you around, Cecilia," Jack says, grin fading. Rudy lifts his wet fingers and waves at her. She turns and starts towards the door, her back straight and her step steady. They watch her until she reaches the door and turns the knob and steps out, never looking back. The door shuts behind her with a dull thuck and the common room wraps them in its warm happiness once again.
"Hmmm," Jack thoughtfully says, once again drumming his fingers on the table. "I think...I think our Cecilia speaks just a little too proper for her own good. Well, I don't blame her. No doubt she'll never be allowed to drink bad beer with a pair of Dream Chasers again." He chuckles to himself. "At any rate, that'll be the last that we see of her."
Rudy looks at the chortling leather jacket, and then studies the glistening ribbons laid out in front of him, mutely whispering of their winding destinies, ever crossing and parting. He touches them lightly, and is silent.
Going to the Sea (Final Fantasy VII, 2001)
Death has a way of clarifying your thinking.
You have to look back on your life, and realize what a petty thing it was. That you were a weak and soft vessel, always on the verge of calamity. That the things you attached importance to - money, sex, power - were meaningless and transitory. That you didn't really affect anyone, and in a year's time, they will all have forgotten about you, like a sand castle in high tide.
Death also has a way of forcing out eloquent discourses on the human condition, even when you didn't give a philosophical damn about the world during life. But that's fine. I'd much rather lay here and think of abstract pleasantries than focus on the smell of fresh blood, or that feeling of wetness spreading slowly up my shirt.
Above all else, I don't want to think about the pain.
Oh, no, not the pain.
So let's think about other things for a while, for there's no lack of other things crowding in on my mind, ripping into my brain with bloody claws and screaming hungrily for more.
They've realized they don't have much time left, you see.
When I was young - stretching back to my half-remembered childhood - my teachers taught me how to tear apart other weak vessels. I was a studious pupil; I knew that either you're good at what you do or you're dead. I remember when they taught me to shoot a gun, aiming that oily black barrel at the painted targets, bracing for recoil, pulling back the trigger in that single white moment. That second of pure, breathless anxiety is always there. It doesn't matter what you're shooting at, bodies are much the same as painted cardboard in the end. And then, after it's over, you feel nothing, neither joy nor disgust. Whatever happens with the bullet doesn't matter, doesn't affect your clean, soft self.
The pain is like a drum solo against my skull, riding in with each desperate heartbeat.
They told me once about the difference between knifing and shooting, the personal and the impersonal. I can't remember their exact words, but I do recall that my left shoe had a scuff along the inside heel, and I stared down at it while they talked, trying to remember when I had scraped it. It's hard to knife someone. Dealing with the accusations and the last, furious flailings of the body. People rarely take into account the clockwork running under the skin, and so when you drive a shiv into someone's chest, you have to contend with ribs and muscles and ligaments. It's better to go for the belly or the neck, but then, if you want to kill someone, it's better to just shoot them. It's clean and quick and business-like, whereas knifing is messy and disturbing. The gun is the better choice, they told me, but don't forget what death is. The gun will fool you into thinking that it is meaningless and cheap, but with the knife, there is blood and curses and lingering agony. The knife shows you what death truly means.
I wonder if they knew they were lying. Nothing can show what death truly means until you're lying here on the cool white marble, staring up at an oddly patterned ceiling and feeling your life slowly slip away from you in a crimson spiral. Compared to the awful agony of anticipation, the slick edge of a knife would be welcomed.
Oh Christ, just think about something else, something else.
They'll say that I got myself into this. Yes, well, maybe I did. I'm not sorry about it, though. My old instructors, in between teaching me to shoot and kill, taught me the value of never having regrets. Not because everything one does is right and perfect and pretty, but because you can't ever look back. Once you look back - once you start to consider your lifestyle choices and think about past deeds and wonder about the essential justice of the universe - you've lost it. Just a matter of time before you're another dead body, all because your trigger finger seized up in a moment of doubt.
Or because you lost all sight of objectives and let emotions triumph over reason. During life, I had no regrets, but on the edge of death, maybe I'm allowed one. I wish I hadn't been so damned stupid about the girl.
I've lost all sense of feeling in my feet. One minute, they were there, clad in cheap white socks and expensive dress shoes, and now - nothing. For some reason, the feeling reminds me of floating in seawater, but I can't remember ever going to the sea.
She was a girl when I met her. Just a little girl, with eyes and shoes too big for her. And surrounded by the filth and decay of Midgar, she was a cool wind, untouched and unstained. They told me that she was the last hope for our world, and as she grew tall and green, I could believe it.
I regret her. Yes, I do. I regret what I fooled myself into thinking, and feeling, and seeing.
I suppose things like that happen a lot. See, there's a reason they told me to have no regrets. Once self-doubt is perched on your shoulder, wet wings flapping wildly, there's only a small stumble to questioning the justifications of the wide, clumsy world. And then...and then it's time to change things. And that's when you know you've lost it, once you start thinking about the impact you'll have on the world. Because you can't choose the way you touch the world any more than the wind can choose where it blows, than the sea can pick its tides.
The ceiling has started to shift at the corners of my eyes, like it's trying to sidle away when I'm not looking. Like looking through water. And I can't really feel my body anymore - it's there, but it's growing farther and farther distant, like it's unraveling from my center.
She was here a while ago. A few minutes. An hour. I can't tell time any more. And she looked at me with those cool green eyes and I could have wept salty tears.
They took us down to the sea once. I remember now. I must have been about seven, and they dressed us in our best clothes. The worst kind of clothes to go to the beach in, because sand crept into our shiny black loafers as we mournfully stood staring at the waves, while the nuns gingerly encouraged us to play. And finally they lost interest in us and turned to their endless card games, and we stealthily peeled off our coats and shoes and snuck down to the water's edge. The sea was cold and slid icy knives into our feet, and we retreated at first from the inconstant tide.
I have not been a good man. I have no illusions about that. I don't think I ever had a chance to be a good man. I think that something is broken inside of me, that it's been broken ever since I was small. It seems sometimes like I was killed years and years ago, and I just haven't realized it yet, and I've just been going through the last furious flailings of the body.
And then we advanced into the waves together, and ran splashing until the water reached our waists and the breaking of the waves was long past. And the black figures on the shore screamed at us like sea gulls, but we were already past their grasp.
I have always been alone, for some reason. It's easy to say that's the reason I did the things I did to her, so that finally there would be someone else like me. I was just a mad scientist, making a bride for his personal monster.
And we kept running, until the water ran up to our chests, until we buoyantly floated above the sandy bottom. A wave came, big and monstrous and black, and went crashing over us, sending us tumbling down under the cold, cold water. For a moment, I was trapped in the crushing dark and my mouth filled with salt. And then I pushed off on the firm, shifting sand and rose up towards the gritty sunlight, and broke through the surface of the amniotic fluid. They were all around me, these faceless children of my past, and we clutched hands and laughed at the sheer joy of it all.
My regret is that I helped do unto another what had been done to me. Because now she carries little broken bits inside of her, the shattered remains of a soul and a heart and a voice. And she'll never be whole and she'll never be happy and she'll do unto others what has been done to her. She's already started - I know that he already harbors her devastation. And she could have been the savior of our world, but now she's just another weak vessel.
I'm dying now. I've always been dying. I'm just not afraid of it anymore.
Cold green fingers touch my chest, my face, my eyes.
I'm even a little eager for it. Death has a way of clarifying your thinking.
Maybe I'm drowning.
Maybe I'm rising to the surface.
Cancer's Ascent (Final Fantasy VII, 2002)
He rode the trains to the company headquarters. He silently sat, leaning back against the window. Periodically he went through his pockets in a blind search for cigarettes; pale hands darted through his clothing in pursuit of nicotine like exotic fish skimming through the deep blue sea. He ignored the flashing red NO SMOKING signs.
The gray and black of Midgar flashed past him. He felt tired, like the city was draining him of some vital force. He wanted to get back home, even though the sight of the twisted rocket, still perched on its launchpad, nauseated him. This place... It crept under his defenses and infected him with its dull malaise. He wanted to rise above its billowing malevolence and climb into the clean blue sky, into the icy, rational nothingness of outer space. Humanity bothered him more than he cared to admit, and Midgar was humanity in all its glory. The city was cancer.
If only he had been allowed to get into his spaceship and leave all of this behind. He could have looked back at this blue planet spinning in space and decided for himself if he ever wanted to come back or not.
When the train reached his stop, he hesitated a moment before plunging off. He left a nest of cigarette butts behind him.
"Those things are going to kill you one of these days."
Cid gave the other man a flat stare and deliberately blew out a stream of blue smoke. "Yeah? Why the hell do you think I smoke 'em?"
President Shinra irritably growled in the back of his throat and reached for a brown folder on top of his desk. He flipped through it for a minute, and Cid Highwind felt a irrational spark of optimism flare in his soul. He beat that down, of course - the Space Program was dead. Something heavy and red lurched in his soul when he thought of it, but his mind was clear and cold. The Space Program was dead. There had been signs that the end was coming and the launch - well, the launch had just been the last straw.
They had kept him waiting for two hours. Cid was not the sensitive sort but he could sense a calculated insult. And President Shinra had elected to deal with him personally, which was never a good sign. Shinra allowed flunkies to handle good news, but he always elected to deliver the bad when he was face-to-face with you. Cid supposed that the old bastard got off on crushing other people like so many crunchy insects.
Cid pulled out his current cigarette and examined it critically; it was nearly down to its filter. He reached inside his jacket to grab another cigarette, which he lit via the stump of the old one. He thoughtfully ground the stump into the arm of his chair and looked up to see President Shinra grimly watching him.
"So..." Shinra said after a pause, "It says here that you issued the command to abort..." The man glanced at the document for a moment, "...because of a perceived malfunction?"
A sudden twitch in his right arm disturbed Cid's calm repose, but he was able to steadily look into Shinra's eyes. "Yeah. One of the oxygen tanks," -and there was a sudden rise of bile in the back of his throat that he fought to keep back- "One of the oxygen tanks was faulty."
President Shinra pursed his lips and stared at him. Cid exhaled blue and stared back at him. There was a long moment of silence. Both men knew how this would end; they had known since the beginning of this meeting, they had known since two days ago, when the countdown had stopped and the rocket had twisted around its supports on the launchpad. Cid bit the inside of his lip and felt a light pinprick of copper against his tongue.
Shinra finally broke the silence. "We are aware, Highwind", the president said, linking his sausage fingers together on the desk in a parody of sincerity, "that you have served this company well throughout the years. It would be uncharitable of us to focus on this...regrettable accident while ignoring your years of faithful diligence. However..."
The first stage of grief is shock. At the time, all he had been able to think about was the smell of fried electrical wires and the smoke and oh god oh god oh god.
"However, the board of directors believe that the interests of this company would best be served in other areas. After all, money has been poured into this project for nearly five years - and what has the result been? One aborted mission and countless damage costs."
The second stage of grief is denial. He had curled up in bed that night and stared at the wall and thought, "This is all a dream. None of this happened. Soon, I'm going to wake up, and it will be time for my mission, and I'll go up into outer space.
"The ultimate goals of the space exploration department were always nebulous. The defense advantages have become less pressing with the decrease in hostilities worldwide. The commercial gains have always been uncertain. While we believe that scientific advancement should be nurtured and supported, we do not think that funneling endless money into projects of arguable importance is the best policy."
The third stage is bargaining. He had woken up in the morning and realized that he had made a choice. It had been an exchange. A sacrifice. The space program, all his dreams, all his hard work had been offered up for...for... It wasn't fair. Surely the universe realized that if he had to do it over again, he'd choose differently?
"We believe that the space exploration department should be...streamlined. A re-designation of priorities, if you will. While this company remains committed to scientific research, it must also focus on its economic well-being and structural soundness."
The fourth stage of grief is anger. The only reason he hadn't killed her yesterday was that the rest of his crew had deliberately removed her from his realm of control. "She's in the clinic," they had said without looking him in the eye. "Some superficial burns."
"Your continued presence in this company is important to all of us, Highwind. Would you be interested in heading up the reorganization committee?"
The fifth stage...
Cid took a drag from his cigarette and released the smoke in a long sigh. "Actually...nope. I'm afraid that the idea of gutting my own department holds no attraction for me."
Shinra's black piggy eyes did not blink. "And what role do you envision for yourself, then?"
Cid smiled. "Why, the goddamn role you hired me for. I'll be the head of your space program. And you can throw us occasional crumbs, and you can cut us off completely and whine about 're-designation', but I'll still be the head of your space program." He stood up. "And if you don't mind, Mister President - I think I've been away from my department's headquarters for too long. I need to supervise the damn repairs, you know."
Shinra glowered up at him. "You will be abandoning any voice in your department's fate by doing this."
The fifth stage...
The other man shrugged.
On his way out, he absently dropped his cigarette next to the elevator and ground it under his heel.
He took the trains back to his hotel and climbed the stairs two at a time. His room was at the end of the hall. One hand was on the door knob and the other was fishing in his pocket for the keys before he registered the dark shadow hesitantly rising from the corner.
Shera said nothing; whatever carefully prepared speech she had planned had fled in the shock of the immediate moment. Cid said nothing; his jaw was wired shut. His first impulse was to strangle her but his hand appeared to have been affixed to the knob by some force heavier than gravity. So they both stood motionless, white-faced and silent.
Cid was the first to move: he made a choked sound like a scream in the back of his throat and unlocked his door with unnecessary force. He threw the door open and strode into his room. His fists were knotted. Halfway across the room, he picked up a faded gray suitcase and threw it on a bed that hadn't been slept in. He opened it and furiously began repacking.
Shera nervously peered into the room. A white bandage wound its way around her knuckles, but other than that she looked as she always did: all haphazard brown hair and askew glasses. She emanated meekness, and this bothered Cid more than anything else.
"Why are you here?" he growled without looking at her.
"Ah? Well, ah..." Shera nervously crossed the threshold. "This morning, we discovered you were gone, so we figured that you had gone to Midgar in order to report to...your superiors in person. Since I had, ah, since I was...well, I thought, since I was at fault..."
The rage abruptly disappeared from Cid's chest and he felt merely hollow and cold. Would it have made a difference if he dragged Shera along to Shinra's office, blamed her, fired her, killed her? "It doesn't matter. They're scrapping the program."
Shera made a sound of horrified surprise. "But...Captain! They can't do that!"
"Yeah? What's gonna stop them?" Cid closed his suitcase and locked it. He picked it up and looked at Shera.
"What...what will you do now?"
There's a pistol in my closet at home, he could have told her. One shot to the back of the mouth and everything will be black and rational. Or I could go swimming one day and the town wouldn't find me until three days later when my body washes ashore. Or I could get into my little plane and climb higher and higher until my instruments freeze over and there's no oxygen. Maybe I'll fall back to earth and burn. Maybe I'll reach space.
"I dunno," he said. "I think I'll go back to Rocket Town and work on the rocket. Maybe there's a way to salvage it, and maybe we can find funding from someone other than Shinra."
We?
She looked down and clasped her hands together. "I'm...I'm so sorry, sir. Everything you've worked for...it was all my fault..."
Cid snorted. "Now that's sure as hell not going to solve anything."
She looked up at him, wide brown eyes magnified by glass. "I'll make it up to you, Captain. If...if you ever need anything done..."
Cid pushed past her, into the hall. "Oh, fantastic. That's what my life really needs - you in it." He strode down the hall. Shera persistently followed.
She followed him down the stairs, she followed him to the train station, and Cid found her sitting next to him as the train began to move.
"You're like a goddamn puppy." He lit another cigarette.
"I...appreciate what you did, captain." She looked away. "I'm not sure if I would have done the same thing, if I had been in your position."
He looked down at her, at her mousy hair falling in front of gleaming glasses and a down-turned mouth, and he felt a strange heaviness in his chest, like a wet, white tumor was slowly ripening within his ribcage.
"Sure you would 'ave. It's the human thing to do."
He watched the gray and black of Midgar flash past them and breathed in the smoke.
Imaginary Things (Wild ARMs, 2001)
He traces patterns on the damp surface, disturbing the shimmering rings that spiral out across the table. The wet curves appear randomly twisted along the wood, but their slick intricacy seems to harbor some deeper rhythm. Are secret anxieties hidden within their sibilant shape? Or do they reveal the movement of the fateful universe, invisible as the wind until the smoke betrays it? He thinks about fortune-telling, divination, old women spilling chicken entrails across a gritty floor to predict a good harvest. His fingers pass through the glistening circles again, destroying the delicate pattern of destiny.
His companion made a soft sound so he looks up at her, but she isn't speaking to anything so real as he. She stares down at her lap, with her white fingers laced loosely together, and her lips occasionally shift slightly. She's not talking, but she's not silent; rather, she stands on the threshold of thought, forming shapeless clumps of consciousness into definite sound. He watches the shoal of ideas that slip across her face, with scales that glitter in her eyes and hair as they glide into her left cheekbone. She makes another soft sound in the back of her throat, and her gaze rises somewhat to lie on the tabletop. And then she looks at him.
Their eyes meet, and he doesn't blink. For a moment, they're both completely still, waiting for the other. The shoal pauses for a moment and trembles on the verge of articulation. Then she sighs and smiles a little.
"What are you thinking about, Rudy?" Cecilia asks.
He shrugs diffidently and stares mutely at the table, his fingers making new patterns out of old prophecies.
Cecilia tilts her head and smiles a little bit more at this, but she's already turning away, and the coruscating shoal is already slipping away to another interest. Rudy follows her gaze over and up and watches the approaching leather jacket.
It's a very nice piece of clothing, the leather jacket. The color is a light, durable-looking brown, and the long fringe hanging from the shoulders and arms swings slightly as its owner navigates the crowded common room. There is a small rip on the inner lining of the lefthand pocket and a mysteriously dark stain on the cuff of the right sleeve, but really, the jacket has thus far held up surprisingly well. There's a lot of miles left in that old coat. The little pieces of fringe especially. You wouldn't think some unraveled bits of leather would bear up so well under constant wear and tear, but they will, and they do, and those ragged edges will probably outlast the jacket itself.
The jacket arrives at the table, and Jack sets the glasses down with a dull thud. "Now, here's something to wash away the grit of that lousy cave." He slides into his chair and smiles a little too widely at his two companions. Cecilia gazes back at him without expression, but Rudy is concentrating on the narrow, glistening trail sliding down the leftmost glass.
"Well," Jack says at last, settling back in his chair and continuing to grin his too-broad grin, "I have to say that you guys are about as much fun as a corpse."
Cecilia shrugs and reaches for her glass. "We could get Rudy to dance on the table, I suppose," she says thinly. She gives the contents of the container a dubious look, and then couldn't decide if Jack's deepening smirk is meant for her or the raucous duo at the table behind her. Beside her, the dark-haired boy looks up to watch the scrambling shoals scatter across her face. She hesitates, and then with a slightly defiant gaze directed towards Jack, she tosses back the pale liquid in one frantic gulp.
Jack's face doesn't change expression as he surveys the room, but the leather jacket shifts in disappointment. "Quite a crowd here tonight," he casually notes before draining his own glass.
Cecilia carefully puts down her glass and folds her hands in her lap, white arms shining in the light from yellow lamps. "They're undoubtedly here for the Festival." Her expression is serene, but Rudy can see the congregation dappled with satisfaction in her cheeks.
Jack can see it too, and so he thumps down his glass with ever-increasing cheer. "Ah, yes, the Festival. I've heard that it will be quite a sight. All those ancient discoveries and everything." He leans in with a confidential air. "Do you suppose that professor will have that machine we saw today set up in time?"
Cecilia shrugs. "Emma has enough determination to drag that thing here on her own. She'll get it here even if it kills her."
The left shoulder of the leather jacket creases in interest. "Then, you know her? Are you from around these parts?"
The shoals pause for a moment. "Ah...only by reputation. My family comes from...farther north."
"Oh, right." Jack eagerly snaps his fingers. "Curan Abbey. You said you were from there?"
She shrugs, running her finger along the rim of her glass. "Yes, I graduated from Curan. I...came to Adlehyde to see the Festival."
"I've heard of Curan. Supposed to be quite the magic school." Cecilia says nothing to this, only runs her finger along her glass' edge until, returning to herself with a grimace, she forcibly removes it and returns it to her lap. Jack absently drums his fingers along the table top. "I was talking to someone about Curan only today. Now...now, what was it?" Rudy sees that the leather jacket lies quietly, in wait. "It was...oh!" Jack's eyes brightened. "The princess. Heard she was a beauty. Wasn't she supposed to attend Curan too?"
Rudy's fingers pause in their moist, meandering dance, and he turns to look at Cecilia. She stares back at Jack, her face gone still and silent. They seem to be a bubble of quiet that the rest of the common room seems to gleefully revolve around, a wild merry-go-round spinning around an island of calm. From out of the hurricane's eye comes a dull, "Yes, I believe she did. We didn't have any classes together, though."
Jack is silent for a moment, looking at her, but then his smile returns and his chair creaks as he leans back, and with an audible pop the bubble is gone and the roar of the common room inundates them once more. The leather jacket rubs against itself in good cheer as Jack nonchalantly reaches for his glass. "Not to quiz you or anything. Just curious. We didn't even know each other yesterday and now...now we're comrades!"
The shoals are gone from Cecilia's face and she is as pale as paper. "Yes. Well. It's...ah, it's rather late. I really should be going." She quickly stands up, and the knuckles around her pack are white.
"Where will you go?" Jack asks innocently.
"I will be staying with some friends here. Ah," she says, looking at Jack and Rudy. "Well. Today was quite an adventure, and I, ah, thank you for allowing me to take part."
Jack magnanimously shrugs off her praise. "It's nothing. Believe me, we couldn't have done it without your help."
Cecilia manages a thin smile and stands there awkwardly while Jack continues to grin up at her. She glances at Rudy for a moment, and Rudy can see the briefest suggestion of glittering scales. Then she shifts her weight from one foot to the other and apologetically says, "Well, goodbye."
"See you around, Cecilia," Jack says, grin fading. Rudy lifts his wet fingers and waves at her. She turns and starts towards the door, her back straight and her step steady. They watch her until she reaches the door and turns the knob and steps out, never looking back. The door shuts behind her with a dull thuck and the common room wraps them in its warm happiness once again.
"Hmmm," Jack thoughtfully says, once again drumming his fingers on the table. "I think...I think our Cecilia speaks just a little too proper for her own good. Well, I don't blame her. No doubt she'll never be allowed to drink bad beer with a pair of Dream Chasers again." He chuckles to himself. "At any rate, that'll be the last that we see of her."
Rudy looks at the chortling leather jacket, and then studies the glistening ribbons laid out in front of him, mutely whispering of their winding destinies, ever crossing and parting. He touches them lightly, and is silent.
Going to the Sea (Final Fantasy VII, 2001)
Death has a way of clarifying your thinking.
You have to look back on your life, and realize what a petty thing it was. That you were a weak and soft vessel, always on the verge of calamity. That the things you attached importance to - money, sex, power - were meaningless and transitory. That you didn't really affect anyone, and in a year's time, they will all have forgotten about you, like a sand castle in high tide.
Death also has a way of forcing out eloquent discourses on the human condition, even when you didn't give a philosophical damn about the world during life. But that's fine. I'd much rather lay here and think of abstract pleasantries than focus on the smell of fresh blood, or that feeling of wetness spreading slowly up my shirt.
Above all else, I don't want to think about the pain.
Oh, no, not the pain.
So let's think about other things for a while, for there's no lack of other things crowding in on my mind, ripping into my brain with bloody claws and screaming hungrily for more.
They've realized they don't have much time left, you see.
When I was young - stretching back to my half-remembered childhood - my teachers taught me how to tear apart other weak vessels. I was a studious pupil; I knew that either you're good at what you do or you're dead. I remember when they taught me to shoot a gun, aiming that oily black barrel at the painted targets, bracing for recoil, pulling back the trigger in that single white moment. That second of pure, breathless anxiety is always there. It doesn't matter what you're shooting at, bodies are much the same as painted cardboard in the end. And then, after it's over, you feel nothing, neither joy nor disgust. Whatever happens with the bullet doesn't matter, doesn't affect your clean, soft self.
The pain is like a drum solo against my skull, riding in with each desperate heartbeat.
They told me once about the difference between knifing and shooting, the personal and the impersonal. I can't remember their exact words, but I do recall that my left shoe had a scuff along the inside heel, and I stared down at it while they talked, trying to remember when I had scraped it. It's hard to knife someone. Dealing with the accusations and the last, furious flailings of the body. People rarely take into account the clockwork running under the skin, and so when you drive a shiv into someone's chest, you have to contend with ribs and muscles and ligaments. It's better to go for the belly or the neck, but then, if you want to kill someone, it's better to just shoot them. It's clean and quick and business-like, whereas knifing is messy and disturbing. The gun is the better choice, they told me, but don't forget what death is. The gun will fool you into thinking that it is meaningless and cheap, but with the knife, there is blood and curses and lingering agony. The knife shows you what death truly means.
I wonder if they knew they were lying. Nothing can show what death truly means until you're lying here on the cool white marble, staring up at an oddly patterned ceiling and feeling your life slowly slip away from you in a crimson spiral. Compared to the awful agony of anticipation, the slick edge of a knife would be welcomed.
Oh Christ, just think about something else, something else.
They'll say that I got myself into this. Yes, well, maybe I did. I'm not sorry about it, though. My old instructors, in between teaching me to shoot and kill, taught me the value of never having regrets. Not because everything one does is right and perfect and pretty, but because you can't ever look back. Once you look back - once you start to consider your lifestyle choices and think about past deeds and wonder about the essential justice of the universe - you've lost it. Just a matter of time before you're another dead body, all because your trigger finger seized up in a moment of doubt.
Or because you lost all sight of objectives and let emotions triumph over reason. During life, I had no regrets, but on the edge of death, maybe I'm allowed one. I wish I hadn't been so damned stupid about the girl.
I've lost all sense of feeling in my feet. One minute, they were there, clad in cheap white socks and expensive dress shoes, and now - nothing. For some reason, the feeling reminds me of floating in seawater, but I can't remember ever going to the sea.
She was a girl when I met her. Just a little girl, with eyes and shoes too big for her. And surrounded by the filth and decay of Midgar, she was a cool wind, untouched and unstained. They told me that she was the last hope for our world, and as she grew tall and green, I could believe it.
I regret her. Yes, I do. I regret what I fooled myself into thinking, and feeling, and seeing.
I suppose things like that happen a lot. See, there's a reason they told me to have no regrets. Once self-doubt is perched on your shoulder, wet wings flapping wildly, there's only a small stumble to questioning the justifications of the wide, clumsy world. And then...and then it's time to change things. And that's when you know you've lost it, once you start thinking about the impact you'll have on the world. Because you can't choose the way you touch the world any more than the wind can choose where it blows, than the sea can pick its tides.
The ceiling has started to shift at the corners of my eyes, like it's trying to sidle away when I'm not looking. Like looking through water. And I can't really feel my body anymore - it's there, but it's growing farther and farther distant, like it's unraveling from my center.
She was here a while ago. A few minutes. An hour. I can't tell time any more. And she looked at me with those cool green eyes and I could have wept salty tears.
They took us down to the sea once. I remember now. I must have been about seven, and they dressed us in our best clothes. The worst kind of clothes to go to the beach in, because sand crept into our shiny black loafers as we mournfully stood staring at the waves, while the nuns gingerly encouraged us to play. And finally they lost interest in us and turned to their endless card games, and we stealthily peeled off our coats and shoes and snuck down to the water's edge. The sea was cold and slid icy knives into our feet, and we retreated at first from the inconstant tide.
I have not been a good man. I have no illusions about that. I don't think I ever had a chance to be a good man. I think that something is broken inside of me, that it's been broken ever since I was small. It seems sometimes like I was killed years and years ago, and I just haven't realized it yet, and I've just been going through the last furious flailings of the body.
And then we advanced into the waves together, and ran splashing until the water reached our waists and the breaking of the waves was long past. And the black figures on the shore screamed at us like sea gulls, but we were already past their grasp.
I have always been alone, for some reason. It's easy to say that's the reason I did the things I did to her, so that finally there would be someone else like me. I was just a mad scientist, making a bride for his personal monster.
And we kept running, until the water ran up to our chests, until we buoyantly floated above the sandy bottom. A wave came, big and monstrous and black, and went crashing over us, sending us tumbling down under the cold, cold water. For a moment, I was trapped in the crushing dark and my mouth filled with salt. And then I pushed off on the firm, shifting sand and rose up towards the gritty sunlight, and broke through the surface of the amniotic fluid. They were all around me, these faceless children of my past, and we clutched hands and laughed at the sheer joy of it all.
My regret is that I helped do unto another what had been done to me. Because now she carries little broken bits inside of her, the shattered remains of a soul and a heart and a voice. And she'll never be whole and she'll never be happy and she'll do unto others what has been done to her. She's already started - I know that he already harbors her devastation. And she could have been the savior of our world, but now she's just another weak vessel.
I'm dying now. I've always been dying. I'm just not afraid of it anymore.
Cold green fingers touch my chest, my face, my eyes.
I'm even a little eager for it. Death has a way of clarifying your thinking.
Maybe I'm drowning.
Maybe I'm rising to the surface.
Cancer's Ascent (Final Fantasy VII, 2002)
He rode the trains to the company headquarters. He silently sat, leaning back against the window. Periodically he went through his pockets in a blind search for cigarettes; pale hands darted through his clothing in pursuit of nicotine like exotic fish skimming through the deep blue sea. He ignored the flashing red NO SMOKING signs.
The gray and black of Midgar flashed past him. He felt tired, like the city was draining him of some vital force. He wanted to get back home, even though the sight of the twisted rocket, still perched on its launchpad, nauseated him. This place... It crept under his defenses and infected him with its dull malaise. He wanted to rise above its billowing malevolence and climb into the clean blue sky, into the icy, rational nothingness of outer space. Humanity bothered him more than he cared to admit, and Midgar was humanity in all its glory. The city was cancer.
If only he had been allowed to get into his spaceship and leave all of this behind. He could have looked back at this blue planet spinning in space and decided for himself if he ever wanted to come back or not.
When the train reached his stop, he hesitated a moment before plunging off. He left a nest of cigarette butts behind him.
"Those things are going to kill you one of these days."
Cid gave the other man a flat stare and deliberately blew out a stream of blue smoke. "Yeah? Why the hell do you think I smoke 'em?"
President Shinra irritably growled in the back of his throat and reached for a brown folder on top of his desk. He flipped through it for a minute, and Cid Highwind felt a irrational spark of optimism flare in his soul. He beat that down, of course - the Space Program was dead. Something heavy and red lurched in his soul when he thought of it, but his mind was clear and cold. The Space Program was dead. There had been signs that the end was coming and the launch - well, the launch had just been the last straw.
They had kept him waiting for two hours. Cid was not the sensitive sort but he could sense a calculated insult. And President Shinra had elected to deal with him personally, which was never a good sign. Shinra allowed flunkies to handle good news, but he always elected to deliver the bad when he was face-to-face with you. Cid supposed that the old bastard got off on crushing other people like so many crunchy insects.
Cid pulled out his current cigarette and examined it critically; it was nearly down to its filter. He reached inside his jacket to grab another cigarette, which he lit via the stump of the old one. He thoughtfully ground the stump into the arm of his chair and looked up to see President Shinra grimly watching him.
"So..." Shinra said after a pause, "It says here that you issued the command to abort..." The man glanced at the document for a moment, "...because of a perceived malfunction?"
A sudden twitch in his right arm disturbed Cid's calm repose, but he was able to steadily look into Shinra's eyes. "Yeah. One of the oxygen tanks," -and there was a sudden rise of bile in the back of his throat that he fought to keep back- "One of the oxygen tanks was faulty."
President Shinra pursed his lips and stared at him. Cid exhaled blue and stared back at him. There was a long moment of silence. Both men knew how this would end; they had known since the beginning of this meeting, they had known since two days ago, when the countdown had stopped and the rocket had twisted around its supports on the launchpad. Cid bit the inside of his lip and felt a light pinprick of copper against his tongue.
Shinra finally broke the silence. "We are aware, Highwind", the president said, linking his sausage fingers together on the desk in a parody of sincerity, "that you have served this company well throughout the years. It would be uncharitable of us to focus on this...regrettable accident while ignoring your years of faithful diligence. However..."
The first stage of grief is shock. At the time, all he had been able to think about was the smell of fried electrical wires and the smoke and oh god oh god oh god.
"However, the board of directors believe that the interests of this company would best be served in other areas. After all, money has been poured into this project for nearly five years - and what has the result been? One aborted mission and countless damage costs."
The second stage of grief is denial. He had curled up in bed that night and stared at the wall and thought, "This is all a dream. None of this happened. Soon, I'm going to wake up, and it will be time for my mission, and I'll go up into outer space.
"The ultimate goals of the space exploration department were always nebulous. The defense advantages have become less pressing with the decrease in hostilities worldwide. The commercial gains have always been uncertain. While we believe that scientific advancement should be nurtured and supported, we do not think that funneling endless money into projects of arguable importance is the best policy."
The third stage is bargaining. He had woken up in the morning and realized that he had made a choice. It had been an exchange. A sacrifice. The space program, all his dreams, all his hard work had been offered up for...for... It wasn't fair. Surely the universe realized that if he had to do it over again, he'd choose differently?
"We believe that the space exploration department should be...streamlined. A re-designation of priorities, if you will. While this company remains committed to scientific research, it must also focus on its economic well-being and structural soundness."
The fourth stage of grief is anger. The only reason he hadn't killed her yesterday was that the rest of his crew had deliberately removed her from his realm of control. "She's in the clinic," they had said without looking him in the eye. "Some superficial burns."
"Your continued presence in this company is important to all of us, Highwind. Would you be interested in heading up the reorganization committee?"
The fifth stage...
Cid took a drag from his cigarette and released the smoke in a long sigh. "Actually...nope. I'm afraid that the idea of gutting my own department holds no attraction for me."
Shinra's black piggy eyes did not blink. "And what role do you envision for yourself, then?"
Cid smiled. "Why, the goddamn role you hired me for. I'll be the head of your space program. And you can throw us occasional crumbs, and you can cut us off completely and whine about 're-designation', but I'll still be the head of your space program." He stood up. "And if you don't mind, Mister President - I think I've been away from my department's headquarters for too long. I need to supervise the damn repairs, you know."
Shinra glowered up at him. "You will be abandoning any voice in your department's fate by doing this."
The fifth stage...
The other man shrugged.
On his way out, he absently dropped his cigarette next to the elevator and ground it under his heel.
He took the trains back to his hotel and climbed the stairs two at a time. His room was at the end of the hall. One hand was on the door knob and the other was fishing in his pocket for the keys before he registered the dark shadow hesitantly rising from the corner.
Shera said nothing; whatever carefully prepared speech she had planned had fled in the shock of the immediate moment. Cid said nothing; his jaw was wired shut. His first impulse was to strangle her but his hand appeared to have been affixed to the knob by some force heavier than gravity. So they both stood motionless, white-faced and silent.
Cid was the first to move: he made a choked sound like a scream in the back of his throat and unlocked his door with unnecessary force. He threw the door open and strode into his room. His fists were knotted. Halfway across the room, he picked up a faded gray suitcase and threw it on a bed that hadn't been slept in. He opened it and furiously began repacking.
Shera nervously peered into the room. A white bandage wound its way around her knuckles, but other than that she looked as she always did: all haphazard brown hair and askew glasses. She emanated meekness, and this bothered Cid more than anything else.
"Why are you here?" he growled without looking at her.
"Ah? Well, ah..." Shera nervously crossed the threshold. "This morning, we discovered you were gone, so we figured that you had gone to Midgar in order to report to...your superiors in person. Since I had, ah, since I was...well, I thought, since I was at fault..."
The rage abruptly disappeared from Cid's chest and he felt merely hollow and cold. Would it have made a difference if he dragged Shera along to Shinra's office, blamed her, fired her, killed her? "It doesn't matter. They're scrapping the program."
Shera made a sound of horrified surprise. "But...Captain! They can't do that!"
"Yeah? What's gonna stop them?" Cid closed his suitcase and locked it. He picked it up and looked at Shera.
"What...what will you do now?"
There's a pistol in my closet at home, he could have told her. One shot to the back of the mouth and everything will be black and rational. Or I could go swimming one day and the town wouldn't find me until three days later when my body washes ashore. Or I could get into my little plane and climb higher and higher until my instruments freeze over and there's no oxygen. Maybe I'll fall back to earth and burn. Maybe I'll reach space.
"I dunno," he said. "I think I'll go back to Rocket Town and work on the rocket. Maybe there's a way to salvage it, and maybe we can find funding from someone other than Shinra."
We?
She looked down and clasped her hands together. "I'm...I'm so sorry, sir. Everything you've worked for...it was all my fault..."
Cid snorted. "Now that's sure as hell not going to solve anything."
She looked up at him, wide brown eyes magnified by glass. "I'll make it up to you, Captain. If...if you ever need anything done..."
Cid pushed past her, into the hall. "Oh, fantastic. That's what my life really needs - you in it." He strode down the hall. Shera persistently followed.
She followed him down the stairs, she followed him to the train station, and Cid found her sitting next to him as the train began to move.
"You're like a goddamn puppy." He lit another cigarette.
"I...appreciate what you did, captain." She looked away. "I'm not sure if I would have done the same thing, if I had been in your position."
He looked down at her, at her mousy hair falling in front of gleaming glasses and a down-turned mouth, and he felt a strange heaviness in his chest, like a wet, white tumor was slowly ripening within his ribcage.
"Sure you would 'ave. It's the human thing to do."
He watched the gray and black of Midgar flash past them and breathed in the smoke.
