Grounded, chapter 8
Dec. 25th, 2020 01:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shinonFandom: Final Fantasy VI
Characters: Edgar, Locke; minor Setzer, Sabin, and Celes
Word count: ~3500
Warnings: Content notes for the fic as a whole on Pastebin. I am probably talking through my hat on anything regarding airship workings!
Notes: Chapter 8 of 8 of a gift for![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p2.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
ovely for Yuletide 2020! This is the one chapter that actually swaps POV mid-chapter; I used different scene dividers to hopefully point up that distinction, but not sure if it's actually noticeable, ha.
It was happening again.
The Falcon shuddered and listed to one side, and Setzer's strained voice came echoing down the speaking tube from the deck: “Any day now, Edgar.”
It was clear now, if it hadn't been before, that Setzer's old flame had been a mechanical genius. It was also clear that she could have used some oversight, or at least someone to call her out on her eccentric use of space – and that she had been short. There was no room to maneuver if one was, for example, six feet tall. Or if, hypothetically, one's mobility was slightly impaired, and suppose this impairment had not gone away no matter how consistently one ignored it. “Boiler three is venting steam. I can't get in there in the time we have.”
“Fuck,” said Setzer. “All right. Take boiler six offline.”
It would cost them significant motive power, but at least it would stop them corkscrewing into the ocean in the next two minutes. “On it.” He edged his way around the engine room toward the opposite boiler battery. Boiler six. Release valve. No problem. The Falcon bucked underfoot, and he thought, If I trip. If I fall against any of these components and burn half my face off. What a loss for womankind.
He made it across. His leg did not betray him. Of course, the valve on boiler six was stuck, because nothing was ever easy and it was hard to get feed water free of sediment and about once a week they had to break everything down and scrub the tanks out, to avoid exactly this scenario, the pipes getting gummed up when they were already under attack -
“Edgar,” said Setzer's voice from the engine room wall, “give me an update.”
In the most reasonable voice he could muster, Edgar said, “I'm hitting the number six boiler head with a wrench.” He gave it another blow. “As one does.” One more. “This compartment is too small to get any gods-damned leverage -”
“Take it up with Daryl,” said Setzer, which, under other circumstances, would be significant – he rarely spoke of her by name. There was no time to acknowledge that now.
That last blow finally did it – steam gouted out into the air, and Edgar ducked down to avoid getting scalded. He backed away from the battery in an awkward crouch that his bad knee did not appreciate in the slightest, and returned to the speaking tube. “You should have steering now.”
There was a jerk; the ship rolled to starboard, and after a few seconds evened out. “Yep.”
Edgar let out a breath and leaned back against the wall, feeling the thrum of the engine around him. They'd need to land for repairs soon, and gods only knew how they'd get the relevant parts fabricated – but at least they would, in some form, be landing.
This comforting reflection held for two or, at most, three minutes – then a huge impact rattled the timbers and the Falcon lost twenty feet of altitude. Edgar fell against the wall, twisting his bad leg, and for an instant his vision whited out with pain. Grimacing, he fought his way back upright. “What was that?”
“Somebody doubled back for round two,” said Setzer, with the perfect calm of someone contemplating something reckless. “Stand by.”
*
This big flying skull motherfucker waved a gnarly purple hand, and Locke – died.
Bound to happen. They'd been chasing this bastard across the globe – Doomgaze or Deathgaze or whoever – and whenever they caught up to it somebody died. This time he, Celes, Sabin, and Shadow were on Flying Skull Watch when it finally engaged, and this time it was him doing the dying. His fingers went numb. His throat slammed closed. He was lying on the deck and his vision was shrinking to a point. Then that point winked out.
The Phoenix broke his fall.
The heat of its feathers seeped into the cold space in his chest. It craned its long neck to look back at him, one huge eye sparking. Was it crazy to think there was recognition in that glance? What was it trying to tell him, and why didn't he understand?
Had Rachel understood? Or in the shadow of these huge wings, had Rachel just stared back mutely like him, and like him broken her own heart for the fifth time this year?
It was watching him still as every stroke of its wings lofted them upward through a black void – like it knew where it was going. Like it hadn't given up on getting through to him.
He thought: You know you're dead, right?
“Hey,” a voice was saying, “c'mon. You with me?” Hands grasped his forearm. “Celes is drawing the big guy's attention. Can you get in there and cut his claws?”
Locke was propped up against a locker of spare cables. Ice crystals plinked onto the deck around him – the shrapnel that escaped Celes's runic absorption field, too small to do any harm. It was Sabin kneeling in front of him, staring at him for signs of returning consciousness, rubbing Locke's wrists like that was supposed to do something.
“Okay,” said Locke. “Get inside its reach and do some knife stuff. No problem. I'm your guy.”
Sabin grinned in relief and clasped his shoulders. “You're okay.”
“I'm okay,” Locke agreed, and tried not to notice how intently Sabin was staring at him. He made shooing gestures as he got to his feet. “You're off babysitting duty, go back Celes up.” Sabin flashed him a grin and a thumbs-up and jogged back over to rejoin the fray. “You're fine,” Locke told himself, drawing his knife and trying to think about angles. “Not like you've never bitten it before.”
He knew damn well this time had been different, but he couldn't afford to think about that right now. There was no time to feel properly fucked-up about it. Maybe once it was all over.
At the stern Celes was still giving Doomgaze no ground; the blade of her sword sizzled and shone with absorbed magic, until it almost hurt to look at. The monster would get fed up and fly away soon – it had every time, and damn lucky it did, or Edgar and Setzer wouldn't have had time to fix the engine last time. But until the next time it booked it, they had to get a few solid hits in. Then rinse and repeat until the end of days.
Well. Figure of speech.
The hilt of a sword stuck out from the back wall of one of Doomgaze's eye sockets. Hard to say if that slowed the monster down any, but either way nice throw, Shadow. Hope that wasn't a sword anybody needed. Sabin was doing the kind of fancy footwork that tended to associate with shooting energy beams out of his hands soon after. Locke ducked into position beside Celes with an apologetic smile, she nodded, and the next time Doomgaze took a swing at her -
- the little flesh it did have was stringy as hell, he'd been trying to slice through the tendons of the fingers but his knife just stuck, and he had to let go or get dragged along the deck. He rolled to his feet and pulled a backup knife. “Celes -”
“I see it.” She had been working a spell already, and now pivoted – the point of her sword dipped – she aimed two fingers at Doomgaze and fired a bolt of lightning into the knife embedded in its hand.
It smelled like cooking flesh. Its claws spasmed. It howled – but it didn't sound like a living thing, it just sounded like the air rushing past you, faster and faster as the ground loomed up -
“It's happening again,” said that voice, in the back of his head. “The Phoenix brought you back just for this. This is how you lose everyone you love.”
Doomgaze brought its thrashing fist down on the deck. The timbers held, but the Falcon sank, again, sickeningly. The monster wailed, a thing with no voice forcing a hurricane up the wind tunnel of its throat, and it rained hammer blows down on this – this tiny, completely unarmored racing vessel bearing the only people who'd ever had any chance of taking down Kefka, and that chance slim enough – bearing every living person Locke still cared about.
He imagined all of them dead on impact. If he was honest, he imagined this a lot.
“This ends now,” said Celes. “We bring it to the deck and we kill it. I'm done chasing this thing around.” She turned back toward Setzer at the helm and shouted, “Hold us steady!”
He yelled back, laughing, “You think I'm not trying?”
Locke grabbed Celes's arm. “The balloon. If we get it onto the deck -”
Celes looked down, then up, then at the span of the monster's arms, gauging distances. “We have enough clearance. Get that other hand out of commission.”
“The horns, though?”
“I'll keep its head down. Move!” And she shoved him away, and took off down the deck. Doomgaze's good hand slammed into the timbers in the spot where she had just been.
He jumped onto it. He climbed up the knuckles toward the wrist. One good slice there -
It pounded its fist on the deck again. The impact rattled his teeth. He struggled to regain his grip, but it shook him off -
sent him sailing away into empty air.
Time moved slowly. He felt – calm. The voice in the back of his head said, “Hey. At least it's me this time.” If he'd come back just to die in some stupid avoidable way, fine. Better that than see his friends hurt, and slipping away.
He thought, I'm sorry. I got it all wrong. Phoenix... Thank you.
In his mind's eye it spread its wings and opened its beak and -
hissed at him. Like that seagull on the beach. And he heard Rachel's voice, in that tone of half-joking disappointment she used to use when he'd gone too far, saying, “Locke. How dare you.”
Time returned to its normal speed. He reached out. He got a grip on the Falcon's railing, which he almost lost again when his momentum swung him down and slammed him into the side of the ship. But it held. He got his other hand on the rail – lucky he hadn't popped his damn shoulder out – and took a moment to get his breath back. He would've waited until he stopped wanting to cry, but there was a fight on and nobody had that kind of time. He climbed up.
“He's back, guys!” he heard Sabin yell. Sabin was holding the monster down at the shoulder while Celes absolutely whaled on its skull. Shadow and his dog were keeping the hands occupied.
A hunk of magicite glittered from a cord around Sabin's neck, catching the sun. Of course, all magicite looked about the same, but...
Locke shook his head. “Damn right I am,” he shouted back. “Where do you need me?”
*
Locke shut the cabin door behind him and sagged against it, breathing out in a giant wobbly sigh.
“You have my complete agreement,” said Edgar, and Locke looked at him sharply.
“Weren't you in the engine room?”
“It's a short enough walk,” said Edgar. He was sitting on the bench that generally served as his bed, though for the moment he'd stashed the bedclothes and dumped out his tool bag next to him. Everything needed periodic oiling to protect against rust, and he had wanted something mindless to do.
“Yeah,” Locke said, at length, fighting down his evident chagrin. “Sorry. It's your room too.”
“I can leave,” said Edgar, starting to pack the drill bits he'd been examining back into their case. In point of fact, he wasn't sure he could stand up, much less leave; his traitorous knee had barely let him limp back here. At least it hadn't failed until the crisis was past. Might he always be so lucky. Might he hope someday to return to a life where everything didn't depend on luck.
“Nah, you're fine, I'm not – I'm not trying to kick you out or anything, I just – gods.” Locke scrubbed a hand over his face. “That was a bad one.”
“I got that impression, yes.” For the duration, the engine room had been sweltering, full of horrific groaning noises of unclear significance, and jerking around unpredictably, like the rest of the ship, along all three axes of motion. The occasional commentary down the tubes from Setzer had ranged from uninformative to profoundly alarming.
“I mean – we barely made it out alive.”
“That tracks.”
“Hey, do me a favor?” said Locke, with a sudden weird smile. “Stop taking this so calmly. You're making me look bad.” His tone said it was a joke; his face registered sincere resentment.
Edgar resumed putting his tools away. They'd keep; this conversation was gearing up to be something more urgent. He said, “Keeping up with that thing put a strain on the engine, and every time it made contact with the ship came with a risk of further damaging the systems. Now, luckily, when the Blackjack went down Celes managed to keep a hold of all the magicite. Luckily, as soon as I realized air travel was in our future again, I convinced her to lend me the Stray. I had this idea that – if we lost buoyancy, I could at least cast Float on the boilers. It'd neutralize a significant amount of weight. Hopefully buy us time to manage a more controlled crash.”
“Oh.”
“But here's the thing: that's all theory. My success rate with magic is little better than half – which makes it worthless in daily applications. Repeatability is everything.” He controlled himself. “I digress. My point is. If Doomgaze had been more deliberate about attacking the ship instead of your party on deck, all our lives could have hinged on... well, a gamble. The hope that, if my first attempt failed, I'd have time for a second before we hit the ground. I would do my best, and I would have no control over the outcome. If I'm 'taking this calmly,' well, to be candid, it's because I'm so relieved I could absolutely faint.”
Locke was staring at him. After a moment he said, “I don't know if you remember this, but – that was the last thing you asked me, when the Blackjack broke up. If I knew Float.”
“Well, yes. I wouldn't make the same mistake twice.” He grinned, although he wasn't sure why. “Not when there are so many new and exciting mistakes to be made instead. Much more informative.”
Locke started laughing. “Man. We're just having a rough day all around, huh?”
“You could say that.”
Somehow this impressed them both as hysterically funny. Locke sagged onto the bench beside Edgar, wheezing, and for some time both parties were too busy laughing like maniacs to have anything coherent to say. What was there to say? “Everything is terrible and dread is my constant companion”? It was absurd. The absurdity made it funnier. Edgar's sides ached, and he couldn't seem to get any air.
“Gods,” Locke said eventually, exhaustedly, “what the fuck.”
They had slumped into each other, shoulder to shoulder against the wall. It felt nice, somehow, despite everything. “What, indeed,” said Edgar.
After a moment Locke blurted out, “I died again. You're not gonna freak out on me, are you?”
He felt compelled to assert that he had never freaked out in his entire life – but he was tired, and let the compulsion pass. Instead he said, “I thought you might.”
“Did you tell Sabin to do that?” Locke asked. Edgar feigned ignorance. Locke nudged him with his elbow. “When you gave him the Phoenix.”
“You asked me not to discuss that with you.” Granted, Edgar thought, I shouldn't have expected it to stay a secret for long. “You said to do something that made tactical sense, and I did.”
Locke elbowed him again. “And just, coincidentally, that happens to make your little brother a lot harder to kill.” He smirked. “Clever.”
Edgar felt his face warming slightly, but ignored it. “Two birds with one stone. I don't see anything wrong with that. And no, I didn't give him any specific instructions regarding you. I trust his instincts.”
“Ah. Okay.” Locke took a deep breath, and it audibly shook. “Well, just so you know. That new spell is... weird.” He swallowed. “I was awake the whole time. I was alive, I was dead, I was alive again – it happened so fast. It felt – I don't know if I want to say 'awful' or 'amazing.' The Phoenix, it...” He trailed off. Uncertain of best practices, Edgar put a hand on his shoulder. “It looked at me. And I know -” Locke shook his head. “I know that doesn't sound like anything, but it just -” He gestured helplessly. “I don't know. I – don't know if I can do that again.”
Edgar said, “At your feet is a bag. In the right front pocket you'll find a flask of... not great, but generally serviceable Nikeah liquor. You're welcome to it, if you need to take the edge off.”
Locke snapped out of his reflections on the Phoenix to give Edgar a sidelong look. “You're just full of surprises today. Traveling around with your own stash of rotgut. Doesn't seem like your style.”
“It's an artifact of the Gerad days,” said Edgar. “Or hadn't you heard? I'm a ruffian now.”
Locke snorted. “Uh-huh.” He leaned forward to fish through the tool bag. “Y'know, Sabin's been trying to tell me a story about that for like a week? He says, 'oh hey, Locke, I just remembered something, you're gonna love this,' and he gets about two sentences in before he cracks himself up and says I should just ask you.” He pulled out the flask and sat up to take a generous swig. “Hey, that's not awful.”
“A rarity in these troubling times,” Edgar said solemnly.
“So what is the story there?” Locke said, holding the flask out to him.
Edgar accepted it and drank. “Well, I'm afraid Sabin's set me up for failure. Nothing I can tell you could possibly live up to that introduction. I decline.”
“Wait.” Locke frowned in thought. “Wait. Was Celes there for this? I could ask her.” He broke into a grin. “Yeah, you know what? I'm asking Celes. I will get this dirt on you, ya big doofus.” He slung a jokey arm around Edgar and squeezed. Jokingly. “Count on it.”
Edgar made no attempt, whether joking or sincere, to break free. “Well, while we're here, maybe you can enlighten me on a, quote, 'weasely' character lately seen in Jidoor attacking a poster and getting worked over by security -”
“Doesn't ring any bells!” said Locke. “Now, if you asked me about a very fancy young professional unfairly detained for making a political statement -”
“I didn't hear anything about 'fancy.' I heard 'sweating profusely through a secondhand woolen suit.' It's like you've learned nothing from my example in all this time.”
“I'm not listening to a word you say about disguises. You just rearranged the letters in your name.” But as if realizing it had gone on too long to still be a joke, he removed his arm from around Edgar's shoulders.
“In my defense,” said Edgar, careful to register no reaction to this development, “it was a very strange time.”
“Yeah.” Locke sighed, and stared up toward the ceiling. “Still is.” Edgar handed him the flask. He took a drink, wiped his mouth, and passed it back. Still staring off at nothing, with a halfhearted chuckle, he said, “We're fucked, aren't we?”
Edgar said nothing.
“Think about it. We came through that fight by the skin of our teeth. Do we think Kefka's gonna go down easier?”
“Doubtful.”
“See? We're fucked.”
Edgar took a pull from the flask, screwed the top back on, and put it aside. You always seemed to get drunk faster at cruising altitude – Setzer had apparently weaponized this against customers at the Blackjack's betting tables, once upon a time – so for now, better not push it. Better just wait for the part where he started to feel warm. Titrate as needed.
“The company could be worse,” he said finally, and slipped his arm through Locke's, and gave him a tired smile.
Locke looked surprised. Then he smiled back, crookedly. “I don't hear you arguing.”
“I'm not going to.”
“Okay, good, we're on the same page.” Locke patted Edgar's hand, with incomparable mock dignity, as if some important point was being settled. “Everything sucks and we're all gonna die.” But he left his hand there. That part wasn't a joke. That part was sincere, and it made a difference, however subtle.
“Maybe so. But see previous statement.”
“Yeah,” Locke conceded. “Could be worse.”
Characters: Edgar, Locke; minor Setzer, Sabin, and Celes
Word count: ~3500
Warnings: Content notes for the fic as a whole on Pastebin. I am probably talking through my hat on anything regarding airship workings!
Notes: Chapter 8 of 8 of a gift for
It was happening again.
The Falcon shuddered and listed to one side, and Setzer's strained voice came echoing down the speaking tube from the deck: “Any day now, Edgar.”
It was clear now, if it hadn't been before, that Setzer's old flame had been a mechanical genius. It was also clear that she could have used some oversight, or at least someone to call her out on her eccentric use of space – and that she had been short. There was no room to maneuver if one was, for example, six feet tall. Or if, hypothetically, one's mobility was slightly impaired, and suppose this impairment had not gone away no matter how consistently one ignored it. “Boiler three is venting steam. I can't get in there in the time we have.”
“Fuck,” said Setzer. “All right. Take boiler six offline.”
It would cost them significant motive power, but at least it would stop them corkscrewing into the ocean in the next two minutes. “On it.” He edged his way around the engine room toward the opposite boiler battery. Boiler six. Release valve. No problem. The Falcon bucked underfoot, and he thought, If I trip. If I fall against any of these components and burn half my face off. What a loss for womankind.
He made it across. His leg did not betray him. Of course, the valve on boiler six was stuck, because nothing was ever easy and it was hard to get feed water free of sediment and about once a week they had to break everything down and scrub the tanks out, to avoid exactly this scenario, the pipes getting gummed up when they were already under attack -
“Edgar,” said Setzer's voice from the engine room wall, “give me an update.”
In the most reasonable voice he could muster, Edgar said, “I'm hitting the number six boiler head with a wrench.” He gave it another blow. “As one does.” One more. “This compartment is too small to get any gods-damned leverage -”
“Take it up with Daryl,” said Setzer, which, under other circumstances, would be significant – he rarely spoke of her by name. There was no time to acknowledge that now.
That last blow finally did it – steam gouted out into the air, and Edgar ducked down to avoid getting scalded. He backed away from the battery in an awkward crouch that his bad knee did not appreciate in the slightest, and returned to the speaking tube. “You should have steering now.”
There was a jerk; the ship rolled to starboard, and after a few seconds evened out. “Yep.”
Edgar let out a breath and leaned back against the wall, feeling the thrum of the engine around him. They'd need to land for repairs soon, and gods only knew how they'd get the relevant parts fabricated – but at least they would, in some form, be landing.
This comforting reflection held for two or, at most, three minutes – then a huge impact rattled the timbers and the Falcon lost twenty feet of altitude. Edgar fell against the wall, twisting his bad leg, and for an instant his vision whited out with pain. Grimacing, he fought his way back upright. “What was that?”
“Somebody doubled back for round two,” said Setzer, with the perfect calm of someone contemplating something reckless. “Stand by.”
*
This big flying skull motherfucker waved a gnarly purple hand, and Locke – died.
Bound to happen. They'd been chasing this bastard across the globe – Doomgaze or Deathgaze or whoever – and whenever they caught up to it somebody died. This time he, Celes, Sabin, and Shadow were on Flying Skull Watch when it finally engaged, and this time it was him doing the dying. His fingers went numb. His throat slammed closed. He was lying on the deck and his vision was shrinking to a point. Then that point winked out.
The Phoenix broke his fall.
The heat of its feathers seeped into the cold space in his chest. It craned its long neck to look back at him, one huge eye sparking. Was it crazy to think there was recognition in that glance? What was it trying to tell him, and why didn't he understand?
Had Rachel understood? Or in the shadow of these huge wings, had Rachel just stared back mutely like him, and like him broken her own heart for the fifth time this year?
It was watching him still as every stroke of its wings lofted them upward through a black void – like it knew where it was going. Like it hadn't given up on getting through to him.
He thought: You know you're dead, right?
“Hey,” a voice was saying, “c'mon. You with me?” Hands grasped his forearm. “Celes is drawing the big guy's attention. Can you get in there and cut his claws?”
Locke was propped up against a locker of spare cables. Ice crystals plinked onto the deck around him – the shrapnel that escaped Celes's runic absorption field, too small to do any harm. It was Sabin kneeling in front of him, staring at him for signs of returning consciousness, rubbing Locke's wrists like that was supposed to do something.
“Okay,” said Locke. “Get inside its reach and do some knife stuff. No problem. I'm your guy.”
Sabin grinned in relief and clasped his shoulders. “You're okay.”
“I'm okay,” Locke agreed, and tried not to notice how intently Sabin was staring at him. He made shooing gestures as he got to his feet. “You're off babysitting duty, go back Celes up.” Sabin flashed him a grin and a thumbs-up and jogged back over to rejoin the fray. “You're fine,” Locke told himself, drawing his knife and trying to think about angles. “Not like you've never bitten it before.”
He knew damn well this time had been different, but he couldn't afford to think about that right now. There was no time to feel properly fucked-up about it. Maybe once it was all over.
At the stern Celes was still giving Doomgaze no ground; the blade of her sword sizzled and shone with absorbed magic, until it almost hurt to look at. The monster would get fed up and fly away soon – it had every time, and damn lucky it did, or Edgar and Setzer wouldn't have had time to fix the engine last time. But until the next time it booked it, they had to get a few solid hits in. Then rinse and repeat until the end of days.
Well. Figure of speech.
The hilt of a sword stuck out from the back wall of one of Doomgaze's eye sockets. Hard to say if that slowed the monster down any, but either way nice throw, Shadow. Hope that wasn't a sword anybody needed. Sabin was doing the kind of fancy footwork that tended to associate with shooting energy beams out of his hands soon after. Locke ducked into position beside Celes with an apologetic smile, she nodded, and the next time Doomgaze took a swing at her -
- the little flesh it did have was stringy as hell, he'd been trying to slice through the tendons of the fingers but his knife just stuck, and he had to let go or get dragged along the deck. He rolled to his feet and pulled a backup knife. “Celes -”
“I see it.” She had been working a spell already, and now pivoted – the point of her sword dipped – she aimed two fingers at Doomgaze and fired a bolt of lightning into the knife embedded in its hand.
It smelled like cooking flesh. Its claws spasmed. It howled – but it didn't sound like a living thing, it just sounded like the air rushing past you, faster and faster as the ground loomed up -
“It's happening again,” said that voice, in the back of his head. “The Phoenix brought you back just for this. This is how you lose everyone you love.”
Doomgaze brought its thrashing fist down on the deck. The timbers held, but the Falcon sank, again, sickeningly. The monster wailed, a thing with no voice forcing a hurricane up the wind tunnel of its throat, and it rained hammer blows down on this – this tiny, completely unarmored racing vessel bearing the only people who'd ever had any chance of taking down Kefka, and that chance slim enough – bearing every living person Locke still cared about.
He imagined all of them dead on impact. If he was honest, he imagined this a lot.
“This ends now,” said Celes. “We bring it to the deck and we kill it. I'm done chasing this thing around.” She turned back toward Setzer at the helm and shouted, “Hold us steady!”
He yelled back, laughing, “You think I'm not trying?”
Locke grabbed Celes's arm. “The balloon. If we get it onto the deck -”
Celes looked down, then up, then at the span of the monster's arms, gauging distances. “We have enough clearance. Get that other hand out of commission.”
“The horns, though?”
“I'll keep its head down. Move!” And she shoved him away, and took off down the deck. Doomgaze's good hand slammed into the timbers in the spot where she had just been.
He jumped onto it. He climbed up the knuckles toward the wrist. One good slice there -
It pounded its fist on the deck again. The impact rattled his teeth. He struggled to regain his grip, but it shook him off -
sent him sailing away into empty air.
Time moved slowly. He felt – calm. The voice in the back of his head said, “Hey. At least it's me this time.” If he'd come back just to die in some stupid avoidable way, fine. Better that than see his friends hurt, and slipping away.
He thought, I'm sorry. I got it all wrong. Phoenix... Thank you.
In his mind's eye it spread its wings and opened its beak and -
hissed at him. Like that seagull on the beach. And he heard Rachel's voice, in that tone of half-joking disappointment she used to use when he'd gone too far, saying, “Locke. How dare you.”
Time returned to its normal speed. He reached out. He got a grip on the Falcon's railing, which he almost lost again when his momentum swung him down and slammed him into the side of the ship. But it held. He got his other hand on the rail – lucky he hadn't popped his damn shoulder out – and took a moment to get his breath back. He would've waited until he stopped wanting to cry, but there was a fight on and nobody had that kind of time. He climbed up.
“He's back, guys!” he heard Sabin yell. Sabin was holding the monster down at the shoulder while Celes absolutely whaled on its skull. Shadow and his dog were keeping the hands occupied.
A hunk of magicite glittered from a cord around Sabin's neck, catching the sun. Of course, all magicite looked about the same, but...
Locke shook his head. “Damn right I am,” he shouted back. “Where do you need me?”
*
Locke shut the cabin door behind him and sagged against it, breathing out in a giant wobbly sigh.
“You have my complete agreement,” said Edgar, and Locke looked at him sharply.
“Weren't you in the engine room?”
“It's a short enough walk,” said Edgar. He was sitting on the bench that generally served as his bed, though for the moment he'd stashed the bedclothes and dumped out his tool bag next to him. Everything needed periodic oiling to protect against rust, and he had wanted something mindless to do.
“Yeah,” Locke said, at length, fighting down his evident chagrin. “Sorry. It's your room too.”
“I can leave,” said Edgar, starting to pack the drill bits he'd been examining back into their case. In point of fact, he wasn't sure he could stand up, much less leave; his traitorous knee had barely let him limp back here. At least it hadn't failed until the crisis was past. Might he always be so lucky. Might he hope someday to return to a life where everything didn't depend on luck.
“Nah, you're fine, I'm not – I'm not trying to kick you out or anything, I just – gods.” Locke scrubbed a hand over his face. “That was a bad one.”
“I got that impression, yes.” For the duration, the engine room had been sweltering, full of horrific groaning noises of unclear significance, and jerking around unpredictably, like the rest of the ship, along all three axes of motion. The occasional commentary down the tubes from Setzer had ranged from uninformative to profoundly alarming.
“I mean – we barely made it out alive.”
“That tracks.”
“Hey, do me a favor?” said Locke, with a sudden weird smile. “Stop taking this so calmly. You're making me look bad.” His tone said it was a joke; his face registered sincere resentment.
Edgar resumed putting his tools away. They'd keep; this conversation was gearing up to be something more urgent. He said, “Keeping up with that thing put a strain on the engine, and every time it made contact with the ship came with a risk of further damaging the systems. Now, luckily, when the Blackjack went down Celes managed to keep a hold of all the magicite. Luckily, as soon as I realized air travel was in our future again, I convinced her to lend me the Stray. I had this idea that – if we lost buoyancy, I could at least cast Float on the boilers. It'd neutralize a significant amount of weight. Hopefully buy us time to manage a more controlled crash.”
“Oh.”
“But here's the thing: that's all theory. My success rate with magic is little better than half – which makes it worthless in daily applications. Repeatability is everything.” He controlled himself. “I digress. My point is. If Doomgaze had been more deliberate about attacking the ship instead of your party on deck, all our lives could have hinged on... well, a gamble. The hope that, if my first attempt failed, I'd have time for a second before we hit the ground. I would do my best, and I would have no control over the outcome. If I'm 'taking this calmly,' well, to be candid, it's because I'm so relieved I could absolutely faint.”
Locke was staring at him. After a moment he said, “I don't know if you remember this, but – that was the last thing you asked me, when the Blackjack broke up. If I knew Float.”
“Well, yes. I wouldn't make the same mistake twice.” He grinned, although he wasn't sure why. “Not when there are so many new and exciting mistakes to be made instead. Much more informative.”
Locke started laughing. “Man. We're just having a rough day all around, huh?”
“You could say that.”
Somehow this impressed them both as hysterically funny. Locke sagged onto the bench beside Edgar, wheezing, and for some time both parties were too busy laughing like maniacs to have anything coherent to say. What was there to say? “Everything is terrible and dread is my constant companion”? It was absurd. The absurdity made it funnier. Edgar's sides ached, and he couldn't seem to get any air.
“Gods,” Locke said eventually, exhaustedly, “what the fuck.”
They had slumped into each other, shoulder to shoulder against the wall. It felt nice, somehow, despite everything. “What, indeed,” said Edgar.
After a moment Locke blurted out, “I died again. You're not gonna freak out on me, are you?”
He felt compelled to assert that he had never freaked out in his entire life – but he was tired, and let the compulsion pass. Instead he said, “I thought you might.”
“Did you tell Sabin to do that?” Locke asked. Edgar feigned ignorance. Locke nudged him with his elbow. “When you gave him the Phoenix.”
“You asked me not to discuss that with you.” Granted, Edgar thought, I shouldn't have expected it to stay a secret for long. “You said to do something that made tactical sense, and I did.”
Locke elbowed him again. “And just, coincidentally, that happens to make your little brother a lot harder to kill.” He smirked. “Clever.”
Edgar felt his face warming slightly, but ignored it. “Two birds with one stone. I don't see anything wrong with that. And no, I didn't give him any specific instructions regarding you. I trust his instincts.”
“Ah. Okay.” Locke took a deep breath, and it audibly shook. “Well, just so you know. That new spell is... weird.” He swallowed. “I was awake the whole time. I was alive, I was dead, I was alive again – it happened so fast. It felt – I don't know if I want to say 'awful' or 'amazing.' The Phoenix, it...” He trailed off. Uncertain of best practices, Edgar put a hand on his shoulder. “It looked at me. And I know -” Locke shook his head. “I know that doesn't sound like anything, but it just -” He gestured helplessly. “I don't know. I – don't know if I can do that again.”
Edgar said, “At your feet is a bag. In the right front pocket you'll find a flask of... not great, but generally serviceable Nikeah liquor. You're welcome to it, if you need to take the edge off.”
Locke snapped out of his reflections on the Phoenix to give Edgar a sidelong look. “You're just full of surprises today. Traveling around with your own stash of rotgut. Doesn't seem like your style.”
“It's an artifact of the Gerad days,” said Edgar. “Or hadn't you heard? I'm a ruffian now.”
Locke snorted. “Uh-huh.” He leaned forward to fish through the tool bag. “Y'know, Sabin's been trying to tell me a story about that for like a week? He says, 'oh hey, Locke, I just remembered something, you're gonna love this,' and he gets about two sentences in before he cracks himself up and says I should just ask you.” He pulled out the flask and sat up to take a generous swig. “Hey, that's not awful.”
“A rarity in these troubling times,” Edgar said solemnly.
“So what is the story there?” Locke said, holding the flask out to him.
Edgar accepted it and drank. “Well, I'm afraid Sabin's set me up for failure. Nothing I can tell you could possibly live up to that introduction. I decline.”
“Wait.” Locke frowned in thought. “Wait. Was Celes there for this? I could ask her.” He broke into a grin. “Yeah, you know what? I'm asking Celes. I will get this dirt on you, ya big doofus.” He slung a jokey arm around Edgar and squeezed. Jokingly. “Count on it.”
Edgar made no attempt, whether joking or sincere, to break free. “Well, while we're here, maybe you can enlighten me on a, quote, 'weasely' character lately seen in Jidoor attacking a poster and getting worked over by security -”
“Doesn't ring any bells!” said Locke. “Now, if you asked me about a very fancy young professional unfairly detained for making a political statement -”
“I didn't hear anything about 'fancy.' I heard 'sweating profusely through a secondhand woolen suit.' It's like you've learned nothing from my example in all this time.”
“I'm not listening to a word you say about disguises. You just rearranged the letters in your name.” But as if realizing it had gone on too long to still be a joke, he removed his arm from around Edgar's shoulders.
“In my defense,” said Edgar, careful to register no reaction to this development, “it was a very strange time.”
“Yeah.” Locke sighed, and stared up toward the ceiling. “Still is.” Edgar handed him the flask. He took a drink, wiped his mouth, and passed it back. Still staring off at nothing, with a halfhearted chuckle, he said, “We're fucked, aren't we?”
Edgar said nothing.
“Think about it. We came through that fight by the skin of our teeth. Do we think Kefka's gonna go down easier?”
“Doubtful.”
“See? We're fucked.”
Edgar took a pull from the flask, screwed the top back on, and put it aside. You always seemed to get drunk faster at cruising altitude – Setzer had apparently weaponized this against customers at the Blackjack's betting tables, once upon a time – so for now, better not push it. Better just wait for the part where he started to feel warm. Titrate as needed.
“The company could be worse,” he said finally, and slipped his arm through Locke's, and gave him a tired smile.
Locke looked surprised. Then he smiled back, crookedly. “I don't hear you arguing.”
“I'm not going to.”
“Okay, good, we're on the same page.” Locke patted Edgar's hand, with incomparable mock dignity, as if some important point was being settled. “Everything sucks and we're all gonna die.” But he left his hand there. That part wasn't a joke. That part was sincere, and it made a difference, however subtle.
“Maybe so. But see previous statement.”
“Yeah,” Locke conceded. “Could be worse.”
