Chapter rewritten: 10/15/11

S o S t a r s t r u c k

Chapter One

Not in Dalmasca Anymore

Truth be damned, it was nearly the end.

The air was hot, almost searing Balthier's skin to a point where his arms and legs felt numb and heavy, making him pause and wonder if the high amount of nethicite was finally getting to him. The final battle, or whatever it could be called, was tougher than any of them imagined. Vayne was a monster: a bloodthirsty, roaring hulk of rage and power. Their strength was already faltering, and soon Balthier began to think it was the end.

"Damn," he breathed heavily, aiming his fomalhaut with trembling hands. He shouldn't have given his last potion to Fran, but then again, he cared about her well being more than his own. That was how a true leading man led his life; others first, himself last.

Grimacing, Balthier looked to his other comrades, relieved to see that they were faring better than him for the time being. Fran caught sight of his discomfort and rushed to his side, wrapping her clawed fingers about his arm in a tender motion. He sighed softly as her curative magicks rushed through his veins, re-energizing his willpower and mind.

Ashe cried out, swiftly dodging a sephira blade that grazed her side. Balthier had to stop himself from running to her like a noble, lovestruck knight; she always hated men like that, she had once told him. In a heartbeat, Ashe got to her feet and tossed a Flare spell at the blade, disintegrating it in a burst of thick light.

How much longer would this go on, Balthier wondered, and when would this madness end?

Oh, how naïve I was. The madness would never end—not as long as I was a part of it.

"Balthier!"

It was the princess, sounding oddly distressed and apprehensive. Balthier instantly looked to her, only to feel a burning sensation pierce his chest. The sephira blade twisted itself and shoved him against the metallic wall, the motion knocking the wind out of him and causing him to lurch and gag.

Everything and everyone seemed to slow down to a sluggish pace. His companions became nothing more than blurs against a red backdrop, meager figures dancing around to escape the darkness and their inevitable fate. Someone jerked the blade out of him, and Balthier collapsed into their arms, wheezing as the blood poured from his chest.

An otherworldly presence came over him, tugged at his mind like a puppeteer and lulled him into a daze. Balthier let his eyelids droop, and then he fell into what seemed to be a long, deep sleep…

Screaming. People were screaming.

Who?

Balthier forced his lethargic eyes open, stumbling and struggling to stand as he clutched his pounding head. His other hand went to his chest, searching for that Mist-sword that had so utterly pained him before. Yet—it was gone. No wound, no blood…

"What?" he murmured, looking down and patting his vest. "It's… gone."

Pushing his worries away, he looked up and squinted, only then realizing that he was no longer fighting with his allies in the Bahamut. Everything seemed to be covered with a green veil, little white lights sparkling from air ships that flew overhead, and the eeriness did not stop there. Screams—yes, he was most definitely not alone—erupted from all around, echoes of death and pain lining the sickening sounds.

"Where am I?" he wondered out loud.

People brushed past him as if he weren't even there, all too afraid to bother with watching where they were going. When he nearly toppled over from the sudden movements, he caught a glimpse of his clothes, only they weren't exactly how he remembered Tied around his waist was a tan scarf, and his gold-embroidered vest rested atop a white blouse with quarter length sleeves. His pants, no longer made of chromed leathers, were loose fitting and gray, and his sandals were now white knee high leather boots. When he sighed hastily and ran a hand through his tousled hair, he found a pair of goggles resting on his forehead.

Anxious, his hands went to his sides in hopes of finding something he could recognize, but it was of no avail. His trusty fomalhaut was gone.

"Damn." No weapon, no allies… he truly was lost.

Suddenly something sharp slammed against his back, and Balthier tumbled face first onto the road. His head spun from all the screams and shouts—what was going on?

"On your feet, l'Cie!"

"L'Cie?" Balthier tried to stand, but two masked soldiers (at least, that was what they looked like) dragged him to his feet and gripped his arms. Another one held a gun between his eyes.

"Put 'im with the others!"

Before he could realize what was going on, they threw him like a doll into some sort of transport vehicle, and seconds after he could hear hushed voices whispering in shock. The large metal door slammed shut, and it took him a few moments to adjust his eyes to the darkened area. There were hooded people sitting in rows along the walls, and they all seemed to be watching him and only him.

Balthier said nothing and got up, promptly dusting off his vest and scowling. He joined the prisoners on the bench as the vehicle jerked to a start, and the whispers became nothing more than a ghostly memory. To be honest, he felt out of place. Well, of course he would, but even more so with all the prisoners wearing similar hooded cloaks. He looked down at himself, shrugging uncertainly.

Where was he? This definitely was not Ivalice. But where were the others, his comrades? Where was Fran—or the princess? He tried to recall just what he had been doing when he arrived in this strange world, yet his head hurt far too much to even bother thinking. Letting out yet another sigh, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do but wait. For what… he didn't know.

The vehicle violently began to skid, twisting and turning along the road until it came to a rough and sudden stop. Many fell out of their seats, but Balthier managed to clutch the railing before he joined them on the floor. Smoke and gunpowder—a familiar smell—filled his senses as he straightened and looked around, but before he could find a way out, the captives started to clamber out of the vehicle like a band of rabid animals.

He slid away from the group and pressed himself against the outside of the carrier, panting, and eyed the smoky area with caution. The soldiers were easily dispatched in the sudden rebellion, leaving behind a sickly stench of blood.

They had crashed on some sort of bridge, and there was an odd group of people handing out guns to the recovering prisoners. They must have caused the crash, he realized as he peered around the vehicle to get a better look. Still, he doubted they knew exactly what they were doing, and so Balthier decided to take matters into his own hands and find some way out on his own.

…Wherever that was.