Disclaimer: I don't own FF9. Nor do I own Rebecca's name.
Chapter One
"I missed you," I quipped, my face contorting into a massive grin, "last night." Ellie stopped what she was doing and stared at me. Without warning, she burst into laughter and stabbed me with her pen. The non-pointy bit of course, or else I'd have died and that would have been a poor way to start a story.
"You, Rebecca…you are a disaster just waiting to happen." She said, shaking her head as she went back to working on her project.
"Well of course I am," I said cheekily. "I've what? Mothered the entire future generation using only my pointer finger?" And just to put emphasis on said pointer finger, I wiggled it around. "I have triplets from you and at least twenty-seven from her." I nodded to April who was trying to fix her Clayman's arm which looked like it was about to fall off at any moment now.
"Dude," Ellie said, giving me a good bop in the head. "Have I told you that you creep me out?"
"Only several times," I said, nursing my head with an injured look on my face. "And you so did not have to hit me that hard."
"You deserved it…bi-bitch," Ellie shot back—stuttering on the last word—and stuck out her tongue.
Aaah. Pointless banter. Just what I need for the last class of the day. I picked up my own version of the Clayman and started working on it again…or tried to anyway. My attention span was getting abnormally short and I kept glancing at some unsuspecting victim and giving them the Smile. The slow creepy kind that I know Ellie hates so much. It was very effective.
By the time the bell had rung, I had embarrassed April, disgusted Ellie, scared some kid whose name I always forgot and successfully implanted a nose on the Clayman's face. Alright. So I was lying on that last bit. Well one can always dream…
I sighed and sidled along the corridors, narrowly missing several would-be accidents. I've always been terribly clumsy, especially in the leg area. Even when I'm simply walking, I still manage to fall down at the most inappropriate times. Maybe it's because I walk with a sort of lunge-like quality, taking my whole weight completely forward. Maybe gravity just hates me. Either way, I always almost usually end up on the floor.
Nodding to a fellow geek along the hallway, I stopped a bit, waited for my seventy-sixth victim of the day, curled my fist tightly, and slammed it against said victim's stomach. Hastily, I ran to my locker, ignoring the curses he had sent my way, and almost tripped on a foot that happened to be in my path. I dropped the grin which I had so foolishly carried the whole way and apologized to the unsuspecting foot—I mean person—and finally arrived at my locker. Kneeling on the floor—I had the misfortune of being stuck with a bottom locker despite my a-bit-taller-than-average size—I twisted the dial with the professionalism of a burglar, eased the lock from its place and opened the locker. That's when things got weird. Mostly because a vortex, a bloody vortex, sucked me inside the locker. The next thing I saw was darkness.
I haven't fainted, if that's what you're thinking. I just saw darkness. That's all. A complete and utter darkness that I felt like writing a poem about it in free-verse style while mooning over what to eat for dinner. Didn't have a pen and paper with me though. For some reason, the vortex forgot to bring my bag along.
"Hello?" I asked nervously. Yeah, I might be a complete ass when it comes to others, but that only happens when I'm actually in the mood for it. When stuck in a completely foreign place with no food to eat, I often panic and start acting like my ten-year old self. I never did like being ten then. It mostly involved a lot of…paperwork. But only because we had to take penmanship classes 'til sixth grade. Just the thought of the olden days made me want to vomit.
"Greetings, human."
Light appeared in waves and before I knew it, the whole place was lit up. It didn't really do any good because the whole place just looked completely white as opposed to looking completely black. Whoever designed this place probably didn't want much done. There was no furniture, no windows and most of all…no doors to run to if confronted by a large monster with extremely large teeth and yellow eyes, both of which were signs that you had to move very far away at an extremely fast pace.
I shifted uneasily and turned my head to the one who spoke. I blinked. A short stocky woman with snowy white hair and eyes of an electric blue stared at me expectantly. I lifted my hand weakly and said in a quivering voice, "Yo."
"I am called Robin," the woman said and bowed her head a little. "And I am your Playstation."
Wow, rewind. I don't have a damn playstation, let alone one that could actually talk. This was a dream, eh? It's actually my subconscious mind telling me that I want another one of those damn things again because…well because I've never gotten my hands on any kind of gaming console before. Even something as battered and old as a PSone was enough to make me happy.
"You must be talking to the wrong person then," I spoke boldly, "because I don't have a Playstation."
"I've always been here," Robin said. "I've always been living in your heart."
I grimaced. She didn't have to put it like that. Always in my heart sounds a wee bit…well wacky, in my opinion. Besides, it made me feel as if I was a neurotic whose only purpose in life is to play games.
"Is this a dream?"
"Do you want it to be?"
"Can I wake up now?" Well two could play at this game of answering-a-question-with-a-question!
"You are needed, human," Robin spoke. I pouted. And I was having so much fun, playing that game. "Whether you like it or not."
I sighed. "Alright, alright. What was it you wanted me to do again? I say let's get this over with before I change my mind." If this was a dream, I'm pretty sure I'm going to wake up any second now, especially considering the fact that dreams usually work out like that. Pity, I had done so much work on my Clayman too.
"Good." The woman smiled wolfishly. "Have fun."
Darkness again. You'd think I was going blind or something. Maybe I really had fallen into a deep slumber. So why am I still talking to myself and why is it that I'm smelling something akin to a fire burning? It's almost as if—
BOOM!
"I take back what I said!" I screamed at the top of my lungs as I plummeted downwards. "I want out!"
"Acting uncharacteristically inhuman again, Robin?" A voice echoed along the room, making Robin perk up from her position on the floor. She had been lying on it, staring at the ceiling with a blank look on her face.
"Not really," she said and shrugged, lying back down again. "I just wanted to impress my human by acting like a bloody robot." Another woman stepped from the shadows. Dark wavy hair tumbled down her shoulders and unlike Robin, she was as thin as a scarecrow. Sharp grey eyes looked around the room with disdain.
"How…Spartan of you." The woman spoke, her voice a symphony of notes in the silence. Robin made a face at the comment. "Can't even afford upholstery, dear?"
"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't have, Zero." Robin growled. "I'm not an upgraded version like you."
"That shouldn't make much of a difference." Zero said and, with a snap of her fingers, furniture sprouted from the floor. Robin yelped as a light brown couch sprang from underneath her, taking her by surprise. "Scoot over please." Zero sat with a plop and gave Robin an endearing smile. "Thank you."
Robin grunted and leaned against Zero, her legs dangling on one end of the couch. "You're welcome."
Zero looked uncomfortable with the extra weight but did not comment. Instead, she said, "And how is your Human doing?"
"Living through hell with relative ease," Robin said dryly. "If you must know, I've just sent her there. It's not like she's going to be battling for her life just yet."
Zero coughed politely and pointed at the white space in front of them. Images flickered and settled on the wall as if being projected by a machine. "I'm afraid she is not doing fairly well."
"What?" Robin slipped off the couch and fell on the floor with a thud. She stood up and stared. Rebecca was lying on the ground in a fetal position, moaning in pain. "Oh crap. What happened, Zero?"
"That's what I want to know," Zero said. "You mean you were unaware of her situation?"
"I need some rest, Ok?" Robin snapped back. "It already cost me so much just to bring her there. I don't have the power you PS3s have to place her where ever I wished, Zero. Heck, it was trouble enough, naming a general location."
Zero frowned. "Do you even know her stats?"
"It's implanted in my memory card, Zero. Of course I know."
"Then how do you expect her to survive? Her stats are not even above the norm. Her only exceptional stat is her strength and it's not even anywhere near the power-based PPCs of FF9." Zero almost yelled but had bitten her lip instead. "You didn't even give her a weapon."
"She'll survive because she is programmed that way. All humans are."
"Yet there are those who still die, Robin. And programmed? She's not an AI like you and me."
"Nevertheless, I have faith, Zero, unlike some people." Robin said firmly.
"Well sorry for not entering in the damned Game, Robin." Zero said, her voice barely containing the anger she felt. "Unlike some people, I don't go about using Humans for my own gain."
"That's because some AIs aren't as fortunate as you to be born in the Seventh generation. I'm from the Fifth, Zero. I need that upgrade." There was a hint of desperation in Robin's voice.
A resigned expression appeared on Zero's face, making her look older than her age. "You guys are allowed a secondary source of power, right?"
Robin looked at her, startled. "Why?"
"I could provide the power," Zero offered wearily. "And don't thank me, Robin. I just want to make sure that kid survives 'til the fourth disc."
A/N: Eighty percent of what has happened here is fiction. The remaining nineteen percent has probably happened at some point in the author's life and that one percent is there to confuse people. Percentage, as we all know, is not usually accurate, especially if it is made up at the last possible minute and has not been actually taken into consideration.
PPC stands for Permanent Playable Character. Practically Predictable Character also works if you have a bit of humor in your bones. If you look it up, you'll also see a history of the different gaming console generations. Hopefully, what I've written is accurate.
Inspired by Tabansi232's fic, Flipped up Reality.
