Note

I started working on this idea at some point last year, and I've been meaning to keep it going. For now, though, this is all I have. Hopefully, submitting it will get me in the mood to keep working on it.

As usual, I don't own Wild Arms 3 and all that.

"Look, all I want is a bottle of whiskey."

"No, you're staying put. We're not gonna blow our cover to keep your drunk ass satisfied."

"Gah, you think I can't do something as simple as going to the damn store?"

"Yeah, I do think that. Now shut up."

"If you were anyone else I'd knock that sulky little head right off your shoulders."

"I'd like to see you try that." The kid laughed derisively, and then added, "Too bad I won't, with all these 'ifs' of yours."

The larger man growled at that, and it was all he could to do to stop himself from bashing his compatriot's face into the wall. But he had to take the higher path. Don't drop down to his level, Gallows. Don't say anything...

He was sick of this. For seven months, he and the rest of the bunch had been running and hiding, adopting aliases and haphazard disguises, all in the name of avoiding the Ark of Destiny's lovely little bounty. Gallows knew that the reason they had been avoiding everything was so that no one would get hurt, but if this kept up, he wasn't too certain on how long he could stick to those beliefs.

It also didn't help that everyone around him seemed to think he was an idiot.

Clive and Virginia weren't obvious about it, of course. Insults just weren't part of their philosophies on life. But it was still obvious what they thought of him. He had never been asked for input on any of the team's plans in the past months, nor would they trust him with any task that didn't involve a meat shield.

With Jet, it was made painfully obvious. It's a wonder that the priest hadn't decked him a couple of times, by now. He always had a comment, always had a snide remark, always had some sort of joke.

"Fucking android," he muttered softly, not really loud enough for anyone to hear. Not that he really wanted the comment to have an audience. Granted, he didn't care if he pissed Jet off. Hell, he'd be glad to. But he definitely did not want the 'leader' to hear it. She was fiercely defensive of the punk, and the last thing he needed was another one of her rants on 'acceptance' and 'progress,' or whatever the hell the ideal of the day was.

Now there was an association that couldn't have been any more predictable. The sweet, naive, outgoing, spunky little kid, and the cold, silent, son of a bitch. And the worst part was that she actually believed she could change him. Well, he does talk more, but so far that has only shown how big of an asshole the kid could be.

He decided to stop stewing over the whole thing. The night would go by so much quicker if he would just go to sleep.

Being on edge, however, was severely hampering that plan. That's why he needed the whiskey.

It pained him to think that. He NEEDED whiskey to sleep. Having to rely on that shit for anything was bad enough, but for sleep? He couldn't rest without first dulling his senses, or worse, getting completely plastered?

Another problem to add to the list...

Thoughts of his senses rolled along until they came to the topic of Arcana. To be able to draw the powers of the planet's guardians into the physical plane required concentration, and to multiply its effects through extension demanded absolute focus. Certain peripheral functions of his mind, body, and soul had to deactivate to allow for no disruptions, and that needed just as much focus as the extension itself. To be able to accomplish this in the middle of a firefight demanded an incredible adrenaline rush, but even that really only allowed him to use this no more than three or four times per day.

He never really mentioned it, but after using this skill in a battle, he often felt like collapsing.

Lately, ever since his dependence on…that shit…had taken hold, he was having trouble tapping into his extension abilities. Even Arcana was starting to feel elusive, just out of reach for his sub-par functioning body.

I'm losing my grip on the one thing that makes me seem any different in combat from anyone else. If that goes, who knows how much worse they'll treat me?

This wasn't a matter of self-esteem issues, or self-confidence or what-have-you. He knew that he had a superior affinity with Filgaia and its protectors. He knew that he was powerful, himself. He was well aware of all the occasions where he had saved all of their lives thanks to his quick-thinking.

It's just that they weren't aware of it. Not anymore, at least.

Sometimes, when his mind wandered like this, he would chuckle at the pictures in his head. Pictures of what doom and gloom that could have befallen the team without his intervention. Often, he'd have to mentally slap himself for it, remembering that these were his friends and allies.

Today, however, he really didn't wind up too hard, and the slap barely registered as a tap. Luckily, it was still enough to remind him not to think such thoughts.