Pride and Triumph

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Final Fantasy or any associated games. All credit for this story goes to the wonderful minds at Square Enix.

Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to You're Gonna Go Far Kid by The Offspring. God Bless The Offspring.

Warning: This story takes place after the events of FFTA and is therefore non-canon. You have been warned.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and girls! People of all cities, cultures and races! Welcome, to the annual Clan Tourney Championship!"

The crowd burst into raucous cheering. The arena, with its polished white stone and flowing gold banners, was the very heart of Ivalice that day, and it beat with such an excitement and fury as none had remembered in a long time. Confetti, flags, and shouts were brandished in feverish anticipation as the announcer's voice filled the arena, barely able to breach the sound that came from the audience.

"This is a glorious day for combat and entertainment!" the announcer bellowed, his voice nearly frantic with thrill. "Today, two Clans come together in combat and sportsmanship, competing for glory, riches, and the chance to become your new Clan Champions!"

The roar from the crowd was deafening. They wanted battle. They had come for the greatest fight of their lives, and they knew they were going to get it. This was the day. No-one had seen it coming.

Today, Clan Triumph would fall.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the announcer began, "Today's match will be supervised by Ivalice's very own Judgemaster Cid!" At this an armored figure astride a massive golden war-chocobo covered in silver plate armor walked into the arena. The man on the yellow bird nodded with reverence, his calm brown eyes set around a shock of spiky brown hair and a long beard. Cid bowed to the the crowd, his voice humble but still heard amongst the attendees. "My blessings to you, people of Ivalice. I ask that you grant me the Sanction to Law with wisdom and justice. Do you Sanction?"

The crowd uttered as one voice, following the ancient creed. "We Sanction!"

A light smile crossed Cid's lips. "Then I shall be your Judge this day."

The crowd erupted into cheers, and the announcer continued. "Ladies and Gentlemen!" the announcer raved, "Today a Clan of prowess and skill has come to usurp the current Clan Champions! They are powerful! They are mighty! They have bested every other Clan in their fight to reach the Championship bout! People of Ivalice, I give you, Clan Rage!"

Five figures strode into the arena and were instantly met with a wave of cheers from the crowd. The fighters were a mixed group, the exact kind of balanced battle-group that won fights and took land. There were two humans amongst them. The first human, who strode ahead of his Clansmen, was a White Mage, swathed from head to toe in red silk robe and hood, carrying a golden staff that bore the head of an eagle. The second human, who bristled with mail and leather, gave off the unmistakable air of a Fighter, and he brandished his hand-and-a-half sword with a near unhealthy ferocity.

The third Clanner among them was a Viera, her rabbit ears poking out of a shock of white hair. She was clad in a suit of mail that conformed to her sleek shape, and her middle was covered by only the smallest red tunic. A rapier at her hip and a glint in her eye, the Fencer Viera drew more than a few whistles and catcalls from the crowd.

Next to her was a Bangaa dressed in simple white robes, his long head bowed. The reptile, his ears heavy with large silver earrings, did not meet the gaze of the crowd. Rather, he kept his eyes closed as he walked, and all present knew him to be a Monk. If the odd behavior did not give him away, the massive metal claws around his hands more than made up for it.

The last Clanner, a Moogle clad in the unmistakable robes of a Black Mage, followed skittishly behind. The small, furry mog attempted to keep his excitement contained, but even he could see how excited he was. He kept wringing his hands around his simple, black staff as he walked, and his whiskers twitched in anticipation.

The members of Clan Rage reached the center of the arena, and all assembled their sang their praises. The announcer's voice blared over them, frantic with excitement. "Horatio, Leader of Clan Rage, do you have any words to speak before you meet your adversaries?"

The White Mage nodded and stepped forward. The crowd cheered his name, repeating it like a chant. Horatio smiled and cleared his throat, hushing the crowd. "My friends," he began, ignoring the cheers that welled up from the crowd, "Today is a day for celebration. Ivalice, your home as well as mine, has been blessed with peace and prosperity, and you are all to thank for it." The crowd exploded with praise, and Horatio reveled in the effect his words had. "Today is a day for celebration," he continued, suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, "Because it is on this day that the Totema themselves shall choose their new Clan Champions!" The last two words Horation practically screamed at the heavens, and the crowd nearly lost their minds to the hunger for entertainment. Horation pressed forward. "Today you shall witness the fight of the century, no the millennium! Today we shall see who is worthy of being your Clan Champions!"

The crowd once again erupted into cheering, and Horatio graciously stepped back to his clansmen, who regarded him with a combination of cold respect and adoration.

The announcer's voice flooded the arena once more, barely managing to break over the sound of the crowd. "Well spoken, Horatio," the voice said approvingly, "And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you, the reigning Clan Champions for the last five years in a row, Clan Triumph!"

There was no booing. There were no bottles thrown. Not one curse was spoken. The crowd dissolved into silence, their eyes wide with what was almost fear. The team from Clan Rage bristled slightly, and even pretentious Horatio felt a chill as a large door to the arena opened, revealing nothing but darkness. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation, trying to discern a group of figures in the dark doorway.

"BURP!"

A massive belch split the silence, and a single figure stumbled out of the darkness. Clad in spiky black plate armor and helm, the figure lurched forward and stumbled around like a drunkard. A massive golden sword rested on his back along with a glowing silver shield that shone with mystical runes. The man stopped his uneven walk as he reached the arena's center and stood across from Horatio's team. The Paladin, for that is what he was, stood shakily on his feet and wiped an armored sleeve across his mouth before sneering with unmistakeable drunkenness.

The crowd gaped at the sight. Even the announcer's voice quavered a little as he spoke, unsure what to make of the situation. "Um... Marche, Leader of Clan Triumph?"

Marche laughed a little and spit on the ground. "That's me," he said bitterly.

The announcer went on, his voice betraying how disbelieving he was to the situation. "Yes... well, where are your Clansmen?"

Marche drew a flask from his belt and took a long swig. "Some at Keep. Some out on jobs. Some at the inn." His words slurred against each other. "They're... they're not here." A hiccup followed the declaration.

"Do you intend to fight for title and Clan Triumph alone?" The announcer could not hide how ridiculous the question sounded. A single man, drunk, against the best of this year's top Clan?

Unthinkable.

Marche looked up at the announcer's booth with a cold stare. "I am Clan Triumph." The words were almost sober.

"What? Is he serious?" The baffled announcer composed himself. "As you wish. Marche, leader of Clan Triumph, do you have any words to say before we begin?"

Marche strapped the flask back to his belt and sighed. "Can we get this over with? I've got a bitch of a headache."

Cid raised an eyebrow at the young man before stepping forwards. "Very well, let us recite the Judgemaster's creed."

Horatio stepped forward, a thunderous look on his face. "This is absurd!" he shouted, causing the crowd to murmur with apprehension. "This man is a drunkard, not a warrior ready for combat. I demand that he be rescinded from the arena at once!"

Marche turned coolly to Cid and cocked his head to one side. "Any rules in the Book of Law that say I can't fight drunk? You'll find that there aren't."

Cid nodded slowly, not sure what to make of Marche. "He speaks the truth, Horatio," he says evenly, "There are no rules against Marche fighting while intoxicated." Cid turned his gaze back to Marche. "However," he said, his voice laced with disapproval, "I will say that I am disappointed in such conduct from a Clan Leader."

Marche shrugged. "Didn't ask you, Cid. I'm to drunk to give two shits, let alone one."

Horatio's face turned red with anger. "He is alone!" Horatio nearly spit the words. "He has no one here to assist him! This is the Clan Championship. This is supposed to be Clan fighting Clan!" There was a slight murmur of approval from the audience.

Cid sighed. "There is nothing in the Book of Law against a single entry into the Championship. If Marche wishes to fight alone, then he fights alone. It is not your decision to make." His gaze fell upon Horatio, and the White Mage stepped back at the intensity of the glare. "You are not Judgemaster." He looked at the two men and his voice was loud and stern. "I hereby declare this match Sanctioned by the Book of Law! The Laws set for today are simple: there are to be no Anti-Law cards used for the duration of the battle. Anything else is Sanctioned. Failure to comply with the Laws for today will result in heaviest of the Sanctioned punishments." His steely gaze rested on both Marche and Horatio. "Are said Laws clear?"

Marche nodded slowly and drew his sword and shield. "Clear as Moogle vodka."

Horatio looked repulsed. "Judgemaster, do you really intend to let this man-" his words were cut off by a glare from the Judgemaster. "I mean, yes, I hear the Law."

Marche laughed bitterly. "You're fuckin' annoying, Horatio."

Horatio looked over at his enemy, the accursed Marche of Clan Triumph. He could smell the alcohol on him. Marche's once grandiose blonde hair had been shave down to the shortest of crew cuts, and a blonde goatee sat on his face, all but drenched in whiskey. His bright blue eyes were muddled in seas of alcohol. Horatio smirked. "So be it," he breathed at Marche, his voice dripping with venom, "A lone drunkard will prove easy enough to quash. Enjoy your standing while you can, Marche, for it will soon fall before the might of Clan Rage!"

Marche sniggered. "Angry little shit, aren't you?"

Horatio's hands balled into fists as he took his position behind his Clanners, the White Monk, Fencer, and Fighter taking point while he and the Black Mage stayed behind to support. They would quash this arrogant pustule under their might, and all of Ivalice would be there to see it. It would be bliss.

Cid raised his hands into the air, his arms flowing with blue magic. "I declare this match Sanctioned!" he shouted as the Aura of Preservation descended on the fighters, preserving their life-force. "No man shall fear death! Let the Championship begin!"

The crowd roared in excitement as the fight began, their earlier uncertainty replaced with raucous shouts and cheers. The time had come.

Marche would soon fall.

Horatio's Fighter charged forward with an air-splitting battle-cry, his sword held high over his head and a snarl on his face. The Fighter brought his blade down on Marche, only to discover how Marche had swayed to the side in a drunken dodge, missing the blade by mere moments. The Fighter's eyes went wide as Marche smashed his shield into the man's face, knocking him to the ground with a single blow. Marche swung his sword down on the fallen Fighter and slammed the weapon onto the Fighter's head. The sheer force of the blow was enough to knock the Fighter out; the only thing keeping his head from being cloven in two was the Aura. The crowd gasped at this decisive, unforeseen knockout.

The Fencer growled furiously and made a rush at Marche, the White Monk at her side. Together, the two Rage Clan unleashed a flurry of blows on the drunken Clanner, only to watch unbelieving as Marche blocked, parried, and side-stepped the blows with techniques muddled by booze. It would have been almost comical had the two had not been so outclassed.

Marche swung his sword in a horizontal arch and smashed against the side of the Monk's head, knocking him to the ground with a heavy blow. The Monk, injured, crawled towards Horatio, silent. The Fencer snarled and jumped back from a second drunken sweep, giving the Black Mage a clear shot at Marche. Fire lept from the Moogle's staff and smashed into Marche with elemental fury, engulfing the young Paladin in flame.

Horatio used the opening to cast Curaga on his downed Monk, bringing the Bangaa back from the brink of defeat. The Monk was bathed in healing light as Horatio healed him with his powerful display of White Magic. The Monk and Fencer turned to where the Black Mage was pummeling Marche with fire spells and rushed back into the fray. The Black Mage stopped his relentless assault so his fellows could close in. The smoke from his attacks was thick, and it was difficult to discern what was happening through the ash.

All the while the crowd cheered on. The smoke obscured the fight from view, but not its sounds. The sound of fierce battle brought the crowd to its feet. The knew that soon the dust would clear and Marche would be defeated at the feet of Horatio and his Rage.

The Fencer suddenly flew out of the smoke in a battered heap and landed at Horatio's feet. Her armor was dented and torn, her body bruised. Horatio took a step back, fear beginning to creep into his face. "Sholt!" he shouted to the Monk, "Disperse the smoke!"

A gust of magical wind sent the obscuring smoke scattering in all directions, revealing the arena once more. The Monk barely had time to look over at Horatio before a blast of Holy energy smashed into him and dropped him like a stone.

Marche strode forward, his walk a little muddled, and charged at Horatio and the Black Mage. His sword held aloft, Marche smashed into the Black Mage and knocked the Moogle aside with a drunken snarl. The Black Mage, not used to physical combat, crumpled instantly under the charge.

Horatio dropped to his knees in fear, unable to comprehend what had just happened. His team, the best of his Clan, had just been bested by a lone Paladin who was too drunk to even walk straight. It was impossible.

Unthinkable.

Marche looked down at the stunned White Mage, a look of contempt on his face. "Idiot." Marche lifted his sword high up into the air, the golden blade glittering in the light of the day. The crowd went silent.

Marche grinned and sheathed his sword, still looking down on Horatio. "You're not good enough." He balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it across Horatio's face. The blow knocked him to the ground with a sickening 'crack!' that made the audience cringe. Horatio dropped silently, unconscious before he hit the ground. All the rage was drained from him in that single blow and he faded into the sleep of the defeated.

Marche looked up at the eyes boring into him. Not a word was spoken.

Triumph.

Marche lifted his sword over his head in drunken stupor, a moronic grin on his face. "I win! Clan Triumph is Champions!" He allowed pride to wash over him. That sense of pride did not dissipate, not even when Marche pitched forward and vomited onto his boots. He was the best.

Shara was going to fuck his brains out.

LM here,

Okay, so this one kinda came out of the blue. I loved FFTA when I was younger, and by the time I finally set the game aside I had the biggest, baddest Clan anyone had ever seen. A lot of people didn't like FFTA, but I did, and that's why this story exists. I have no idea why, but the Marche/Shara pairing has always been a favorite of mine, so I decided to do a story where that was a reality.

To be honest, this whole concept came around when I was going through some of my old crap during a move and stumbled across my old GBA. FFTA was in it, and I decided to switch it on and see if I could remember what all the fuss had been about. Four hours later I was still playing the damn game, and that's when it occurred to me.

I wanted a grownup version of FFTA.

Not that FFTA wasn't enjoyable in itself, but it was a kid's game, to be sure. I wanted the gritty feel of Fallout, the dark magics of Elder Scrolls, and the engaging characters of Mass Effect.

I wanted Final Fantasy Tactics Advance: The Later Years. I wanted Marche to be a real person, not just the physical form of childish hope and determination. I wanted his Clan to be a bunch of misfits, psychos and warmongers, rather than the band of goody-two shoes that seemed to fill my ranks in-game. I wanted the dark side of Ivalice, and I wanted to take that world apart and breathe hellish fire down its neck before the day was done.

And here we are.

Expect lots of language, mature themes, blood, and probably some sex along the way. Just as fair warning, you understand.

Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. As always, R&R!

Levi Matthews

(Oh, also, this marks the first story I've written in past-tense for this site. Yes, I know, you're all shocked.)