Aiight. "Headwind", as I'm calling this story, is a companion fic for "Highwind". This will give a little further insight into the edited world I'm using for "Highwind", and it also introduces added plot points and characters. This story covers the events of an OC as he joins the salvage operation near Baaj, and Tidus and Rikku's half of the early story. This should also go to show just how much I'm actually changing for "Highwind".
Chapter 1: The Desert Storm
A loud crack resounded across the barren sands of Sanubia. The report of a gunshot, fading as it carried over dead and dry and empty wastes. It was followed by the scream of an anguished beast, howling contemptuously at the shooter. Silence followed another crack, and the beast knew no more. The gunner stood atop a dune, face shielded by a mask of dyed-black leather with two, circular eyes made of mirrored glass. A filter rested over his mouth, supplying fresh air even in a sandstorm. Blonde hair had been done up in standing dreadlocks, many curving this way and that at their tips, mimicking spiked hair, almost. His simple attire was all black, consisting of a muscle shirt, baggy pants covered with large pockets, and boots. His belt, secured around his wait, hung at an angle from all the pouches and sacks latched and tied to it, and a holstered handgun was strapped to his right thigh. He lowered his rifle only after seeing pyreflies through the scope. He turned, leaning the gun on his shoulder, free hand on his hip, and faced the gathered spectators who waited expectantly as they sensed he was about to speak.
He hefted the rifle into the air like a torch, proclaiming, "That was the old way to deal with the buggers! Hell, it's the way most people still do it!" He made his way down the dune to one of many hovers parked along the shaded side of the sandy mountain. Tossing the gun into the seat, the rifleman opened a wooden case and picked up a larger metal weapon, much like a rifle in most aspects, but certainly nothing like the one he had wielded previously. It was practically a cannon! As he made his way back up the dune, the others in pursuit, he checked to make sure that the weapon's generously sized magazine was fully loaded. "No point in aiming precisely, here!" He called back to the others. "Just point and click." To prove this point, he directed their attention out to the vast sandy desert before pulling off his mask, which he shoved into a pocket roughly. This was replaced by mirrored goggles, which had been hanging around his neck. He fished a chain necklace out from under his shirt. Hanging from it was a cluster of metal and wooden whistles. He sifted through them until finding the one he was looking for and promptly put it between his lips and blew. The spectators heard no sound, but something else most certainly did.
"What are you calling?" One of the Al Bhed asked, eyes snapping frantically from the gunman to the sea of golden white.
The gunner looked back over his shoulder and flashed him a wide grin, the whistle held betwixt his teeth, "Sand worm," he answered cheerily. He returned to the task on hand, blowing into the whistle for just a little more, ignoring the murmurs from behind him.
"Is that.. really such a good idea?" Another asked, their voice trembling a little at the thought of the huge fiend.
"'Course it is!" The gunner assured, letting the whistle – and the necklace – fall from his mouth. "Best way to show how this baby works!" His eyes fell to the sand beneath his feet. The grains were vibrating; jumping about on the desert floor. "There's the beastie," he growled, smile never fading. He quickly slipped the whistles under his shirt and gripped the weapon with both hands, eyes searching intently for the fiend. In the distance, approaching quickly, was a trail of dust thrown up by something moving just beneath the surface.
He fished around in one of his pockets and pulled out a palm-sized, hexagonal device. A blue screen winked to life, showing a mapped out area of the desert before him. Several red dots were lined up horizontally across the screen, and a single green circle was headed straight for them. He waited a few more seconds, watching the path of the sand worm on the screen. When it was just close enough, he selected the red dot nearest to the worm and pressed a button below the screen. He was pocketing the device when the mine went off.
A circle of sand bloomed outward only moments before a towering eruption of golden powder soared into the air, carrying the rippling roar of the explosion. The sand worm screamed as the force of the explosion slammed into it. Not enough to kill it, but just enough to piss it off. A hornet sting. The beast tore up through the sand, rivers of grains pouring from its body as it rose higher and higher into the air, only to come back down. The shock wave from the earthquake attack blew clouds of sand into the air and knocked down a portion of the sand dune, but it had not been strong enough to fell the whole slope, nor to harm the Al Bhed gathered atop it. The worm screamed again, spewing muck from its leafy, four-sectioned mouth.
"That is a bloated sack of shit!" The gunner yelled over the scream. He leveled the gun and fired. The gun's burst-fire sounded thudded heavily from the barrel's tip. The Al Bhed watched as the bulging body of the beast was hit by the weapon's rounds, shredding like wet paper and throwing liquified insides onto the sand. The worm cried out in pain, the weakened flesh finally bursting, soaking the sand in thick innards as it slumped to the ground. It looked like a macabre version of a deflating balloon. "And I popped the son of a bitch," he lowered the gun and turned to the spectators, expression suddenly serious, "Any questions?"
"Yeah," one of the Al Bhed crossed his arms over his chest, "You did realize that would attract others, right?" He nodded out towards the sand. The gunner frowned and looked back quickly.
"Ah. Damn." Another trail of sand was approaching their position. "Must be hungry. They're usually carrion feeders, you know?" He said absentmindedly to the others. He slung the gun onto his back, situating its strap around his chest. "This should slow it down," he mumbled, taking the handheld back out.
"What are you gonna do?" The same man asked.
"This," the gunner's reply was followed by a beep and fourteen more explosions, all in a straight row. He put the device up and started digging around in the pouches on his belt. "Where'd it go... I know I had one here... ...hell? Oh, come on! It's gotta be- Here it is!" He held up a metal tube with a rubber seal around the center. "I was actually hoping to show this off," he said, waving the tube. Turning back to the now-recovered sand worm, the gunman twisted the two halves of the tube and proceeded to shake it. "One, two, three, four..." He sent the tube hurtling through the air towards the fiend. "May be a bit of a bang," he warned. The tube exploded before it reached the sand worm, but as the brilliant display of energy grew it easily overtook the fiend. Bits of the worm were blown off by scorching winds and energy, just seconds before a final bang! vaporized it in spectacular fashion. "Alchemy!" He announced, turning back to the spectators and giving them a wide grin, "This is where the future of combat will lie, my friends."
"And how can you be so certain?" An Al Bhed asked skeptically.
The gunner headed back down the dune, answering as he went, "Because, I can blow you from here to Baaj with a bomb the size of a pill capsule!" He glanced back at some of the Al Bhed following, taking note of their expressions and their disbelieving murmurings. With a roll of his eyes, he set the weapon back into its case, hooked the rifle into its gun rack, and climbed into the hover. "Back to camp!" He ordered, his voice and expression both firm. Despite their lack of faith, the Al Bhed hurried to their hovers and cranked them to life.
A console adjacent to the steering controls began to fade into snow. He grunted irritably and slapped it. The machina behaved immediately. Al Bhed writing appeared on the screen. Reports from all around Sanubia. He waited, even as the others headed off for camp, flipping through the various warnings and notices, charts and readouts from surveys and mining camps. Where Sin had hit recently; where it had actually been sighted and what were just rumors of appearances. A report from Home appeared, warning that a violent sandstorm had engulfed the complex. His camp, the one he would be returning to shortly, showed that a messenger from Home was currently residing there.
Waiting for him.
XXX
Rommel.
Also known as "Romm", "Desert Mage", and, more recently, "Desert Storm". An Al Bhed weapons specialist, ex-trawler crewman, and border guard, who had also served a stint on a Marinere vessel to study their culture and their weaponry. Now, he was the head of a paramilitary fiend hunting regiment that held defensive contracts with trawling and land-based expeditions. In another time, they might have even been a private security firm. But, as they could only do business with Al Bhed (because, really, who else would hire them?) it wasn't really something he considered "accurate" as a description. In any case, he was also one of the most outspoken proponents for both alchemy as a combat style (a near-dead art even amongst the Al Bhed) and for more open relations with the Marinere. He was only eighteen, but had already proven himself not only a valuable asset to the Al Bhed, but also a competent fighter. He was considered ambitious, politically, and effective, martially.
He had started working on trawlers at a young age, and wound up not doing too much, at first. Until, one day, he devised an engine layout that would more effectively consume fuel, and allow the ship to move faster. This was succeeded by his submitting upgrades for the seamark system that fed data back to the Al Bhed from sea. However, his own stubbornness wound up being a partial undoing. When he joined a political movement that lobbied to seek an alliance with the Marinere, an old and powerful sea-based civilization that more or less policed Spira's waters, he was immediately blacklisted. When the Al Bhed began employing its trawler fleet it had nearly started a war with the Marinere over turf issues. However, the conflict was avoided when the unseen powers controlling the whole of the Maritime Empire (the name of their current nation) declared the seas free for use by those who would use it for the welfare of others – such as trade and salvage – and not to cause harm, like pirating. While this gave some the presumptuous image of an arrogant people, no one could argue. That was essentially because the Marinere were one giant navy, with an armada of heavily armed warships at their command. When Rommel managed to secure a temporary apprenticeship on a Marinere vessel, he discovered that they were an honor-bound, fierce, and even agreeable people who revered the sea unlike any other culture he had ever heard of. The experience he brought back from this only served to strengthen support for the movement; but it also made him a target, politically.
It had been around this time that he met Cid, the leader of the Al Bhed, and his children. "Disastrous" could best describe what happened next, and only fueled the current ruling faction, causing him to "exile" himself to the wastes of Sanubia, where he began hunting fiends for a living. It also allowed him to better hone his own prowess as an alchemist. More often than not, ironically, he found himself being asked to deal with rogue mech guards that bothered survey and mining teams. Because of their being easier than fiends, he hardly considered them worth dispatching teams to dismantle them. Instead of destroying them, teams were ordered to simply disable them and bring them back for study and possible maintenance or repurposing.
One of the main reasons he was adamant about setting up the small camps and settlements across Bikanel was because Home would not be able to hold the Al Bhed forever. If they were to truly grow as a people again, they would first need to reclaim the island as their own. Mastery of the desert was some time away, but he believed that this was the best first step foreseeable.
He spied the camp in the distance as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. A high wooden fence – that would be worthless against most fiends – surrounded the resilient structures that stood up to the sandstorms and fiends, providing relative protection from the worst of the desert. He slowed the hover down and drifted through the gap in the fence, parking the vehicle next to the rest of the camp's. He pulled his goggles down around his neck and stepped out into the sand, raising his arms high above him in a stretch. His eyes raised to darkened sky, where tiny lights dotted the growing black. The camp was still alive with activity. The sounds of chattering, machina, and footsteps crunching across the sand were loud and clear in the desert silence. That was one unnerving part of the desert: the isolation. Every camp was on its own. Help would be hours or even days away, at times. Maybe your equipment broke, and you had to send people out for supplies or support, meaning it would take twice as long to receive any assistance. Just little patches of life in the unforgiving golden ocean.
The temperature was dropping rapidly. He wanted a drink, and something hot to eat. The desert was built on irony. Hot in the day. So, you wanted cold water and shade. Freezing at night. That meant hot showers and food. Of course, they had no water sources out there. The nearest oasis was an hour to their east, so they had to rely on their current rations until supplies were sent back their way, again. Day and night, it was inhospitable. For humans, anyway. Or, "Spirans", as some called them – which was odd, since they were all Spirans. But for the Al Bhed, the harsh sun and lack of water meant little. They had survived on their islands for so long that they had adapted; just as the Marinere had grown to fit their harsh life on the sea. He couldn't help but wonder if that had anything to do with the two societies' disbelief in Yevon. Culture affected by hardship. It made sense, a least.
He caught the sound of a single source of footsteps closing in on his position as he released the wooden case from the catches holding it to the hover, and quickly pulled his sidearm on the man, only looking up after undoing the last latch. He gave the Al Bhed a half-lidded stare; a bored look. "What?"
The man swallowed, eyeing the handgun's barrel, "T-There's a m-man from H-Home s-sent to see you, b-boss."
"Oh, quit stammerin'!" Rommel snapped, holstering the gun. He grabbed the case by a strap and hauled it up.
"W-What should I t-tell him?" The man asked, slowly overcoming his trepidation, turning wildly on his heels to follow after Rommel as he walked around him.
"To wait until morning!" Rommel ordered, his tone clearly expressing a "no backtalk" mood.
But, as idiots often do, he disregarded it, "B-But he said it was important!"
"Did he say who sent him?" Rommel asked, refusing to stop except to wait for two men carrying a long crate to go by.
The man took advantage of this, now able to come even with Rommel, "No, but he did say that the order was from pretty high up."
"Oh, really, now?" Rommel asked, feigning interest and rolling his eyes.
"Yeah! Don't you think you should at least hear him out? He might not like it if you keep him waiting!" The man argued.
Rommel was beginning to wish he'd shot the guy. He was nearing his personal quarters, the thought of cool ale and hot food making his stomach growl. "Good!" He snapped, surprising the man. "I don't give a Mushussu's ass about whether or not he's happy," Rommel informed bitterly. "Jackass can wait 'til mornin' 'fore talkin' to me, got it?" He didn't bother to look back, and the Al Bhed was too nervous to say anything. He just tagged behind, unsure of what to do. The small housings were made from wood, with thick metal covers rooted deep under the sand for added stability. The latches were gripped at the tops, and pulled down to release the doors. He dropped the case on the floor, just inside the door, and turned to face the sputtering man.
"W- Uh, well... What s-should I t-tell him?" He managed to spit out.
"To leave me the hell alone, and that I'll talk to him in the morning," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And yes," he looked the man in the eye, "tell him exactly that! Right now, I just want a drink, I want dinner, and I wanna relax. Got it?" Not waiting for a response, Rommel shut the door and pushed the latch down towards the right, sliding a bolt home to lock it.
Exhaling wearily, he turned and leaned against the door, his eyes running around the small space. A bed. A chair. A table. A small stove. A cooling unit for food and water storage. Crates holding ammunition, supplies for alchemical purposes, and food. He kicked the short, fat cooler open and reached for a glass bottle of ale. He hesitated, biting his lip as he stared at the drink. Giving in at last, he snatched the bottle up and kicked the door shut. From one of the crates he grabbed a steel canister. A spoon came attached to the side, and there was a rubber seal near the top. He gave the lid a single twist and set it on the table. He sat down on his bed to wait, and cracked the cap off the ale, feeling a twinge of guilt when he heard the it hit the floor. He had taken a few swigs from the bottle when the canister's cap popped up, steam leaking out from inside. The smell of hot soup radiated from it, filling up the cramped room and finally making him realize how hungry he was. He'd been camping in the desert on a private scouting op when someone radioed in word that a batch of new recruits were being sent out for a demonstration of the weapons they would be using. After three days of dried rations and warm water, this seemed like a blessing.
He leaned back against the wall as he ate, not really thinking of anything in particular. He was wondering why someone had been sent for him. Maybe Cid finally wanted to even the score; get a little revenge. His eyes settled on the mostly fully bottle sitting on the table. Well, if that was the case then he'd still go back. It wasn't technically an admission of guilt. Not in the sense he'd be pegged for it. But, maybe it would restore a little bit of his honor. Not something he was too worried about, to tell the truth. He had just run off, after all. He wondered just how long the faction he'd supported would still respect his name. How long until they just gave up and let him fade into the annals of "people-who-could-have-been-but-screwed-themselves-over". Being remember wasn't his goal. Well, even if it had been, there wasn't a chance in hell it could be now. From the start, it had been to help his people, end of story. Maybe he'd been a bit aggressive about it. That made him look impetuous, maybe even antagonistic. It was probably what added to the rumors surrounding his own political downfall, too.
Someone pounded violently on his door, "Rommel!" The voice sounded familiar, but Rommel stayed where he was, thoughtfully stirring his soup in repose. "Open the door, you jackass! It's me! Romble!" Rommel had just been eating a spoonful of his dinner, and now nearly choked on it. He dropped the canister on the table, doubling over as he coughed. "Hey, you O.K., in there?"
"I'm fine!" Rommel wheezed, taking a long draught from his ale. He coughed once more and shook himself. "You're not even inside yet and you're already trying to kill me!"
"Kill you? Why would I want to kill you? I just wanna talk, now open the door!" Romble ordered.
"How unlike you," Rommel responded, grinning to himself. "You used to never tell me what to do."
"Yeah, well, that was before you walked out on us like a coward! Now: Open. This. Door!" He pounded once more on the metal, and then went silent.
Rommel scratched his head as he weighed his options. Coming to a decision, he promptly answered: "No. Now go away, I'll talk to you in the morning." Before his old friend could argue, Rommel added, "End of story. Get!" He tossed the canister's discarded lid at the door; it clanged hollowly as it bounced to the wooden floor. He waited for further disturbance, irritation boiling up inside of him. When no reply came, he went back to his meal. After scraping the last few drops from the inside, he tossed the canister, lid, and spoon into an empty crate where he used as a surrogate trash bin. That just left his ale, which he nursed slowly for an hour, maybe a little more, as he sat staring at the ceiling. Each little bit that touched his tongue left a bitter taste in his mouth. It stained his lips and his mouth, and his ire grew with each swallow. He finally snapped, and hurled the accursed liquor at the wall over the crate. It smashed apart, little shards raining down on the floor. His lips peeled back in a silent snarl, Rommel stared at the wet stain on the wall, his anger draining with each breath; with each heartbeat. The memories abated, and he laid down to sleep.
If there was anything he hated in this world, it was silence.
Empty, cold, solitary silence.