Author's Note: This drabble here is a brief prequel to a longer WiP that will begin to be posted... hopefully some time in the not TOO distant future.
Disclaimer: I don't own FFIX or any of the characters or locations. It all belongs to Square-Enix.
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Amarant Coral didn't remember the fear on the face of the child whimpering alone in the dark on a dirty, bedroom floor. He didn't remember the last words spoken by a fading, female voice or the final touch of her gentle hand. He didn't remember any of that, and he sure as hell didn't care. The first memory he had was of the first person he had to fight and how combat became his only survival kit.
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The boy crouched in the middle of the living room floor, fighting to catch his breath. Blood poured from his mouth, down his chin, and down the front of his thin, ragged shirt. A tooth stuck to the front of the garment and he awkwardly plucked it off and stared at it for several seconds before throwing it down on the floor.
His teeth had been coming out at a rate faster than the new ones could grow in, most of them having been loosened up before their time, giving him the look of a roughly carved green-blue jack-o-lantern.
The boy started to shakily rise to his feet. All of a sudden, the angry thud... thudthud SLAM of unsteady footsteps made him freeze. The man was back and as he drew near, the boy noticed that he smelled very sour. The only thing distinguishable about his speech was his angry tone. Words were running together, slurring and growing increasingly louder. The boy would never notice them, never hear the words, just the tone and the unfocused anger and the fists and the one word that actually did stand out, the word that changed everything.
Kill.
That was when the boy knew that he had to fight.
The man came closer, his huge fist mercifully missing its target. Drunks hadn't the best aim. Fear written across his narrow face, the boy scurried between the man's legs and lobbed him in the back of the knee, putting all the force he had in his young body behind the blow. The man exclaimed in shock and rage. He faltered slightly, just for a few seconds. That was all it took. The boy scrambled to his feet; the pure wrath in the man's eyes terrified him. As long as he'd known this man, which was as long as he could remember, he'd never seen him look that hateful, that demonic. Without looking back, the boy fled, running as fast as possibly could. He ran out the door and down the street until his house was out of sight.
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Amarant would never forget that face, the rage in the man's eyes or the alcohol on his breath. It was about the only thing he -hadn't- forgotten. When asked about his history, not even the faintest glimmer of anything else sprang to mind.
All he knew was that he had to fight.