(Disclaimer: As a work of fanfiction, the creation of this piece does not imply ownership of the Final Fantasy franchise, its characters, or any affiliated intellectual property.)
The streets of Dollet were deserted at this early hour, the streetlights wrapped in a mantle of fog. Quistis covered the half-mile between her home and the bakery at a brisk pace, alert to movements in the shadows, a small folding knife nestled in her palm. She'd never had to use it, thank goodness; Dollet was a relatively peaceful town, but she'd heard enough horror stories about other cities to take extra precautions regarding her safety. On this morning, the only other living creatures she saw were the stray cats prowling the alleys, searching for food and enforcing their territorial boundaries.
Nevertheless, she was relieved to enter the bakery and lock the heavy door behind her. She turned on the lights and surveyed the kitchen, the stainless-steel surfaces shining in the fluorescent glow, the bowls and utensils standing ready in their respective storage spaces. She put away her belongings and got to work, cleaning and sanitizing the worktops and supplies before starting on the day's first batch of cupcakes.
Growing up, no one would have figured her for a baker. Even she hadn't envisioned this future for herself. But, in taking on kitchen duties during her final years at the home for orphaned girls in which she was raised, she discovered not only that cooking was its own science, and thus appealed to her logical mind, but also that she had a knack for it. Released from the orphanage when she turned eighteen, she pursued her newly-found passion, funding her culinary and business studies by working in kitchens at various restaurants and hotels in the area.
Two years ago, armed only with a modest amount of savings, an abundance of cautious optimism, and a solid business plan, she opened her own bakery. She called it Qake, a play on her first initial that had seemed very clever at the time. Though she cringed now at this testament to her youthful narcissism, she had amassed a sizable enough clientele in the meantime to make a name change counterproductive. Qake it remained, then, and she could look forward to explaining its pronunciation to some confused tourist at least twice a week, almost all of whom insisted on pronouncing an absent "u".
But perplexing names did not matter in the kitchen, in these small hours of the morning. Each day, she arrived several hours before her employees to bake the first batches of cupcakes on her own, quietly measuring ingredients with precision, mixing batters and fillings and frostings, and timing the baking process to the second. These hours passed quickly, and soon she heard her employees approaching, opening the door and shuffling in a few minutes before five.
"Mornin', Quistis," said Zell, his loud voice echoing off the walls. "What do you need me to get started on? Need any heavy lifting done?"
Zell had grown up across the sea in Balamb, and learned to cook at his mother's side. A stocky, energetic young man, he was surprisingly intuitive in the kitchen, and the delicacy with which he decorated cakes and cupcakes was matched only by the effortlessness with which he slung massive bags of flour over his shoulder.
"No heavy lifting right now, Zell," Quistis answered, "but I will need you to get started on today's cakes: Coffee Crumble, Triple Lemon, Dollet Decadence, and Sweet Dream. Start with the Coffee Crumble, and leave the Decadence for later; it's usually too rich for the early-morning crowd."
"I'm on it!"
Quistis nodded and looked up at the young lady who'd followed Zell inside. Emmy was very quiet, with a background in library science rather than food preparation. She'd applied to work at the bakery on the recommendation of the owner of the bookstore down the street, who couldn't afford to hire her at the time, but assured Quistis that Emmy was hardworking and a quick learner. Emmy immediately demonstrated these qualities by becoming a deft decorator and chief arranger of the display case, as well as tending to the customers. She was lighthearted and courteous, and had a unique talent for gauging customer tastes, suggesting several seasonal flavors that ended up being very well-received.
She also seemed to harbor a secret attraction to Zell, to which – thankfully, for the operation of the bakery – Zell seemed oblivious. Emmy pulled her apron over her head and smiled shyly at Quistis, asking what she needed to do this morning.
"You can get started on the toppings and fillings for the cakes. We'll need vanilla and raspberry buttercreams, lemon curd filling, coconut-pecan filling, and chocolate ganache. As soon as I finish frosting these cupcakes, I'll help you out."
"All right." Emmy finished tying her apron and headed toward the refrigerator.
At seven o'clock, Quistis flipped the sign on the door and took up her station at the counter. She looked around the shop, at the pale pink wallpaper and the shiny tile floor, at the handful of tables and chairs arranged throughout, then put on her friendliest smile, ready to greet the first customers of the day.
•o•o•o•o•o•o•
The morning rush began around eight o'clock, as people stopped in for sweets and coffee on their way to work. Quistis noticed dour looks and grumbling among her regulars, particularly those who worked or owned businesses along the main street through town, and asked why.
"Main street's closed off for a few hours this morning," one of them told her, "for some kind of special event. It's all fine and dandy for whoever is celebrating, but that'll cut down on our business for the day."
"Besides," said another, "who in the world holds a special event on a Thursday morning?"
"That does seem incredibly odd," Quistis replied. "This is the first I've even heard about it."
"I didn't find out about it until yesterday evening, when a crew was setting up the barricades."
"Hopefully, it will be a short event. I can't imagine it will have many attendees."
"Yeah." The customer handed Quistis his money and picked up his order. "As long as it's over before noon, I don't think it'll do too much damage. But if I have to wade through crowds to go to lunch, someone's gonna get an earful."
Quistis turned to Emmy, who was refilling one of the coffee urns. "What about you?" she asked. "Have you heard anything about this celebration?"
"A little." Emmy finished her task, then fished her phone from the pocket of her apron. She tapped on the screen several times, swiped a few times more, then turned it toward Quistis. The image on the screen was a bright yellow flyer ringed with flowers, bearing the words "Hello Dollet!" in bold, curly script.
"Her name is Selphie Tilmitt," Emmy went on, "and she's really popular online. Her family owns some big corporation, but she didn't even know she was related to them until a little while ago. I think she mentioned that she bought a house here. I guess she just wants make her entrance in style."
"Narcissism knows no bounds," Quistis muttered, suddenly feeling much better about the self-indulgent name of her business. "I suppose she invited her online audience to this special event, as well."
"That's what this post says. The parade is set to begin at ten."
"Parade? Who in the world does she think –" Quistis broke off her sentence and turned around at the sound of the bell above the door. She smiled when she recognized Rinoa, the owner of the neighboring bookstore, and wished her good morning.
"Have you seen this?" Rinoa asked, shoving a newspaper toward Quistis, clearly not in the mood for pleasantries. "How dare she think she can just sweep in, with all that money built on pain, and expect this town to welcome her. Dollet is peaceful! We don't need someone here who caters to warmongers!"
As Rinoa stalked to the display case to look over the day's offerings, Quistis read the short article on page four of the Dollet Daily Herald. Apparently, Selphie Tilmitt was related to Rendel Barton, the founder and CEO of the Blue Dragon Munitions Manufacturing Corporation, who passed away several months ago. Mr. Barton had no children of his own to whom to bequeath his estate, and mentioned in his will a dear niece, with whom he had lost contact after having a falling-out with her mother. Based on the information Mr. Barton had gathered on her whereabouts, private investigators eventually tracked down the young woman, and awarded her a handsome inheritance that included homes in Deling City, Winhill, and Balamb, and enough money to support the population of those towns for over a decade.
"You see?" said Rinoa, pointing out her cupcake of choice to Emmy. "She can live wherever she wants to. Why does she have to come here?"
"I don't see what's so bad about that," Quistis said. "She's a popular online personality with some influence. Her arrival might be good for business. Since the Hyperion opened last summer, business has been very slow. I'm down to pretty much only my regulars, and as much as I appreciate them, I'm having trouble making a profit without the tourists."
"It's not her, specifically. It's what she stands for."
"Has she made that explicit?"
Rinoa slid the paper toward herself, scanned the article and pointed to a paragraph, in which Selphie was quoted as saying that finding out she was related to the founder of Blue Dragon felt like finding a missing piece to her personality. "It just makes sense," Selphie said. "All my life, I've been fascinated with stuff like that: the power, the explosions, the spectacle of it all. Of course I'm a Blue Dragon! It's in my blood!"
"I still don't see the problem," Quistis said.
"The problem is her attitude. 'Guns are cool, bullets are awesome!' It's like she doesn't understand how many people are killed or hurt or kept under dictatorial control by these things she loves so much." Rinoa pointed to the paper again. "The problem is right there: blood. Selphie Tilmitt's money is blood-stained money."
"As long as she doesn't establish dictatorial control here, we should be fine. Besides, Selphie Tilmitt's money is legal tender that is perfectly acceptable in exchange for cake."
"I know you're joking, but this is a serious subject." Rinoa accepted a cup of coffee from Emmy and waited for Quistis to ring up her order. "So I'm going to protest. Someone has to stand up for what is good and decent."
"Protest? What about your bookstore?"
"Oh, Watts is in today. He'll keep things running smoothly until I get back. It'll only be a couple of hours, and if he needs help, Rosalie is on-call."
"I suppose you know what you're doing."
"Of course I do!" Rinoa turned to leave, but doubled back. "By the way, have you taken my suggestion into consideration? Angelo would love to get her morning snack here, too." She angled her head toward the window, through which a fluffy, friendly dog watched the activity inside, its leash tied to the large planter beside the door.
"Rinoa, you know I'd love to incorporate pet-friendly treats into the menu, but I simply can't justify the cost right now."
"People would buy them! I'm not the only dog owner who patronizes your bakery. You could call them 'pupcakes', and decorate them with little doggie treats! At least put out a survey, to see who might be interested."
Quistis smiled. "Now that I can do. But I can't promise you'll like the results."
"I'm pretty sure I will. Don't underestimate the things people will buy for their pets."
Quistis sighed and shook her head. Rinoa was impulsive, but her heart was often in the right place. Regarding Selphie, however, Quistis disagreed with her stance. She hoped Selphie would not be swayed by Rinoa's tiny protest and the grumblings of the business owners along the parade route. An heiress with money to burn and a sizable online following would be a boon for the bakery, if Quistis could find some way to attract her attention. She briefly entertained the notion of sending Zell or Emmy to greet Selphie with a selection of cupcakes, but dismissed it as desperate. She had time to think, after all. If Selphie really was moving into a home in Dollet, and it wasn't all a publicity stunt, Quistis had plenty of time to push Qake into Selphie's peripheral vision.
•o•o•o•o•o•o•
Quistis collected plates and wiped down the tables, while Emmy stocked the display case in preparation for the lunchtime customers and Zell took his break in the kitchen. Quistis thought she heard Zell say something, but since he had a habit of arguing with the news anchors on television, she ignored it. He called her name again, louder this time, and she walked into the kitchen to see what he wanted.
"Yo, check this out," he said, pointing to the TV in the corner. The local news station was covering Selphie's arrival, which really did include a parade. A band in white uniforms was marching out of the shot, just as a small float covered with flowers and papier-mâché fairies rolled into view. Quistis crossed her arms and watched the spectacle unfold, feeling as if she had stumbled into a child's fever dream.
A troupe of dancers disappeared down the street, and the parade went quiet for a few moments. Then, the reporter's eyes widened, and she gestured to the other end of the road. The camera panned over, and Quistis let her arms fall to her sides and her mouth fall slack when she saw the tank approaching.
It was an authentic, decommissioned tank, as evidenced by the insignia of the Dollet army peeking through a shoddy – probably rushed – paint job. A Blue Dragon was painted near the front, and the entire vehicle had been festooned with fresh flowers. A young woman wearing a flower crown poked through the hatch at the top, alternately waving and flinging candy to the crowd below.
"Hello, Dollet!" she shouted. "I'm happy to be here! We're gonna have a blast! Booyaka!"
"Booyaka, indeed!" The reporter chuckled, catching a piece of candy. "This certainly is the most excitement Dollet has had in a while. Ms. Tilmitt seems to be a gregarious young lady who –" The reporter stopped and frowned, and sounds of a struggle could be heard behind the tank. The camera operator turned once more and zoomed in on a tussle among the crowd.
A policeman backed out from between several individuals, dodging a wildly swinging placard and trying to maneuver someone toward the curb. As the camera zoomed in closer, Quistis and her associates gasped.
"Blood-stained money, blood-stained money," Rinoa chanted, even as the policeman relieved her of her sign and pulled her hands behind her back. "We don't need your blood-stained money!"
"Well," said the reporter, an undercurrent of amusement in her voice, "I suppose not everyone was impressed. Perhaps that young woman didn't get a piece of candy. Reporting live from downtown Dollet, this is –"
Zell turned off the television, and he, Quistis, and Emmy stared at its darkened screen.
"Oh dear," Quistis sighed.