Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Square Enix and their respective designers. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.
Hurricane
A/N: Pre-FFX.
There is nothing left in Zanarkand, what with its bright lights and fast-paced streets, full almost to the breaking point. There is no real joy, no fulfillment, in knowing that they love him; that they expect the best from him each night he's caught within the sphere.
When the suffocating hold closes in, he'll go out alone, caught up in the surf, and sit alone on the water. Not submerged, but hovering atop the frothy waves, riding them slowly, letting them carry him out to sea.
On this cold morning, he dreads the match that will take place once the sun has fallen. They'll scream his name, again and again and again, and never let him go; never let him out of their sights until their thirst for his attention has been satisfied. So he paddles out into the deep blue, feeling the water wash over his fingertips.
Somehow, it slakes his desire for solitude.
The sphere has said that it will rain today, and the waves now smell of salt and the scent that has no name. They bounce beneath the board, the spray flying up and into his eyes. The sky reads dark and foreboding, the far distance graying as moisture falls. Perhaps this is the start of a hurricane.
Still, Jecht goes nowhere.
He waits, watching the change in the weather with a quiet eye, almost welcoming the inevitable storm. A nice change of pace, he thinks, something that will spread gradually, grow, and encompass the city's glowing coastline. But, turning back, it's gone.
The storm comes now, encompassing him with rain. He's spent too much time contemplating the process, comparing its cycle to his own. The nature of a storm is granted, the nature of his life is created. As the waves rise up, he is pelted with rain and salt, a tunnel building around him before it crashes down, sending Jecht far beneath the water.
He sputters as he rises up from the surf, coughing the water out of his lungs. The wave builds again, a bubble, coming up above him with a sound; a sound unlike the sea.
As it falls, it screams, and carries him under again.