How To Repair Wounded Pride

A man's pride could only take so much abuse, especially when one's pride had been cultivated with the most loving and tender care under the Doman people's assiduous tutelage. Cyan's normally copious supply of patience, fostered with long, none-too-leisurely years of meditation and strict discipline, was dropping fast to its uttermost depths. Something needed to be done. If not, he feared he would lose all control completely and choke the living daylights out of the next person who so much looked at him with a smirk or eyes glossy with smugness.

Sabin's gentle teasing was bearable; it had been ever since the day on the Phantom Train. He didn't mind one or two people knowing his most secret shame and he had quickly learned to form a friendship with the prince of Figaro and willingly joined his comrades based on the understanding the shame would not come to light. His honor demanded that much and he needed some new sense of purpose or else he'd go mad, not being a man meant to wander for the rest of his days, home lost as it was. Sabin had been good as his word. But secrets did have a very nasty habit of being revealed in due time.

Curse it all, why did he have to be traveling with a ragtag scoundrel group that included two inveterate and incredibly smug technophiles? He was half-convinced they didn't sweat water but machine grease. They were worse than demons!

He couldn't bear it. Nothing he could do, no matter how discreet, could escape the sharp glances of those two. He hated it when Edgar asked him if he needed help using the light switch. If Cyan ever dared venture into the Blackjack's engine room—for it did fascinate him, like the flame entrances the hapless moth—and Setzer was there at the same time, the cheeky grin he always received was insult enough without the inevitable wisecrack that followed. (After the hundredth time, the joke about the Doman and the can opener was no longer funny, especially when the punch-line was 'Because they're so damn stupid.') Even the other Returners, though more sympathetic, tended to chuckle at him whenever he had any sort of trouble. As if working that damned automatic coffee brewer in the kitchen was some sort of simple task—the thing had so many levers and knobs he didn't see how they could manage. He'd stick to tea from now on. Especially after what had happened to Mog.

In the end, Cyan had to admit he needed help with his particular problem. His honor and pride were at stake and he needed to prove he was not helpless as a babe when it came to technology. But where to start? He would like expert advice, which really only left him two options. And Setzer was immediately out. Cyan still did not quite trust the man completely, plus he was unbecomingly haughty in the Samurai's opinion. He couldn't stand the smirks. He was not to be gawked at!

That only left Edgar. It took Cyan a few days of hard meditation to resign himself to the inevitable. In the end he finally asked for a private audience, which the king granted readily.

Edgar, well-meaning face just beaming with cheer, had only been too glad to assist Cyan in his quest. The king only smiled and ducked behind the large royal desk, the sounds of obvious rummaging coming up from behind. Various objects were tossed about onto the floor and the desktop: ribbons, a hidden bottle of whiskey that looked stale, some broken bits of a machine, a few wrenches, papers galore (a few of them looked depressingly like cease and desist orders from provincial courts addressed to someone named 'Gerad'), and, much to Cyan's horror, a woman's bustier. He only hoped it was not either Terra's or Celes'. At last there was a satisfied 'Aha!' and small grunt from the desk.

"Here we are," Edgar said, rising up and solidly placing a small chest upon the desk; he blew on it once, shined its filigree with a finger, and pushed it towards Cyan. "I think this will help you, my good man. Machinery books, very basic. I haven't looked at them since I was fourteen or so, but I think they should give you a good introduction to the basics. I'm glad you're taking such an interest in machinery now, Cyan. It's the way of the future and it's good for mental exercise. Plus,"—here he winked—"women love a handy man around. You should see them crowd around whenever I work on a project in the castle. I can make them faint just by welding or drilling something in front of them. Bzzzzt! Wrrr! (the accompanying hand gesture here was almost obscene) Soon you, too, can be as lucky as I!"

Cyan bit back his response that maybe getting Edgar's singular luck with the opposite sex would be the best thing, seeing as he never wanted to remarry, but he caught himself. Edgar was royalty and Cyan automatically felt this deserved acknowledgment and proper respect even if Edgar could act in the most un-kingly fashion at times. True, the man could use the role well when he needed, yet some of his antics and his familiar manner were bringing on a mini-crisis of faith in monarchy within Cyan. Nevertheless he had to adapt to this new generation of rulers, it seemed.

After thanking Edgar very humbly (so Cyan thought) for his gift, he was heading back to his quarters, balancing the precious cargo in his hands. The woodwork on the chest was admittedly rather handsome and within the wood there was a small step towards the road of enlightenment!

So engrossed in his musings was he that Cyan almost ran into the small figure coming down the hall opposite him. Only the sudden flash of color in his peripheral vision along with the subsequent pulling up short prevented a crash. Luckily Relm seemed in good spirits, so her response was genial.

"Hey, old man, get your head out of granpappy land and watch out! If you're not careful, we'll have to put you in one of those old people jails with Grandpa. Next thing we know you'll wander off the side of the airship. Could I have your brushes after that happens?"

Giving a small sniff, Cyan gave her the most pleasant greeting he could muster before trying to move on down the hall with the tattered remains of his noble dignity. Relm was simply too scandalous for him at times. He could hardly believe that when he first saw her he had thought her the typical innocent child, about the same age as his own son would have been, so full of youth and sweetness… She'd pretty much torn that conception to shreds five minutes after their first meeting. The girl was just wild. Well-meaning and could be sweet when she wanted, but wild and rude and simply everything a Doman woman was supposed to NOT be. He would have put some blame on the parents, but poor Strago obviously was trying his best to raise the girl well and couldn't be blamed much for his granddaughter being what she was.

As he moved on, Cyan's foot snagged for a moment in an uneven joining of the wooden panels that lined the floor. He pitched forward briefly and quickly righted himself, but the jolt was enough to send the chest from his hands to crash down on the floor, opening up the lid and spilling out two or three soft-bound manuals.

"Geez," said Relm, rolling her eyes as she stooped down to help, "you're really a—"

Whatever insult was hanging on her lips died as she picked up one of the machinist manuals and something else dropped out of it. Somethings, actually. Three brightly colored glossy magazines landed at his feet.

BIG-TITTIED TZEN TARTS!
NAUGHTY NARSHE NYMPHS!
JIDOORIAN JADES WITH JEWLED ASSES!

A fourth one had landed on his boot to open at the centerfold. It was a drawing of a woman in a moogle-skin hood, shoes and mittens and nothing else. She was pulling at the bobble in a very suggestive manner and her legs were…

"Alexander preserve me," Cyan muttered. It was pretty much all he could do. Mutter and stare. And—blazes, much to his great chagrin, a single drop of blood somehow trickled from his nose. How could this be? What sort of deviltry was this? The shame!

The answer hit him right after he asked himself those questions: Edgar. Only Edgar. It was obvious, even if the king hadn't drawn little cartoons of himself waving from the cleavage of the woman on the cover of BIG-TITTIED TZEN TARTS. Cyan's once-open mouth snapped shut into a mighty scowl that normally would have sent dogs running with their tails between their legs and made children shiver as they clung to their mother's skirts. Unfortunately, Relm wasn't like most children.

"I knew it!" she shrieked, waving a paintbrush in the air hysterically. "I knew it! You pretend to be such a tight-ass all the time, but deep down you're really just a dirty old man! Stay back! I have my virtue to protect!"

A large, calloused hand suddenly clamped itself down none-too-gently upon Relm's red beret like Cyan were about to squeeze a tomato. He lowered himself down so they were eye to eye, face grave and eyes burning with promise.

"Child," he said, "ye'll tell no one of this shameful trickery. I already plan on wreaking terrible vengeance on one person this day; do not allow thyself the misfortune of being the second." He held up a finger at her mouth opening, no doubt to screech something sarcastic at him. "If ye consent to be a good girl, I shall give three new brushes from my own stock, all made of finest materials, and teach thee calligraphy in our leisure time."

Relm's face split into a grin and she bobbed her head up and down. "You got yourself a deal!" She bent down and started picking up the offensive tracts, not really looking like she wanted to touch them very much. "I'll take care of these for you. I'm just glad they're not soggy..."

She gave him such an earnest, sweet look of wanting to help that Cyan felt his own heart melting. He patted her golden curls as he turned back around, hand on the hilt of his katana. Before he moved out of earshot, Relm yelled after him.

"Oh yeah, Edgar keeps all his other magazines in the second lowest drawer on the right side of the desk!" She began muttering to herself. "This is totally gross. Oh, man, how did she do that? I have to copy that pose...Grandpa never lets me work on my anatomy."

Cyan gave her another sharp look before going out the door. Relm giggled and slipped the magazines back into the manual before putting it in the bottom of the chest, locking it up tight. She hurried with it down the hall to Cyan's chambers, intending to dump it off there before running back to see if she could catch most of the action. She didn't want to miss it.

On the following day, if Edgar's eyes --the unblackened one, at least--seemed a bit puffy an his manner more dejected than usual to his fellow Returners (save for Relm, now the owner of some fine new brushes and sketching ideas), and if anyone wondered about the large rubbish bag filled with finely sliced paper scraps, Cyan was content to keep it a purely personal matter of pride.

Cyan and Final Fantasy VI are copyright Square-Enix. Now go away!