Author's Note: I do not own Final Fantasy X, nor the universe it resides in. I do however own this story, and any unauthorized ripping off of said story will result in disembowelment. Trust me, shit like that still happens. Also, please note that my shit may not be the most accurate. In other words, if you've done enough digging around about Spira's history, whether you actually sat through all of Maechen's storytelling, or you've read a bunch of Internet based theories, you'll probably find some things that I got wrong. Let me say, right now, that I don't care. This is my story, and what happens in it is what happens. Consider it an alternate universe if you must, but don't give me shit about inaccuracy. Now, enough of me playing the part of the arrogant ass. I'm really a nice guy, I just don't like pointless flaming. Anyway, onto the story.
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Did you hear? There's a war plaguing Spira. It started about a month ago, and has already spread across the whole world. It started when Bevelle decided to launch an attack on Zanarkand. We were caught off guard. Thousands died before the army was able to push Bevelle out of the city. Luckily, the city wasn't damaged too badly, and the casualties were small, when compared to the population of the whole city. All in all, the attack was unsuccessful. However, it ignited the war that would leave the world in ruins: The Spiran War.
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I sat in my seat in the tiny airship, which was just behind the pilot. My rifle was aimed at the floor, both hands resting on the stock. Through the darkened visor of my helmet, I nodded at the rest of my unit. There were five of us, including myself. We hadn't known each other very long, but there was a mutual concern that we all held for the others. In the four weeks since the war started, we'd been matched up and given the unit title of Ifrit, after the avatar of fire. At the moment, we were unable to tell one another apart, dressed in our combat armor, which was made of a lightweight metal that resembled specular plastic. About the most we could distinguish was gender, as the women had a slight outset in the torso piece so their breasts weren't crushed. Other than that, our suits were rather formfitting.
Storm, the unit leader, was about the closest thing I had to a friend anymore. He was the oldest of the group, at about thirty years old. His rank was what allowed him his personal choice of weaponry, which was, among other things, a massive sword, which he housed in a custom crafted slit carved into the back of his torso piece. Contrary to what some may believe, he did more than just think up tactical maneuvers and shout orders. He actually joined us on the battlefield, and usually put himself up front, playing nothing but pure offense. Storm had been part of the force that pushed Bevelle out of our city. I had nothing but respect for the man.
The youngest of our group was a young girl named Ariska. Even at the young age of nineteen, she was a very competent soldier. Her field of expertise was support fire, and it showed. The incredibly long rifle that lay in pieces within the case in her hand, and her abilities with White Magic were testaments to that. That didn't mean she was useless on the front lines though.
Ariska's friend, Kory, was also aboard the aircraft. She was a year older than our other female soldier, and that much more experienced. Her specialty was a bit more physical. Though she had the same equipment as the rest of us, she preferred he knife and sidearm in combat. She was the quickest, and most agile person I'd ever seen, which was probably why she 'forgot' her carbine on most missions. It would only be extra weight, slowing her down. None of us ever called her on it, as we knew her reasoning, and had no qualms about it. At least she still wore her armor.
Then there was Dircham. He was very silent, but possibly the most destructive asset of our team. Dircham was our resident Black Mage. In the few battles I'd taken part in since the war started, he'd never done anything but strike me with awe. Every time I saw a battalion of Bevelle's soldiers burst into flame, or be stricken down with Death, my simply dropped. He was definitely someone that I never planned on pissing off.
I was probably the least specified person in the unit. Neither quick, nor slow, I possessed no super human traits. Sure, I'd been picking up on a bit of Magic, but my current level of expertise didn't even come close to Dircham's or Arkiska's. That wasn't to say that I was absolutely without my uses. I just wasn't anything more than Zanarkand's standard grunt. The badge attached to my shoulder read my name: Jackson. I was part of Ifrit, which was in transit. Our mission was to exorcise Bevelle from Kilika.
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Yes, it's short. I know that there aren't any great descriptions, if any at all. This is only the exposition, which is just a taste of the story yet to come. Trust me, I'll do everything in my power to make it a good one.