III

Lucky Break

Jecht's gargled moans resembled something from a swamp, echoing violently in the hallowed hall. It spoke volumes of the hurt he was going through at that moment, the sound of bile surging into his throat and then back down into his gut. His suffering drew cackles of scorn from the two guards on the other side of the bars.

However, it would wrong to assume that the guards had had their fun with the drunkard. All the damage inflicted upon him was of his own making, vast quantities of liquor working its way through his bloodstream, making him logy and poisoned. He found himself crumpled up on a cold, stony floor, spine and joints stiff and weary, his memories a solitary bastion of peace.

…Stop goofing around Jecht! I have something really important I want to say! I need you. Jecht… I love you…

At first, he thought the sweet voice was that of his wife back in Zanarkand, Linnya. However, the more he replayed the words, the voice began to deepen, coarsen, as though it had been forged in the bloodshed of many battles. Who? And why had everything become so damned complex all of a sudden?

Ah, Linnya… his number one fan, his love, his friend. Jecht let out a sharp, strangled sigh, realising he badly needed her now. He wanted that cool brown hair in the traps of his fingers. He wanted her sparkling eyes staring into his, and not at his body, or his Blitzballs, or his wallet.

Jecht returned to the now and racked his brain trying to piece together last night, erratically placing blurs of an event next to others, speculating at some sort of a sequential order. The thoughts came to him vaguely, only to slip through his fingers. His reality now was a cell that had been stripped down to the bare necessities in which to survive. Little more than a basic space, it featured a bucket to pass by-products into and some rusty bars lowered like a portcullis. It was all so ye-olde-cloak-and-dagger crap. What were they planning to do: hang, draw and quarter him in the town square? Wherever he was, it sure wasn't Zanarkand. But Jecht knew his rights. They had denied him a lawyer and even a phone call, dismissing such inventions as the ramblings of a drunken lunatic.

He stirred, his chiselled, scarred features painted and then dimmed by the shadows cast from the bars. The masked guard posted nearest him -a woman- was in earshot of his strained pleas for attention, but chose to ignore the prisoner. Surging from the gloom, Jecht's fingers curled around the cool metal bars.

"Hey! You listenin'? I want out of this joint! You'll be hearin' from my attorney!"

"You'll shut up if you know what's good for you, braggart."

Jecht mumbled something incoherent just below audible levels and returned to his prone position. He got the feeling that his plight was only worsening with each outburst, but he was alone, sober and pissed off. No one put the great Jecht behind bars for long. Heads would roll for this… or, at least they would have back in the Big-Zee. These people truly did not know who he was, and were impassive to the fantastic bribe sums he was offering. Whoever was calling the shots, it certainly was not him.

The female guard became distracted by a presence entering the corridor. Though Jecht could not see, he recognised the guard's gesture -hands globed and head bowed- as the Blitzball signal for victory back in Zanarkand. Did it mean the same in this backwater town, or did it entail something else entirely?

His guest looked official, possibly a priest, swathed in a leafy red robe. In the centre of the chest was a round, metallic plate of armour, tied to a beige hood pulled down over his shoulders. It implied that this holy man had seen, and would soon see, a fair bit of action. His flowing silver hair spilled out at the sides of his blue cowl, tied at the ends with bands, and on his head was a strange sort of pronged 'crown', with a green jewel adorning the centre of his forehead. In his right hand he clenched a staff: a simple blue shaft about six feet in length, with a golden wreath at the top, red feathers laced within and decorated by tassels. Judging by its lavishness and the priest's straight, healthy posture, it seemed unlikely that the stave was used as a walking aid.

"Who are you?" Jecht called to the guy in the goofy robe.

The reply was mostly cynical, with a cautious aftertaste. "You are the one they call Jecht, the man from Zanarkand, are you not?"

The words, though at a reasonable volume, amplified through Jecht's skull as an unbearable din. Hung-over and eyeshot, Jecht glared up at the priest. "What of it?"

A second visitor, who had been secreted by a wall, swooped into sight, his eyes ablaze. "Watch your tongue, knave!"

Jecht tried to look mean without bursting into fits of laughter. What kind of clown used the word knave in meaningful conversation? It seemed the comedian was a warrior of some kind, judging by his robust attire. From beneath his jacket peaked a black breastplate clamped to his torso. The ankle-length, maroon coat was pulled down on one side, revealing his wiry right arm. His grey slacks, battle gauntlet and metal-plated boots were not what you'd call fashionable, but would be useful in a sudden violent situation that required balanced defence and mobility. His face, though youthful and striking, looked weathered beyond his years, as though many a grimace had furrowed it. Long, raven hair had been tied back into a ponytail that overflowed into the nape of his coat and at the sides of his head, further maturing his appearance.

For his impetuous outburst, the guardian earned a curt nod from his master, as a warning to pipe down. It would seem the pair had devised some sort of strategy prior to their arrival. The robed man returned to Jecht and retained a neutral posture. "Ah, my apologies. I am Braska, a summoner. I've come to take you from this place."

Jecht sucked through his teeth impatiently and clambered to his feet. Folding his arms over his bare chest, his voice fell to a sceptical baritone. "Sounds sweet… What's the catch?"

Braska chuckled, his generous facade shattered instantly. "That easy to see, was it?" He found his tongue wandering uncertainly in his mouth, trying to form his words with care. "I soon leave on a pilgrimage… to Zanarkand."

"Seriously?"

"I would like you to join us. It will be a dangerous trip. Yet, if we do reach Zanarkand… my prayers will be answered, and you will be able to go home, we think. What say you?"

"Great, let's go!" Jecht replied frantically, like the words couldn't escape his lips soon enough. Though he was trying to be cool with his negotiator, he struggled to mask his desire to go back home.

"So quick?"

"Anything to get outta here!" Jecht strained, massaging the crick out of his neck, something brought about by spending the night on a stone floor.

"Then it's settled."

Braska's guardian could no longer hold his tongue, veiled disgust finally exploding to the surface. "But I must protest! This… drunkard, a guardian?"

"Hey! You want to step in here and say that?"

"What does it matter?" said Braska, verbally stepping between the two bulls. "No one truly believes that I, a fallen summoner wed to an Al Bhed, could possibly defeat Sin. This is what they say. No one expects us to succeed."

Braska's previously fluid movement crashed. He stood rigid in position, limbs taut with regret, resentment and a simmering passion also. The guardian hushed again, barely muttering his lord's name, as he did whenever his summoner spoke of the expectancy of them to fail. Like his master, he came from a similarly ashamed past and knew only peer ridicule. The difference between him and Braska was that he would often become mired in his dishonour and pin himself down with it, whereas the summoner would bounce back from whatever adversity.

"Let's show them they're wrong. A fallen summoner, a man from Zanarkand… and a warrior monk, doomed to obscurity for refusing the hand of the priest's daughter. What delightful irony it would be if we defeated Sin!"

The summoner seemed taken by the fantasies of what could occur in the days and weeks ahead. This party must have been the lowliest, most bottom-of-the-barrel bunch to ever start the journey. It would be ironic if they could end the ninety year rampage, but also a figurative middle finger to the pompous senior clergymen of Yevon.

"Stop gabbin' and get me outta here!" Jecht yelled impatiently, annoyed by his own incarceration, and this guy's self-satisfied drivel.

Braska turned back to the prisoner, partially annoyed by his lack of manners but also partially enchanted by it. He nodded to the female guard on his right, who, with tangible reluctance, pulled down the rusty metallic lever that controlled the portcullis.

"Ah, free at last!"

Jecht sprang from his enclosure, bursting past Braska and into the freedom of the hallway. Jogging on the spot and flexing his rusty arms, it would be easy to observe him with a degree of derision. But to the man from Zanarkand, freedom never tasted so sweet. He cracked his neck from side to side, the popping sounds cannoning through the halls. After a few moments he slowed down, the frustration worked out of his system. Peering down into the deceptively peaceful waters of the Via Purifico, he realised how close he had come to being fish food. The male guard had told him something about desecrating holy land with his "foul, drunken presence", and had taunted him with tales about those who had ended up in the Via Purifico. Now in the same free space as that particular jerk, Jecht glowered at him as though to punch holes in his face. He considered lunging at the bastard, but managed to retain a shred of self-discipline.

"Now, Jecht. I am in your hands until we reach Zanarkand." Braska spoke. It was a reminder to Jecht of his new responsibilities as a guide, and as a warning to not abuse his trust.

"Yeah, yeah. So, what's a summer-ner, anyway?"

Two foaming mugs of ale came firmly down on the wooden table, suds splashing and soaking up in the oak. Jecht flicked out a couple of coins, which rattled and shimmied before coming to a still. The man from Zanarkand then proceeded to tear into a roasted chicken wing laid out on the plate in front of him, his more primal instincts in need of satisfaction since he had awoken. Sat opposite him, Braska grimaced inconspicuously and nudged his glass to one side.

They were dining in a low-end restaurant in town, bathed in the rich cherry glow of a late afternoon or an early evening. Little more than a large canopy supported by wooden rafters, 'The Greedy Pig' sheltered a few rickety tables and little else. Besides Jecht and himself, there was a modest young couple being served by a particularly disinterested waiter. It was all Summoner Braska could realistically afford; summoning was not the most affluent profession, especially for one excommunicated from the temples of Yevon such as himself.

Through a mouthful of meat and beer, Jecht muttered, "You know, Braska, you're really talkin' my language. Bailin' a guy out of jail and buyin' him food and drink like this…"

Jecht took a strained gulp and continued between breaths. He made a strange slurping noise, hardly endearing himself to the summoner. "So, why me?"

"Well, when I discovered the whereabouts of a man claiming he was from Zanarkand, I had to see for myself."

"…O-kay." said Jecht with obvious confusion. The priest had called him a man from Zanarkand, as though it was a rarity, as though he was the only one left. He decided against following up, because he did not have to explain himself to anyone, especially not a bunch of primates from the sticks. He was the man; being stuck in losersville didn't change that. That monster had clearly just transported him somehow to the other side of the world, to places that he did not know and frankly did not care existed. Even still, he hadn't the first clue where he was. This 'Bevelle' certainly did not ring any bells. Come to think of it, it was so strange that Zanarkand could be so secluded and so brilliantly self-sufficient that it did not even recognise the other towns in Spira. It was something that Jecht had not lent any thought to before, nor was he particularly bothered now, because he missed Zanarkand so much that anything else was meaningless.

"Zanarkand… the city that never sleeps." The summoner enthused, almost dreamily. But Jecht continued to absent-mindedly consume amidst the summoner's ramblings. Braska leaned in, chin propped on his fist. "What's it like, Jecht?"

The Blitzer gave him another confused and even irritated look. "Big."

"There must be more than that, Jecht. Bevelle is big."

"No, Bevelle's tall. Zanarkand is big." He chomped down again on the chicken wing, its crunchy crackling giving way to soft, white flesh beneath.

"You know, you should eat a little slower."

Jecht poked the decimated wing towards Braska in some annoyance. "Hey, don't tell someone from Zanarkand how to eat. Just because you guys eat insects or wood or whatever it is you eat here. In Zanarkand, when we eat, we eat right."

He took a couple of dry attempts to swallow before slamming a fist to the centre of his chest. Looking relieved, he followed this with a huge draught from the tankard that seemingly finished it off. Easing back into his wooden seat, he allowed his gut to ease out. Braska noticed that he looked nearly breathless, as though the meal had taken a lot out of him.

"You gonna drink that?"

Braska looked down at his untouched ale and shook his head. Jecht swooped, claiming the mug and sinking it in one attempt. It was real eye-opener for Braska, who just watched in silent amazement. A star Blitzball athlete who could also drink everyone he knew under the table?

"So, where to now?" asked Jecht as he swilled the stuck pieces of chicken with what beer remained in his mouth.

"There are a couple of goodbyes, and then we leave before next sunrise."

Jecht only now remembered that Auron was actually present, stood aloof at the entrance to the restaurant. "Oh, still with us, I see. Good of you to show up."

Auron threw the Blitzer a stony glare before turning away, arms folded across his chest.

"I'm just messin' with ya, Auron. Tell me, in your expert opinion, what do you think of my new sword?"

Jecht held it aloft: It was a very bulky broadsword, as wide as Jecht's chest in places, made from a dark and sturdy iron. There was a hook at the end of the sword, similar to that of an anchor. It was primarily for cutting with its sharp edge, but also for catching other blades in the tines. It had a T-shaped handle made from an expensive looking ivory and along the flat of the sword was a sun fire red pattern that vaguely resembled three aquatic mammals -possibly dolphins, each one shrinking further down the sword. It matched the designs of the orange sash around Jecht's waist, clearly painted or melted on painstakingly at his request, and at obvious extra cost. The guardian took the shortest of analytical observations before dismissively stating, "It's too heavy for you."

"Hah, says you. I can handle it."

The guardian impatiently spun to face Jecht, his boots scuffing on the tiled floor. "Remember, this is Lord Braska's coin you are flagrantly spending. Don't waste it on things that aren't necessary, just to satisfy your over-inflated ego."

"Ah, cram it, would ya?" The Blitzer uttered, just quiet enough so that nobody would hear.