I'm awake; I am in the world-
I expect
no further assurance.
No protection, no promise.
He had stumbled out of Augusta Tower naked.
It's not about clothing, of course; his pale blue tie is still being held aloft by the wind like some sort of flag of truth, and he can still feel the friction of the layer of Academy fabric against his skin, an alien illusionary sensation that claims he's covered, protected. The elevator buttons had unlocked themselves once that which had wanted to be saved had been irrevocably lost, and the journey back down to earth had been too fast and nonchalant for his soul to handle.
(He can't remember her name.)
Emergence: a busy street, sounds of laughter, a woman trying to hand him a pamphlet for the newly refurbished restaurant in New Town. She smiles at the moonlight glitter he hasn't been able to get out of his hair, compliments him on how the iridescent color perfectly matches both his silver head and white uniform. He just feels cold.
Hurried, almost panicked steps onto Grand Avenue: looking for an escape, some kind of answer. The rain abruptly goes from a fine mist to an absolute downpour. Although there are assassins around (how did he even exit his room and the airlock without alerting armed guards, and why haven't they yet found him, wandering about alone like this?), he has a strange feeling he is not going to be targeted.
(Not tonight.)
A flash of lightning; a few muffled curses, then the dull, distant growl of thunder. A lone chocobo sprints past him at full speed, sending forth a series of splashes and drenching his torso and legs in fresh runoff. The city is too empty despite being filled with irate residents trying desperately to run from the rain.
I'm chasing ghosts that no longer… are.
The rain seeps through his hair, his ungloved hands, the worn-out parts of his boots. It serves poorly to wash away the stain of blood or the depth of his despair. The coldness of the water submerging his toes once again reminds him that he exists, although a part of him wants to deny it, belatedly feels ashamed of being alive, of having reached this moment on no true merit of his own. And to think he had been so obliviously ecstatic to meet Serah and Noel again, blissfully unaware of all that it signified…
You… died in another timeline, Hope, Serah's words echo in his ear, her gentle smile and kind concern still fresh as yesterday. He had wanted to get down to his knees and thank her, thank her when she handed him the final graviton core, Noel electing to just stand by amusedly and joke with another researcher when the older man just couldn't contain the excitement in his voice. You were targeted by the proto Fal'Cie you created several centuries before this time, and it had wiped out everyone in the Tower before turning on us…
Ah, yes. He inhales the rain as it continues to fall with no intention to stop, almost willing himself to drown in this deluge, to slowly and painfully suffocate. The salt burns against the cracks and cuts on his face, sets regret ablaze. Now I understand. It's not just the city. Her very arrival…
(A moment of no return.)
… Everyone in the Tower…
(He recalls Rose beaming as she was handed the scissors for the ribbon cutting ceremony, and his assistant laughing as she shoved him through the new door, his assistant, he still can't remember her name, he thinks she had short blonde hair, had –)
It is ordained now, isn't it? Everyone I used to work with in that Tower – every last researcher and assistant – is dead.
He can't quite recall what has just happened in the Tower in this timeline – it's over, it's unchangeable, it's dead and gone are the only hunches he can gather from his own head – yet the loss hangs over him like a cumulonimbus cloud, the flash flood forcing him to wipe away the idealism from his eyes and see the world for its truth.
I decided to travel to this era… on my own. Serah and Noel changed history to save me. I lost someone trying to save myself.
And since this world yet so stubbornly refuses to disappear, the unforgiving chill from the water still eating, ever so slowly, through the pores of his skin…
Everything up until this point in time is now set and true.
Mistakes can no longer be rectified or acknowledged by anything other than guilt and shame. The memory of the sunlit corridor just before the containment room, instead of being the pure embodiment of loyalty and trust between comrades and friends, now reeks of his own betrayal.
In my quest to flee from my own sense of abandonment, I have abandoned everyone else…
Noel and Serah? They never set foot again in New Bodhum after 3 AF. Snow and Sazh? One was sent by the goddess to resolve more than two dozen time anomalies bearing his name, and another had been forcibly trapped in time with his child. Alone among the l'Cie, he had lived, grown, and made cherished friends and colleagues after Cocoon's Fall. And to breathe here, standing in this thunderstorm of the future, when everyone he's ever worked with in the Academy are now lost in time, persisting only as fragmented particles in the water and air…
I knew this. Had always known – had tried to understand – but just… utterly… failed to feel it. But now that they've been torn away from my grasp, these memories and shapes of faces I can no longer hold close to me…
Who was I to think – even for a second – that I deserve to be here more than any of them?
"Hey, senpai. How does –"
(I remember you. I swear I remember you)
"How –"
(Finish that question. Please finish that question)
"Hey…."
He reaches for her with pale ungloved fingers and feels only the heaviness of air. She fades
(sings)
into nonexistence, and there's naught he can do to catch up.
The heartbeat in his ears taunts him, the brilliant lights of this era blinding the living artifact with their crystal luminescence. The just ever so slightly wrong taste of the NORA special he consumed earlier tonight churns in his stomach, makes him want to throw up –
Can this just be a doomed timeline? He cries futilely in his own mind, all pretenses of self-importance and faith lost, all barriers of reason thrown away, wanting more than anything just for this world to be fair, for everyone to be able to see everything they've ever built, for nobody to have to die. Below him the city is being baptized, reborn. Whatever has happened in Augusta Tower tonight is already changing the future. Even if I must go back, fight, and probably die – can I stop losing everyone?
The world, laughing at his illogical thoughts and blatant disregard for the laws of time: and who are you to decide who lives and who dies?
Another flash of lightning. His hand falls slowly and meekly towards his side. The city horizons are weeping along with him, all the pent-up anger and grief intermingling under one dark, colorless sky; the fake glitter of divine favor is finally completely washed out of his hair, leaving him banal, debased, and raw. All he does is stand.
He knows he's asking for too much; everything dies in the world, and there's no realistic way to bring everyone into the future while still leaving enough in the past to build that very future. Yet the heart rejects the cruelty of restraint, desires eternity beyond its means; it will keep asking that same question, for it knows the answer to be one that no one wants to enunciate:
Is this the will of the main timeline, then?
A timeline in which I will always be a solitary spacetime refugee, one who stands and runs as others are cut down and left behind right next to me?
Senpai, what did you think about inside the Purge train?
Where are you going, senpai?
Hey, senpai. Would you save me?
His eyes snap open.
He's alone in his room; secure behind two additional layers of airlocks, his body covered in cold sweat. Something has released its hold on him, but fallen just short of setting him free. He tries to mouth the words, recall the memory from the abyss of the chaos.
(But nobody came.)
Groggily, painstakingly, he pulls himself up from the bed, falling into his chair with a sigh. The small desk light he's left on from the previous night is radiating a fuzzy, eerie light, a golden firefly in a thick and seemingly impenetrable darkness. His notebook has similarly been left open on a page, the margins full of the smallest things he's managed to recall about his friends. Rose liked carnations. Jeb had a thing for cyborg porn. And "the assistant" … he's had many researchers help him during the years, that's for sure, but –
He's already feeling the headache.
It's still only 4 a.m.; he shouldn't be up this early, has been living on a diet of naps for days. He knows that it's unhealthy – more than a few of the researchers have suggested that he take a break, it's very understandable to be traumatized after an assassination attempt, after all – but he can't shake off the feeling that he's running out of time.
There are only so many hours in a day, after all. And there's still so much for him to do.
The main structural engineering problems are being taken care of; the graviton cores have been delivered, cast, and tested, and will soon be installed in place for further testing. The main energy grid has been set up, and soon the hydraulics engineers will report to him on the feasibility of building two additional reservoirs. He doesn't have to worry about things like advertising the real estate, thank the gods, but –
He glances again at the notebook and grimaces. There are another two parties scheduled for tonight. One for all the researchers on the 53rd floor, and another for…?
Another sigh escapes him. He turns the notebook to the pages on the back, makes a few more additional notes. Those other researchers he'd have to befriend at a later time. To try to get to know everyone, and to know how to properly, sincerely say his farewells when it comes the time – it truly feels harder than overseeing the construction of an entire planet to hang in the sky.
I could always just stay and die in this era. Avoid making that same mistake again.
The problem is that he has a sinking feeling that his life is again not his own, and as much as he may rage and beat against the mechanisms in the hands of (or are they even beyond?) the gods, if he wants to see the world not fall into ruin, he has no choice but to keep on marching ahead.
I'm not ready for this. I'm never really going to accept this. This curse of farewells, of loss, even in the name of hope, progress and seeing loved ones again –
He's wondered about building time capsules for everyone who'd be interested in taking them, only to realize that it'd also be selfish, to assume what others would want to do with their lives. He had detached himself from time due to a special, gargantuan kind of greed for happiness and rebirth; most other people seem to be content just with contributing a little something to their societies, families and friends.
There's no real need to fight fate face-on in this era, huh?
Melancholy settles, for there are no real, satisfying answers, and unlike the last time something like this has happened, there's nobody around to share the burden, either. He's lonely despite attending every single Academy party in existence, isolated even when showered with hundreds of lines of genuine praise and admiration – no one truly understands, and it's his own fault, and he wants to think that he's doing the right thing, but…
Don't lie to yourself. Wouldn't you sacrifice everyone all over again just for another chance to see Vanille's smile, feel your heart fill up at the sight of Light's soft rose-colored hair?
Do something useful and practical, Estheim, the internal scolding once again comes to the rescue, and he obediently turns on the screens, starts reviewing the proposals for the second stage of Academia's inevitable evacuation even as he steps into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
"You came, Hope," the Jihl-lookalike greets him at the directors' party, surveying him from head to toe as she accepts a glass of wine from the server. She's wearing a dress from the latest haute couture collection, an expensive and heavily beaded thing that highlights her buxom figure and regal presence. "We weren't sure if we could... convince you to socialize with us."
His smile is unfaltering as he accepts a glass of his own. "I am honored to be invited."
"Oh, no, no. You must not say so. The honor is ours. You are the hope of our present and future, after all. This way."
The ballroom is spacious and luxurious, tiled by rose veined marble and lit from above by a dozen exuberant golden chandeliers. Dozens of tables have already been set, and he spies a DJ getting ready in an opposite corner. They pass by a table of female directors and he catches a breath of all their fragrances, orange, lilac, seafoam and freesia. Greetings are exchanged – he gets a few compliments on his outfit and Jihl gets more than a few on her hair – yet he cannot help but feel like something's missing.
Jihl has kept talking.
"A wonderful New Year's Eve, isn't it? We've kept up the tradition of hosting old Bodhum-style fireworks. Perhaps you can tell us if any of the details are amiss. You are the only person who still remembers that era, after all…"
New Year's Eve?
He has forgotten. He hasn't been counting time except for the number of the days since his arrival.
An image of his mother – tall, gentle, yet stoic as she answered the questions directed at him from the PSICOM soldiers in Bodhum – slowly flashes past his eyes, and he chuckles, keeping his voice light. "I must apologize, but I originally hail from Palumpolum, and I've never been an expert on light shows. Surely the fireworks now are more spectacular than any of the ones I've ever seen."
"We do hope that you'll enjoy it. We ordered a batch specifically designed to honor you, after all." They've arrived at a table well away from the gathering or the dance floor, and her smile has grown crooked, enigmatic. "Please sit."
He sits.
"We have much to discuss."
He waits for her to begin.
"Are you not excited about the fireworks? You can choose the style and color, if you so desire. We've been told you seem especially fond of golden yellow, warm peach and pale rose."
"I am but a visitor. I am already humbled that the directors would like to honor me. How the directors see me is how I am."
"A visitor, you said? We must apologize for the grave lapse of security on our part… that must not have helped you feel at home. We do hope, however, that you feel well-protected now – we are training a new specialized squad for your personal protection as we speak."
The assassination… he's still not figured out who really was after him, or why. His memories regarding the assassination are foggy. A half dozen bodies strewn just outside his door… assassins inside the airlock. There's no way for him to know if someone within the Academy institution had wished to see him removed.
But if that might change the timeline…
"Hopefully, they will finish their training by next Monday. Would you have time to meet with them next Tuesday?"
He feels his lips tighten ever so slightly. "… I'm afraid I may be mistaken, but I believe that's the planned date for the installation of the first graviton core?"
"Indeed. You possess a fine memory, Hope. That date's only ever been announced once as an afterthought in an internal memo."
He feels himself blink once, and then twice. Jihl's wearing an amused expression. So that's why the mechanical engineers were so confused when I tried to talk about it with them. I didn't know they have been kept in the dark. This has been some kind of test, and… I suppose they believe I have overstepped. "… Do the directors believe it best for me to not get involved?"
"My, my, Hope." Her voice is too musical, too value-laden. He wonders dimly how his father had ever navigated this, why he's never really bothered to learn, if knowing how to talk past sincerity would have helped him survive a few more timelines. "Must you be so direct? We only desire to see you take a bit more time for yourself. Your assistants have told me about your sleeping problems, your seemingly low moods. Academia worships you. Have you thought about how demoralized the citizenry would be if they were to see you lose faith in yourself?"
"A bit more time"? What kind of time do they even mean? "I appreciate the concern, but surely I can take the break after the cores have been installed? If you recall, I had initiated the whole project on the cores, and if anything from the test results do not match up with expected performance –"
"Do you not trust our researchers to follow your vision through?"
She interrupted me. The urge to swallow the words is strong – he has no way to tell if even the wine he has drunk has been poisoned – yet he cannot give up without a fight. "This concerns New Cocoon. New Cocoon is the one shot we have for surviving Cocoon's inevitable fall. As such, we cannot possibly endanger it. Forgive me for saying this, but for us to not take all the precautions we can – for me to leave the graviton cores team – would be gravely irresponsible both to the principles of science and the citizens of Academia."
The table is silent. He knows he's definitely overreached this time, yet this is something he cannot possibly compromise on. To be forced into a vacation now – an extended vacation, he'd guess, if he knew anything about political struggles – would defeat the entire point of his journey here, considering what he's seen of the Academy's progress on the artificial planet so far. If I thought sacrificing others for me to reach the future was horrific, sacrificing others only for me to watch everything fail is worse.
Jihl's glasses are too opaque for him to try to read her.
"As expected from our prodigal scientist, the only child of our institution's Founder." How did she already finish her glass of wine? He hasn't even gotten halfway through his. "Such integrity and bravery is truly admirable. You would sacrifice yourself to see this project to completion?"
He blinks.
"If that is the case, we will not stop you. The teams will depart on Tuesday morning, at 7 a.m. sharp." She's stood up; the beads on her dress are ominously opalescent under the fading twilight. "We'll be leaving from the newly constructed terminal, right across the street from Augusta Tower."
You would sacrifice yourself to see this project to completion?
There's nothing else for me here, he thinks to himself, washing his hands slowly and deliberately after the second round of desserts. It's around eleven in the evening and soon everyone will just be standing around for good spots to watch the fireworks. They've already told me everything they want me to know.
Tuesday morning, 7 a.m. The terminal across from Augusta Tower.
Something about all of this doesn't quite make sense.
If she – they – want to kill me, why let me know exactly what will kill me?
More strangely… why Augusta Tower?
The new terminal has been built specifically to facilitate transport to New Cocoon; he knows this, but everyone knows this. If they really thought he didn't know where it was, Augusta Tower was still a strange choice for a landmark. There are closer, more well-known locations by the terminal, and Augusta Tower…
Augusta Tower…
Do they know what had happened in the Tower?
The water's scalding his hands.
He can feel that familiar headache at the back of his mind again.
Dry off the hands, straighten the tie, a slow walk back towards Jihl and the other organizers. He bows low, feels everyone's eyes on him. "I know I have already apologized many times tonight, so I deeply regret having to apologize again," he hears himself say. "But I'm wondering – could I perhaps be excused? The talks with the directors have given me a lot of food for thought, and considering the recent assassination attempt and the planned fireworks in my honor… I'd like some time and privacy to process my emotions."
"Of course, Hope. We apologize if tonight has been too… overwhelming for you." He sees the glint in Jihl's eyes and thinks, I believe I'm on the right track if I'm not going to straight up die.
"I will let you know of my answer soon."
He swings by his apartment first, changes into casual clothes that'd help him get around without getting noticed. The place's still all too tidy, uniforms neatly hung up on the racks, screens turned off and folded up, and all the books carefully shelved away. Even his notebook has been locked away in its drawer. He hesitates, wonders for a moment if he should take it out and throw it into a fire.
There's nothing in it I should be ashamed of, he remembers, and exhales deeply, putting his keys away.
The old-fashioned photo frames are still a cluttered mess on the floor; he has been collecting them – trying to find as many pieces of memento as he could on his old friends and colleagues – yet he's sure there are still those whose pictures he hasn't found, and more whose names he can no longer recall. He picks each frame up from the ground now, stows them away. He idly wonders if he'll be with them soon.
For some reason, I don't think Serah and Noel can help me this time.
He tries the bathroom video monitor one last time. Fails one last time: no memory triggered. The door and the airlock opens to an empty corridor that smells too much like bleach.
Why am I doing this?
(He doesn't quite think he's suicidal.)
I could just stay here.
(He can probably ask for very generous "vacation" terms.)
Who knows if my body will even be found, within Augusta Tower or somewhere between there and New Cocoon?
(A part of him wonders idly if he can ask the citizens to help him. Another part of him knows it's selfish and impractical.)
How did we even get to this point?
The first gust of winter air outside the automatic door sends a few shivers down his spine, nearly knocks him off balance. He's alone at the side entrance of Academy HQ. It's still not even cold enough to snow. He knows he's feeling something else.
Ghosts, huh? Or perhaps that feeling of fate and time.
It's the same walk; has to be the same walk, for this is when his memory of that day becomes blurry, and he knows he had gone to Augusta Tower. He feels a presence walking next to him but can't make out its face, its height or features. He tries to reach for it anyway: hallucinations are common in those who are about to die.
Are you… dead?
Were we… friends?
A madness drives him on, a guilt and a yearning that refuses to stop.
This reckoning is his alone.
He's once again forgotten that it's New Year's Eve.
Unlike that day, this day is not burdened with rain; the residents have come out in droves to watch the fireworks and celebrate the new year, and the air is abuzz with sounds, music and mirth as well as audible advertisements and the occasional patrolling airship. He spends fifteen minutes trying to cross the flowing human river before giving up, smiling despite himself at the crowd, marveling at their energy, their wonder. There's hope here, a festival of colors even just on the screens of skyscrapers and the escalators connecting the various levels, and as he unwittingly bumps into this family and that couple, he cannot help but wish he could stay, to let himself melt into this crowd, this era.
A little while, he tries (and somehow manages) to convince himself, I'll just stay for a little while.
(He doesn't want to get left behind.)
A child and his mother strolls by, two redheads with balloons in their hands and candy in their mouths. A father's asking a patrolling officer for directions; a group of young men are toasting each other with still-foamy beers. Someone had shouted "happy new year" towards another crowd and now the sound's echoing back, a rising and falling rhythm of happy new years, thank yous and you toos. There's someone in an Academy uniform climbing clumsily onto a tree with something in hand, probably trying desperately to fix a broken festival light.
He finds a small space outside a café to quietly observe the sight.
"Hey, hey, listen to this joke – I'm going to actually do my laundry on time this year!"
"Didn't they just invent a super cheap laundry-folding robot? Go come up with a better resolution, man!"
"Say, I've finally finished paying the down payments for my house!"
"What the hell? It hasn't even been two months!"
"Landed a gig cleaning out one of Cocoon's old power plants. Pays super well. Want me to write you a reference?"
Perhaps it's a good thing that this isn't a doomed timeline, he reflects, backing up just another inch against the concrete wall, his heart an anxious fluttering bird in his chest even as it continues to constrict at the smell of gunpowder and electricity in the air. If we can't have it all… if I can remember and appreciate all of this – even if just for this night – in the stead of everyone who's dead and gone, then…
"Did you hear? They're setting off a special batch for Director Estheim! I wonder if it would be a completely different style or color?"
"He's originally from Cocoon, no? So perhaps something inspired by the crystal pillar?"
"Wait! I think that's the first one!"
A barely stifled gasp of something resembling panic. He's not ready.
(But please, let them be brilliant.)
The sound of something like a whistle – and then the blossoming of a flower, its thousand petals glittering and crackling as they unfurl in the air. A wave of appreciative ooos and aaaas in the crowd – and then all the sounds drowned out by the racket of a dozen fireworks going off all at once, an entire sky becoming illuminated by flowers, stars, spinning discs and dragons as pale crystalline particles fall from the sky like rain, a shower of lights and music.
Once it begins, everything comes in a flood: the classic, simple monochromic ones, the layered ones, the ones that gleam for minutes refusing to fade, the ones that blink and scintillate like electronic pulses, the ones that leave shimmering trails like heavy willow branches, the ones exploding outwards like cosmic rays fleeing from a collapsing star. Bouquets are being outlined with the edges of the fireworks, not to say flights of birds and northern lights, and there's so much he's never seen, never imagined in his dreams that he would be able to see –
If I had made a wish all those centuries ago with Mother… perhaps…
Tears are suddenly threatening to build and overflow, so he turns away, wipes awkwardly and aggressively at his eyes. Beyond the blur people are still craning their necks, the joy in the air just the same as the joy he remembers from Bodhum just a few days before the Purge. He had wrapped his arms around her then; she had run her hands through his soft hair, called him her greatest treasure. She's seeing this through him; she has to be, for he is her legacy, the proof that she once lived and loved in this world. He can still make a wish now; not everything's lost.
I wish… I wish for renewal and rebirth. I wish for happy endings. I wish that everyone who's ever fought for a brighter future will be rewarded, loved. I…
(He no longer has the luxury to make his own wishes.)
I… I am thankful. So, so thankful.
We always make all these wishes for ourselves. Ask for things without giving anything back, or thinking about our blessings. But I'm so glad. So glad to have made it this far, to have done what I could. Even if I will always wish for more… Even if we've all lost so much.
Even if something's going to happen later tonight…
"Citizens of Academia!" Jihl's voice is booming over the thundering of the fireworks from the roof of Academy HQ; the city buzzes, then falls respectfully silent. His heartbeat's suddenly too loud in his own ears.
No –
"This one's for us, and for Director Hope Estheim!"
On the gigantic screen, Jihl signs for launch. He barely gets to cross his shaking fingers and hold his breath.
A whole six whistles – is it for the six l'Cie? Do they even know he was one of the original l'Cie? – pierce through the silence and the pitch-black canvas of the night sky, stitching together dream and memory as they combust and disintegrate. Soon enough, a pure white crystal pillar is looming and gleaming just beneath a blue-and-green Cocoon, a magical thing created out of fireworks dust and afterimage. It remains still as if frozen for four whole seconds until sounds of cracks are heard and the pillar crumbles and falls, taking its precious load along with it, yet –
I –
"New Cocoon!" Someone cries out right behind him. "Look at New Cocoon!"
He searches for the signs of fireworks – surely, they're crafting a planet out of those just as they've crafted a pillar out of pure fire and trails of light – yet the entire, real planet behind the HQ building has started to glow, its shell solemn and dark ocean blue as each area's celestial blue lights turn on one by one. First it's the power station at the core – then the central commercial district – then the residential districts, the multiple reservoirs, the new Academy headquarters, the lakes and the roads, the graviton cores –
Oh.
It's Jihl's voice again. "Trust in New Cocoon! We will make it rise!"
There are fireworks being set off from New Cocoon itself; he doesn't wait for the show to finish. Instead, he runs into the café, shoving several guests unceremoniously aside with mumbled apologies as he makes a beeline for the bathroom. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, flaming and stinging and all-too-wistful; there's a sob deep within his lungs, an unspeakable, entangled thing that just loves, wants –
He's feeling just a little bit overwhelmed.
Someone calls his name as he's about to leave.
"Excuse me. Is it… Director Estheim?"
He looks up, eyes slightly red and dazed behind shades and a fringe of silver hair. The woman offers another stack of tissues; he hesitates, and takes it.
"… I'm so sorry. Thank you. And you are?"
"Oh. So it really is you." The woman chuckles and he realizes she must be the owner of the café, or at least someone who's worked here for a very long time. Something in her eyes reminds him of his mother – a steadfast warmth, one that seems to permeate and radiate through her skin. "I wasn't sure. Thought the real Hope Estheim would be hanging out with the big names up in the HQ, instead of with us common folks. But… are you alright?"
Big names? Common folks? When it comes down to it, does it really matter? "… Yeah. I just got… a little emotional at the fireworks."
The woman nods sympathetically. "I don't blame you. Truth be told, I can't possibly imagine what you're going through." She notions towards an empty table; the other servers have flipped the sign at the door to "closed," and the last few guests are slowly filing out. "Want a coffee?"
"…?"
"… It's on me. You look like you aren't quite ready to go."
He can't quite argue against that, so he nods obediently, sits down at the table. She inquires after his favorite flavors, brings a warm cup with a small porcelain plate full of sugar cubes. As he thanks her and begins stirring, she pours a small cup of hot chocolate for herself and waits for the last person to leave. And then:
"My daughter really has a crush on you, you know that?"
He nearly chokes on his coffee.
"Now, now, don't pretend you don't know you're popular. The city loves you."
"Indeed it does." Even though I don't even know why.
"Do you not love us?"
He's too exhausted to keep answering everything correctly. He can only hope he's not being too rude. "I try. It's… wondrous, that's for sure, more than anything I've ever dreamed of, but it's… not quite the same."
"Missing your own era, I take it?"
"Yes. And… I don't belong here." Even though I'd love to see those fireworks again. "It's hard to… really feel at home when I've promised to leave and see everything through in 500 AF." The slightest dip of the head. "I'm sorry."
"Ah." The woman, strangely, doesn't sound offended or disappointed. She doesn't even ask him to take off his sunglasses and look her in the eye. "You want to be there when Cocoon actually falls?"
"There are people there that I want to protect." If I can get there. It's the same thing he's told Noel and Serah; the selfish answer seems to always be the honest one.
The woman picks up a sugar cube, drops it in her own drink. There's a knowing smile in her eyes. "And if they are not there for whatever reason… won't that era be just the same as this one?"
"I…" He has thought about the possibility; has tried to force it out of his mind. He doesn't know how many time capsules he'll be able to build before he breaks. There's a part of him that doesn't want to pick up the pieces of him from this table, force him to keep running for home. "I don't know. I suppose that's right. I know I can't save everyone – but I've got to at least try."
"Good enough for me." In one swoop, she's picked up and directly swallowed three whole sugar cubes. "Did I tell you? I grew up with the Farseers, even served the seeress back in the day. You hear all kinds of strange and unfathomable things being around her. My advice to you? Don't blame yourself too much. Don't cry because it's over – smile because it happened."
It's nearly dawn when he finally reaches Augusta Tower.
Built in 13 AF just before he left everyone behind, Augusta Tower feels like a gigantic artifact now, a thing removed from and untouched by time. It looms in this area, a silent observer and sentinel, its outermost layers of concrete and glass worn by centuries of sunlight and rain, its once-vibrant colors faded and dull even under the rising sun. The automated system at the entrance is still reading ID cards, the door rotating ever so slightly as if someone's gone in right before him…
A grave. This Tower is also a grave. A grave for all my past colleagues, all my past assistants… and maybe, just maybe, me.
He takes his hat and shades off, places them just above the recycling bins. He'll come back for them later if he makes it out of here alive.
If I'm fated to die here, then let me die. But please, don't let the hopeful future disappear.
There are still so many questions – why being the foremost of them – but he only approaches the terminal, enters the password to turn on the central directory. They haven't told him where to go after he gets to the Tower. He can only assume there are things he's supposed to find out, forbidden histories that offer clues as to where the Academy had gone wrong.
My sins? Others' sins? Are there still Fal'Cie pulling invisible strings, even after all this time? Did we hurt someone we really should have just left alone?
(This feels too unnervingly familiar.)
The archives contain data and records all the way back to the founding of the Academy, lists of employees in various departments and excavation finds from ruins all over Gran Pulse. Nothing has been highlighted. He supposes he can start chronologically, or just look for records about himself that's been created after he's entered the time capsule.
Maybe there are clues as to why a certain group has grown to hate me…
Maybe there will be records of oracle drives, too? Nothing evacuated by 13 AF has shown anything past 500 AF, but perhaps now there are things that tell of events after that date. It's one of the first things he asked about after he woke up in this era, that is true, but why would they inform him of any horrible visions involving himself? Perhaps someone had seen a recording of him destroying the world in 1000 AF, and decided to step in…
I wouldn't even be upset if that's what had happened…
(It hurts to be betrayed.)
He looks up the oracle drive records, grimaces when the main screen on the floor suddenly comes to life, a shower of light where there were only dust and darkness. There's a whole catalogue…
10 AF… 11 AF… 13 AF…
His lips automatically pull up in a smile when he sees his friends again, and he wonders where they are, if Serah and Noel are safe in the historia crux, if his creations have helped them at all. Light has more important things to concern herself with than to worry about his well-being – compared to her struggles, all of this is nothing.
(He can't be weak.)
26 AF… 247 AF… 398 AF…
His search is fruitless. It's as he had suspected: all records end at 500 AF. It's as if there's some time of time crash there, a hard reset for the entire world. Perhaps when all's said and done, New Cocoon will simply not be sufficient to save all of humanity, and he must be removed before the Academy can attempt something else?
"Hello?" He asks into the silence, tries to look composed and friendly. If they've placed a physical tracker on him, he's sure they've placed an audio one as well. "If it's the future of this world you're afraid for… I'm willing to do whatever it takes. I don't want power or fame; I'm just a scientist and researcher. As long as I'm informed and given a chance to work… I'll do everything in my power to help."
No answer. The thumping beats of his heart is going to drive him insane.
Deflated, he turns to the directory again, wondering if there's something he's missing, some kind of dreadfully obvious clue. On this floor there are mostly only recordings of memos from his own era, nothing he hasn't seen or heard before; if they want him to access something a bit more classified, perhaps he'd have to go up a few floors –
Wait.
A title catches his attention, sends a wave of trepidation down his spine. He clicks through all too quickly, even though he's not sure he wants to know what kind of recording is contained within:
The Final Message of Team Alpha, 13 AF
I thought they… just went on to live out their days? All my research supports that conclusion – haven't I even looked up their family trees? Jeb had two children, the twins working in the kitchen four each, and…
A small click from the monitor. He almost jumps, expecting a shot from a hidden gun or the release of some kind of toxic gas. What floats into the screen is but a harmless notification: your audio recording file has been decoded. Play?
I… I don't think this is exactly what they wanted me to hear. But I want to hear this anyway.
He pulls out a set of earbuds from his storage packs – if those monitoring him can't hear what he's hearing, they'll let him know – plugs it gingerly into the audio port, and presses play.
Director?
Pause. Replay. Resume.
Director! It's been a long time. A whole sixty years –
Don't listen to him. He's just trolling. It's only been a week since you went to sleep.
Pause. A furtive, desperate look around. Resume.
This is a stupid idea.
Jeb thought of it first.
No, you.
Urrrrrrghhhh. You guys are impossible to work with. I don't know how the Director ever dealt with you guys.
He had and will have to have a lot of patience, that's for sure.
Stop going off topic. We only allocated an hour for this, remember? There's still a meeting after, we can't laze off just because he's gone.
Okay, okay. Well, you had that long ass script, so you go first.
…
Director, if you're listening, we're hopeless and we are sorry.
Anyway, Jeb said we should do this so you wouldn't feel too lonely four hundred years in the future.
Pause. A deep breath, another check for hidden gun barrels. Resume.
I still think this is an awful idea. Like, come on, what kind of advice can we even give the Director? He's the smartest of all of us by a looooooong shot.
Well, he said he always liked to hear what we have to say.
Yeah, like you've ever given anything that isn't terrible advice.
Please, it's not like your dating tips are that much better.
Okay okay, I've got an actual important one: If Leanne's roll-Cocoon-down-a-hill idea is still alive and well in 400 AF, please go defile her grave for me.
Come on, it's not – ow.
What about Gardenia's aircars? They're just as bad.
I dunno man, if they've made it to 400 AF, they can't be that bad.
Pause. Something that's halfway between a chuckle and a sob. Resume.
Whatever, Director, just please make sure the Academy doesn't completely jump the shark in its research projects.
… Although if it does, that'd be our fault.
Say, how's 400 AF like?
You know he can't answer, right?
… I can pretend.
I'd kill to see the future, though. Like, what if they don't speak our language anymore? What if they no longer work with screens and computer simulations?
… Those spoiled brats don't know anything about working without any blueprints or electric power.
Hey, weren't you the one bragging about the new power stations like, two days ago?
Oh! I found my script!
Well, floor's yours. Go ahead and read it.
…
Come on.
Well. Here goes nothing. Director: hopefully, by the time you hear this, it's 400 AF and we're all dead.
God, could you be a little bit more morbid?
I think it's just the right amount of earnest, actually.
Pause. Three whole deep breaths. Resume.
Ahem. Anyway, we have no idea what it's like four hundred years in the future. Maybe you're listening to this through some kind of super fancy sound setup. Maybe you're listening to this from some kind of jail cell. Maybe some of our clones or duplicates are reading it out loud. We don't know. Nobody knows. But we just wanted to record this little something, to tell you that we'll always trust and support you, no matter when you are, no matter what you do. You know how much we all rely on you to get anything done – you're the most brilliant of us, and on top of that, you have the biggest heart too, which is just something that doesn't simply come around. You care about everyone and everything, try to save and improve everything you get your hands on – and somehow, magically, they just do. Uhhh… this part isn't too cringey, yeah?
No! It's great!
Go on!
… Yeah. Anyway, we know it's going to be hard. You can't come back – and we can't be there to cheer you up. Maybe they won't trust you, or they'll regard you as some kind of relic, some random dude who thinks he knows oh-so-much. Maybe everything will already have been solved! Point is: just keep your eyes front, yeah? That's what you always tell us.
Pause. An all-too-quickly aborted struggle to find tissues or a bathroom. Resume.
We're not worried in the least that you're going to do the right thing! You should be more worried about us, really. But hopefully – if you're hearing this now – we'll have kept our side of the bargain, too. We will keep working, make Cocoon and Academia better. If we get stuck on something, we'll keep working on it until it resolves itself. If other people like PSICOM and the Sanctum rise up again… you can count on us to force them right back down.
…
Ah, sorry, I got a bit too emotional there.
Want me to finish?
Go ahead. There are just a few lines left.
We won't forget you, and we know you won't forget us. Go on. Show the world and the future what the Academy is made of.
…
That's it.
Anyone got anything else to say?
Oh! Look after yourself always. You're good at everything except self-preservation.
I don't think it's that, it's more like he keeps sacrificing himself for us.
You know it's basically the same thing, right?
Pause. Rewind. Replay. Replay again. Resume.
Whatever. Basically, watch out! It does nobody any favors if you just get yourself killed.
I'm sure he'll be fine. He's not the type to recklessly charge into danger.
You'd think…
Just take care of yourself, Director. Godspeed.
Oh, and don't forget to tell A…
The recording trails off, interrupted by bouts of static. He falls to his knees and buries his face in his hands. He's promised himself he's not going to cry – not here, not even when the invisible gun finally reveals itself and buries a bullet into his heart – yet the tears just keep coming, and he's no longer sure how he still has any left.
Everyone…
Their voices reverberate in his ears, shattering him and piecing him back altogether all at the same time. Here, terribly alone and unable to see the sunrise, a messy heap on the floor with nowhere to stand, he's never felt more alive.
Everyone… I…
He's still crumbling, so: sprawl out. Stare at the ceiling. From the dim light of the screen he can see his own breath, wisps of white fog dissipating into the cold winter air. It's a new year. It's a new year and he doesn't know how he should die.
I… If only I know how to be brave…
He can live; can retire from the project, but then his friends' descendants might not find a refuge in the sky, live to see the year 501 AF pass them by. He can try to work behind the scenes – try to find someone who'd tell him everything he needs to know – but he doesn't even know who to trust, and everyone's running out of time.
He forces himself to climb up and look at the screen again, check the time; it's nearly five in the morning and all the exits of the Tower are locked. They want an answer out of him. If he doesn't say what they want to hear –
The audio recording cackles, resumes again. He freezes, stares blankly at the screen.
Director Estheim?
If you are listening to this, your life is in grave danger.
Don't worry about this segment being overheard – I've specifically written this segment over the next segment of the audio, with a command to erase this whole segment when you're done listening to it. Anyone listening in right now would only hear that segment and assume you're just being emotional. It seemed to have been a recording for someone else, anyway.
I imagine you'd have met me by now. I probably told or hinted at you to go to Augusta Tower, check out some of the recordings. The truth is, as much as your friends have striven to keep the Academy pure, it's gone a little astray. Some of us want to continue to follow the examples set by you and your father, work towards the completion of New Cocoon and a better future for all mankind – but others are interested in power for its own sake, and don't care for the state of the world once they themselves are dead.
Those people want you dead. They know they're no match for your charisma and intellect in combination with the forces of the loyalists within the Academy, so they want to remove you as quickly as possible. Perhaps you've already endured an assassination attempt or two. I don't foresee them backing down, but perhaps – if they somehow lose confidence in their ability to eliminate you, they might just try to force you into retirement instead. If they ask that of you – if I ask that of you – do not go up against that demand. We need a little more time to collect all the resources and evidence we need to disarm them and remove them from power, so just stay low profile for a little while. We're winning as long as you remain alive.
You might want to ask: why am I doing this? Well, Jeb is one of my ancestors. I may not have the friendliest demeanor, but I remember the tales my family has told of you over the generations. We need you – your mind, your will, and your heart – to survive this era and lead humanity to survive 500 AF. We will do our best to make sure the Academy of 500 AF will be more receptive to you – people who are only politicians will no longer suffice as leaders in 500 AF. There's a time crash coming. Cocoon will fall, New Cocoon will rise… and suddenly, everything ends. I don't think even you or your time-traveling friends know what's coming.
Oh. How did I know you'd pick this recording? Well, it's perfect, isn't it? If you were someone worth protecting, you'd want to know what Jeb and friends had wanted you to hear. As for my colleagues… they'd think you'd backed down because of their warnings to you at the end.
Stay safe, Director Estheim. I hope to speak to you again soon, when we can just make fun of my ancestor and your sore lack of politics skills.
He looks up, holds the earbuds up to the sky. Although there's still no sunlight in the room – although there are still, almost certainly, concealed guns and lasers in the darkness – he manages a small, weary smile.
"Hello?" He whispers into the dying night, his steps small and labored as he shuffles towards the entrance of the Tower. "It's nearly time for work. I'd like to leave."
"And where are you going?"
He knows how to answer. And this isn't even a lie. "Home."
