Author's Note: In this chapter, italics = dream sequence.

He's not giving up.
The stories about Gadolt of Colony 6 are true.
~Dunban (Agniratha)

Chapter 3: Love

The Fallen Arm region was fairly quiet after Shulk's party left. The group had done a good job of reducing the numbers of the Mechon that prowled the area, and fewer Mechon meant fewer Mechon attacks. Although the Machina villagers still had to be careful when they walked around outside, they at least had a reasonable chance of avoiding trouble as long as they stuck to a handful of predetermined paths.

All in all, it was as uneventful a time as the Machina had seen since Egil had begun his campaign of vengeance against the Bionis. And that meant that, when word reached Rakzet that someone wanted to meet him at the village entrance, his first reaction was one of puzzlement.

Stepping out of the narrow doorway, he blinked in confusion at the scene that greeted him. For there, arrayed in the grass a few feet up ahead, were all the Homs of the Fallen Arm: the two former soldiers, Karlos and Theo, and the woman, Natalia.

"Did something happen?" he inquired, alarmed. "Is someone injured? A casualty from the battle that was recently fought on the sword?"

The three Homs shook their heads, and it was at this point that Rakzet noticed they were all smiling.

"No, nothing like that," Natalia replied, stepping forward so as to be at the front of the little group. "It's just an idea we had, of something to show our appreciation."

"Appreciation?" he repeated.

"You have done much for us," said Karlos.

"In one way or another, all three of us owe our lives to you," Theo added.

Natalia nodded fervently. "You save lives at all costs, without being asked to do it, and it doesn't matter if those lives are Machina or Homs or anything else. For a while, we've wondered what we can do to say thank you—but now, finally, we've hit on the perfect solution."

Rakzet fidgeted in embarrassment. He did not rescue people because he wanted this kind of attention; it would be completely fine with him if those he saved never said a word about it to him afterward. But these three were obviously very enthusiastic about something, and now they were walking up to him, encouraging him to come with them. Though he was not entirely on board with this whole endeavor, he allowed them to usher him away from the village.

To his surprise, they led him directly to Digit 1 Crevasse. Upon arrival, he paused a moment and looked around: the area's appearance had changed drastically since the last time he had been here. The lengthy stretch of beach was completely clear now. Only a few deep indentations in the sand revealed that those ugly masses of metal had ever been there.

A hand tugged on his arm—Natalia—and he followed its owner down to a spot near the intersection of sand and water. Karlos and Theo were there, standing on either side of a long, rounded, and narrowish wooden structure. Propped against one side of it was a pair of wooden objects that looked like poles with a flat blade on one end. Oars?

"A boat?" he asked, bewildered.

The three Homs beamed.

"We decided early on that it wouldn't do to just get you any old present," Theo explained. "It had to be something that would help you with your goal—to save as many people as possible, no matter what. The question was only… what that 'something' could be."

"The Machina's problems with water gave us the answer," Karlos put in. "We know that your most recent rescue was a close call for that reason. But with this, you can row out to wherever there's someone in distress, drag them aboard, and row back."

Rakzet smiled and thanked them. They flipped the boat over and were soon engaged in a demonstration of how it worked and how it had been carefully designed to allow someone to reach over the side without capsizing the whole thing. He watched them for a minute or two and then found his gaze lifting to the wreck of the Mechonis that stood as a backdrop to this little scene.

Anything that could assist in the saving of lives was all right in his book. Without a doubt, this gift of the boat was a practical as well as thoughtful gesture—even if it was not the first solution to this particular problem that had ever been offered. For what Natalia, Karlos and Theo were addressing now, Egil had known about even before.

...

The hush of pre-dusk was beginning to cover Colony 6 as Fiora walked down a series of stairs and sat herself down on a simple stone bench, which looked out past a cluster of Nopon homes to the small lake that lay beyond. This remote corner of the colony was one of her favorite spots. The preference was not due to a lack of buildings elsewhere in the colony, as the residents had by this time made a great deal of progress in reconstructing their home. No… it was due to the residents themselves. Most of the citizens had been very welcoming and accepting to the Machina, but they still stared when they saw her. Inadvertently, of course: it was not their intention to offend. It was just strange to see a person who looked to be part Homs and part machine.

This place, then, had become Fiora's refuge during the party's extended stay in this colony, which was intended as a time of rest and preparation as they geared up for their upcoming expedition to Prison Island. And since the small lake was at this moment occupied by the massive form of the vehicle called Junks, her thoughts as she sat there naturally took her back to what she had witnessed inside that vehicle about a week before.

After the encounter between Fiora and Linada on the upper level of Junks, the Machina doctor had formally closed off the small sickbay to the rest of the party. The other companions had appeared to take the mandate in stride; after all, the room was Linada's private work space, and it was not as if they would ever have a pressing need to go in there. Not one of them had expressed suspicion that more was afoot than Linada had said—not even Sharla, who was studying Machina physiology with Linada and had seen the venue for those lessons suddenly changed with no real explanation. This lack of a reaction on Sharla's part had been mildly surprising to Fiora.

Deep down, of course, Fiora knew that what was going on was not her business. But even as she was able to acknowledge this, several considerations ensured her continuing interest in the matter. First was the fact that—even though she had never exchanged a single word with the man and was still a bit fuzzy on the details of his original disappearance—she felt a sort of kinship with Gadolt because of the fate they had both suffered at Egil's hands. That, in itself, would have been enough for her to wish him a full recovery, but there was also the fact that Meyneth herself had taken an interest in him. Twice, he had inspired her consciousness to show itself: first when she had surfaced to free him from the curse that Egil had put on him, and second when she somehow sensed his wish to protect the group and awakened once more to save everyone as Agniratha was blowing up. There was obviously some sort of lesson in that, in these actions of Meyneth's, if Fiora could only figure out what it was. Those were the first two reasons, and they were powerful, but the third one trumped them both: namely, the profound sense of concern and sadness she felt on Sharla's behalf. She had no doubt that Gadolt's love for Sharla was—or had been—true; it was simply inconceivable that he could have intended to create a situation like this.

For no matter how brave Sharla sounded on a day-to-day basis, no matter how many battles she helped the party win, it was clear to Fiora that something was not right. Most conspicuous was the fact that she still preferred to take Gadolt's old rifle into battle and would not hear of replacing or upgrading it, even though shops all over Bionis were stocked with the latest and greatest in firearm technology. Additional evidence came in some of the party's idle moments, when she would get an oddly distant expression on her face, and only a well-timed remark from one of her friends could bring her back from wherever she had gone. It could not have been more evident: she was in terrible pain, and only her strength and fierceness of spirit prevented it from consuming her entirely. Which, of course, made it all the more difficult for Fiora to be the observer: having knowledge that would ease that pain, but not being allowed to speak of it in case it did not pan out. And not panning out was a distinct possibility. Health could be a fragile thing, as the group had learned more than once on this journey, and this particular case seemed set up for failure. A man sunk so far down into—something—that he could not wake up or even move….

Just then, as if these thought processes had conjured the woman into existence, Sharla emerged from Junks' main entrance. Linada quickly appeared next to her. Fiora studied the faces of both as they passed by: their expressions were neutral, and they seemed to be discussing a topic related to physiology. No doubt they were on their way to the park on the other side of the colony, where today's lesson would take place. Sighing, Fiora leaned against the back of the bench. All that was left for her now was watching and waiting. Waiting and watching. She could try talking to Linada directly to obtain an update—Linada had not specifically prohibited her from entering the sickbay—but Linada would certainly take the opportunity to perform a checkup. To look into the current status of Fiora's own failing body. And that was a subject to be avoided at all costs….

"Fiora!"

The exclamation shattered her reverie. She looked up, and the sight that met her eyes was enough to banish her brooding thoughts for the time being.

"Shulk!"

"I brought this for you," said Shulk, holding out a medium-sized water flask. "The others will be eating dinner soon."

She smiled and accepted the flask from him. As he sat down next to her on the bench, she observed that he had brought a sandwich for himself, and no sooner had he seated himself than he began to eat it, ravenously, as if he were hungry as a Nopon. The scene was strikingly reminiscent of that time in Outlook Park, when she had made a food delivery to him. He was even sitting on her right, as he had been on that day. But how much had changed since then.

"You've seemed a little down lately," he commented suddenly. "Are you feeling okay?"

Startled, she looked up in the middle of unscrewing the top of the water flask. For all that he had started out attacking his sandwich with fervor, it was now clutched in his hand, half-eaten and perhaps half-forgotten, as he looked directly at her.

"It's… it's not about me, Shulk," she said slowly, twirling the flask so that the water within swirled like a whirlpool. "Don't worry. I've just… been thinking, that's all. About fate."

"Fate?" he repeated, puzzled.

"Yeah. If someone's destiny was to die, here, in this war… what purpose does that serve? Why would some force out there require one person to die at a specific time? And is it possible that someone like that could come out of the war alive after all?"

"Of course it is. I've seen from the very beginning of this journey that talking about someone's 'destiny' may not be correct to begin with. The future isn't set. We can choose it for ourselves, if we have the will to and if the circumstances allow it."

"But if someone has the choice, and chooses to die?"

He frowned, and even in the fading light of evening, the concern was evident in his blue eyes. "I hope that would never happen, Fiora," he said seriously. "That's suicide. And it would be letting Zanza win. Proving him right."

She nodded. "I know. It would be. But it does happen. And it doesn't… well, it doesn't affect just the one person. It affects everyone."

She looked away for a moment and lifted the flask to her lips, but by the time she had taken two sips, Shulk's mind had made a connection.

"You know something, don't you?" he asked curiously. "This isn't like you—talking about fate like this. Is someone in danger?"

Embarrassed, she flushed. Had she been that obvious? "Please, don't ask," she pleaded. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone. You'll probably find out about it eventually, if everything goes well."

Though clearly stunned, he did not press her further. Sitting back in his seat, he took another few bites of his sandwich. A brief pause ensued.

"I've been thinking about it a lot, as well," he went on at last. "Especially since we've learned the truth about who the Bionis is. I think, if there is such a thing as fate, the next thing we have to ask is what determines a person's fate in the first place. Who writes it? Is it Zanza? I'm not sure. You know what he thinks of us—that we're all insignificant. I doubt he would care about the details of our lives and our futures. No, I think we write our own fates: as individuals, and as a people—all the people of Bionis and Mechonis."

"You wrote fate, Shulk. With the Monado—it sent you visions of what was going to happen. But it's gone now. Zanza has it."

He shook his head. "I don't need it. Do you remember what Meyneth said?"

"She said a lot of things to me…" And a lot of those things were lost now. Forgotten. She bowed her head in shame.

"Said about the Monado, I mean. That the Monado is the light inside every person in the world. The internal will to survive. That is what's most important—not the sword, not the visions. The people are important. We're going to need everyone in this fight: Homs, Nopon, High Entia, and Machina. And if we all have one another, then I know we can stand up to Zanza."

Fiora could feel her lips moving to form a small smile. "You're very confident," she commented.

"We got you back, Fiora," he said simply. "We can do anything if we put our minds to it."

That sentiment was enough to make her smile widen—and enough to enable her to finish her water.

"Shall we rejoin the others now?" she suggested, seeing that he was finished with his food as well. He readily agreed to this, and as the two went on their way, there seemed to be a sort of spring in his step; perhaps he was pleased that he had been able to cheer her up.

Up the stairs they went, toward the main area of the colony. In so doing, they had to turn their backs to Junks. The hulking mass of the vehicle floated placidly atop the lake. Silent. Normal.

No outward signs betrayed the fact that something was, at that very moment, happening inside the small sickbay.

...

Gadolt floated amid a vast nothingness. Covered in mist. Covered in darkness. The environment was featureless, and besides the thick mist there was only a wind that gusted occasionally, pushing some of the fog's gaseous black tendrils toward him; they wrapped around him, perpetuating the darkness, deepening the eternal night. He did not wonder where he was, for he knew at once what this place was. It was the expanse of his mind. Empty.

Abruptly, some of the mists parted, and he could see a spot of yellowish light some distance ahead. The spot came closer, slowly but steadily, until he could identify its precise nature. It was a spotlight of sorts—though its source was indeterminate—and in the middle of it floated a large object. A rifle, gray and brown in color, the front end of its barrel pointing upward. Lit on all sides by the yellowish light, it seemed to shine—to invite him to come closer.

He tried to take a step, and found that he could. So he was not floating anymore; he was standing, though on what kind of surface, he could not tell. Bit by bit, he made his way through the black void; the mists swirled in response but did not threaten him. At last he stood immediately before the spotlight, and reached out to take hold of the weapon that floated therein—

There was a crash as a long, thin leg slammed down just in front of him. A moment later, the rest of the immense metal frame could be seen: the spotlight illuminating its jade color and the twin cannons over its shoulders. The frame swiftly lowered itself; its hideous narrow face cut directly into his line of sight. Its red eyes glowed in warning as its mouth opened to let out a tremendous roar that seemed to set the whole world shaking.

He staggered backward, away from the rifle. If he had had any breath, that sight would have taken it away. When he finally dared to look toward the yellow light once more, he saw that there was now a figure standing on the metal frame's left shoulder—right where he had once stood to conduct an audience, or thought he had. This figure was the figure of a man, scruffy in appearance: dressed in shabby blue clothes, his face framed by a small amount of stringy blond hair. There was something smug in his small eyes as he opened his mouth and spoke, seemingly to the air.

"Lord Zanza can see the passage of fate. He simply led you to the inevitable…. That grunt Gadolt's miserable demise."

Demise.

Demise.

Demise.

Inevitable.

He staggered again, and as he staggered, a second figure appeared opposite the first one, on the jade-colored frame's right shoulder. The second figure was Machina, its gaze turned downward, and it quickly added the sound of its voice to the empty void.

"I see that your memories cause you much suffering.

"Be still, my servant."

Looking up at the two figures, he stood motionless now, unable to make a reply—if indeed he could speak at all. He was no longer sure that the rifle was even there, behind the Mechon frame. And the two men atop the shoulders—both looking at him now—seemed to stare into his very soul.

No future… no past…

Something flashed then—a new light. This one was a pale green in color, and it swept in from above to obliterate the metal frame and the two figures with a resounding boom. When the sound faded, something else was already there to replace it: the laughter of an evil deity, echoing from all directions.

"Pathetic."

"You are but an insect. Insignificant."

"Look. This is all that you are."

The green light swirled toward him, ever brighter, shattering the dark mist. He shrank away from it, but it quickly enveloped him—

Suddenly, the light was gone, and his surroundings were clear. Stars and planets could be seen, twinkling in the blackness. He stood in the vicinity of a dark moon, looking down as if from above at a small group of people that stood facing him at a distance of a few yards. At the front of the group was a beautiful, dark-haired woman, her expression sad. As he studied the woman, and her friends behind her, he felt movement on his right side: a cannon was lowering itself to lock into firing position. The cannon had a transparent quality to it and was greenish in color.

Now he understood. The green light had not gone away. It was inside him now.

The dark-haired woman's eyes grew wide with horror, and she receded a few steps. Taking a step toward the group to prevent their escape, he felt his ghostly Mechon body lower itself, slowly and methodically. All was set now. The two halves of the cannon's shell opened, and he prepared to open fire—

"No."

The single word seemed to reverberate from all corners of the dark sickbay. And then, moments later, a pair of yellowish-green eyes opened.

Those eyes looked around for a few seconds before settling on the shadowy object that was visible a foot or two off to the right: the back end of a rifle, placed within easy arm's reach.

...

The space realm was still—quiet—but Zanza was not. As he looked around at the planets, anger burned in his mind. Once again, something was not right; something was not under his control. Idly he brandished one of his Monados, as if that action could bring everything back into its proper order.

The feeling, however, did not recede. Irritably, he lowered his sword and focused his divine vision on the spirit lights, which had been the source of the last fluctuation. With the added focus, he could now distinguish the various green lights from one another. There were four distinct glows. Three of them were solid, unwavering, but the fourth one was flickering erratically. Zanza frowned as he looked on.

The fourth light blinked at an ever faster rate, bright and dim, bright and dim—

And then, suddenly, it was gone.