Special thanks to Venn364 for the review left since the previous chapter was posted. I'd also like to thank everybody else who has taken the time to leave a review before (Dialtastic, voicelessOutsider, and Erifrats101), as well as all the people who have added this story to their list of favorites, and/or followed it.


Chapter 7: The Duty

Do you remember all the stories they used to tell us, about the fal'Cie?

They would talk about them like they were perfect. They weren't like us, like humans; they were infallible and unfeeling, not victim to random emotions or fancies. They had a goal that they were created and designed for, and they would carry out that goal to the end of their days. They had a purpose.

We must seem like such silly creatures to them; wandering about aimlessly, wondering what to do with our lives. They must think themselves generous to grant any one of us a Focus, and end our search for a reason to live.

No, that's not right. They wouldn't consider themselves generous. They're too good for that. Too perfect to be weighed down by emotions. It's all duty to them, everything they do.

I still imagine, though... What would they feel, if they were human? Pride in their work? Happiness to grant other lives meaning? Or maybe they would feel vindication at spreading their curse?

The scary part comes when I wonder what I would feel, if I were in their position.


"Madam?" came the voice of her assistant.

She didn't spare a glance towards the girl, instead keeping her eyes focused on the screen in front of her. "Has the Primarch given his permission?" she asked.

"No, Madam."

"Then there is no reason for you to be here."

The girl didn't try and refute her; she only turned around and walked back through the door. It was a testament to the girl's level of experience with her, but she also considered it one to her own consistency. There were no false expectations when working under her.

She flicked a solitary finger across the screen, switching the display over to the notice her assistant had no doubt intended to inform her of, which she had already known for the past three minutes.

The Vestige was coming to life.

Behind her mask of stoicism, she privately cursed the Primarch. It had been an hour since the request had gone through, and yet still it was apparently up for deliberation. Now the time for action was almost up, if it wasn't too late already.

She opened up another radio channel. "Weapons team Omega."

"Director Nabaat," came the instant reply.

"Status."

"Weapons are all primed and ready. Waiting on your command."

Waiting on the Primarch's command, she amended in her thoughts.

She dearly wished that the old idiom of it sometimes being better to ask forgiveness than permission still applied in her affairs, but such was not the luck of PSICOM. There were rules in this organization; clear and simple rules that she knew to be necessary, but rules which she occasionally cursed. More often than not, it was merely the people behind those rules that troubled her.

Regardless, if she defied either the rules or the people, it would come at the same price. It was times such as these where she debated whether it would be worth it, if only for a moment. But Rosch's words would always come back to her.

"We are the luckiest to have ever found themselves in our positions. We cannot waste that."

Their unmarred flesh was testament to that statement.

She could ask him to carry this burden for him, she knew. She could ask him to pay the price, and he would comply without hesitation. Already, the same debates must have been raging in his own mind. If she gave the smallest nudge, he would carry out what was needed. He would do this for them both, because they knew that hers was the more important position; hers was the one they could not relinquish hold over no matter what.

But she would not ask him such. Even as she watched the vile structure in front of her glow brighter and brighter, she knew she could not ask him. As vital as she was, he was also. Neither could give up what they had, for they knew that then they would not only be the first, but also the last.

She could only wait, and pray to the Maker that Cocoon would not suffer for it.

Every second stretched on for hours, and the Vestige mocked her for all of it. Still standing. Still cradling its abominable cargo. Still carrying out its duty, while she was left cursing hers.

The screen in front of her flashed. She heard the footsteps of her assistant, hurried and heavy as she ran through the doors.

She could appreciate the girl's dedication, even if it was unnecessary. She had already pressed the button, and was already speaking the word.

"Fire."


There was a name to this thing in front of Lightning. Anima, they called it.

It was an old fal'Cie, one of the oldest in the world; part of the first wave of the mechanical gods, alongside Eden and Titan. The Sanctum had been so shocked to discover such information, to discover that it had been contained in such a tiny and menial structure as the Bodhum Vestige.

They had not been searching for it despite its missing and important status, as many might have expected. They had determined it a useless effort, or perhaps even detrimental. The fal'Cie of Pulse were unconcerned with Cocoon, only focused on the land of Pulse and the creatures that walked it. The death of their humans, while tragic, was ultimately only a minor setback; the fal'Cie continued on as they always had, cultivating the environment. The Sanctum was determined to keep it that way and not disturb them any further. No need to provoke another war. If Anima wanted to keep out of sight, then let it.

She wondered if they regretted that decision now.

The lair of the fal'Cie was so dark, like an abyss. The doors had shut behind them, as they all had expected, leaving no source of light. Only the flashes of the muzzles showed them the truth. The fal'Cie wasn't even exposed to them: there was only a thick shell which shrugged off whatever they threw at it.

Round after round fired from her gunblade, as well as from the guns of Sazh. They had no effect, only ricocheting off of the strange metal. The bullets always bounced off the shell harmlessly, never disturbing any of them; a gift from the fal'Cie, no doubt. A delicate manipulation of its shell to ensure they did not injure themselves when they were so close. The bullets did not even affect Snow, who stood in front of it, pounding his fists into the metal. She would have chastised him for the obvious futility of his effort if any of them had been making any more progress.

The children stood there as well, though further back. The boy was watching every bullet, every swing of the fist with so much hope. The girl was despondent, watching it all with an almost clinical level of detachment. The girl was smarter; smarter than all of them, probably. She knew it was worthless. Lightning knew it was worthless as well, but she couldn't bring herself to remember the fact at the moment.

Did the fal'Cie find enjoyment in this? Did it revel in them struggling against it like a breeze against a mountain? That was supposed to be the most determinant factor of the success of fal'Cie: their freedom from emotion. So why let them continue? What did it gain from watching them, if sick joy was such a foreign concept to it? Some way to determine their utility, dedication? To see how far they would throw themselves into something so futile?

What did it expect? If there was one thing any of them was sure of, it was that none would carry out the Focus assigned to them by a Pulse fal'Cie. They would all sooner die than serve its wishes. This was just one last exercising of their free will; a last cigar.

And so they struck it again and again. She had run out of bullets now, and so was left hammering her blade against the indomitable steel. The edge of her sword was bending with the force of each blow, and the bones in her arms cried out in protest. But she didn't care. There was no reason left for her to care. So she just hit it again. And again. And again.

And again.

And again.

Until it woke up.

It was the sound that notified her. The low, alien groan that emanated from every surface that surrounded her. It made them all stop instantly.

It echoed unnaturally, the sounds bouncing off each other in mid-air. It rung so loudly, she could feel herself losing her hearing every second it continued. It made her want to gouge her ears out just so she couldn't hear it anymore. She was screaming, she realized, but the sound didn't reach even her own ears. She saw Snow's mouth stretched open as well, and had no doubt that the others were joining them, but those sounds were likewise lost to her.

It seemed like an eternity before the sound started to fade, and by then she couldn't tell if it was just due to her losing her hearing completely or a true fading. But then it rung again, and she was suddenly aware of what the sound was.

Bells. A death knell for them all.

The shell shuddered, and light suddenly filled the chamber. The floor glowed green, and a single split down the center of the shell released a blinding whiteness. Her vision would soon be lost just as her hearing, she knew. Heat poured forth as well, burning every square inch of her flesh; she knew it to be so, even if in the last moments of her sight, her skin appeared fine. It was overwhelming, all of it. Everything from this being, this mechanical god, was incomprehensible to her. She was an ant, wondering why fire suddenly surrounded her, why forces suddenly pressed down on her from all directions, why the world suddenly saw fit to destroy her in every sense—

And it stopped.

Darkness engulfed her. She was blind. Deaf too. Couldn't feel. She couldn't even think. She was nothing. It had taken everything from her in a heartbeat, and she couldn't even be allowed to wonder why.

Then it returned.

Her first thought was that she should have ended it when she had the chance. Used the last bullet on herself and have been spared this agony.

Her second thought was that that was what the fal'Cie had been waiting for, most likely. For them to run out all their supplies, all their other avenues to save themselves from its thrall.

Her third thought was a question: Where am I?

She was floating, somewhere in a sea of nothingness. A void. Snow and the others were there, similarly suspended by invisible strings. Puppets for the fal'Cie.

And there it stood. No, stood was the wrong word; a lesser word. It reigned in the center of this void, a being radiating raw power, power that Lightning could feel. It pressed down on her, a fraction of what she had felt before, but still enough to make her wish that her eyes would roll to the back of her head and spare her the knowledge of its presence.

It looked like a human. Or rather, she could tell that humans were modeled after it like stick figures had been modeled after them. It was a giant, mana pouring off of its body in a miasma so thick it would have choked Lightning, had she been able to breathe in the first place. Strange coils rode up and down its limbs, and its blank eyes shone as they passed over each of them.

She did not know where the others were; her attention was demanded by the god before her as it looked at her for the briefest moment before moving on to the next. There was no difference in how it looked upon each of them: always with the same emptiness. Its gaze only paused once, on who Lightning could not be distracted to take note of, before moving onward.

And then it spoke. "l'Cie," it said, with a voice so beautiful and soft and deep and powerful, which filled Lightning's ears and through it filled her entire being. "Those chosen to serve, I doth hereby grant purpose."

The coils split off from its arms and legs, only the tiniest of frays, floating up through the nothingness to Lightning and the others. The frays glowed, so infused with mana that it was bleeding off of them, filling the void around them like blood in water.

One fray rose up in front of Lightning: a viper, posed to strike. She did not know the effect its bite would have; she was not being allowed the knowledge. It existed somewhere within her mind – perhaps screaming in fear, or just resigned to its fate – but it was denied to her. Her thoughts were no longer her own. She could only watch, uncomprehending as the fray drew closer and closer, before finally brushing against her—

PAIN WRONG STOP MAKE IT STOP

She couldn't couldn't understand—

MAKE IT STOPPLEASEMAKEITSTOPSTOPSTOP

Everything was breaking breaking breaking—

ANYTHINGJUSTMAKEITSTOPPLEASE

Bells. She could hear bells, she could feel bells, crushing, ringing, never-ending—

DOANYTHING JUST MAKE IT STOP ANYTHING

"Thou must succeed."

YES ANYTHING JUST MAKE IT STOPPPPPPPP

Images, burning into her brain, images of a sun with the face of a child and she felt so much hate and need to kill but she couldn't kill it but why couldn't she—

"Ragnarok. It is the only tool."

RAGNAROK KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT KILL THE SUN

"Thou hath failed me once already; thou must not do so again. Thou must—"

The world exploded.


"Report," Jihl said.

"Indications appear positive," replied the captain of Weapons Team Omega. "The Vestige can't sustain this level of damage. It's breaking apart."

She nodded to herself. She could see it through the window of the airship. She reveled in it, watching the missiles tear through the structure, destroying it bit-by-bit. The structure finally faced its comeuppance for everything it had done.

"Second volley," she said.

"Firing now."

Another barrage of flashes, more explosions and more destruction. Explosions of mana followed each explosion of a missile, gushing forth from the Pulsian artifact. The top of the structure was the most heavily fortified, it seemed. The rest was being blown apart, but the top was resisting. It shone as bright as Phoenix, illuminating the entirety of the Hanging Edge, nearly blinding Jihl. But she couldn't tear her eyes away from it.

"Jihl." A different voice, but a familiar one.

"Yaag."

"Is it working?" he asked.

"The Vestige is being destroyed."

A pause. "The fal'Cie?"

"Will soon be."

"You're certain?"

She closed her eyes. The light from the sphere of the fal'Cie still reached her through the closed eyelids. "I won't stop until it is, Yaag."

Another pause, longer. "...Understood."

The line went dead. Jihl didn't open her eyes. "Third volley," she said.

"Firing now."

"Fourth volley."

"Firing now."

"Fifth volley."

"Firing now."

Still, her eyes stayed closed. "Report."

"Something appears to have fallen from near the central sphere, down into Lake Bresha," came the reply. The line was crackling and filled with static: a side-effect from all the radiation released from the weapons being unleashed on the monster. "Identifications of the object have proven inconclusive. Retrieval team is being sent down—"

The line went dead. Jihl opened her eyes.

The sphere hung there in the air, suspended only by its own power. The tethers holding up the Vestige had been obliterated, along with the unmanned aircraft which they had been connected to. The Vestige itself was gone as well. Only the sphere remained, but it no longer shone; it glowed now. All the light that had poured off of it now seemed to be contained within. It was being stored – for what, Jihl did not know.

However, it was soon revealed to her.

It was a wave; a wave which poured off from the sphere in all directions as the object itself plummeted from the sky. Everything the wave touched was frozen instantly – not in ice, but in pure crystal. She saw missiles crystallized in mid-air, connected to the platforms they had launched off of by the similarly frozen trails of smoke they had left behind. The launching crews all dead.

She was jumping out of her chair, rounding the desk to walk straight up to the window. The wave did not reach her airship, instead abruptly halting in the sky. Down below, however, the sphere continued to release bursts of the crystallizing air. It fell and fell, until it plunged through the surface of Lake Bresha.

Then Lake Bresha was no longer a lake.


To be continued on March 1st


Author's Note:
You may find that my writing style has changed a bit from the previous chapters, so the plot should be progressing at a much faster clip in the future than it has been.