A/N: With all the support and general awesomeness of the souls out there, I wish I could give more of a worthwhile update in thanks. However, with finals and graduation fast approaching, I'm afraid chapter delays will be more frequent than not for the next few weeks -still, I'll do all in my power to keep all of you from having to stretch your patience too much.
10
Sorangel Torres tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and rested her hand on the patio table, the midday sunlight filtering through the quarter-full glass to cast tawny diamonds over her fingers. The long hours of the Mah'habara Misfortune had taken their toll on many ISD personnel, whether in the form of recovering and recording the dead or informing their loved ones of the loss. As one who was used to picking off her targets from a distance, Sorangel experienced a somewhat rocky adaptation into coming face-to-face with civilians. Several times she had relied on the commissioned helm to hide her eyes, to conceal the nuances of emotion that otherwise threatened to compromise her part in stabilizing a situation or deliverance of orders.
Upon being unmasked along with her fellow Corps affiliates, sight, smell and sound had become clearer, allowing her to take in the exact disparity and displacement of those around her. The state of Cocoon's surviving population gave her the foundation from which she sought to craft a collected, direct approach when in the line of duty. She needed to encourage the people to steel themselves in the wake of tragedy, all while ensuring their protectors had any incident under control.
Rhyan would have laughed at her logic, as was the general nature of younger siblings. To him, she was always and forever the sister who could never hold a frown or curb a gut reaction. With the passing years his teasing had lessened to gentle ribbing, though Sorangel took pride during their childhood by reminding that she was always and forever two years closer to higher education than he was.
Anticipating the approach of a waiter she dismissed her nostalgia before the barbs that followed it could lash out. She smiled her thanks at the young attendant, taking a sip of the refilled glass while the lunch crowd swarmed about, laughing and living without worry.
When Rhyan enlisted in the Wide-Area Response Brigade, he had gone out the door with the advice of his sister at heart and their parent's contempt at his heels. Her little brother dreamed of being one step closer to the sky, nearly scaring the wits out of their father in the early years of climbing up to the roof or scaling ornate trees -the humble beginnings of his longing to glide freely through clouds glowing in Phoenix's brilliant rays. His elders wanted him to take up mother's example of a respectable occupation by becoming a stuffy pen-pusher, yet Sorangel felt it was her responsibility to stand up for him, encourage him to pursue what he loved and shine on in the hearts of Cocoon's people.
The sweet liquor hung sourly at the back of her throat. Looking away from the drink, she took refuge in the boundless expanse of wilderness visible from the Helicon's patio arrangement. Had the upheaval of Pulse l'Cie and lack of fal'Cie mercy never occurred, perhaps she would still be on strained speaking terms with her older relatives. On the days when she summoned the composure to try and reach out to them, she still sensed the attempts at discreet offhand glances; for they had wished a future of secure standing for Rhyan, not one ruled by the unpredictable fancy of his heart.
Before the fall of Cocoon, she found scarce reason to regret the advice she had given her sibling. He was no longer forced to dilute his exuberance -whenever they found the time outside of their schedules to visit, there was something different about him each time, whether a smile she had not seen or a retelling of he and his comrades' humorous antics. It was a relief to see him fulfil his aspirations, despite the occasional misadventures that arose from the eventual tradition of buying drinks on the house in celebration of another year of good living.
Sorangel loosened her ponytail, relieving the tension spreading over her scalp. She simply wanted her brother to be happy; fate saw fit to repay her wishes with an empty eulogy and the knowledge that he had spent his last hours shambling under the burden of crystals fused to his body, inside and out. Maybe his macabre demise would not have caused her such grief if it came of an accident, a collision or malfunction of engines. However, there were too many coincidental factors for her to leave Rhyan in the past.
After the questionable destruction of the Palamecia, the feared l'Cie, apparently dormant for centuries, had vanished from all radars after weeks of holding broadcasts and society as a whole in the grip of terror. Rhyan's reaction to Raines' promotion did trouble her, for Primarch Dysley was wise in his decisions, but the chaos that broke out from the sabotaged Prix event resulted in her neglect towards this line of thought. If she had reached out to her brother, he might have held back from the fray...
Still, there were l'Cie and fal'Cie to be considered. The latter had left defenceless civilians to contest with the likes of feral Pulsian beasts and possessed the power to brand any of the lives they had tended to since the creation of Cocoon. In that respect, the ancient entities had millions of people to choose from, further displacing the settlement of blame.
The ISD affiliate would not know where to start when it came to comprehending what the four individuals had endured, to rise above the odds and ultimately buy time for the Corps and PSICOM alike to evacuate as many citizens as possible before Phoenix faded out of vibrant existence. In spite of the awe she held for the former l'Cie's tenacity and prowess of magic that greatly surpassed the substance of manadrives, Sorangel still kept from investing the better part of her trust in them.
Absorbed in her thoughts she slipped a tip under the glass and made her way to the café proper to pay for both drinks. Admiration would not bring her brother back, nor soothe the disappointment she felt towards herself, of her hesitance in figuring what needed to be done, what could be done, for him to rest in peace.
It was better late than never to come to terms with those who carried an inkling of responsibility for the events that lead to her failure, as a sister and confidant, to protect Rhyan.
While his opinion of damp environments was blunt, Sazh's view of the winding, uneven cavern buried deep within the walls of the Ascending Scarp was scoring a soundly negative effect on his otherwise favourable look on Gran Pulse's geological formations.
As the specifics of archaeological labour did not exactly attract his undivided attention, the pilot had paid more attention to Bartholomew's description of the objects scavenged from the main tunnel, as opposed to the specifics of how the site was stumbled across in the first place. Said relics consisted mostly of surprisingly intact sheets of metal, further indicating that aspects of the Pulsian method of forging could be adopted for the benefit of airship and building construction. Out of concern that the sudden uncertainty of subterranean foundations was not limited to those of Atomos' design, excavation activity had come to a cautious halt, in which case any wandering individual was free from the risk of disrupting equipment or Golems if they were to pick up where the teams on site had left off.
Sloshing through the knee-high water Sazh paused to receive the call picked up by the communicator clipped to his ear, infinitely glad to have his mind taken off the miserable state of his boots.
"Hey, Mr. Kat- uh, Sazh, do you need us to send down another flare?"
A fire spell was nestled in the pilot's hand, stretching only far enough to illuminate the five feet ahead of him in a lantern-like aura; the pyrotechnics were a necessity should he come across a larger extension of the cavern. "Still got the first round on deck," he informed Maqui, "Keep them ready, though, just in case."
The unyielding loyalty of the Bodhum youths effectively outweighed the frequency in which the pilot felt he was bound to be trampled by their enthusiasm. By no means fond of secrecy, Sazh nonetheless felt it was best for his current exploration to remain unknown to the general public. The last thing he wanted was to give people the opportunity to fear that the former enemies of humanity had sinister intentions regarding the stability of underground mazes.
Along with the promise of keeping his venture under wraps, Gadot and Maqui were quick to propose that they accompany him on the basis of preventing fiends from taking his lead into what could prove to be a dead end. Grateful as he was for their assistance, Sazh still had his reservations about their tendency to leap headfirst into any sign of danger -when time was available, he would encourage them to look into the continued research of surveillance prototypes.
Returning to the consideration of his surroundings, Sazh crinkled his nose. The thick reek of mildew bore down like a dense fog; coupled with the oddly acrid taste he was breathing in, the pilot felt as though he were trudging through an airship pulled from the depths of Lake Bresha, prior to Anima's awakening. Though the murky water obscured all sight of the cavern floor, trial and error had unveiled an unnaturally exact span of the two inch-deep dips in the otherwise flat ground. It unnerved him much like an echo of a memory he could not bring to light.
"Me? Catch a break? Get outta here..." he muttered aloud, stretching his tired arms. Shadows jumped at the corner of his eye, prompting him to instinctively reel back before swinging his hand closer to the hilt of the Procyon at his right side, tentatively holding out the fire orb in his left palm.
The shadows retreated, uncovering a series of shallow ledges spared from submersion. Sazh pressed on with renewed vigour, "Now we're in business," he sighed, slumping down on the topmost ledge. Propping his soaked feet on a shelf a few inches shy of the stagnant pool, the pilot frowned, for the sound of his boot soles scraping against the stone carried out farther than he was comfortable with. Transitioning the fire spell to one of the Procyons, he withdrew the pistol and stood, swiftly adjusting the flare ammunition.
At the sound of the shot his cell trilled to life, going unattended for four, long rings before the pilot collected his bearings, his eyes never leaving the illuminated structure as Gadot's voice rang out.
"You run into any trouble?"
"That's one way of putting it," Sazh replied, his stomach sinking with the flare as it continued its blazing plunge into the threshold of the Ark.