Chapter Nine – Speech Therapy
You'll have to pardon me for just a second while I look back through everything and try to remember the painfully long list of 'things I promised I'd explain in good time'. Unfortunately, what with one thing or another my recent life has been simply so jammed packed with events that I haven't had five minutes to go back over my notes or even read the manual to my new typewriter, which in retrospect would probably have been quite a good idea.
You may be asking at this point exactly why I have a new typewriter – on the other hand, you may not. I mean, typewriters aren't the hardiest of creatures (not the ones I steal from work, anyway) and it's not unknown for them to break down simply through overuse. On the other hand, it is not usual for one to be taken out of commission by being driven through an endangered species of tree three miles from home. Somewhere, I suspect, some otherworldly being is having a great deal of fun at my expense, especially when you consider the amount the bloody forestry commission is attempting to wrangle out of me.
Everyone here should already know about the yearly hurricane that tends to turn up in South Figaro about the same time as the weather starts getting really, really good. Provided you remember to build your house out of something more resistant than papier mache and balsa wood, you're pretty much set to hunker down for a couple of days and hope that the pointy finger of chance doesn't see fit to put a palm tree clean through your front door. In fact, as a yearly routine goes it's reasonably painless, and up until this year I'd been pretty lucky – something has absolutely, uh, nothing to do with my innate abilities to manipulate the weather.
This year, however, something went a touch wrong. Can anyone guess what it is? Well, if you say 'Firma's fiancée' then, well, you're right. You've probably heard of her before, but as a reasonably famous artist rather than my...well, in any case, during the early days of this relationship we discovered that one thing is vitally important; an artist must have her own space. Part of this is so she can find peace and quiet and time to paint, and the second part (and far larger, in my mind) is so I don't keep on tripping over her damn colours and being asphyxiated by some of the, uh, more overpowering chemicals that she tends to use. In the end, we (by which I mean 'I') got a team of builders to erect a conservatory-type-thing in the area out back that I've claimed as my garden. I have to say that as a plan, it worked really, really well; she got her space to paint, and I got my precious, precious oxygen – everyone was happy!
You may not really see where this is going yet, but hold on. About a month ago, you see, my nearest and.. dearest started sending out a lot of correspondence for an exhibition of her work. At the time, I was absolutely elated that she needed the typewriter, because it meant that I could spend my summer doing exactly what I wanted for once – which is to say, torment students, prepare for my final set of exams, and sleep on the lawn. Once again, everyone was happy – right up until the point that Hurricane Sarcé appeared on the horizon. That's the point we all stopped clapping each other on the back and started running around like headless chickens trying to make certain that everything was squared away before it started raining farmyard animals. Unfortunately, somewhere in between packing away my fiancée's priceless exhibits and boarding up the windows I somehow... forgot about that typewriter; a fact that didn't occur to me until the wind outside was pushing eighty miles an hour and wailing like a banshee with a saxophone. Naturally, by the time the hurricane upped-and-left there was absolutely nothing left of the supposedly 'severe-weather-proof' art studio and, as it turned out, my typewriter. I'd be more annoyed about the former, but apparently the builder's house was levelled by a well-aimed tornado, so as far as I'm concerned everyone got what was coming to them.
The best bit about all of this is that it has absolutely no bearing on what's about to happen next. Nope; nothing at all – in fact, I'm pretty sure I've just managed to completely waste two minutes of your worthless, pointless lives. Unfortunately, as good as that feels I suppose I should get cracking again, so let's move on.
New typewriter, away!
Having, by now, spent a bit of time in the company of Setzer I was beginning to get a feeling that the quite ludicrous show of finery that I'd seen up until now was exactly that; a show for the public rather than a deliberate flaunting of the man's wealth. Happily, my suspicions were proved completely right the instant he led me down a corridor into a part of the ship where, I presumed, good, honest work took place. This wasn't to say that the quality wasn't still present; as far as my untrained eye could see, everything still appeared to be constructed out of the best materials money could buy, but the glitz and glamour was gone, replaced with a rather more low-key demonstration of money that seemed to me to be far more impressive. At one point, the wooden floorboards gave way to thick metal grating, and upon peering through the gaps I could see countless cogs and belts whirring at break-neck speed for reasons that largely eluded me.
"What's that down there?" I asked curiously, "What's it connected to?"
"That? That's part of the propeller drive assembly," Setzer said dismissively, "Didn't your Major ever show you the innards of your airframes?"
"Of course he did," I replied irritably, a little stung by the comment, "It's just that...well, the Empire doesn't use clockwork aircraft. Technological advances, you see."
"Naturally," if Setzer was annoyed, he didn't show it, "The galley's just this way. Come on before you break something."
The galley itself had the same sense of understated elegance that I'd felt out in the corridor. Although it wasn't particularly large, it was well stocked; large, steel compartments were bolted to every wall, and inside them, carefully tethered to the back, were large quantities of both perishable and non-perishable foods carefully arranged by type. Large slabs of cured meat were tied up next to two strings of large, fat sausages, which in turn was sat beside a large game bird of some description. Fresh apples, oranges, and fruit I had never seen before occupied the far side of the room, next to a large rack of spices that were, it had to be said, a complete and utter mystery to me. The centre of the room was occupied almost entirely by a large metal work surface that shone in the bright overhead lighting and left almost no room to manoeuvre around the sides; although I came to the conclusion that this would probably just make it easier to hang on should the airship encounter turbulent weather.
"Of course, its too small to supply a party in full-swing," Setzer said casually, "Normally I just outsource my catering to whoever's available in town. Now – Juisane?"
At Setzer's call, a small door to my immediate left swung open, revealing a short, balding man who I assumed to be the gambler's cook. What he lacked in height, however, he more than made up for in girth, and his friendly, jowly face seemed to exude an almost irritating level of goodwill and mirth. Unsurprisingly, he was dressed in a large, spotless white coat and apron, and as I watched he quickly snatched a large chef's hat down from a hook behind the door and crammed it on his head.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur Gabbiani," the chef said, and bobbed his head respectfully before turning to face me, "Et quel est votre nom, mon ami?"
"Oh, come on! That accent has to be a joke," I said flatly, "Don't you think you're laying it on a bit thick?"
"Ah, oui!" the chef said, and chortled happily, "Excellent! I can see you hav-"
"That'll do, Juisane," Setzer said coolly.
"Very well, sir," the chef's accent shifted quite suddenly to the harsher tones of someone from East Vector, "What can I do for you, then?"
"Wow, I wish I could do accents," I said, impressed despite myself, "Let me guess; this is an image thing again?"
"Albrenk cuisine is known to be the finest in the world," Setzer said airily, "For some reason, some of my...clients have it set in their minds that only someone from Albrook could possibly master their ways – hence the act."
"...right," I said, uncertainly, "I don't understand, but I'll take your word for it."
Setzer smirked slightly and turned back to Juisane, "Our guest here is feeling...peckish. Can you put something together for him to eat while I set up the transceiver? I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Certainly, cap'n," without further ado, Juisane herded me onto a stool and immediately set to retrieving pots and pans from their resting place under the work surface, "What can I do for you, young sir?"
"It's Fi-" I caught myself just in time, "It's fine. I'm not all that fussed so long as it isn't porridge."
"No worries there."
"Or gruel," I added, upon further consideration, "Or black pudding, or pasta, or meat loaf."
"That sharn't be a problem, young si-"
"Or snake, come to think of it," I pointed at what I considered to be a particularly suspect piece of cured meat, "That's not snake, is it?"
"Not...as such, sir," Juisane gave me a curious look, "Pardon me for asking, but you don't seem like the type-"
"We had a survival course back home, once," I said darkly, "They gave us a knife and a map and told us to get to a point about eighty kilometres away across some sodding awful terrain. I got by on foraging for a couple days, but...well, I eventually had to go hunt something down."
"And you caught a snake?"
"Well...no, actually, it caught me," I grimaced, "Damn thing ambushed me while I was looking for food. 'Course, by the time it was all said and done I had a nice big constrictor to keep me going, but...well, I don't want to..."
"Of course," Juisane started to industriously wipe around the inside of a small pan.
"Something about the way it exploded put me off snake for life..." I continued distantly, "'Least it was cooked through, though."
"What?"
"Oh, nothing," I shook my head and gave the cook a somewhat forced smile, "Bad memories, y'know. So, why're you a cook onboard this airship, anyway?"
"'Pays well," Juisane remarked casually, "And I've always wanted to travel, ever since I was a little nipper."
"I suppose you would have to," I snorted, "Aren't you worried it's going to fall of of the sky one day?"
"It's a risk, young sir," the cook gave me a toothy smile, "And you don't think I'd be a gambler's cook if I didn't want to take risks, eh?"
"I, uh, see your-" my comment was cut off by a sudden, ear-piercing squeal of white noise, "Agh! What's that?"
"Sounds like the captain's turned on the transceiver," Juisane continued buffing his equipment, "The radio room's just out the door and to your left. You'll be lucky to get a signal up here, though."
"That's what I thought," I hopped down from the stool, "Be back in a tick!"
The 'radio room' itself was tiny, barely large enough for two people to crowd around the enormous array of instruments that covered the far wall. In the darkness I could just about make out Setzer's silhouette, sat in the room's only chair. From his position I gathered that he was hunched over the controls, fiddling with a couple of knobs and muttering to himself in dark tones.
"...stupid...poorly made...swear this is the last time..."
"Um, hello?" I said cautiously, "Can I help?"
"By standing well back and not touching anything? certainly," Setzer said irritably, "Just one second – there!"
"-this is Vector Broadcasting House; the time is eight 'o' clock..."
"Hey, you got it!" I said happily.
"We lucked out," Setzer said simply, and flicked another switch, "One second and I'll get the images, too."
There was another momentary squeal of static, and suddenly a small white circle, about eight inches across, flickered to life. It showed, for just the briefest of moments, an image of a man in a well-tailored suit shuffling his papers in front of a microphone, and then the view changed.
"...we go now to the Imperial Palace, where Emperor Gestahl is preparing to address the nation in the wake of yesterday's terrorist attack on a military barracks, where at least thirt-"
"It wasn't a terrorist attack," I felt bile rise up in my throat, "Kefk-"
"Be quiet and watch," Setzer said sharply, "There'll be time for commentary at the end."
The scene changed to a blurred, slightly grainy image of the ornate, marbled top of the Imperial Palace. Immediately, my eyes sought out and identified the grey-haired, moustached face of the Emperor, replete in his golden finery and red-black robes of office. Standing immediately behind him...
"Is that the infamous General Kefka?" Setzer frowned, and leaned closer, "What on earth is he wearing? Is that a cravat?"
"That's Kefka, alright," I suddenly found it very difficult to keep my voice level, "I wonder where his pet assassin's got to? I thought those two were inseparable."
"Sssh," Setzer leaned back, "He's about to speak."
Slowly, Emperor Gestahl rose his hands in a large, grandiose gesture, and the distant, distorted sound of the crowd far below fell silent. There was a moment's tense silence, and then the Emperor's deep, powerful voice rang out through the air.
"My citizens," he began, "Last night our great country suffered a great wound; for the first time in almost thirty years, the blood of our fellow countrymen has been spilled by a brutal, vicious attack against those who have given up their lives to best serve the Empire."
"He certainly seems to believe what he's saying," Setzer said evenly.
"Well, I believe he needs to fire his scriptwriter," I muttered, "He's barely a sentence in and already I'm rolling my eyes."
"If what you've told me is true, I wonder if Kefka's told your emperor about the part he played in these events," the gambler tapped the screen, "Too bad the reception isn't good enough to see his expression; we could learn a lot from that."
"Wait, are you insinuating that the Emperor could be covering for Kefka?" I raised my eyebrows, "That's ins-"
"The pain I feel from this is great indeed, and I am sure that every one of you has felt keenly the loss of our brave servicemen in the aftermath of this most heinous attack. Allow me to offer my most sincere assurances; we shall find the perpetrators of this most...vile act, and we shall bring them to face such justice that only our great Empire can deliver. Already my most trusted agents are at work, diligently recovering the evidence that will lead us to our enemy, wherever they may be."
"I remember the newspaper headline about the last time this happened, actually," I sighed, "Turned out they were so desperate to find a culprit that they eventually grabbed an innocent man and put him on trial – forced him to confess to everything. 'Course, the truth didn't come out until twenty-five years later. One of the greatest miscarriages of justice the Empire's ever seen, apparently."
"So they let him out after twenty five years in prison?" Setzer turned slightly to face me.
"Well, no," I snorted, "It turned out to be little hard, 'cause, well, they hung 'im. I don't think his family ever received compensation, either – oh, wait, he's starting up again."
"To those responsible, know that the fury of the Empire shall not stop at our borders. If any country is found to be harbouring our enemy then our vengeance shall be direct and merciless. You have my word, we shall not permit these terrorists to go to ground as we did thirty years ago."
"International sabre-rattling? Really?" Setzer shook his head, "The more I hear from this man, the most suspicious I get."
"I have received a request from one of my most trusted advisers that she be allowed to oversee this operation. Given her impressive performance in handling the attempted secession of Maranda, I believe General Celes Chere will bring about a swift resolution to this current crisis."
The screen suddenly panned to the right, revealing a small cluster of dignitaries and counsellors sitting on long benches under a small canopy.
"Is that your General down there?" Setzer said, and pointed indistinctly towards the centre of the screen. Before I could confirm it for myself, the camera suddenly zoomed right in on the young military leader, looking positively resplendent in her full dress uniform, "My word," the gambler continued, "She is good looking, isn't she. You know, she reminds me of-"
"Something's wrong," I said tensely.
"What?"
"That last statement caught her off guard," I continued, "Yeah, I'd know that expression anywhere."
"What expression?" Setzer gave me an appraising look, "There's nothing there; I've based my entire livelihood on knowing what people are thinking, and...she's anxious, but-"
"I grew up with Celes," I replied sharply, "I know when she's been caught off guard, no matter how well she's trying to hide it. I'll bet a week's pay that she wasn't consulted about her 'request' beforehand."
"You're on," Setzer turned back to view the action, "How much is a week's pay, by the way?"
"After tax?" I made a quick mental calculation, "Probably about twenty gil, all told."
"Seems to me like you're in the wrong line of work," Setzer snorted.
"Believe me; that's becoming quite clear," I replied darkly, and then another thought struck me, "There's something else wrong, too; I wonder what it is?"
"Well, think about where she is," Setzer replied, "The leader of one of the most powerful nations on the planet is about ten feet away from her...although, now that you mention it, there is something slightly off there."
"Look around her – everyone else looks bored silly," I gestured at the tall, gangly man to the immediate left of the general, "Look at Lofty there; he's just on the verge of nodding off, but Celes looks even more intense than normal. Come to think of it – I don't even think she's looking at the emperor."
Setzer leaned back casually, "Not bad. You've got a talent for observation."
There was a sudden shift in the camera positioning again, and once it had stopped wobbling we were once again treated to a view of the Emperor, although all of a sudden Kefka was nowhere to be seen.
"Seems like the other General left," Setzer echoed my thoughts, "Well, let's see what Gestahl has to say now."
"He has more?" I sighed, "I suppose we should humour him, shouldn't we? It might be relevant."
That, as it turned out, was quite possibly the greatest understatement of the century. For some reason, I could already feel a sense of unease building in the pit of my stomach as the emperor cleared his throat and began to speak again.
"So far, our investigators have managed to determine that the terrorists who perpetrated this vile act had a purpose beyond causing havoc and death. It appears that they had two specific targets in mind-"
"Yeah, no kidding," I muttered snidely.
"-two consummate, professional soldiers, regarded by their superiors as being amongst the elite of our armed forces. I speak, of course, of our two famed Mage Knights, Private Terra Branford and Trainee Sentinel Firmament Branford. Tragically, it appears that Sentinel Branford was in his room at the time of the explosion, and his body was recovered from the ruins early this morning. Our thoughts are with his sister during her bereavement, and we offer her the sincerest of condolences in this most difficult hour."
"Did you hear that?" I smiled humourlessly, "I'm the best of the best!"
"According to Gestahl, anyway," Setzer pointed out, "Of course, according Gestahl you're also dead, so his statements are at least somewhat open to interpretation."
"True – what was that he was saying about Terra?" I frowned, "Sounded-"
"I would like to mention Private Branford's fortitude and courage in her time of mourning, and I have received news that she wishes to join the task force assigned to investigating this brutal act so that those who so callously destroyed her life can never, ever do so again. After careful consideration, I have assigned her to an elite, secondary unit operating under General Kefka."
My stomach lurched as the camera shifted to the far right of the stage where two figures were standing apart from the rest. One of them was immediately recognisable as my favourite crazy, cravatted General, whilst the other-
"Say, is that your sister?" Setzer said suddenly.
If I was being honest with myself, I had expected something along these lines ever since the emperor had started prattling about the Mage Knights, but even so the static-filled, blurred image of Terra standing calmly on the top of the Imperial Palace shocked me to the core, and for a long, long time I just stared dumbly at the screen, unable to form any coherent thoughts.
"She looks awfully calm," Setzer said, echoing my initial impression, "Serene, even. I suppose she doesn't wake up by hurling herself halfway across the cabin, does she?"
"I-I...that..." I stuttered. The gambler had absolutely no idea how significant his snide little comment was, but to me it formed a massive part of the inherent wrongness of the image, "T-T-Terra...is even worse than me at poker, y-y'know," I took a deep breath, "She's never been very good at concealing her emotions. That-" I gestured wildly at the screen, "-well, there's nothing there. She's not there."
"What do you mean, she's not there?" Setzer half-turned in his seat to give me a confused look, "I don't understand."
"Her personality!" I waved my hands wildly, "It's not there! It's-"
"Calm down," Setzer said firmly, "You're saying that that isn't your sister?"
"Well, yes – but no!" I had a feeling that the gambler knew what I was on about, but I tried to put it into words regardless, "Celes mentioned that they'd used some sort of device to enslave her."
"That's...not possible. Nobody can do that."
"I didn't think so either, but about five minutes before that Terra attempted to blow our transport out of the sky with a suit of Titan Magitek Armour. That was pretty damn convincing..."
"That would probably convince most people, yes..." Setzer stopped, and looked between the screen and I for just a moment, "What are you staring at?"
"...slave crown," I said hoarsely.
"What?"
"That band around Terra's forehead – look!" I pointed at a indistinct, blurry dark shape largely obscured by Terra's fringe and the poor transmission, "Celes said that they used a slave crown to force her to do...all the things she did! That thing there must be what she was talking about!"
"I suppose that would explain the poker face," Setzer said, in a slightly sick tone, "That's horrendous."
There was a long, awful silence, and finally, mercifully, the camera panned back towards the Emperor, and I exhaled long and hard as my sister vanished out of shot.
"Of course," Setzer continued, "You realise that this means that Gestahl is entirely complicit in your misfortune."
"...excuse me?" suddenly, I had immense difficulty in keeping my voice level.
"There's no way he could avoid being involved; your sister's very presence is proof of that. Consider this; if Kefka didn't have the full, knowing approval of his emperor, would he really, truly risk parading her out in front of him in her current state?"
"I..." I struggled to find a counter for his argument, but there were none forthcoming. Kefka may have come up somewhat short on the old sanity scale, but I got the feeling I had distinctly underestimated his cunning and foresight - especially when it came to obtaining and holding onto objects, and people, that increased his own power base.
"Exactly," Setzer said, with a certain amount of satisfaction, "Besides, consider Gestahl's speech. Don't you think that he was a little belligerent in places?"
"Well, possibly..."
"And don't you think he's...what did you say earlier...oh, yes, 'laying it on a bit thick?'"
"There's just been a damn terrorist attack!" I flared momentarily, "Well, not exactly, but-"
"Would they really want to advertise that fact?" Setzer pressed, "It happened on an army base; what's to stop them claiming some sort of accident? Better that then saying 'Our security is so full of holes a group of terrorists could casually walk in and kill off one of our 'elite' soldiers!', surely?"
"True, but-"
"Look at the facts," Setzer continued, "Your general claimed that you were attacked and your barracks bombed by a cadre connected very closely to General Kefka."
"...he was leading the damned assault!" I pointed out, angrily.
"Now, General Kefka is up there, along with the emperor, and your enslaved sister is right alongside them; even being broadcast across the airwaves. There comes a point, Mage Knight, where you're going to have to drop your act of stupidity and actually put two and two together!"
"I know that!" I snarled, and there was a sudden warning crackle from the surrounding equipment, "Don't you think I might have figured this out myself? Haven't you considered the fact that I'm pretty well-sodding-aware that Terra and I were the subject of some kind of absurd government conspiracy? Well, guess what? Now it's all down to me! I kinda doubt that Gestahl is going to let Celes out from under his thumb if he suspects that she's guilty of helping me out, y'know! That means that even if I manage to move faster than Kefka and Terra, and even if I somehow manage to rescue her there'll be nobody coming to help us! How long d'ya reckon us two'll last against the best Imperial Intelligence has to offer, eh?"
"Calm down," Setzer said, "You aren't going to help matters by-"
It was far too late for that. The stresses and strains of the past two days had taken their toll on me, and it had only been through a herculean effort that I hadn't lost it completely already. Seeing the emperor, apparently fully in league with the total bastard who had crushed Terra's will was more than I could stand, especially now that I was certain that Celes was never going to be in a position where she could fulfill her promise.
Of course, the Vector Broadcasting Company had no way of knowing this, and therefore it had no idea what effect showing another quick shot of Kefka was going to do for my already runaway temper. Immediately, I felt it shift from a raw, hot anger to a single-minded cold fury that, somehow, was far, far worse.
"I'm going to kill him," I whispered, pointing at the screen, "I'm going to fuc-"
The world around me suddenly blazed with golden light, and for a split-second I could see a sun-bright arc crackle between my extended digit and the screen. There was a sudden, deafening boom, and both Setzer and I were hurled out of the room into the corridor outside in a tangle of arms, legs, and chair. A moment later a second terrific 'crack' rent the air, followed by a horrific shattering noise as the screen exploded outwards in millions of tiny shards that whipped just over our heads and embedded themselves in the far wall with a reverberating thud.
Finally, there was just the tinnitus. Feeling dazed and somewhat confused, I climbed up the wall to a standing position and tried to get my bearings.
Thankfully, it appeared that I had managed to escape serious harm from the pieces of flying monitor. Even so I had still acquired a couple of nicks on an outstretched hand, and a sensitive spot on my back where I had hit the floor at some speed. Luckily, the gambler had similarly minor injuries, and as I watched he hauled himself upright and turned to regard me with an expression that was somewhere between awe and fear.
In the end, it was all too much for me; I ran.
Let's get something straight here. I don't want anyone to come away from this with the idea that I'm attempting, at any point, to push some kind of 'oh dear people don't understand me, man!' angle, or indeed any sense of so-called 'angst' in the slightest. I'm not the world's most complicated guy, and like pretty much everyone else I'm quite happy to have an amicable chat by the water cooler or over a beer at pretty much any time you'd care to mention – provided, y'know, I'm not up to my eyeteeth in deadlines at the time.
The problem that I occasionally (very occasionally these days) run across is people's reaction to the fact that, yes, I can actually cast magic. As far as I'm concerned it's perfectly understandable – as I said above, I wouldn't have said that I'm a particularly unusual person, and so its probably quite a nasty shock to people when a situation suddenly develops that requires electroshock therapy to put it to sleep again. I mean, how can you react to that? Fear's a pretty common (and very reasonable) reaction, as is a certain sense of amazement.- in fact, generally those two turn up together to a certain degree. On one occasion, I was spontaneously deified; on another, I ended up being chased down the street by an angry mob howling for my blood, which was a great pity as the pub I was in did an absolutely smashing lunch.
I suppose the point I'm trying to make here is that although I can understand people's aversion or amazement to what I essentially am, it doesn't mean that I particularly like it. It's just as annoying to have a sudden space cleared for you at the bar as it is to see people cross the street when they see you coming, and to be frank I'd just like people to stop it. In the case above, though, it just turned out to be the oft-mentioned straw that broke the camel's back; having just seen the full extent of Kefka and the emperor's horrible machinations and having lost control myself in such a spectacular manner, it was just a little too much to have to see the self-same reaction from someone who, up to that point, had alternately treated me as a unwelcome guest and a normal person.
That's all I'm going to say on the subject; remember, we're not at home to angst here, and I'm not going to get all melodramatic for your benefit. There's far too much stuff like that as it is.
As the airship wasn't that large, there wasn't that many places for me to run to, nor did it take very long for Setzer to find me in my hiding place under one of the roulette tables. Fortunately, by then my fear-fuelled burst of anger had faded, but in its place a deep, dark sense of melancholy had settled into my bones, and was only slightly alleviated when a simple metal plate containing some strange, unidentifiable yellow stuff was shoved under my nose.
"Here, kid," Setzer said, in a carefully neutral tone, "Juisane spent good time making you this omelette; he'll be very offended if you let it go to waste now."
"...thank you," I said quietly, and took the plate out of his grasp before he could change his mind, "I'm...I'm sorry about your screen, Setzer. I lost control."
"You don't say," the gambler sounded vaguely amused.
"I'll pay for it, somehow...I-"
"I rather doubt you'll be able to pay for a full refit of my radio room, if that's what you're suggesting," Setzer laughed shortly, "Oh, for heaven's sake – come out from under that table. You look foolish under there."
Slowly, and rather hesitantly, I poked my head out from under the enamelled edge of his game board. Holding the prized meal close to my chest, I shuffled out into the gambling room and clambered unsteadily to my feet.
"Well, eat up!" Setzer gestured at the omelette. Digging in deep with my fingers, I grabbed a large chunk of the strangely-textured food and wolfed it down as fast as I could. It was delicious, and made all the more so given that it was all I had had to eat in gods-only-knew how long.
"Listen..." the gambler paused for a moment, as if not entirely sure how to proceed, "I can't say that I like the idea of the Mage Knights. I mean, look at you – you're a grubby, scrawny, unremarkable person, and yet you've just managed to lay waste to my radio room with barely more than an outstretched finger!"
"Welff-" I began, with my mouth still half-full of omelette.
"On the other hand...there's Kefka. I've managed to do a good deal of business in the Empire-" Setzer's hand gestured quickly at the roulette table, "-and the idea of crossing someone like him is rather unpleasant, but I don't see how anyone can sit still when evidence of what he's done is waved under their nose."
"Umm..." I polished off Juisane's carefully prepared dinner as I tried to work out how to best put my next statement, "So you're still planning on taking me to South Figaro, then? Even after I wrecked your horribly expensive radio equipment?"
"All the radio sets in the world won't help if I haven't got a ship to fly them in," Setzer replied, "...and if that mad general has his way then the day won't be far off when I won't. Consider my helping you an investment in my future, and I'd rather you lived long enough to help it mature."
"You mean, stop Kefka?" I raised my eyebrows, "You're kidding, right? He could probably take me without even raising a sweat. I'm...not very good at blowing things to bits, well-" I considered this for a moment, "Living things, anyway. Besides, I haven't even considered anything like that – I just want to help Terra!"
"You'd better start giving some serious thought to it," Setzer said ominously, "From what I've heard, Kefka likes to settle his problems personally; if you manage to save your sister, you'll almost certainly become one of those problems. But...that's for the future," he said, and waved it aside, "I suggest you go and get some rest. We'll be touching down in South Figaro soon enough, and I rather doubt that you'll have much time for resting once your feet hit the floor."