Thanks to all who've read and reviewed. This one is a strange format again, but I don't think it's too distracting. Standard warnings will apply. Once again, if you've made it through the horror of Chapter 20, you're golden here.
I promised xlonelyaurorax that I would put this one up before the holidays. Fading Into Darkness told me I was a Sadist! (and I really, really am. Can't take offense when a person speaks only the truth.) I hope you enjoy this one and it answers some of the ten thousand questions that have not been addressed yet.
"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes they win."
-Stephen King
"For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
This is the Way the World Ends Part II:
Conversations with Dead People
She's trapped. She can feel eyes on her: past and present, dead and alive. They all watch her sink into a blacfk pit in her mind with empty, hollow gazes. There are so many voices yelling, and most of them are hers.
"I NEED HELP!"
Help might be good. Through her agonized haze of pain, she feels fingers press into her throat. She tries to escape them, feels more hands grasping her head, holding her still.
"I don't...wha...What the hell happened?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know? She just started twitching," she's pretty sure she hears movement over her raging pulse, "then bleeding all over the place. And then she collapsed."
"Bloody wonderful." She's turned onto her side. She tenses up. She wishes these people wouldn't touch her. "Oh...this is...this so bad."
"Really? You think? That's very helpful."
"Screw you, funny-man," the woman snaps. Her voice is low pitched and calm, but there's a thread of tension woven through.
"Alright, alright. Just help me get her up." There are hands everywhere now, clutching and grasping. There are bugs under her skin, itching and burrowing and biting. She thinks her eyes are open but she can't see anything. She beats at the sensations, tries digging the bugs out with her fingernails and when her hands are immobilized, she screams.
"Hold 'er still! I need to get these ropes tied." She can smell the stink of sour sweat mixed with too much booze and garlic. And maybe curry. The combination leaking out of his pores is sickening and she gags. His sweaty body presses against the full length of her as he cinches the ropes around her wrists and lashes them to the post behind her. "Now there dear-y, isn't 'at better?"
Invading fingers grope and grasp at her exposed body, squeezing her breasts until they turn red with fresh bruises. A clammy tongue licks a stripe from the corner of her clenched eye down over her cheek and across her pursed lips. Vicious fingers pinch sensitive skin and she hisses. The repulsive, sweat-soaked pig takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth before biting down on her lips hard enough to make them bleed.
"Pretty pretty," he sneers at her. She opens her eyes and sees the wicked, curved blade before it touches her cheek. There's no pain. Yet.
"Think I'll keep this pretty face when I take it off. Think I'll save you for very last." He licks her other cheek from the corner of her lips to her temple and she recoils. Calloused, bruising fingers catch her jaw and squeeze until her eyes water from the pain. "Peel it all off nice and slow. Gonna take my time with you!"
"Just take your time there, Sazh." The voice is loud now. Each word pounds against her temples like mallets on tom-toms. She winces, wishes everyone would shut up. Wishes she could just die already. "There's no hurry here. She's just bleeding to death is all."
"Would you shut up!" A new voice chimes in, thick with worry, and even more grating. She doesn't know who these yammering people are, but they are making her pain worse. They need to go away. "If you make him screw up, he's got to start all over again."
"Listen kid! I'm about up to here with your lip. You better watch yourself or your gonna get a mouthful of my fist. Unlike the dead man and our martyr here, I don't think you're particularly cute."
"Try it!"
"Hey kid! Do you have a sudden urge to die?" Someone tries to mediate. "Shut it! And you? Keep your hands to yourself or we're gonna have problems! We don't have enough problems right now?"
Yes, shut them up! And shut up too, while you're at it. She needs to center herself, get control of the pain. Every time she thinks she's managed to locate it and lock it down and away, some fresh nightmare pops up in a new location. She's sinking too fast to bail at this point. Since she can't abandon ship here, she's going to have to drown. Preferably sooner rather than later.
"Fang!" Someone new squeaks. Perhaps she can drown that person before she goes. Her voice is awful and painful.
"Don't you 'Fang' me! This kid's got no respect, which is bad enough. He's also got no sense of self preservation. He's been spending too much time with this one." Someone gives her a gentle shake that wakes up fresh agonies throughout her body.
"Don't do that!"
"Enough. All of you shut up! I need to concentrate!" This voice is vaguely familiar. She thinks it belongs to the man she asked for help. That worked out well for her. "Alright. I think I've got it."
"Yeah?" The nasty woman sounds hopeful. There's more movement and she wonders what's happening, and why these people won't go away. There's fear devouring her gut, making her tremble.
"Do you want to do the honors?"
"What, you afraid of the big bad, soldier then Sazh?"
"Well...yeah. Do I look stupid or insane?" There's an answering melodious laugh that sounds completely honest. At least she's not yelling anymore.
"Right then. You hold, I'll pour." Hands lift her and it hurts enough to force her stomach into her throat, which forces the groan that's been trapped behind her vocal chords out into the open.
"Hold her nose!" She wakes to someone sitting on her chest, someone holding down her hands.
"They want her alive for the arena!" She struggles against the hands wrapped around her wrists and gets punched in the eye for her trouble. She sees the stars before the throbbing starts. She gasps and a funnel is slipped into her mouth. The hard end gags her before the liquid starts flowing. She chokes, aspirates some of the foul concoction and feels as if she's drowning as the world starts to fade. "Gotcha now, witch."
"You got her yet?"
"Uh huh." She feels the rumble of an answer rattle through her back where it rests against the person propping her up.
"Oh, just so you know, I think you got the raw deal here."
"What else is new? Just do it." There's a thick, bitter, just-this-side of too hot liquid filling her mouth and she resists, can't help but panic. Hands hold her still, fingers pinch her nose and she swallows. The liquid hurts and numbs at once. Her head spins. Her mind is slow and leaden. It's no real surprise to her when she gets stuck in quicksand, pulled under and buried
Alive. They buried her alive! Dirt pours between the cracks of the slipshod coffin. It coats her lips, sifts up her nose with each inhalation and she chokes up phlegm and blood filled mud. Each gasping choke fires bolts of misery through her destroyed body.
She can smell the beginnings of infection in her wounds, feels the fever from it raging unchecked through her. The odor mixes with the stench of blood and urine to choke her in the confined space. She can feel the scald on her skin from being forced to wallow in her own filth through the long days of torture. The Strappado is frighteningly effective and brutal in its simplicity. She can't lift her arms to peel away her soaked, stinking clothing. They are purple and swollen, joints separated and shredded under the force created by her own hanging body weight. She doesn't understand why they didn't just kill her. Considering the agony rolling through her in hot waves, she can only figure that it's because death would be too merciful.
Why don't they just put her out of her misery? She's sweating and freezing, teeth and bones chattering. She's boiling alive from the inside out. She tries to struggle out of the bindings holding her; she kicks, gets free for a moment before she's blasted with frigid air.
"Take it easy, Light." Something covers her. "It's going to be alright. I'm going to take care of you." It feels as if she's been trampled after falling from a great height. There are pains shivering through her body that promise to morph into torturous agony if she so much as breathes too deeply. She grunts and lights explode in the darkness behind her eyes. Tears leak from between clenched lids and she wonders if they evaporate when they touch her skin.
Something cold lays across her forehead and she relaxes before she realizes it's a hand and protests. "She's...
...Burning up! She can feel the heat of the fire as it desiccates her body, peels the flesh from her bones like parchment. Someone once told her that burning wouldn't hurt because with no flesh or nerves to feel, there can be no pain.
There's a loud pop, a crackle that reminds her of sap exploding in a fire, or fat burning from cooking meat. Her last thought before she gives herself over to magic is that she hopes that liars burn for eternity.
"I believed you, you know." She's soaked and smelly, but closer to coherence than she can ever remember being. She's been hearing this voice for some time now, she realizes. It's been a light in the darkness, a beacon of sanity in the fevered madness. He's been whispering to her and she's followed his voice through her delirium like a trail of bread crumbs. "I believed you would take care of me. You can't do that if you don't come back though."
Something in her aches to reach out, but she's too tired to move. Too exhausted to peel open her eyes and ask the boy his name. Ask why she knows him when she doesn't know herself.
Ask him to save her before she's lost for good.
"Please come back," he begs.
She doesn't want to go back to that place, but she has to say goodbye. The rain pouring down onto her as she walks is frigid. It seems fitting somehow that the weather should be as miserable as she feels. She cannot believe that this is actually happening, that they are really going to leave her. She comes alone against her sister's wishes. But this is too much horror for so fragile a girl.
It's too much horror for her.
The hallways smell of antiseptic and recycled air. They are bright white and puke green, colors of institutions everywhere, and she cannot figure out why anyone would ever choose these colors for anything-let alone someplace designed specifically to promote healing. They are hideous and uncomfortable.
Perhaps, she thinks, that is the point. Perhaps no one should allow themselves to get too comfortable in a hospital. Because the worst is always a possibility.
She pushes open the heavy wood door and steps into the room. There are plastic tents around the beds. They are there to prevent the spread of this mysterious infectious disease killing her parents. She wonders how such flimsy pieces of plastic can accomplish such a monumental task when they cannot even contain the smell of illness.
"I think the worst part of the whole thing was the smell." The voice is deep and familiar if somewhat subdued.
"When my wife-her name was Amina-did I ever tell you that, Soldier? Not that you would ever ask." He laughs like there's some joke that she doesn't get. Maybe she is the joke. "Anyway, it was the smell. I don't think anyone can really describe it. It's like...like you can smell the dying going on inside." She hears the sadness, the tears. "This is going to sound stupid, but uh...I always thought that it was her soul that was dying a piece at a time. And once the soul is gone, then the body just, you know...it gives up. The body can't live without the soul, right?"
She hears him swallow. There is a pause and the sound of fabric scraping against fabric. Then the voice starts again, little more than breath in her ear. "You listen to me, Miss Soldier. I don't know what's happening here inside you, but you gotta fight it. You may be come off as cold and tough as nails, but you've got more soul than any two people I know. So you see, it can't all be gone yet. You really going to let this thing destroy you?"
The illness ravages their bodies. Her mother slipped into a coma during the previous evening. The doctors have no hope that she will regain consciousness. She wishes she could hug her, believes that she will open her eyes and wrap her arms around her if she can just...touch her. But she can't. She presses the palm of her hand to the plastic, whispers a soft, "I love you," before walking to the other bed.
She peeks through the clear plastic of the tent and finds a stranger in place of her father. A withered, hollowed out husk. His eyes crack open and his mouth twists into a horrible parody of his smile. She wants to turn and run, close her eyes and pretend she's never seen him; to go back outside and let herself imagine that her parents are just away somewhere; that her life is the same today as it was last week. If she goes now...
"You can't...go." She doesn't want to, but staying just hurts so much. "If you do, then I killed you." She wants to open her eyes. She wants to quiet the despair. Something in the lost tone of voice tugs at her, makes her want to fight.
"Cl-Claire? That you baby?"
The tears filling her eyes make her angry. She needs to be strong now.
"Hi there. I..." the word is a cough. He clears his throat and starts again, "I didn't think they'd let you come."
"They didn't want me to." The doctors told her there was a risk in just going in the room. This disease frightened them. She could see their fear and it disgusted her. These people were supposed to save lives, but she could tell that they just wanted her parents to hurry up and die already. "I..." she steels herself, smacks away the tears, "I made them let me come."
"You're a tough nut, you know? So you need to stop screwing around and to be strong now." The angry woman doesn't sound so angry anymore. She sounds quiet and weary. "You know I didn't like you at all when I first met you. Thought you were a right bitch." She feels someone tuck the ends of a blanket around her.
"Hell, you are a bitch!" The woman laughs.
The laugh is wet and awful, but somehow still joyous. "'That's my girl! You need to be strong, Claire. You need to hold onto Serah. She's not strong like you. You can't let them take her away from you. It's up to you to take care of your sister."
"It's probably why we get on so well. Well that, and our tendency to take care of our own." She hears shifting. "You know, I wouldn't have let many people get away with that little bitch slap you gave me the day we met. If it wasn't for the fact that I agreed that I was somewhat responsible for your sister getting...well screwed, I suppose is close enough; Right. So anyway...if it weren't for that, I would have showed you exactly how unkindly I take to being smacked around." She lets out a barking laugh before the tone shifts to serious. "You gotta snap out of this."
"Don't worry. I will."
"I know it's not fair. I would...I would change it if I could."
"Please don't be sad."
"Please don't do this. I mean, no one else gets my humor, you know? Not even Vanille, god love her. And no one else would have taken that right cross in such stride. I guess I got you back for that little love tap you gave me the first day after all. I never thought of it like that before. That why you didn't hit me back that day? Eh, whatever. And the look on your face when I punched you was priceless. Never a camera around when you need one, is there?"
"Claire. You go now. Don't come back here. I don't want...this to be..." he gasps and coughs "the image... image you carry for...the rest...of your life. I want you to remember me as your father."
"You are my father."
"I am your father." It's all the reassurance she will ever have. "Go baby." She shakes her head, sucks back the tears, sits in the lone plastic chair and waits.
"You know when I heard Sazh shouting for help, I half expected to come out and find you'd finally turned into Cie'th. I mean you've been warning me for a while you felt it coming on, right? Either that, or that you dropped dead. It wouldn't have been so far out of bounds. But you don't do anything the easy way, do you?"
She refuses to leave. She waits while her mother stops breathing and slips away without ever saying goodbye to her. She grows stiff in the chair as her father's breathing becomes labored; until the inside of the plastic tent is smeared with the blood he hacks up. Until the machine's alarms signal the loss of his heartbeat. Until he is dead.
"You do know that the Hero was actually dead when you started that little ritual right? Not almost. Not dying. Gone." The non sequitur throws her off. She can't decipher the meaning of the sentence, but it seems that tension transcends meaning. The rhythm of the woman's voice lulled her until that point. Let her dance between here and there, navigate the ether without map, compass or sexton. But her heart rages now and the stress builds behind her eyes in a swirl of hideous colors. "You pretty much took us all to that edge. I never should have agreed to it. I know you're a crazy bitch after all. I know that you don't take care of yourself at all. And that because of our little deal, taking care of you became my job. Not exactly fair."
She stops thinking about the unfairness of her parents' death, or the injustice of the doctors giving up without even trying. She forgets about doctors at all, until they stroll into the room and tell her it's over and that she has to leave now. Tell her she will not receive the bodies to bury. Explain about incineration to prevent outbreak: about public health protocols. They hand her some forms to sign to get permission to destroy the bodies.
"You don't have permission to die yet. We had a deal. You don't get to die until I kill you. You hear me?"
She hears it all and absorbs none of it. She signs the form because she is a child and cannot fight this authority. But she will not forget this travesty either. Oh no. She will never forget. And after today, she will not be a child ever again. She turns and leaves without looking back. She was their baby; she was their Claire. But she's no baby anymore. She must grow up now. If she can't take care of herself, she will lose her only remaining family to the orphanage.
"So stop laying around and feeling sorry for yourself. Wake the hell up already! Sazh assures me that you are tough."
She will be tough. Claire was weak. She hurt too easily, cried too much. She wanted to run from her responsibilities. She can't be Claire anymore if she wants to hold together her family. Claire can't take care of herself, let alone her sister.
Something combs through her hair. Fingers. Blunt nails doing a tickling scrape over her forehead, through her bangs, catching smartly in tangles before starting the entire journey over.
"Shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have. You said you'd take care of yourself. We had a deal."
The voice is unfamiliar and the words nonsensical, but they pull at her. She needs to open her eyes; open her mouth. She needs to remember so she can figure out what he means; figure out why, even in her confusion, she so vehemently disagrees with his statement.
It's like instinct.
Her gut tells her that something has to change. Her father always taught her to follow her gut. When she'd hesitate he'd yell, 'Put your helmet on and get in the game!'
Her father may not have always been right, but he's the smartest person she knows. Was the smartest person she knew, she corrects. He is gone now. All she has left of him is his sage advice, and she plans to live by it. She will put on a 'helmet' (and whatever other armor she can manage) and take whatever hits life throws from now on. She will bury Claire with her parents' ashes and memories. She will become strong, and steady. She will do her parents proud and take care of her too young, too soft, way too gentle sister.
"I never told you that I met Serah." The tone is guilty, the voice soft. "It was on a beach. And just the once. She was really nice to me, and I really liked her. And it just made me feel even worse about the way things turned out. I never wanted to hurt anyone." She's not sure she knows this voice. This is not the nasty woman who is apparently her friend. A friend who thinks punching her in the face is funny and promised to kill her. So maybe not such a good friend really. But a friend, nonetheless. This one sounds sweet and sad; young and old at once.
She wants to surface from this in between before she disappears. She's slipping in and out too often. She is afraid.
"And when I met you, I saw the resemblance immediately. The physical resemblance, I mean. Seeing any other similarities took a bit of time." She giggles. It is annoying.
"But they're there," she assures quickly, like she's afraid she's delivered some offensive blow. Hands fuss at her for a bit, run a wet cloth over her dry lips before settling it on her forehead. "Serah forgave easily." She snorts out a very unladylike snort. It's the most endearing sound she's made yet. "And you...well. You don't." She giggles again. This time she knows that the joke is definitely being made at her expense. She wonders why she's not more upset by this revelation. "But she didn't get to be who she is in a vacuum, you know?"
She really doesn't. But she wants to know.
There's a long pause. "I know you know what happened...back then. I could see it in your eyes back in that library. You said my name and I just...knew. I don't know if you understand why I held so much back, but you kept quiet anyway. That means something, you know. And even if you don't, I do."
She doesn't know what the hell this giggly woman is talking about. Half of her wishes she would just shut up. The other half needs her to keep speaking.
"So I think part of you does. I know you understand what it's like to pack everything away to keep going. I saw some...horrible things. I did everything I could to forget all those horrible things. When I woke up from stasis, I felt like I'd gotten a second chance. I tried to become someone else."
She will become someone else. She walks out of the hospital, feels the rain soak through her clothes in a detached way. She'll be cold later, she's sure, but right now she can't feel anything at all. There's no pain from her parents' death. No exhaustion from sitting at their death beds and signing their bodies over for immediate incineration. No fear of the uncertain future. No water soaking her clothes. The wind blows her wet hair hard enough to deliver a stinging slap across her face. A transformer explodes next to her and she jumps back, feels the hairs on her body stand at attention. Feels her heart pound.
She feels and it's terrible and wonderful.
Someone grabs her and drags her away from the raining sparks. She looks up into the face of a kind, pretty lady in polka dot dress and matching cloche hat. Her hat is ruined, her pretty dress is in tatters, but somehow she is still beautiful. The rain gives her dark skin an ethereal glimmer, adds a twinkle to her eyes. "Are you alright child?
She's the first person who has asked her that question. It is an amazing relief even if she has no intention of being truthful. She nods. "I'm fine."
"Fine? You almost got your fool self struck by lightning."
Is that what happened? "Lightning, huh? I didn't realize."
The pretty woman's features crease with worry. "Are you alright? Do you need help? Did you run away?"
No. Yes. "No."
"Can I call your parents for you?"
"I have no parents. They died." She leaves out that they just died that morning.
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"Don't be."
"I'd hate to think of my baby left all alone." She notices the carriage for the first time as the woman coos something that sounds like 'dodge' at the infant. The lady looks at her again. Her eyes are kind. "What's your name?"
"C..." she pauses. Not Claire. Claire is dead. She looks at the sparking transformer, envies the power that could do such damage and makes a decision. "Call me Lightning."
"In the end...we always come back to ourselves. We have no choice."
She comes up from slumber like she's rising from the dead. There's pain everywhere, but something tells her that it's duller now. Bearable. She blinks open her eyes and flinches at the brilliance of the firelight. She closes her eyes again, rolls away from the light and tries to remember what the hell happened to her this time.
Laying on the cold, hard ground is painful. She wonders what sort of spectacular bruising she has now to cause such exquisite misery. She grunts as she makes her way to her feet, feels queasy first, then nervous as her peripheral vision narrows to a tunnel. She's going to pass out. She takes a deep breath and cringes before she feels herself grow steadier.
She takes a few steps to clear her head, takes a few breaths to fight the pain. She digs through the jumble in her mind to see what she can remember.
She remembers being chased. She remembers burning. She remembers dying. She remembers killing and killing and killing.
She remembers miles of catwalk; chasing after an angel and a demon. She remembers the rage that filled her and spilled over into the boy who followed her and somehow managed to worm his way under her skin.
She remembers Ifrit, Leviathan, Diablos. She remembers Odin.
She remembers running towards her death for days and days, drawing the boy towards his destruction like some mythological siren. He came apart at the seams in front of her, spilling his tenderness out all over the floor. She stuffed him with venom and vitriol and stitched him up good as new then dragged him behind her again until she finally caught up to that death in a town square. She was surrounded; outmanned and outgunned and moments from that sweet death she'd been hunting because there was no way in hell they would ever take her alive.
She might not be good enough to escape, but she is sure as hell too good for them to take alive. Oh yes!
She'd have bloodshed, vengeance, then peace. The memory makes her smile.
She remembers the heat of the explosion, the break in the lines. Remembers the boy yelling, "It's him." Remembers the hope in his voice and eyes. Remembers...something-wait! Hope.
Platinum hair and big, soulful eyes. Lost mother, lost home. Lost innocence. No! That's not right: stolen innocence. She stole it from him sure as death stole his mother.
/I'll try to watch out for you too./
She remembers Hope.
She gasps and the floodgates open as her life pours in.
The pain of the memories drives her to her knees. She clutches her head, presses hard against the exploding agony. She chews her lip bloody to hold back the scream.
That day! Snow saved her that day but she didn't want to admit it. Snow, the infuriating jackass, rode in like some sort of knight on a steed to save them from certain death...except his steed was actually two half naked women. She rolls her eyes behind closed lids.
Why does that not surprise me?
She remembers wanting to plant her fist in his face. Remembers surrendering to that impulse more than once. Remembers being infuriated every time he winked at her after she hit him. Remembers him needling her, pushing her, challenging her. Remembers his care and concern. She smiles.
She remembers Cerberus.
Remembers Snow's heartbeat slowing, his lifeblood pouring everywhere: pooling under him and splashing over her. Remembers him dying under her hands, though she refused to see it at the time.
She remembers her sister telling her how much she loved him. She remembers Serah crying when Lightning called her pathetic and stupid. The sobs were bitter and gut-wrenching. She closes her eyes to hide from the memory, finds the image clearer against the backdrop of her eyelids. She'd been so very cruel. She stood unmoved and watched her sister weep and stutter out a mixture of explanations and pleas regarding Snow. God help her, some part of her had enjoyed it. She covers her mouth to muffle the sob.
She enjoyed hurting her sister and making her cry because she'd given up her childhood so Serah could have one; she'd given up her chance at a good life to give one to Serah. She had to become a mother at fifteen, when she still needed a mother of her own. Serah got to have a mother! And this was how Serah repaid her sacrifices? She took up with some lay about, jobless, idiotic, do-nothing loser with too much muscle and too little brains? She let him stay in Lightning's house? Let him live off Lightning's wages while he hung around with his little gang of wannabes? Serah cried, and Lightning watched and felt...satisfied.
She'd resented the hell out of her sister and hadn't even realized it. It felt good to hurt Serah.
Her parents would be so ashamed of her.
"Oh...god." She feels sick. The truth of her cruelty and the depths of her depravity make her ill. And now she's failed her sister all over again. She's lost him. Perhaps he died knowing that he'd earned Lightning's highest respect and regard. Perhaps he knew that Lightning finally accepted him as her family. But Serah would never know it-would never believe it. And now Serah, when she wakes (Lightning cannot consider an alternative) will be left with a cruel, vindictive older sister and the knowledge that she wasn't allowed to say goodbye to her fiancé. She'll probably believe that Lightning let him die on purpose, or-oh god-killed him herself.
Considering the evil in her-evil that's apparently always been in her-maybe she had. Is it really so far-fetched? What better way could there be to hurt her sister than to murder her fiancé?
She spent what felt like an eternity trying to find herself in the chaos in her mind. She wishes now that she'd stayed trapped in her madness.
"Oh...oh please." Her head throbs. Her body shakes. She can't bear this pain. It's worse than any and all of her remembered pain: all the memories of other peoples' lives and deaths combined.
"Should have been me." She's shaking. Her teeth are chattering. "Oh please, I'm sorry Serah." The tears burn her eyes, her face. "You'll never forgive me, but I'm so sorry."
"Sis?"
Her eyes close. She hadn't even realized they were open as she stared into her past. She holds her breath. She's losing her mind again. She needs to hold onto reality before it spins away from her, because she's pretty damn sure that if she loses it now, she'll never get it back.
She'll never want it back.
"Lightning?"
Please. Please don't.
She hears footsteps and she cringes away. A hand touches her back and she hits her hands and knees and crawls.
Like the rat she is.
"Wait. Wait, please." It's the please that pulls her up short. "Come on, Sis. Don't do this again. Come back now."
"You're dead." She refuses to turn around and admit that she's talking to the empty air. The dead man snorts.
"That's what they keep telling me, yeah." She hears movement, senses the air stir as the ghost circles around her. She keeps her eyes shut. "And considering how I feel half the time, I really can't argue. Fang even started calling me 'Dead Man' instead of 'Hero.'" Imaginary Snow chortles at the horrible joke.
The laugh is perfect. It rattles her entire body like a tuning fork. She wonders if it's the right frequency to shatter her.
"Sis?"
It is. There's no doubt about it. She is fracturing under the intensity of this hallucination. "I can't do this."
She needs to get the hell out of here before she disappears down the rabbit hole again.
"I'm not dead Lightning. I have no idea how you did it. Though Sazh said...something. I really wasn't listening because it didn't matter anyway. Not if you didn't wake up. I've never been one for explanations. And I'm not so good at understanding things. You know that."
Please. She doesn't even know what she's asking. She tries to slow her breathing to keep from hyperventilating. She can feel the pieces that she's just put back in place getting jumbled again.
"You always say I'm a dumb blond."
She opens her eyes and there he is. He is impossible and somehow he is there. She looks at his fingers wrapped around her bicep, remembers the ruination that was his hand. He can't be real because "Your hand was..."
"Gone?" He holds it up, pulls the glove off and shows her the spider web of scars scattered over the front and back of his once-ruined hand. It looks like someone took a meat tenderizer to it. The scars are raised, angry and red. The joints are swollen. The fingers look like sausages. "Yeah, it pretty much was." He flexes the fingers and winces. "It still hurts like hell. But it's there. And it works. See?"
He holds it out to her and she wraps her fingers around it against her will. She runs her hands along the scars. The bones are not knit perfectly and she can feel knobs of calcifications jutting out. There are knots of scar tissue between the metacarpals and Snow flinches when she presses on one too hard. But she can feel the pulse throb in his thumb and she flips the hand over, runs her fingers over the ruined life line.
His hand is a wreck, much like her.
"Not too pretty but...from what everyone has told me, it's much better."
"It is." She traces the blue veins upwards, runs her fingers around and traces over his brand. She feels an answering tingle in hers and jerks away. She's so not doing that ever again. Ever!
"Are you real?" She asks the hand. "Really? Or am I totally nuts."
His face and eyes soften in a way that just makes her ache. This hallucination is perfect. "I'm real," he promises. "You saved me. Guess you're the hero, after all." She considers his answer before shaking her head.
"Fang was right." Snow's brow creases. Of course it would! He has no idea what Fang said to her back in that library. He was dead then too! She feels the truth hit her like a gut shot. "That really doesn't help at all."
His mouth opens and closes, opens again and he stammers out an "I..." before she bursts out laughing at the confusion on his face, and at the absurdity of asking a figment of her imagination if he is, indeed, a figment.
The worst part of it is that she believes him. It isn't just wishful thinking. She believes it all. She really must have gone mad again. The thought is upsetting, but she splintered into about as many pieces as possible right now. The only option available to her anymore is hysteria. So she embraces it and laughs until she doubles over around a tearing pain in her gut. She sucks in a deep breath...
"Sis?" His voice is distant now, as it should be. He is, after all, dead.
She spends the length of her exhale wishing for death before she once again sinks into blissful unconsciousness.
The sunset paints the entire landscape blood red. She walks, grass crunching underfoot as she passes, and thinks this is the most vivid dream she's ever had. She has no idea where she is, or how she's gotten here. The world feels unfamiliar to her. Her body feels unfamiliar. She looks down at herself and recoils.
What sort of depraved maniac would dress her in such shameful attire? Where is her dress? Why can't she remember? Her body hurts. Her arm feels heavy and sore. She looks at it, sees the hideous scar bisecting the flesh of her forearm and screams. What have they done to her?
She hears growling behind her and freezes. Her heart seizes with terror. She casts a glance over her shoulder, sees the glint of fading light reflect in the monster's eyes and off its wicked looking teeth. She recognizes this creature from her schooling: a Gorgonopsid. This monster is capable of shredding her to pieces. Every part of her screams to flee, but there's something niggling away at her that warns that running will bring only a swift, painful death.
She turns and faces the monster. It stoops its head and steps forward. She holds her ground as terror pounds through her. She's going to die here, in the middle of nowhere.
The animal springs at her and something whispers to drop and roll. Her body moves before her mind engages, like she's been dodging monsters her whole life. The skin of her chest feels like someone is branding her with a hot iron. She feels something stir through her, ripple beneath her skin. It explodes out of her as fire and thunder and ice. She hears a gurgle and thud, smells the remnants of ozone, smoke and burning hair.
She turns and sees the attacking animal dead at her feet. She stares at it, fascinated. Something twists inside her, drives her to her knees beside the carcass. She looks to the heavens for help, sees the glimmering Cocoon above her and feels a rolling, bright rage wash over and roll through her like nothing she's ever known.
/Destroy slaughter rend kill bleed bite tear shatter ruin annihilate Immolate obliterate exterminate/
/Monster. Monster. Monster./
She needs to destroy. Her target is out of reach. She eyes the carcass and decides it will be an inadequate surrogate.
She dips her finger into the blood, slips the digit between her lips.
She will make do.
She jerks awake this time, her heartbeat an erratic and painful throbbing in her temples, and moans out a loud "ow."
"So the hero wasn't lying or crazy after all." Her head hurts so badly she can't even touch it. "You know, I was afraid that he'd finally lost it when he said you woke up, walked and talked and everything."
"Please..." she moans. She breathes through her nose to calm the swirling nausea.
"Please what Soldier?"
"Please shut up, Sazh. My head is killing me." She puts her hands to her temples and presses. Sparks fire in the darkness behind her eyes. She feels a cool cloth drape across her eyes. It offers a modicum of relief but she still thinks beheading would be better. Sazh's hands wrap around hers and draw them away from her head in order to wrap her curled fingers around a warm mug.
"Drink that," Sazh orders, voice low pitched in deference to her pain. "And before you ask or throw it, it absolutely is drugged. But it shouldn't be enough to put you out. Just enough to numb you a bit."
Her entire body throbs and aches. Her head is exploding like a rotten pumpkin. She has no idea if any of this is actually happening. Numb sounds awesome right now.
She pulls the wet cloth off her forehead and struggles to sit up. Sazh plucks the mug from her hands, pulls her up by her left arm and helps to lean her against a rock. There's a dull throb in her right shoulder that speaks of yet another injury. She tries to remember it and can't. She decides she really doesn't care anyway. She places the washcloth on the back of her neck. Cold water drips down her back, slips along the length of her spine like icy fingers. She shivers as Sazh returns the mug. She cradles it in her hands and soaks up the warmth like a lizard on a rock.
"How long?" Sazh doesn't even pretend not to understand her.
"Two days." Not so bad. As if he hears her thoughts he continues, "A very long two days."
No arguments. It felt more like two years of torment. She drifts back into memories, shakes her head in what proves an idiotic and agonizing maneuver. She looks around at the camp. Fang and Vanille are sleeping near one another. Part of her remembers that there had been some tension between them before everything went to hell. She hopes that whatever caused it has been resolved rather than back-burnered. One thing this experience taught her is that there is never enough time, and spending what you have angry and fighting is the worst sort of waste. She glances past them, catches sight of Hope curled into a ball on the far side of the camp and feels a warm relief fill a place in her she didn't even know was empty. At least he's okay. He looks warm and contented, if pale, curled beneath the blanket. She's so relieved that it takes a moment for her brain to register the full picture.
Hope's head is resting on Snow's knee.
She gasps.
Snow is alive. She wasn't hallucinating. Or she still is. Either way, it doesn't matter right now.
She feels dizzy as she stares at them. Snow is sleeping sitting up, leaning against a tree. His chin rests on his chest. The fingers of Snow's right hand are buried in Hope's hair.
"The Hero fell asleep on watch. Again. He's not ready for taking watches but he doesn't listen to anyone. We've been trying to wake you up to get you to kick his ass for us. You're the only one he'll even pretend to listen to."
That's absurd. Snow never listens to her. Ever.
"We talked about it and decided that it's just easier to let him have his way. You know-like a two year old. So, we let him think he's sitting watch, and one of us sits up and watches him sit watch until he falls asleep. Humoring him keeps him from climbing the cliff faces or whatever the hell he else he wants to do. He's acting like he's perfectly fine, but...that just isn't the case."
She swallows down her worry. He's alive. That's more than she has any right to expect.
"And then of course there's the kid. He can't bear to be more than a few feet from the Hero. Or you. But tonight it's him. I'd guess it's because he was so upset earlier when you woke up. Of course, we didn't believe him. We thought he'd finally lost it."
She nods, even though she really doesn't understand. It seems like the thing to do.
Something about Sazh's speech catches her attention. Cliff faces?
She's sitting on the ground. Snow is leaning against a tree. There is a campfire.
They are outside.
After a lifetime underground, she is finally outside and she didn't. Even. Notice!
"Where are we?" And how did they get here? Sazh looks around like he's checking his bearings.
"I don't know. Ask Fang when she wakes up. We're in some valley or something. You gonna drink that while it's hot?" Lightning curls her lip up as she stares at the murky drink. "Are you joking? So, you'll face down a three headed demon dog by yourself, channel magical powers beyond our wildest dreams, but you won't drink a cup of tea? Really?
She sighs. Well, when he puts it that way, what choice has she got? She puts the rim of the cup against her lips and says, "Did you really have to say it like that?"
Sazh laughs at her. "Yeah." He nods, pulls a piece of dried meat from his pack, sniffs it, scowls and takes a nibble. "Yeah I really think I kinda did," he says around a bite of food.
She nods again. Complex thoughts are far too much for her tapioca brain right now. So she just sips the tea and finds herself pleasantly surprised. It's not bad, actually. Either this is a different recipe than Vanille uses, or Sazh is just a better cook. It really doesn't matter. "So," she says offhandedly. "what happened?"
Sazh looks at the strip of meat in his hand with distaste. "Damn." He heaves a put-upon sigh. "I really hoped you wouldn't ask that question. Why do I always draw the short straw?"
She raises an eyebrow at him.
"Alright, don't get all uppity with me," he quips and she smirks. She can feel the drugs in the tea starting to kick in. The pain fades back into a hinting suggestion of its true self. Her tongue feels thick and her mouth is dry despite the drink she still sips. She stares into the dark abyss of the cup. So, this is the really good stuff then.
"Soldier?" The word interrupts her staring contest with the tea. She looks up at Sazh, sees the frown line across his brow and smiles at him. His face softens and he says, "Ah. So it's like that then is it?"
She giggles at him even though she doesn't get the joke. She sips the drink again, finds that it tastes great now. "What's in this?"
He beams at her. "Elixir."
"It's great!" Her words blur together. She looks back at him and finds that his features blur together too.
"Yeah, I'll bet it is." He plucks the cup from the cradle of her hands and she scowls at him. "Don't give me that look. You're already pie-eyed and you've only had half." He sticks a flask into her hands. "Drink some water."
She obliges him, but only because she has cotton mouth. Any minute her tongue might merge with the roof of her mouth permanently. She sips and says, "Well? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask again?"
Sazh blows out a breath. "I'm guessing you remember the hero getting himself nice and mangled." She can still smell the blood and hear the whimpers. She swallows and nods. "Well after that you went a little loony and attacked Cerberus. Of course you can't really kill it, what with it being an Eidolon and everything. But that didn't stop you from giving it the old college try."
She has no real memory of attacking the monster, but it certainly sounds like something she would do. She's not sure what to say.
"I'm not sure how you survived it, to be honest. I was a little busy trying to hold the hero's guts inside his body." His eyes glaze over. He shakes off the memory. "Turns out the last temple priest was a l'Cie, and Cerberus was his Eidolon."
Really? That seems like an awful lot of intel gathering for such a screwed situation. "How do you know that?"
"There's a story on the walls in the temple. Like the ones in the library. I have a slight advantage of being able to read that dead language." He sounds smug, but looks bitter. It's odd.
"Only this one was about Gabriel, the last priest of the temple. The carvings warn not to desecrate the temple, or try to steal. They swear that Cerberus would defend the temple as that was its master's final order."
"We didn't desecrate anything," she denies, then remembers the broken doors and decides that, yep, they really sort of, kind of did. And there goes her righteous indignation! "Oh. Never mind."
"Yeah 'oh!' We blew two sets of doors to hell, but oddly enough, that wasn't what summoned the Eidolon."
And he's lost her again, which is really no great surprise considering the fog swirling around in her brain. "Huh?"
"Yeah. You're gonna love this one. I know it I did!" He pauses, takes another bite. "It was the blood that woke it up." She racks her brain but doesn't remember any blood. Sazh continues,"You know, Snow's blood? From his nose bleed."
"So, Snow had a nose bleed and Cerberus tried to rip him apart." In what world did that make sense? She looks around. Apparently, Gran Pulse. She thinks she might hate this world after all.
"Uh, not quite." Her head hurts too much for this. She's not sure what happened, but she thinks she remembers something about her brain bleeding. Sazh needs to hurry this along. "Snow had a nose bleed all over you," he points at her, "and Cerberus tried to rip you apart. For wearing the blood of a comrade."
You know what the worst part about this revelation is? It doesn't even surprise her. At all. The world hates us. "That's..."
"Ridiculous?" Sazh finishes. "Yeah, we've already waxed all sorts of poetical about just how shitty our luck is."
She's certain they did since they got stuck dealing with two dying comrades over what amounted to a misunderstanding! This is never going to not piss her off. Ever!
"So Cerberus?"
"It's probably still in there waiting and guarding."
"What? For someone to come in and stub their toe?"
Sazh laughs. It's pretty bitter. "Whatever. But the good news is..." she raises an eyebrow at him and he shrugs and continues, "the GOOD news is that you did manage to...disable it, I guess. It disappeared to go wherever they go to recharge their batteries or whatever. So you saved the day again."
"Yeah." Right after I almost got everyone killed, I saved the day! Go me! "I'm a real hero." She can't work any inflection into her tone at all.
"Please, anything but that! One hero is more than enough for this group." Sazh punctuates his statement with a deep swallow of something that is definitely not water. "I think we've had about all the heroics we can stand."
She laughs, says "fair enough." Her headache nudges at her, reminds her that she's still quite damaged. She rubs her brow. "Can I have that tea back now?"
"Huh?" Sazh looks confused until she points at the mug next to him. "Oh sure. Sorry."
She sips the drink. It's lukewarm now, and she tastes all the more bitter for the tepid temperature. "And after that?"
He blows out a hard sigh. "I don't know what you did, but uh...I've been reading this book." He gestures to the book from her dreams.
Ragnarok.
The book. In all the insanity, she forgot about the book. "And? Anything useful?"
"Yeah, it's...a hell of a read." She waits him out and he doesn't disappoint. "But it's very dense. I haven't gotten through it all, but what I have read...well, it's a lot." She knows a stall tactic when she sees one. "It's a lot and you're all banged up so I'll give you the short-short version. It seems like every so often a l'Cie has the pleasure of being...imbued, I guess is the translation, with some shiny powers, so that he or she can invoke Ragnarok."
"And that's me." It's not a surprise. It doesn't even really bother her anymore.
"Well, look who's full of herself!" Sazh jokes and Lightning feels confused again. He smiles at her. "It's potentially you. Anyway, that doesn't matter. The reason we were able to pull off something no one should be able to pull off is precisely because that bastard fal'Cie decided we needed Ragnarok to destroy Cocoon."
"So because our focus was to become Ragnarok, we were all given some extra power?" She considers what he's saying and, even through her opiate fog, sees the irony. "Why does this feel like we're going to end up owing Anima our lives?"
"Let's not get carried away. Let's not forget that damn fal'Cie is the reason we're here in the first place." That's true. She doesn't really feel any better though. Go figure. "And that's just the short version. There's a lot more in here." She feels the drug working its way through her again, decides that the rest of the story can wait. She'd rather not think about the events that happened after the healing. She's still trying to wend her way out of the nightmare. She watches Sazh as he sinks into thought again. He's chasing his own demons now as he takes an absent bite of his jerky.
"So, Amina, huh?" Sazh almost chokes on his food and Lightning smiles into her cup, sips at the cooling tea to hide her humor. He looks at her with something akin to shock.
"You heard that, huh?" You'd think he'd know better than to underestimate her.
"I heard a lot," she confirms. Most of it was jumbled and nonsensical. Some wasn't. "There was a constant litany of words that sort of kept me grounded. And annoyed the crap out of me." Sazh laughs, as she hoped he would. "No really, those voices helped me figure out what was real and what wasn't. You all helped me find my way back."
"Well, that's..."
"You were right," she interrupts him. She doesn't want him to stammer or blush. And she doesn't want this to turn into some sap-fest. "I never would have asked."
Sazh's face twists up with wry humor. He nods, takes another bite of his food. "I know it. I'd like to think we all know each other pretty well by now."
Not that well.
She really is a terrible person. She's been travelling with this man for months. They've spent every moment of every day together. They've saved each other's lives repeatedly and she's never once asked him about his family. It never even occurred to her. She pretends that she didn't ask about his son for fear of making him uncomfortable and dredging up his grief. The truth is much uglier. It was never about his feelings, but her inability to deal with them. She never asked about his wife because she doesn't like to remember the dead. She has plenty of her own dead, and she refuses to think of them. This experience taught her the benefits of memory and knowledge. She can't help but be curious now about Sazh's life.
"So, what was she like?" If the question surprises him, he doesn't show it.
"She was wonderful. A kind and generous soul. But willful!" He chuckles. His eyes glaze over as he meanders into his memories. Then his face lights up, his eyes turn mischievous and he says, "And she would have hated you!"
She takes the sting in stride. She knows she deserves it. "So, she was a smart lady then."
"The smartest." Sazh laughs and says, "No you know what? I think she would have liked you a lot."
She finishes her drink, scowls at the dregs of cold sludge at the bottom of her cup, but feels the warmth of intoxication creeping back in. "Now you're just making fun."
"Nah. Now I'm being serious." She can see that he means it, and it makes her uncomfortable. "It would have taken some time, for sure. You come off pretty abrasive. "
Abrasive? Biggest. Understatement. Ever! He's such a gentleman.
"I mean, you would have had to grow on her," he finishes.
"As per usual," Lightning quips, trying to escape back into humor. Sazh gives a rough chuckle but refuses to be dissuaded from his sentimental trail.
"That's the truth." He grows serious. "But, yeah. She would have liked you a hell of a lot."
Lightning isn't sure why the statement hurts. Maybe it's the total open sincerity in Sazh's eyes and words. Maybe it's the fact that, until this whole nightmare began and she met these five people, no one has liked Lightning. Ever. Not really. Maybe Serah, but she thinks that's more obligatory love than actual like. You can't choose your family, after all. She imagines that if Serah could choose her family, she'd choose someone more like Vanille for a sister. She's not feeling sorry for herself here. She knows she's earned ass-loads of respect; she knows her men trust her with their lives, and that means a hell of a lot to her. It was always enough.
But no one likes her; not even her.
She looks around the camp and amends the thought. No one liked her until now. Because these people have seen her at her very worst. But she remembers their words-the conversations they'd had with her dying body and disappearing mind-and realizes that they all actually like her. Warts and all.
"You alright there Soldier?"
She clears her throat, tries to hide it in a hummed "Hmm?" She sniffs once and plasters on a smile. "I'm fine." She can feel the tears as a building pressure in her nose. She refuses to cry like some blubbering...girl. "Just tired."
She knows that Sazh knows she's lying. He's too kind to blow up her spot though. If she were being honest here, she'd say Sazh is the first person she's really liked at all in better than six years now. He is easy to like, where the rest of their little group took some acclimating. It's nice to see that, if nothing else, she has decent instincts about people. He's by far one of the best people she's ever met.
"You know, I think your wife was a real lucky lady." Sazh gives her a toothy smile that is completely incongruous with the genuine compliment she just paid him.
"You know what I think, Soldier?" Sazh asks, reaching over and plucking the empty cup from her hands. "I think that you, my friend, are a very happy drunk."
She scoffs. "What are talking about?"
"I can just see it." He stands up and stretches. "You, sitting in some bar all scowling and broody and unapproachable. Throwing death glares around." He attempts a parody of her glare, and ends up looking more like a cross eyed insect. She smiles.
"That is, until you have your first drink. Then the scowl melts away, you're hopping up on tables."
"Not a chance..." He talks right over her.
"Then you're all, 'I love you guys!'" He slurs the words and throws his arms out wide for effect before wrapping her into sloppy bear hug.
"Ass!" She laughs and shoves him away. He puts his hand over his heart and feigns a wounded look.
"I take it back then! You're a right bitch, as Fang would say." He winks at her.
She laughs once as Sazh drapes a blanket around her shoulders. "You know what, Soldier?"
"Hmm?"
"I think I'm getting tired of watching you almost die." He pats her shoulder. "You better start taking better care of yourself. Because frankly..." he pauses and waits for her to look into his eyes. She does and he says. "I can't stand the Hero!" Her jaw drops. His face is dead serious. If it weren't for the twinkle in his eye, she'd never catch the joke. "No, seriously. He's a nightmare when you're hurt. It's all this 'I'm such a failure' nonsense! And 'woe is me.' " She feels the laughter bubbling up. "'I'm a dumb blond!' I can't take it. And next time, I'm just warning you..." he wraps his fingers around her neck, leans close and says, "I'm going to shoot him."
She can't help it. She laughs.
"And believe me when I tell you that I'd only do it to protect him from Fang. That woman was talking about beating him to death if he didn't shut up. I think there was a plot going on."
"Vanille would never hurt Snow. She wouldn't hurt a fly!" Lightning slurs around her clumsy, drugged tongue.
"Oh no! Not Vanille."
"Don't even try and tell me Hope was in on it! I'll never believe you then." She blatantly ignores that Hope tried to kill Snow back in Palumpolum.
"Nah! The hero's grown on the kid like some sort of fungus."
"So, who's the co-conspirator?"
Sazh puts a finger over his lips, points at his hair and whispers, "The chocobo."
She can't help it. She melts into girlish giggles. "I'm telling you! It's true. It's a good thing you woke up."
She giggles away, rests her head on Sazh's shoulder as he continues to tell her about how he had to thwart the murderous plot that Fang and his Chocobo chick hatched.
She slips back to sleep with a smile on her face, for once not worried about what dreams may come.
TBC... in 2011!
Notes: First-Yes, the subtitle 'Conversations with Dead People' IS a nod to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. While season 7 in general...well, sucked to be honest, I liked that episode and I loved the show in general. And the title just felt fitting for this chapter.
Next: I know that Episode Zero (Still haven't read it) had the story of Lightning's parents in it and I apologize to anyone who holds that canon as gospel. You're going to have to get over canon a bit for this one since this is an AU. I will promise you that I don't bend or discard canon unless it serves a purpose in the framework of the story. Sounds odd considering I've basically retold in-game events, but I try to do it while respecting the original story. I consider this story an expansion on a rated T game.
And finally, I searched high and low to see if Sazh's wife had a name-I couldn't find one. That bothers me a lot. It always feels like laziness on the part of the creators. If you're going to go to the trouble of giving the man a dead wife, is it really too much to give said dead wife a name? If there is a name out there under some unturned stone, I apologize for taking the liberty of naming her. But I tried to pick a nice one for her, and keep with some Final Fantasy traditions.
**Amina is a name with African, Arabic and Swahili origins. The African origins say it means Peaceful, Secure. The Arabic and Swahili meanings are both Truthful and Trustworthy. Plus, it is an anagram of Anima-the fal'Cie responsible for setting our little heroes on this terrible and wonderful path. So I hope you like my choice for her. I decided that a man like Sazh deserved a wonderful woman. (I would say he's my very favorite *grins* but I really do love them all.) I hope that's pretty clear by now.
I will once again take this opportunity to assure you that there is NO romance in this story. If anything, this is a story of the bonds of family and friendship. And if I had to tell you that in order for you to know it, I should stop writing right now because I've just wasted 9 months of my life writing nearly 400 pages!
This is it for the year. I'm tapped out. I tried to end the year with a feel good moment for you all (and me too.) Enjoy whichever holiday you celebrate. Have a Safe and Happy New Year! Try to stay warm (and for anyone in the Southern Hemisphere-stay cool). It's frigging cold here! My Aunt told me that it was 23 degrees F in ORLANDO Florida this week. That's ridiculous!
Questions, concerns?
Last Note: Anyone looking for a good deed? Adopt a US Troop and show our soldiers that we appreciate them! You can find information on the Soldier Support Project dot Org backslash Adopt_a_Troop.