Brevin rested his forehead against one meaty fist and leaned against the thick glass window in his office, gazing over the city below him.
These past few months had been terrible for everyone. Fear and mistrust had settled over the city like some miasma that nothing could quite clear. Citizens were not quite as lively and open as they'd once been, preferring instead, to stay home and avoid strangers.
The most obvious reminder of Zanarkand's troubles were the giant field generator towers that were going up in intervals scattered throughout the city. Built quickly, they lacked the finesse and style of the usual new constructions. They thrust into the sky in mute accusation, and everyone he knew tried to ignore them, as best they could.
Brevin turned from the window and sighed. The Children's Hall was at capacity at the moment, what with the disaster that had fallen, and Brevin was hard pressed to keep up with the paperwork and legalities. It was his job to make sure that each child was indeed without any living family, before having them officially declared wards of the city.
His desk, never the most organized at the best of times had turned into a paper nightmare. Brevin picked up a sheaf of papers and looked at them with little interest. He'd not been home in almost three days, and he was tired.
The vidcasters had been chirruping about how the citizens could help the city by maintaining their regular schedules, and remaining calm. Brevin snorted. Everyone he knew was feeling a bit wary and frustrated. The government was scrambling, and everyone knew it. Those weapons that had been used were terrifying...like the hand of some vengeful god, come to call. Some said that that was exactly what had happened, that Bevelle's god had decided that they were to be wiped off the planet.
Psht. He wiped his hand across his worn face and yawned, tossing the papers back onto his desk. Some people would believe anything, if it was dramatic enough. He just hoped that this new energy field would perform as they hoped. If it could keep those bastards on the outside, he was fine with it.
I need some air, he thought.
He snagged his coat from the back of his chair and headed for the lift. He shrugged in to the coat, and ran his hand half-heartedly through his hair, in a vain attempt to tame it.
A short time later found him walking down the primary walkway that led to the District; the business sector where most of the office towers and governmental centers were housed.
He stalked down the walkway, fists jammed in his coat pockets in a manner guaranteeing the coat would be permanently stretched out of shape.
Passing harried business men and women, busily going about whatever they did, he wondered how they could just ignore the reality around them.
Zanarkand was at a crossroads. Couldn't they see that? Life would forever be, 'before the attacks' and 'after the attacks.'
Now was the time that would forever shape the future. Yet, how it would be shaped was up to them. And it seemed that no one wanted to admit that. Everyone was content, thinking that if they ignored it, it would all just fade away, like some sort of bad dream.
Brevin snorted.
His feet carried him out of the District and down into the lower levels of the city, where the less fortunate common citizens worked and lived. He'd grown up, here, among the working class. Those who lived in the towers sometimes forgot about them. Out of sight, out of mind.
At least Deena was working on changing that. Brevin smiled to himself. Deena was amazing. She worked tirelessly for those who needed a champion. She put in long hours at the Hall, working with the children, and then went home and fought paper battles with the government to better the status of the common citizen.
First Minister of the Citizens. She should be proud of herself, he thought, mouth quirking.
It wasn't until he heard the faint sounds of some raucous dance music that his feet paused. He looked up and was a bit surprised to find himself in the lower entertainment sector. Here were the bars and dance halls, interspersed among vidshops, and gambling sites. The dress code was a bit more...unique...here, and Brevin, dressed as he was, stood out like a sore thumb.
He plucked at his shirt, thinking about it, and finally waved a hand at his own foolishness. So what if they stared at him. People had been staring at him for years. With his bulk, and blunt manner, people stared at him wherever he went. He chuckled, dryly, and went in to the bar.
The cool air settled over him like a cloak, and he sighed, appreciatively. He strolled up to the bar, and settled on a likely stool. The bartender raised a brow and came over, setting down the glass he'd been wiping.
"What would do ya?" he said, smiling a little.
"Eh. Still working. I'll take a fruit water." Brevin grinned and rolled his eyes, acknowledging the foolishness of getting a fruit water at a bar, but there it was. The bartender grinned back at him, shaking his head, and turned to get what he'd ordered.
Brevin turned and surveyed the crowd. Mostly working stiffs, a few 'working women', and the odd visitor, enjoying the sights.
Visitors and outlanders were rare, lately. Word had spread that Bevelle had attacked Zanarkand, and the tourist trade had dropped off appreciably. No one wanted to risk being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Brevin could understand the feeling.
The bartender returned with his drink, into which he'd put a brightly colored umbrella and a cherry. Brevin looked at his drink, and then at the bartender who shrugged and grinned at him, before turning back to his glassware. Brevin plucked the offending umbrella out and dropped it on the bar, before sipping at his drink.
"I tell ya true, it's gonna be useless to trade here, soon enough!" a rough voice proclaimed loudly, from behind him. Brevin turned, wondering if the speaker was addressing him.
In the corner, at a table populated with a group of sailors, was a grizzled old man who was obviously several drinks into the night. He leaned forward and addressed his companions, gravely. "They're spreading the word, ya know. 'No one is to help Zanarkand,' sez they. They got those weapons, and they ain't afraid ta use 'em, ya know?" His fellows, nodded, obviously familiar with this diatribe.
Brevin frowned and listened, carefully.
"Soon enough, they'll stop all the ships from coming to port, and then what? We be the on'y ones coming in..they'll kill us for sure!" the old man muttered, darkly. His companions murmured and muttered in agreement.
A blockade? Or an embargo? Brevin wondered. Zanarkand wasn't entirely dependant on imports, of course, but the idea behind it was insidious. It would isolate Zanarkand even more than she already was. He wondered if the airship captains had been warned off, too. No wonder the tourist trade had dropped...
Brevin drained his glass in one long swallow, and set his money on the bar, waving to the bartender as he got up.
He supposed that the government probably knew about it, but it couldn't hurt to mention it to Deena, just in case.
Damn, he thought to himself. It never ends, does it?
