Max Velocity

Introduction: The difference between falling and flight

An hour too late

Author's intro note: Closer to the stairway timeline than anything else around, I've wanted to slip this in the archive for the last few months… but never got aroudn to it. I thought I'd put it in "Brimstone" but after a while figured it would better serve as a standalone not in the cross over section, piece.

Gravity and weight are constant; it's proven that a feather and a rock will fall at the same rate if dropped at the same time. This phenomenon is called maximum velocity. When enough distance and time pass weight and mass no longer serve as deterrents or accelerators. There's simply the pull of gravity, and the free fall occurring, the rush of resistance serves as a wind of our making, our screams all the turbulence we'll ever need.

Yet, to fall, to truly fall, we must be pushed. To leap is to come to delusion's call, to test wings feathered in illusion, to try tendons and muscles against emptiness that are not. Such a leap does not lead to falling. Each failed flight leads to awakening. For in that final moment, before impact, the eyes surely are wrenched open by whipping winds and encroaching earth draws the gaze.

And, as is the natural cycle of things, the earth reclaims its own, snatching it's stray child from sky to mothering… smothering earth. Then, the Stream intercedes, sweeping up the mortal debris and dust, and all becomes one again…

Thus life moves on.

Staring down at the fast dissolving carrion, Tseng of the Turk's let out a tired sight. Black eyes were rimmed with green as the broken form before him dissolved; fireless flame licked the carrion's edges, smearing the shadows and features until the once vaguely familiar face is but a green tinted blur. In bits and pieces, the stream of light picks up pace, in bits and pieces the boy's matter breaks down and the clothes begin to sag. Last to go is the face, blurred and forgotten, an oval wreathed in green threads, it unravels without features, and to that he sighs. The retreating threads of green slither ab0out him then, pass him by, never touching, never to be tasted, no matter how close he draws, no matter how deep a breathe he indulged, it evades him.

So he stands, curiosity assuaged for a time.

Brushing off grit from his black pants, Tseng blinks back the burning of his black eyes. This one was young, disturbingly so. Of similar height, similar build, had the hair been few hues lighter… he'd have worried.

Ignorant of his thoughts, driven by instinct, his hand dove into the pocket. Idly he caressed the blunted edges of his Turk issued phone. Though the facts were neatly compiled, the unreasoning doubt remained. One more, one action, and he could banish that fear. Confirmation never hurt…

But he was a Turk, the facts were compiled, the signs aligned. Confirmation of what was, was a waste. A waste of time, off money, and in extreme cases it could cause a waste of lives. Confirmation was not relevant, not needed, therefore he restrained himself. The hand that would have opened the phone, turned it on, found the off switch.

One flip later and the phone was off, a rarity for him, but a reaffirmation of sorts. You break policy, you're punished, it goes without saying, and no one was exempt. Not even the President's most prized, head of the Turks would go unpunished. And… never mind he punished himself, he was not above anything, and it did him well to remember that. Shoving the phone deep, wishing he couldn't feel its edges against his leg, Tseng brushed off debris form the sidewalk of his immaculate pants.

While not on the job… he had been called out. A neighbor had heard screams, sounds of a fight an hour ago. Silence then, one final scream, and his phone had rung. A courtesy call, really. SOLDIER was to be sent a mere building away from where Tseng resided, he'd intercepted that order, taken the job without a care how it would make him late. Idle thoughts, about how he could find the root of the racket from days before and perhaps muffle it had been at the foremost of his mind.

Now, he was on the scene an hour too late. Perhaps years too late. Something had broken some subtle nascence of sanity if a child thought flight was an option. Silently the Turk contemplated the pile of clothes that took the place of carrion on Gaia. Black eyes distant, he tried to recall the boy, what he looked like. Surely he'd seen the boy, estranged as he was from those who lived about him; he made a point of recalling names and faces.

Professional tic, obsessive compulsive, a sign of his eroding sanity perhaps, but he should have known, perhaps he did…

But in that moment, all he could recall was what the boy had reminded him of.

There'd been screams before, fights so loud it had woken him from sleep between shifts. He hadn't cared, taken the creed of all of Midgar and stated "it's not my problem" and had walked away and that was that.

Now one child was dead, in the background a mother wailed, a father grieved.

What did I do wrong? Oh Go, oh God, take it back!

The cries were the same, the circumstance forgotten in the first flush of grief. Once divided, the parents would grieve as one, than per the norm of their patterns they'd turn on each other. Blame against blame, bitter loss to bright hate. It was a familiar cycle, he'd seen (or more honestly heard) its tamer cycles in saner times even as this child had lived it's cycles.

Had lived and endured until living was no longer an option. The sky had beckoned and the child had answered, seeking flight with invisible wings.

There was nothing to do here, nothing he could do. Closing black eyes, he tried to recall the child's name if nothing else. Nothing came, and because he wanted he did not receive. That was the norm of matters on a planet that was inherently savage, utterly unfair.

Setting his tie, settling it and his thoughts he turned on his heel, hands idly descending into a pocket, ready to call to report, to call and confirm…

He stopped himself, a moment before the thoughtless motion was complete. He was on punishment detail, furthermore, whom was he to report to? Himself? Smirking at that inane thought, the Turk didn't quite chuckle, didn't quite laugh. It would be disrespectful to not the fallen, but the living. Those who grieved nearly a flight and half turn above deserved more than a cold chuckle from a man utterly unmoved by the death of their only child.

He'd put the information in the appropriate file, run it by the statistic labs in human relations, and leave his efforts at that.

It was all he honestly cared to do, so it's all he would do, and he'd leave it at that.

Still, some idle corner worried, wondered, and asked.

What was the child's name?

He'd get his answers at the office, he knew the parent's names he'd check their family history and drum up his answer. That idle curiosity could be easily remedied, than he'd get on with his day.

Still, like a disquiet ghost, the question returned, redoubled.

"What was his name, and why does he remind me of-"

Snapping a hand into his pocket, he gripped the silent phone, nearly crushed it. The pain of blunted edges against the callouses of his palm was as nothing, the soft crackle of software and hardware protesting was warning enough that he had to stop. For a moment his grip remained, the crackle deepened to a near snap, and to that he relented. When his hand withdrew it was scarred with blockish red lines that had nothing of scars to their history but ached regardless. Still, he had cure material on him, he could do something for the pain.

In the end though, he did nothing.

This was his punishment detail after all.