Knowing does no good if people don't listen;
Bad food, bad boss; Girl's got a secret;
That's my bird; Insults fly before fists; An understanding is reached
Shera ran a hand through her ponytail and winced at the dry crackle of static. She'd never actually had to live at the Midgar Airbase before, and she was turning out to hate it. Rocket Town had been hot and dry-summered, but the Midgar Wastes were a whole new category of arid. The weather was not the only reason for her unhappy mood - she'd been working here for two weeks now, and she hadn't made any discernible progress.
She'd observed in the first week and started making suggestions in the second - how to fix this, ways to improve that. She worked hard at her assigned tasks, too. Cid and Barret, in their own rough, blunt ways, had charisma; Shera lacked it. If the other engineers were going to listen to her opinion, it had to be because they respected her abilities. They spoke well of her, that was something. Even now, as she stood in front of one of the giant fans that barely kept the huge metal shed a tolerable temperature, enjoying the breeze it provided, she could overhear two of her coworkers standing outside discussing her.
"A bonafide genius," one said, and she blushed. She only appeared to be a genius because of the unexplainable age-regression and her cover story making her look like a fifteen-year-old without higher education, who knew as much or more than they did.
"It's too bad she won't last," the other unseen engineer said wryly. "Weapons Department is definitely going to steal her."
A chuckle. "Or she'll burn out. Seen that happen before."
Shera frowned. That was the problem, right there, in the tone of their voices and their resigned words. She couldn't get through. No matter how good her advice, her coworkers never took it, too worn down by the endless demands on their time and energy to try anything new.
She moved away from the fan to her desk, situated smack in the middle of the work area, farthest from the fans around the walls. The newbie's desk. The air that reached the center of the shed was already stale and hot again, and a bead of sweat splashed onto the papers she gathered there. Arms full, she retreated quickly to a side shed attached to the larger building. Here the corrugated iron walls had been insulated with clay tiles, arranged with hairpin precision. A water barrel stood in one corner of the shed and a thin black tube crawled up the wall from it, around the edge of the ceiling. Even as Shera entered, the pump submerged in the barrel activated and a fine water vapor filtered down, cooling the air and seeping into the tiles. The scientist turned her face up gratefully to feel the mist on her dry skin and chapped lips.
The blonde, bespectacled woman in a lab coat seated at the room's large desk also lifted her head, smiling. "Shera, finally got those forms?"
The one thing Shera thought had gone well in her time here was being taken under Dr. Ines Belfarre's wing. The woman, though obviously younger than in Shera's memories, was still kind, intense, and extremely passionate about her work.
Disgruntled with the slow progress, she turned to the one person who paid her suggestions any attention. "Ines, why does no one want to improve things here?"
Ines pushed her glasses back into place and took the pile of forms from Shera's arms. "That's an oversimplification - I certainly try to exceed my own prior efforts." She frowned at the papers. "Why does this have Qator's signature? I thought Darill was the one requesting this."
Shera shrugged. "It was what was on my desk. And I mean, on an institutional level, why is no one trying to streamline our processes? Why is there so much inefficiency and waste?"
The lead engineer waved a disgusted hand at the stack of forms. "Well, here's one reason. I designed a new type of spark plug for Darill in the Falcon, and here I've got a requisition to put them in Qator's new ship - which isn't more than a skeleton yet! It's completely backwards! These are for Darill!"
She shoved the forms to the side, sneering. "Whether it's bureaucracy or bias, someone erred, and I can't do anything about the plugs until it gets cleared up. Hand me that compass, will you?"
The drafting tool was sitting in a heap of glinting silver instruments, and Shera plucked it out carefully and passed it over. "So, the red tape bogs everyone down until they don't want to try anymore?"
Ines drew a long, careful series of arcs. "It's certainly part of it. A lot of them were just like you when they arrived, fresh-faced and starry-eyed, but constantly fighting the city paper-pushers for permission, or gil, or just battling through the paperwork is an exhausting business. Or sometimes we get someone so brilliant even those nose-in-the-air Science or Weapon Departments can see their worth and poach them, and that hurts morale for the rest of us." She glanced up at Shera, hazel eyes half-seen behind her glasses. "You'll probably be approached at some point; I hope you won't go."
Shera nodded, thoughtful. She wouldn't, of course. Her work was here, she was just uncertain how to proceed. In Rocket Town's heyday, things had always been hurry-up-and-wait until in a blink of an eye it was done. After Shinra all but abandoned them, everything went at the pace of treacle, unless Cid was feeling particularly nasty and going around lighting fires under asses. After Meteor, as they took charge of themselves and began their own projects, their progress had been consistent, electric with the excitement of their new beginning. Here at the Midgar airfield, projects proceeded at a crawl until you got a note saying you should have finished yesterday, and then it was all hands on deck and working round the clock.
Maybe she wasn't getting results here because she was only focusing on pointing out problems. What she wanted to do was make improvements. She looked at the plans being sketched under Ines's careful hands. It was an improved design for the small Valfarre planes. A number of pilots were complaining of mako leaks causing the fighters to stutter and sometimes stall midair. The leaks were minute, so the problems weren't caused by running out of the fuel, but refined mako was corrosive over long periods, and though the mechanics did their best to stay on top of the damage, some planes were clearly being overlooked.
She gestured toward the paper. "Wouldn't a magitech engine work nicely here?" The ancient airship Cid had excavated and refurbished as the Shera ran on a materia-powered engine. Cloud had borrowed and simplified the design to put in Fenrir, and back home Cid had been retrofitting the same simplified magitech engine into the Tiny Bronco.
Ines chuckled. "You keep trying to build one of those. Alright, go ahead. You've got my permission. This'll be an ideal learning experience. Fill out your request form for the material you'll need." She nodded over her shoulder to a filing cabinet, then grinned wryly up at Shera. "Good luck."
The papers Shera needed were in the second drawer, and she looked around for a clear space to begin writing on. Ines gestured to just shove things aside, so Shera moved an incomplete engine from a high bench, wiped away the oil stains, and pulled up a three-legged stool. "Isn't developmental research in the budget?" Shinra manufactured its own materia - the magic crystals were expensive, yes, but surely a few could be spared?
"You would think," Ines answered, using a ruler to carefully space tiny numbers on her Valfarre sketch, "but Palmer doesn't care enough to fight for us, so if the folks in the Science Department say no, your bright idea dies on the vine."
"Sloppy management," she groused.
Ines half-smiled. "Full of suggestions for that too, huh?"
That was an opening Shera couldn't overlook. She set down her pen and turned to look straight at Ines, waiting until the other woman met her eyes. She needed this to have an impact. "The department can barely function. It should be changed." She waited for just a breath and asked, "If you could have anyone in charge, who would it be?"
She already knew what Ines' answer would be. A black-framed picture of the Falcon's captain had been tucked gently into a drawer of the engineer's desk in Rocket Town, years on from the accident. Dr. Belfarre needed to say it aloud though, solidify it, make it a platform for Shera to campaign from.
Ines, for her part, didn't hesitate. "Darill. She cares about Air and Space, both the people and the job. She'd fight for us, not roll over like Palmer."
"Then why not push to get her as department head? Everyone here seems to dislike Palmer. I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to get rid of him."
Ines shook her head. "You're so mature, I sometimes forget you're only fifteen. Palmer has his roots too deep. I'd like to nurture your dreams, Shera, but if you dream too big, you'll get shot down."
Shera took the warning and dropped the subject, and Ines said nothing more about it. The other scientist was quiet as she worked, though, and Shera was certain the idea was brewing in the brilliant mind behind the gold-rimmed spectacles.
Over the next week, she mentioned the notion to a number of the more receptive researchers and engineers, sliding it subtly into conversation. For the most part, they dismissed it as wishful thinking. Occasionally someone would entertain the idea as an enjoyable what-if scenario. She didn't know whether her careful planting of hints was working, but she was unsure what else she could do. She kept on with it and was gratified one lunchtime to hear a cluster of her coworkers bring it up and discuss it on their own.
Building support for Darill was only half of their problem. She, Cid and Barret still hadn't figured out how to get close enough to Palmer to do away with him. It was unlikely he'd come out to the airbase, but their odds of being called to a high enough floor in Shinra HQ to spot him seemed even poorer. Surely, when the chance came, it would be unlooked for and unexpected. Timing would be critical - they had to be able to get away from the scene of the crime, and the department would have to be behind Darill one hundred percent to push her ahead of the Board's choice. They were a long way from that yet. Barret reported a lot of love for Darill among the mechanics - the pilot took great care with her ship and was friendly to its ground crew - but according to Cid, the pilots were being difficult. Including Darill herself.
Musing over the issue, she almost ran into little Dajh exiting Ines' office. He was being shepherded along by Marlene, the girl waving over her shoulder at the lead engineer. "Thank you so much for the stories, Dr. Belfarre!" She closed the door gently behind her, then her eyes widened as she saw Shera standing just outside. "Oh! Shera! Hi!"
"Hello Marlene, Dajh. What are the two of you doing here?"
The girl gave her an impish smile, white teeth twinkling against her increasingly olive skin. "Working on something!"
"And what's that?" Shera tried to keep her voice light, concealing her surge of anxiety. What was Marlene up to?
Both kids giggled. "It's a secret," Dajh grinned. He had two new teeth growing in.
"Oh?"
"Yep," they chirped in unison.
"You are keeping out of trouble, right?"
They nodded. "Uh-huh."
She looked at them dubiously. It was possible this was entirely innocent, but Marlene had a certain mischievous sparkle that belied that hope. "Okay then." She couldn't ask Marlene anything more, not with Dajh standing right there, and her coworkers not ten feet away. She'd have to save her interrogation for later. "You two should get back to the fort."
They skipped off - skipped! Shera shook her head. She'd met Marlene several times before all this, visiting at Seventh Heaven, and always thought her a sweet, thoughtful girl. The closer quarters of the past month had revealed a stubborn and devious side Shera had never expected. Entering Ines's office, she apologized to her busy boss. "I'm sorry if my sister was bothering you at all."
"It's fine, it's fine. She and Dajh are cute kids." The researcher was wearing a pair of telescoping goggles, peering into the guts of a Valfarre engine.
"May I ask what they were after?"
"Oh, stories about the airship pilots."
"About the pilots?" What could Marlene possibly be up to for that to be a secret?
"Yes. I told them about how Darill saved my life."
"She did?" Shera hadn't known that. In fact, in all the years she'd worked alongside her, she'd never learned why Ines had admired Darill so much. She had thought it might have been because women in positions of power were rare at Shinra. Both Darill and Ines were at or near the peaks of their respective hierarchies, inspiring other women to keep attempting the climb. Inspiring Shera, once upon a time.
"That aside, have your request forms been answered yet?"
Shera groaned, and Ines laughed.
Aircraft weren't Barret's main thing, but he knew enough about the contraptions to get by. Years of friendship with Cid coming in handy at last. Making repairs and doing tune-ups wasn't so bad. Reloading the guns and bombs, though, was always like twisting a knife into his own guts. Most of these planes were headed for Wutai, after all. Yuffie's country. Shinra picking another fight for its own profit. He could still remember the sound of the Gelnikas' rotors as they flew over Corel, and the explosions as the bombs fell. Even a mile away on the ridgeline, he'd felt them rumble in the ground below his feet.
His arm twinged where the metal met flesh, and he rubbed it absently, leaving a black smudge of oil on the silver metal. Some of the survivors of Corel had hated him - Barret had pushed for Shinra's reactor the hardest. He'd hated himself too, and spent years burying that guilt under rage. It wasn't that long ago that he'd finally acknowledged and conquered that pain.
"Arm bothering you?" Tillo asked. Second youngest of the Mog brothers, the platinum blond's head didn't even reach Barret's waist. He was a skilled mechanic, often working on the airships, a job only the best got.
"Nah, it's fine." He flipped down the last clasp holding the ammunition feeds steady. "Come on, time for lunch."
They walked together towards the concrete mess hall, Barret having to slow his steps so Tillo could keep up. The small man seemed very content to walk in his shadow, blocked from the blazing sun. When he opened the door, they were hit with a cold blast of air designed to keep the heat, flies, and dust from entering the building. Despite its practical purpose, he didn't like it. It felt like a bucket of ice water freezing his sweat to his skin. Still, after the initial shock to the system, the hall was a lot better than the hot hell outside.
Grabbing a tray, he eyed the scant choices suspiciously. When Cid said the food here sucked, he hadn't been kidding. His exact words had been, "Chow line's like a deep fried sewage buffet." It was all fried, fatty, processed food with sugary syrups they called drinks to wash it down with. The choices today were: breaded and fried cokatolis, fried elfadunk in gravy, hedgehog pie pie with gravy, refried beans, baked beans, beans and onions in gravy, fried onions, fried capperwire, instant potatoes with gravy, and chocolate brick cake.
He wasn't sure if he should be upset or grateful there wasn't any of the over-boiled veggie mix. The stuff was a bland mush, but it had become a staple in his diet the last week, being the only thing with any actual nutrients to offer. Grabbing some of the cokatolis, capperwire, and the beans and onions, he stomped over to an open table. The thought of Marlene having to eat this crap always put him in a bad mood.
When Myrna got sick, he'd had to learn how to cook. He'd asked around town for good, healthy recipes to build her strength up, and then he'd kept on with it for Marlene's sake. He'd sworn to do right by Dyne's little girl. Tifa cooked too, better than him for sure. She'd hate this slop. Cloud wouldn't - boy would eat anything put in front of him
He and Tillo were joined by some of the other mechanics, including Tillo's brothers Roe, Mune and Sid. Sid wasn't a mechanic but a pilot - must be pretty confusing in that branch now, with Sid, Cid, and Cid. He scowled in disgust as they dug into their hedgehog pie pies, pale brown gravy oozing out of holes in the chalky crust.
"Yo, Sid. Do the other groups in Shinra eat the same shit we do or are we just gettin' the scrapin's off the bottom of the barrel?"
"Hmm," the little man looked up, dabbing at his face with a paper napkin. It left white, papery flecks around his mouth. "Well, I think the army in Wutai gets the same as us, and the remote outposts. SOLDIERs have different rations, I believe. Junon's got good food and it depends on what cafeteria you go to in Midgar."
Roe, the gossip, added on. "Executives get the best, of course, but you can bribe the cooks in the civilian cafeteria at HQ to make you something better. Rumor has it they even have a secret menu."
"Think we can bribe our cooks?" another mechanic asked. The group at the table laughed.
A voice behind him joked, "To cook what? Hedgehog pie pies that you don't have to pick spines out of?"
"Mustadio!" Tillo exclaimed while the others at the table made room for the younger Bunansa. "Are you and your father finished with the Blackjack?"
"Almost. We want to go over it one more time before clearing it for flight." He also made a face at his plate before scooping some beans up. "Setzer's very reckless."
Sid rolled his eyes. "All those airship hotshots are."
"You can say that again," Barret grumbled. "Hey, Mustadio, how'd you and your dad end up working here? Mean, your dad doesn't seem the type to put up with the shit we get out here."
The young man sighed. "He isn't. Keeps talking about how he wants to go back to having his own garage."
"Why don't he?"
"Can't compete with Shinra." Mustadio shrugged. "They've got as much a monopoly on vehicles as they do on mako, you know, and if you want to work on their stuff, you've got to have one of their licenses, and you have to pay fees. They put so many restrictions on you, it's easier to just give up and work for them."
Some of the others nodded. Seemed like the Bunansas weren't the only ones working for Shinra because they had no other choice. "Yeah," said one. "These days, nearly every shop is a Shinra affiliate. It's the only way to stay in business."
"Why come on out here to the airfield, then?" Barret pressed. "If you'd stayed home and worked for 'em, seems like at least you'd get better food." He got brief, dry laughs for that.
A woman answered. "Here, we might work for the enemy, but at least we haven't given up our shops to them. That's… like a sort of betrayal." Around the table, heads bobbed in agreement.
So they thought of Shinra as an enemy, he could use that. "Screw you over if you work for them, screw you over if you don't."
"Pretty much."
"And you all just lay back and take it?"
"Not much else we can do," Mustadio answered.
"Maybe not 'gainst the full company, but how 'bout just out here on the airfield?"
"Like what, go on strike?"
Talking about that so soon was a little dangerous when they'd barely even been here for a full week. Some of the men at the table were already shooting him warning glances. To lighten the mood, he pushed his plate away and grinned. "We could all fake food poisonin' until they get us some better shit to eat." It had the desired effect, they laughed and the tension broke. But it was out there now - Mustadio had said the word himself. "Strike". It only took a few stones to get an avalanche going.
It was another week before he started purposefully poking people's buttons. First with the ones he knew were disillusioned with Shinra, just working for a paycheck with no loyalty to the company. He recruited Roe to spread some rumors, too. It was easy - he told the man he'd heard some office workers gossiping about Palmer embezzling money, and the gossip had taken the information and run with it. To say the airfield was unhappy with the boss was an understatement.
By the end of the third week, he'd started to bring up Darill. What'd be the point of Palmer stepping down if someone just as clueless got put in charge? What they needed was someone who knew what it was like out here, how the place ran. Who could make the right changes. The lady knew her shit, unlike Palmer or any other paper-pusher in Midgar. She knew what they needed and wouldn't settle for less.
Some folk mentioned support for Qator. Another pilot, he was slated to be the next airship captain. His ship was already under construction, finishing within a year. He and Darill both had reputations for looking after those around them, in the air and on the ground. Both cut dashing figures in the long coats of airship pilots, and both were incredibly skilled at their jobs. Trouble with Qator was, the man was damned loyal to Shinra. When his name came up, Barret reminded them as best he could that Qator despised politics - give him orders and he was happy to follow them to the letter, but only Darill could handle improvising socially. They needed someone like that to fight the board for them, someone who could react fast and make her own decisions.
He was in the middle of one such half-argument, still framed purely as a what-if, when he saw Marlene, Dajh and one of the older kids heading out to the airship landing field. The older boy seemed to be carrying a tripod and camera. Curious, he pulled out of the argument and headed after them. They moved quickly through the rows of hangars, huge half-cylinders with the heat bouncing back and forth off the metal walls.
The kids ended up down at the far end of the tarmac, and the eldest set the camera up. Barret'd almost caught up to them when a wind-blasted up. He turned to look up the landing strip, holding up an arm to shield his eyes from the blowing grit and gravel. The Highwind came roaring in, making a noise like a Bahamut summoning, and then, gentle as a feather, set lightly down in its spot amongst the other airships. The corner of Barret's mouth turned up. Didn't matter what age he was, Cid was a damn showoff. Ahead of him, he could hear Marlene asking excitedly, "Did you get it?"
"Yeah, that was perfect."
He called over. "Yo, what you kids up to, huh?"
"Da- Barret!" Marlene ran up and hugged him.
"Hey, you." He hugged her back. "So, what's up?"
"We're working on something," she grinned.
"Issa secret," Dajh added.
Secret, huh? "This the same secret something Shera was tellin' us 'bout the other night?"
"Yep!"
"And when d'we get to know?"
The kids looked cautiously at each other. "Soon?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Soon. How soon we talkin'?"
Again, they looked at each other. "Um, we've already started. We don't want people to know it's us though. Not yet."
Now he was worried. What the hell could the kids be up to?
"It ain't dangerous, is it?"
"NO!" All three were adamant, shaking their heads and waving their hands.
"Then why?"
"Because we're kids," the oldest said. "Adults don't listen to us." The boy probably felt like he could talk frankly with Barret since he seemed only a few years older.
"Can I be let in on the secret?"
The boys looked like they might share, but Marlene beat them to it. "Nope."
"Marlene," he said sternly. They weren't playing no game here. She looked stubbornly up at him, and his PHS rang, calling him back to one of the garages. He gave her a warning look as he left. He'd get her to tell him tonight.
"So, Marlene's got a project going on?"
"She won't tell me, Cid. I'm worried. What if she gets into trouble?"
"Where's the little gidget now?"
"Barret's picking her up from the fort."
It hadn't taken Cid long to realize the reason he'd never heard of the daycare before was because nobody called it that - it was "the fort". That wasn't the only thing he'd noticed, now that he had his head out of his own ass. Paying attention had shown him that besides there being loads of kids and pets running around base, air base society was deeply stratified. Scientists hung with scientists, mechanics sat with mechanics, and pilots talked mainly to other pilots. Hadn't noticed it before, but that was 'cause lots of folks had more than one job, like Brother.
And because of that, talk took a while to get going. Unless a special effort was made, what was common knowledge in one clique might never reach the ears of anyone else. Air & Space's perennially cash-strapped nature was assumed to just be the way things were. Pilots knew the money wasn't coming to them and assumed it was going to research. Research figured it was being poured into the airships. Everybody knew it wasn't going into their paychecks, or into the airbase's creaking infrastructure. But now, Barret, Shera, and Cid had each told the biggest gossips in their individual divisions that they'd heard the money was lining Palmer's oversized pockets, and at last the rumor was spreading faster than a detonation through a pack of bombs. Fucking depressing knowing that if they'd just shut up and talked with each other earlier, the shitbag might not have been in charge for so long and every single one of the damn casualties they'd had because of the fucking failing infrastructure could have been avoided.
A key turned in the lock and Barret brought a pouting Marlene into the small and spartan apartment. The little girl sat down in a huff, crossing her arms and scowling. Barret, still standing by the door, wore almost the exact same expression. Cid snorted. The two were so damn similar, it was hilarious.
Shera, fretting, poured tea in the huffy silence. Marlene frowned at the steaming cup handed to her, and Barret waved his away entirely. "Drink your damn tea," Cid told him, and in a milder voice to Marlene, "Nothing better than a cuppa', ankle-biter."
Barret took a resentful sip and sighed explosively. "Marlene, with what we're doing here, ya can't be runnin' 'round behind our backs doin' stuff in secret." The walls here were thin, so his voice was kept low and even. He sounded tired, though. This corporate subterfuge shit was a trying business, and worrying over Marlene was clearly wearing him down even further.
"I'm sorry," she let her arms fall from their defiant cross, "but I want to help, and I can help."
"Then tell us what you're doing," Barret implored.
Her hands clenched the white fabric of her skirt. "Promise not to laugh?" They nodded, Cid already suppressing a grin. Earnesty brought that out in him. And once she'd told them, he couldn't help it, he guffawed and then choked on his tea for his temerity. "Fan clubs?!" he wheezed.
Marlene was scowling again. "You promised not to laugh."
"Shit, sorry, but-" He was laughing himself sick. The idea was ridiculously unexpected.
"But why?" Shera stood behind him, rubbing circles on his back to ease the paroxysm, and sounded rather dumbfounded.
"Well, to get Darill in charge, you need support from a whole lot of people, but you're only talking to people here. What about everyone in Midgar?"
He thought, still trying to contain his chuckles, that she raised a good point. In fact, Marlene almost always had a point. She was a damn smart kid, after all.
Barret moved away from the door, dark brows drawn together in thought. "How're ya reachin' Midgar, and how'd ya even get started on this?"
"Some of the other kids are part of SOLDIER fan clubs, nearly all the 1sts have one, and I thought why can't we have clubs for the air people?" Her enthusiasm was clear. "I decided to do the airship pilots because that's what Darill is. The kids at the fort are helping me, one of them has an aunt that's a journalist in Midgar, and she's helping us too."
Cid's laughter abruptly ceased. "All the airship pilots?" As in him? Or rather, the other him?
"Yep. Darill, Setzer, and the other Cid. Some of the kids wanted Qator too, but it's still gonna be almost a year before his ship's done, so I said no. Plus, we wanna take attention away from him."
"Izzat why ya were filming the Highwind landin'?" Barret asked, and Marlene nodded eagerly.
Cid put his head in his hands. He hoped his past self never found out about this. His head was swelled up enough as it was.
"We've been getting as many cool stories, photos, and videos as we can, and then we put 'em in a newsletter. And it's working! There's already some members in the clubs besides us." She paused momentarily. "Darill and Setzer wear those cool long coats, and that's good, people connect them to the SOLDIERs that way." Through his fingers, he could see her looking at him. "Why did you never wear a coat? Even Qator has one."
Cid grimaced. Setzer had gotten him a coat as a joke once, knowing fucking well he'd never wear the damn thing. "Never been my style. 'Sides, I like getting inta the guts of things, and the coat just gets in my way."
Shera sipped from her own cup, appraising Marlene. "Why keep it secret from us?"
Marlene squirmed, embarrassed. "I didn't want you to stop me from doing it. The other kids aren't telling their folks either. If people found out the fan clubs were just being run by a bunch of kids, they might not want to join, and we want the clubs to get big."
"How big we talkin'?"
"Big enough that Darill has support outside the department."
"Why do the other children think you're doing this?"
"Because it's unfair that only SOLDIER gets fan clubs. Air and Space is cool too."
"Hell yeah it is!" Cid was starting to see where she was going with this. It wasn't a bad plan and would work in the entire department's favor. A lot of the time, working in Air and Space meant feeling like a light bulb - crucial, but as long as they did their jobs right, nobody even noticed them. This would make them no longer invisible.
Marlene showed them how to use their PHSes to sign up for the fan clubs. Shera joined The Highwind and The Falcon, and Barret joined all three to help boost the numbers. Cid only joined Darill's. He hesitated over Setzer's but chose not to. The Blackjack's captain had been his best friend, and he could easily imagine the man's gently mocking laughter over the notion of Cid joining a fan club for him. The other Cid, well, no way in any seven hells you cared to name was Cid supporting him. He did, however, start talking to the other pilots and deck crews about joining up.
"Fan clubs? I heard someone talking about those." Brother waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "Have not joined any. What is the point? I know them." A cheer from the others made him turn back to the chocobo races blearily displayed on a small tv in a metal-walled lounge attached to the side of a Gelnika hangar.
Cid needed a moment to think of an answer. The only point he saw to it was to boost Darill's image, but that wouldn't be a compelling reason for most folk. When the commercials came on he tried again. "It's to show support for the pilot or the airship itself. I mean, just fucking look at 'em - they're glossy goddamn marvels of engineering. 'Side's, why should the rutting SOLDIERs get all the damn attention and glory, when we bust our asses out here and don't get a single mention?"
"This more of your belly-achin'?" Sazh looked over at him, leaning back in his metal folding chair, long legs stretched out in front of him.
"Ain't belly-achin' when it's the truth." Cid chewed on his cigarette. "You've heard of all the embezzlin' the addlepate that calls himself our boss has been doin'." The group around the tv, only half-watching the adverts anyway, turned their full attention to him.
"How is joining a fan club going to help with that?" Raffy asked.
"By gettin' folk's attention, damn it! Catch someone's eye in Accountin', I don't know, maybe even a shit-spinnin' Turk. Some beady-eyed fucker somewhere in Midgar's gotta care about a ruttin' bleedin' hole in the damn finances," he groused.
Sazh rubbed at his short beard. "Think the kid might just have a point there. Right now, this embezzling is all rumors and hearsay, but if we could get someone in Accounting to take a look…"
The other pilots considered this for a moment, but the announcement of birds and riders for the next race drew their attention back to the little light-and-noise box, and they fell once again to swapping wagers.
Cid sighed irritably, as long as folks had good enough distractions, they'd put up with all kinds of shit. What they needed was for something big to happen, a good kick in the ass to shake them into action. He was trying to think of something to fit the bill when he heard the track announcer boom, "Number seven, Mjolnir in red and white silks from Strife Stables."
He whipped his head up to stare at the tiny screen. Toxic frogs in a tonberry salad, what the fucking hell? Mjolnir? Strife? On screen, a large, glittering-feathered chocobo with a redheaded female jockey perched atop it was scratching eagerly at the ground, ready to be off. By the blistered ass-end of hell, who and fucking what was happening here? That was the bird he normally rode, and the colors he normally rode in. The jockey was too big to be Yuffie and too flat to be Tifa.
Panic poured like ice water down his neck. Was this a first sign of damage to the timeline caused by their meddling? With as casual an air as he could muster, considering his heart was pounding like a horde of jumping jackrabbits on a too-taught drum, he leaned over to Sazh and asked, "Hey, what's up with this Strife Stable?"
"Them?" The lanky man tilted his head in recollection. "They showed up a few weeks back. Been really cleaning up at the track, win almost every race."
"Only almost?!" Cid was appalled. Those birds were better than that! Whoever that was riding them, they must be a real numbskull!
His outburst got some odd looks. "Do you know those birds?" Elly asked in surprise.
Cid realized that he'd gone and stuck his foot right in his mouth. "They're golds, ain't they?" he covered. "Unless they're up 'gainst a wonderful black, and those ain't common, they oughta be winnin' easy."
"Damn, you must know your chocobos," one of the others laughed "I'd never heard of golds afore this group showed up."
Cid crossed his arms defensively. "Ya learn 'bout what ya work with. That blithering, dunderheaded, beachplug Palmer doesn't know a fucking thing about the department because he doesn't rutting do any damned work!"
Sazh sighed. "And there he goes again."
"It's fucking true, lard-ass only got his job cause he sponsored Shinra in the early days. Now he's a miserable, over-stuffed ahriman leaching gil like a fucking parasitic poodler." What was it going to take to get them to oust the fucker? If he and his really were screwing up the time stream, they'd better at least be getting their goals accomplished along the way!
The door opened behind them and a man in a long black coat entered. "For someone who just started working here, you seem to know a lot about Shinra's politics." Setzer casually took a bottle of water from the cooler before lazily draping himself in a chair. His scarred, eerily pale skin, long white hair, and violet eyes were set off to excellent advantage by the midnight color of his long coat, and his gaze was piercing.
Cid shrugged, aware that his lack of subtlety might cost him against someone as devious as his old friend. Setzer had always won when they played poker. He'd've dropped the subject, but then another man entered the room behind the Blackjack's captain, making Cid grind his teeth with sudden irritation. "Well, some of us don't have our heads so far up in the sky that we're losing brain cells from the lack of oxygen. We actually give a couple of shits about what's going on down on the ground."
"I think, my friend, that he was talking about you again." Setzer reached a languid hand into the cooler and tossed a second bottle to the new arrival.
Cid Highwind, hotshot airship captain, caught it easily, cracking the seal and draining most of the bottle in one long guzzle. He wiped his mouth and stared at the apparently-younger Cid. "He's only ticked that I grounded him."
Yeah, Cid had been ticked at being prevented from flying, but ultimately it worked in his favor by giving him more time to spend with the ground crews and off-duty pilots. Aloud he challenged, "You only grounded me so that I can't show you up, old man."
The other scowled at him, unimpressed. "And as I've told you before, watch your fucking attitude."
At this point Brother and Sazh, alarm on their faces, began rising from their chairs, clearly ready to hustle the newest pilot out of there before he got himself in further trouble, but Setzer waved them to sit down again. "Let the children work it out for themselves… though I place my gil on Highwind."
"Gee, thanks. You runnin' an off-the-books kindergarten class or somethin'?" The Highwind's captain sat down roughly in a chair that squeaked in protest. He took a last gulp of water before pouring the remaining trickle out on his hand and running it through his hair.
Setzer shrugged a reply. "Of course not. It's merely that I have good money riding on the outcome of any fight between you, and it's rude to bet against friends."
Cid's temper still roiled. "Yeah, but we all know if it was between Highwind and Darill you'd bet on her. I'd bet on her too."
The pale pilot spared him an annoyed look. "A man could get jealous, hearing another talk so much about his partner."
Cid rolled his eyes. "She's an incredible woman and deserves more recognition."
"That she does," he agreed easily, taking a sip of water.
"So support her!"
Setzer spluttered in offense. "I do support her!" He rose to his feet, throwing a hand over his heart in a dramatic fashion. "I would fight for her, gamble my own life for her if there was ever a call for it."
Cid barked out a laugh. "Setzer, your idea of fighting is throwing dice at your opponent."
The airship pilot froze, then tugged a bit on the embroidered cuffs of his coat. His voice was rather fainter than its prior declaratory tones. "Ah, you've heard that story."
He'd been there. Setzer, sober despite having drunk enough liquor to fell a SOLDIER 3rd, had won several months' worth of pay off some drunk infantry in Junon. One of them had called foul and rushed him with a knife. In defense, Setzer had grabbed the dice from the table and tried to ward the trooper off by flinging them in his face. It had worked about as well as you would expect, and the end result was one of the pilot's crooked scars. Cid, having held off the trooper's friends, had hauled his own friend's ass out of there after that. Damn flyboy had no clue how to fight with his feet on the ground.
The other Cid snorted. "And what, you'd do better? With what weapon?"
"Spear," he answered promptly. "Add in some materia and dynamite and you're fucking good to go."
"Real original there, ya little copycat."
Cid bristled. "Who's a fucking copycat?"
"You are, you little turd." The other stood, chair falling with a crash behind him. Cid shot up too, staring the other down. From the corner of his eye, he saw most of the other pilots rising to their feet as well.
"They say people emulate those they look up to. Maybe he admires you, but is too shy to say so," Setzer teased.
Cid's vision turned red as blood. "Like fucking hell I admire this flea-bitten, dripping-assed clown!" Damn albino didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Cid didn't admire his past self. He hated him, hated him unto fucking, worm-eaten, grave-smeared, wan-eyed death.
"Hey!" the other shouted. "Who you think you're calling clown, you snot-nosed grounder!?"
"You, you worn-out guano gatherer!" he shot back.
"Hey now! How 'bout we all calm down before someone ends up getting hurt?" Sazh tried to step between them, but the other Cid pushed him aside.
"You don't want to see someone getting hurt, you should look away," he growled, stepping right up to Cid and glaring at him.
Cid met him head-on. "You ain't got what it takes, you disgusting louse."
"If there is going to be a fight, there will be some rules." Setzer flicked a card at them to catch their attention. He always seemed to have a deck on him. "First, there shall be no weapons or materia. Two, the fight will be above the belt and, three, it will be outside."
"Fine with me." This guy had been asking for it.
The other cracked his knuckles. "You sure about this, kid?"
Cid gave a cocky grin. "What? You scared, you lead balloon?"
"Just giving you a chance to keep all your teeth, punk."
"Yeah," he snorted, "cause Shinra has such great dental insurance. Come on," he pushed past the other, back through the long hangar and into the bleary heat outside. Everyone in the lounge poured out after him, a comet tail that pulled in everyone still at work in the hangar. Brother and Sazh hustled along at his left and right shoulders, pleading with him. "No fucking worries," Cid said, still grinning. "I know what I'm doing."
Sazh shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder."
Brother only waved his arms more frantically. "Look, if I join your stupid fan clubs, will you not do this!" he shouted.
"When I win, you will."
He'd been wanting to do this ever since he'd first seen his other. And now the time was here. Ten paces away from the massive hangar entrance he stopped and twisted around. The other Cid was there, almost right behind him, just waiting to have the fucking ego beat out of him. He didn't wait but swung at once. The other managed to block but gave a low "shit" at the force behind the blow. Then he was swinging, fist coming round to hit Cid in the head. He ducked under it, lashed out, and caught the other in the gut.
The guy stumbled back a half-step, wheezing. "Damn brat!"
"Come on, you overinflated popinjay, that the best you got?" he taunted. His heart raced with anger and excitement, and his face ached with the uncontrollable grin that stretched across it.
"Shut the fuck up." The other came back at him.
They threw punch after punch. The other grabbed his shirt and Cid twisted out of it, the fabric ripping. In this teenage body, his reach was shorter, but he more than made up for it with speed and strength. He hit the other Cid in the stomach, the chest, the arms, the neck, the face. He didn't fight as hard as he could have, though - this was no life-or-death scenario, just a brawl. Even in his ecstatic rage, he didn't want to break or kill the other. And it wasn't a purely one-sided skirmish. He'd surely have some glorious bruises tomorrow.
He was so caught up in the fight he almost didn't notice the drop in air temperature. Almost. He threw himself back just before giant ice crystals formed around his feet. His other wasn't so lucky, feet thoroughly encased. He quickly looked for the caster.
"That's enough." Darill came striding out of the ringed crowd, blond hair flying, the tail of her red coat flaring behind her and her black boots ringing against the pavement.
Damn, but he respected that woman.
"You," she snapped, pointing to the other who was struggling to get his feet out of the ice, "are supposed to be an authority figure, someone for others to look up to and respect. Not a street brawler. And you," she turned her fierce eyes to him, "are a new employee. You are to keep your head down and work hard. Aim for the top, fine. You don't get to bulldoze your way in."
If he'd been younger, he probably would've felt properly chagrined by the scolding. The other certainly looked to be. As it was, he just nodded to show he understood, trying to at least look contrite. She stared at him, then turned to the looky-loos. "Don't you all have work to be doing?" The chastened crowd dispersed, leaving only a smugly smiling Setzer.
"Thank you, dear," he said. "If that had kept going like that, I'd've lost money. As it is, I can claim the fight was interrupted and shouldn't count."
Darill punched him lightly in the shoulder. "I'm glad to have helped. We can use your savings to buy more wine. That lovely Tempranillo, I think?" Arm in arm, they walked away together.
Cid, feeling about thirty pounds lighter than he had since first arriving in the past, wiped blood from his split knuckles on his ripped shirt, then winced. The cotton fabric was soaked with sweat and the salt stung. On the hot asphalt, the ice was already melting and the other soon got his feet unstuck. He sent the apparently younger Cid an appraising look before his bloody lips twitched into a slight smile.
Cid raised an eyebrow at the other. What?
The man bent down and picked up the torn half of Cid's shirt, handing it back to him. "Maybe you ain't all talk, after all. Come on, rookie." He gave Cid a light thump on the shoulder and started back to the hangar. "Let's pick a plane and get you in the air."
He grinned. "About time." He waited a moment, weighing the word in his mind. "Sir."
Author's notes:
We have no experience piloting or working with aircraft. Everything here is based on Google-fu or secondhand anecdotes from our father, who had a pilot buddy back in the day. The Valfarre engine stalls are based on a story we heard from him.
Slow progress for our heroes, but progress nonetheless; Marlene continues her tradition of being the most sensible person in the room; and Cid has an emotional breakthrough after performing a physical beatdown. Fun times! Next up, Vincent squared and uh, Hollander. That'll be in April - no update in March, to allow us to rebuild the buffer.
