I. MASTER SABIN
Four students, each dressed in loose, cotton clothing, stood facing the front of the dojo. The two male students were bare-chested, undoubtedly a subtle imitation of their Master. The girls, of course, were more modest and wore gis. This was a place of solemn respect, after all.
"Alright, last one. Hurricane punches on my mark." The man at the front of the dojo faced his students, arms crossed over his well-defined chest. His blonde hair was shaved very short, with a small ponytail near the back. His loose blue pants were secured and bloused at the ankles. He was barefooted, as were his students.
"Go!"
Resounding kiais filled the room as the students released a flurry of punches in the technique they had been taught.
Sabin smiled. "Very good. That's enough training for today."
His students ceased punching and stood at attention. Typically, there would be a brief non-contact sparring session after each match. True, it wasn't as fun as the real thing. But Sabin knew that having all-out sparring matches more than once every few weeks would cause fairly numerous injuries among his students. Sabin believed that the human body was like forged iron. It required beating to work it into its strongest shape, but overdoing such a thing could easily cause it to break. Sabin wanted to avoid injuries among his students whenever possible. They were in his care, and they trusted him to keep them safe. He would not betray that trust.
"For sparring today," he said, "I'd like to see Tony and Relm."
Tony, a short but muscular nineteen-year-old, nodded and went to stand by Sabin's left side. Relm smiled and stood by his right, facing Tony.
"Alright, you two. Fight to two points, and I want to see you pull your punches. No shots below the belt - and that means you, Relm."
Relm rolled her eyes.
"Begin!"
Relm went in and punched high twice, both shots blocked. Tony snaked his leg behind hers and struck her lightly in the chest with his palm. She lost her balance and fell on her butt, a look of surprise and anger on her face. Most of it was due to falling for such an obvious maneuver. But there was something else.
He didn't just push her. His hand should have struck lightly and then broken contact. But in that moment when she was falling, didn't she feel fingers slide into one flap of her coarse gi and brush her tank top? And hadn't it been just the lightest of caresses over her breast, and something that might have been a pinch before she fell out of his reach?
No, impossible. There was no way he could have done all that in the split-second she was falling backwards.
"Excellent, Tony. One point." Sabin turned to Relm, offered a hand, and helped her up. With his back to Tony, Sabin couldn't have possibly have seen Tony wink, then wiggle his lips in a mock-kissing manner.
That son of a bitch.
Hatred burned on her face. She faced him, hands on guard in tight fists. Her nostrils flared.
"Begin!"
She came at him like before, but along with her second punch she brought up her right leg and roundhouse-kicked the boy in the ribs - hard. The jolt was enough to break his hold on her hands, and he staggered two steps back.
"Very good, Rel -"
Relm wasn't finished. She went forward a step, jumped straight into the air, brought her left leg up behind her and extended the right leg straight ahead. As she did so she felt the tendons in her thighs tighten, and there was a delightful pain that went across her hamstrings and met in her crotch, delightful because she knew it would magnify the pain Tony was about to feel a hundred times.
She snapped a kick at the side if his face, glad to see he was turning into it. She felt his teeth make their marks on her bare foot, and was dissatisfied to not feel bones snap and crack. She wanted to break his nose, but simply hadn't enough power behind her.
Both of Tony's feet left the ground and he fell hard on his back. Relm landed gracefully, her right foot extended, only the toes touching the floor.
"RELM!"
Sabin kneeled by Tony, but he was already getting up and holding his face.
"That bith boke my doze!" he shouted, or tried to shout.
Sabin took a look at his face, lightly tracing his injury with his fingers.
"No, it's not broken. Just bloody. You'll be alright. I'll get some ice."
Sabin stood up.
"Relm, one hundred push-ups. Now."
Relm immediately got on the ground and began. She would explain later.
The other two students helped Tony to his feet, and Sabin returned with a bag of ice.
"Tankoo, Master Thabin," Tony said, holding the ice to his face.
"You three are dismissed. Can you walk home, Tony?"
"Yeth, Master Thabin."
Sabin slapped Tony on the back. "Good job today. You handle pain bravely."
Sabin let the three out the door into the afternoon sun, then returned to his rowdy protégé.
Relm's gi top lay beside her, leaving her clad in only her pants and a tight white tank top that was cutoff far above her navel. Her face was flushed red, though mostly obscured by the cascade of hair that had come loose from her bandanna. Her arms glistened with sweat and no doubt hurt considerably by this point.
"How many?"
"Ninety-five," she hissed, barely enough breath in her lungs.
Sabin had been standing beside her. He suddenly lashed out with one foot. Had he connected full-on with her body, he surely would have broken several ribs. Instead, he hooked his foot underneath her abdomen, picking her up, rolling her over, and throwing her all in one movement of his leg.
Relm gasped as she was thrown, and coughed as she stared up at him. She was now on her back, and her shirt was tight and sweaty enough for her breasts to be well defined by the curves of fabric. This she noticed with face-flushing embarrassment, but only for an instant - this was, after all, Sabin Figaro. Normally when in a position of this sort she would have expected to see the look in men's eyes of incredible studiousness, and she knew they were memorizing the curves of her body for use in their fantasies sometime later. Sabin did not sport this look, however. He glared at her with stern indifference. Had she been entirely naked, she imagined his face would not falter. Sabin was always in control of himself. It was what she loved about him.
"You may be a good liar, but I assure you I'm far wiser."
"I'm sorry," she sighed. "But he groped me during the match. Didn't you see it?"
"In fact, I did. I was planning to discipline him afterwards, but it didn't seem right to do so today, after his nose was nearly broken. You could have snapped his neck. What would you have done if you killed him, Relm?"
"I don't know. I guess I overreacted."
Sabin sighed. "Tony's a troublemaker. I'll admit he deserved something like this sooner or later. But it's not your place to punish him."
She cocked an eyebrow.
"You're not mad at me at all, are you?"
Sabin shrugged. "I am, but just a little. The push-ups were just to keep up my appearance as the domineering Master Sabin, of course. That was a terrific kick."
She smiled and sat up. "And your knocking me over just a moment ago?"
"I guess you're just fun to throw around, Relm."
She giggled and stood before him.
"I'm about to have my dinner," Sabin said. "Care to join me?"
"Love to," she said.
Sabin helped her up. As they walked to the entryway, he noticed her slight limp.
"Are you alright?"
She grimaced. "I think I pulled something on that kick."
"Here, let me see."
Sabin kneeled before her and ran his hands up her calf, around her knee, and to her thigh.
"Yeah, I feel it. It's much too tight right here."
Relm almost absent-mindedly unfastened the ties at her waist and let her loose cotton pants sink to the floor. Beneath, she wore tight black shorts. The feel of cool air on her hot skin was soothing.
She sat on the floor as Sabin worked his hands over her aching muscles. His hands never went more than a few inches above her knee, which was growing increasingly aggravating.
"Higher," she said.
His fingers stroked and kneaded, releasing tension. The feeling was exquisite.
"Higher."
The tightness wore away, but as Sabin's hands came close enough to brush her shorts, an entirely different tightness took hold.
She stared at him, but he made no eye contact - he was focused on his work. Only when she leaned forward did he look up at her, a look of fear on his face.
She could feel his breath on her face as she leaned in and brushed his lips with her own. Smiling, she leaned back.
No fear in his eyes now - only anger. Quick as a flash he backhanded her across the face. It was not until later, when she realized there was no mark and the stinging had only been in her mind, that she would notice he put no force into that blow.
Sabin jumped to his feet.
"Listen very carefully, Relm. I am your teacher. You are my student. That is the extent of our relationship."
"I . . . I" She brushed her face lightly with her fingertips in complete disbelief.
"I'm sorry, Relm. I suppose I overreact sometimes, as well. But I can't stress to you enough the danger in you making advances like that."
"I'm sorry, too," she muttered. She began to dress herself in her gi again.
"The offer to dinner still stands, if you're interested." Sabin paused. "I'll be waiting at home. If you don't want to join me, that's understandable."
Relm nodded, and was glad Sabin was willing to leave her there for some time.
As soon as she heard him leave, she began to cry.
II. OPERA-STAR FLOOZY
The crumpled-up parchment was flattened out, refolded, and placed in a kitchen drawer. She would read it later, after Edgar came.
Edgar would come, she knew it. He didn't leave the castle as much as he once did, and he would recognize any request for his presence as urgent.
Celes scooped more sugar into her tea and stirred it. It was getting dark. She never before felt afraid at night, at least not since she was a child. She had always been in the company of her fellow soldiers, or her friends, or Locke.
Locke.
She missed him terribly. It had been eight days since she had last heard from him. She feared for his safety, and for her own.
She hated being alone.
Celes sipped her tea, and a tickling tear trickled down her cheek.
"Stop it, damn you," she hissed, her voice nearly breaking. "You don't know. You don't . . ."
She put the tea down on the saucer and buried her head in her hands.
Three days ago she dug her Runic Blade out from the pile of wedding things in her bedroom closet. The blade had rusted from disuse. She cleaned it and sharpened it.
The next day she stood in the backyard. No longer did she wear the housedresses that had been her uniform as a housewife for so many years. She wore her Imperial uniform. She had cried when, pulling on her leather pants, she could not get them over her hips without loosening the rawhide straps on the sides. True, she had only gained a few pounds since she had ceased fighting, but she knew, dammit, she knew that her legs, abdomen, and arms were all smaller, smoother, weaker than they were ten years ago. Her muscles had long since faded away, yielding to smooth skin, and perhaps a bit of fat. It was more pleasing to Locke, and wasn't that the point? Her strong, boyish hips were necessary as a general, but didn't she allow herself to gain a near-hourglass figure so that she could more easily slide into her husband's arms? Hadn't she changed for him?
No, that wasn't it. She couldn't convince herself that her physical degradation was intentional - she merely ceased training and ate less, and this is what happened. And was it even degradation? Truly, she was more beautiful. Soft, like a lady should be. Right?
But I'm weaker.
Her boots fit the same, as did her shirt. Her brown leather jacket was closed, and she had tied her hair up to keep it out of the way. With her arms extended, she held the blade before her. It felt much heavier today.
Silently, she ran through her training exercises. Thrust, block, advance. Thrust, block, advance. She swung the blade haphazardly and hated herself. She hated that she allowed this progression. She hated how sloppy her blocking became, how slow and weak each thrust and swing was, how much her arms ached, the muscles screaming to her.
She kept it up for only ten minutes before the blade slipped through her fingers and buried its tip in the dirt. She grabbed at it, chipping her fingernails, and could do no more than lean on it.
Dammit, you're scratching the blade.
Her hand let go and she fell to her knees, her breathing ragged. She dry-heaved once, coughed, and swallowed saliva. Every part of her hurt.
Weak weak weak Celes Chere the Love-Starved Twit you are weak so weak . . .
She squeezed her hands into fists. Her fingernails, far too long for an Imperial general, bit into her palms. Turning her head to the sky, she screamed unintelligible obscenities, and then a roar of pure, vile anger.
It still infuriated her to think about it. Celes banged her fist on the kitchen table, upsetting the teacup and causing it to roll off the table. Her reflexes were poor as well - her hand missed the cup and it smashed on the floor.
Growling, Celes grabbed a washcloth and wiped the spilled tea off the floor. She picked up shards of porcelain and placed them in one hand. One sharp piece sliced her finger. She grunted and sucked the cut. The coppery taste flowed into her mouth. It had been so long since she last tasted blood.
The wedding was the last true battle she had ever been in. She and Locke had talked about it, and he was amused she found the wedding so enjoyable. It was one last war before her days as a lone general were truly over. She cried for Edgar, but he had absolved her of all guilt rather quickly. And since that incident, Kefka's Fanatics had not given any of them any trouble. No doubt Cyan, Relm, and Sabin had destroyed them all.
Hadn't she watched, fascinated, as Locke threw that dagger at the Gradius-wielding attacker and pierced his throat? Hadn't she smiled with grim pleasure when the man gargled blood and fell over, rolling into his death spasms?
She knew she did. And she longed to fight again.
III. TERRA BRANFORD'S FLIGHT
The steel, wood, and canvas structure perched like some graceful dragon on the stone slabs that were its landing pad. Heavy ropes and chains kept it moored, but these were being methodically unfastened and moved out of the way. From inside Edgar could already hear the hiss of the gas burners heating up the large hot-air envelope that floated above the wooden cockpit. The noise was enough that most people would not notice any other sounds, but Edgar's trained ears could hear the metallic whine of the generator running up to speed, the clicking of a dozen switches and banging of access panels as his ground crew began their pre-flight check, and the gentle sigh of the canopy as the material stretched against the air supporting it.
The cabin itself was small, perhaps sixty feet by twenty. It consisted of nothing more than a cockpit, a small bedding compartment, a cargo area, and an engine room not much larger than a closet. The vehicle was designed for a crew of three, but could just as easily be piloted by one.
And it was fast. By Gods, it was fast. The airship had been his baby for the past four years; three of which were dedicated to its construction. Of course, he couldn't claim much more than a partial hand in its design. It had been Setzer's idea at first, a way to work him out of his depression. And yet, it became so much more.
Setzer had certainly sacrificed for his assistance in the project. The Falcon had been the fastest airship in existence ever since its creation, mostly because Setzer knew many things about the Falcon that could have made it faster and kept them secret. He divulged those secrets to Edgar, and most made their way into the blueprints.
How many nights were spent between Setzer and Edgar arguing over a particular mechanical part, jabbing at engineering texts and drawings with shouts of rage, muttered curses, clinks of glasses, emptying of bottles of wine, and resounding barks of laughter?
Maria could probably tell them. She spent those days by her husband's side, and her patience was heroic. But when the inebriated king and gambler began to belch out bawdry drinking songs, no doubt overheard in some bar in Zozo, she would leave the room in disgust. She would have said such an event happened every night she and Setzer stayed at Castle Figaro past sunset, and she would be correct. She would also probably suggest this happened a thousand times over the three years they worked on the airship, but that would be an exaggeration. The two of them got drunk together no more than fifty times. It was pretty much a weekly event at the Desert Castle for a while, and Edgar's subjects decided to take it in stride. It was, after all, far more desirable to see their king drunk and jolly than drunk and despondent.
Maria, her sensibilities rubbed raw by such antics, would take these times to go to the grand stairway and sing. Surely a strange act, but she had a knack for acoustical sense, and she knew right away that the layout of that particular part of the castle was perfect for her purposes. Her voice would echo off and return to her amplified, but with no reverberation. Perfect for practice. So, with the guards looking at her queerly (which didn't bother her - the show must go on, even with gawking peasants about) she would perform a run-through of her favorite Lord Avon works. When she was complete, she would return to find both engineers sleeping it off, often on the floor. Clucking her tongue motherly, she would roust them and drag them off to their respective beds.
At some point it occurred to her that she really didn't have to put up with such behavior. She was a talented singer, and surely was better than this boozing, gambling, mechanically-inclined adventurer. She had thought he changed eight years ago, when he built that casino in Jidoor, inexplicably named The Trick Coin. But only a few years after running it, he gave command to one of his friends and left to continue his travels of the world. True, Setzer remained full ownership of the casino. But that was only a technicality. He had full managerial control of all its workings, but never exercised that right. He could have asked for any percentage of The Trick Coin's profits, but the amount he collected was no more than a typical card dealer's wages. "Only enough to live on," he told her. "The rest remains in the casino, funds to either expand the facility or go into the pockets of some lucky gambler."
She thought he was a fool at the time. Only gradually did she understand that though he loved his casino, he never pretended to be a businessman. The right to say he owned a casino and enough money in his pocket to live on; that was all he wanted from the venture.
And so Setzer hadn't really changed at all. Maria was surprised to find herself happy. This was the man she fell in love with, and though he could at any moment take the casino's coffers and become an astoundingly rich man, he did not. He loved gambling, he loved the thrill, but he didn't care for money itself.
And despite his drunken ramblings and faux-gentlemanly routine, he loved her. That she knew all too well. At first she felt almost hunted by him, like his advances were the acts of some age-old sport; her love, the prize. But somehow, something changed. He never grew bored of her, as she thought he might. He stayed faithful, and it hurt her to realize she hadn't expected such a thing.
Edgar, despite having his senses dulled by drink, knew all of this. He found it surprising that out of all his friends, the traveling rogue Setzer was the one to find true and lasting love. Perhaps love not as deep as Celes and Locke's, nor as strong as Edgar and Terra's. Setzer's womanizing ways, probably worse than even Edgar's, should have prevented the well-bred, delicate opera singer from ever trusting him, never mind marrying the fool. But their differences excited each other, and despite the fact they were no longer newlyweds, they tended to carry on like teenagers. Seeing their chemistry reminded Edgar of the love- and lust-filled encounters between himself and Terra, and it made his heart ache. But it was a dull ache, and almost pleasurable in its resonance.
Wiping a tear from his eye, Edgar walked to the airship and boarded the Terra Branford.
The ship was perfect. He would not have his wife's namesake any other way. Though small, it was decorated beautifully with hardwood and gold. An oval portrait of Terra was mounted on the back wall of the cockpit, directly behind the helm. Edgar kneeled before this portrait, then kissed his index and middle fingers and pressed them to the painted lips of his dearly departed wife.
My love. I know you still watch over me. You always get me home safely.
The flight engineer waited respectfully behind Edgar. The king turned around to him and smiled, showing the engineer he was ready for business again.
"King Edgar, the flight check is complete, and we're ready to take off on your command."
"Excellent." He paused. "I've decided that I'll be flying alone, however."
"Are you sure, King Edgar?"
"Yes."
The engineer nodded, and nervously looked at his clipboard. He didn't want his king to see the concern in his eyes. True, Edgar was more than capable with piloting the craft by himself. Nobody in Figaro was better-equipped. The pre-flight checks and maintenance would be more difficult with a single person, but certainly not impossible. And Edgar regularly flew solo. Still, there were concerns among the mechanics in Figaro that leaving their king to fly alone, who was victim to bouts of depression (though on an increasingly rare basis), was an invitation to disaster.
But the flight engineer was no psychiatrist, nor did he pretend to be. Unless he had a strong reason to believe Edgar might do himself in, he would not stop him. Edgar had weaker authority in Figaro these days, but his supporters were numerous and fanatic enough that one or two would have no problem attacking him for usurping their king. And almost as important, the engineer did not want to hurt King Edgar with the suggestion he was mentally unfit.
"Alright, King Edgar. I wish you a pleasant flight."
Edgar shook his hand and walked him out the aft cargo bay. Waving, Edgar pressed a button on the wall and the bay door closed with a frantic whirring.
Edgar walked back to the helm, flicked several switches, and turned the burner fuel valve to maximum. Within a few moments the craft was lifting into the air.
The King switched on the engines, tilted the nose up, and pushed his craft into the sky. Once gaining sufficient altitude, he ruddered hard left, increased his engine speed to half power, and checked his heading. He turned the wheel slightly, waiting for the compass to stop its jittering and give a reliable heading. Once at the proper reading, Edgar set the rudder trim and pushed the engine throttles, slowly bringing them to eighty percent. With childlike glee he watched the airspeed indicator increase.
He lowered the gas flow to the burners, knowing it would take a while before he found the equilibrium point at this altitude - too much and the hot air would bring him higher; too little and the air would start to cool, causing his craft to sink. It wasn't much of a concern to him - a little porpoising was normal.
Smiling, he gazed at the splendor through the cabin windshield. Clouds floated off to his left, toward the mountains. As far as he could see straight ahead were dry desert sands, the air so clear he could see for miles. Below him he could see small whirlwinds of sand.
He would use dead reckoning to get to the coastline, then use his instruments to pilot a course to Kohlingen. The distance was a little more than a quarter of the way around the world.
It would take no more than four hours.
King Edgar's airship, the Terra Branford, was very fast indeed.
IV. PARKER, SON OF MORGAN
It hadn't occurred to Morgan that the man that had so infuriated him, the thief that had stolen his Infinity Edge a week ago, the bastard who he put out a bounty on, dead or alive, looked very much like his son Parker.
They were both nearly the same height, and both had long brown hair. Surely, their similarities were not to the extent that a close acquaintance or family member of one man could confuse him with the other. And surely Morgan would not mistake his own son for that bastard who called himself a treasure hunter.
Unfortunately, it seemed his bodyguards were easily confused. When Parker came into his office at Zozo, wearing the flourishing black robe he usually did when trying to impress his father, it took Morgan less than one second to realize it wasn't his son at all.
Morgan groped for the Autocrossbow beneath his desk.
"You! You fucking thief!"
The man before him pulled the Infinity Edge from his pocket and uttered a roar of malcontent.
"That's treasure hunter!"
Morgan wasn't able to release the Autocrossbow from its holster fast enough, and when the man raised the Infinity Edge and threw it, Morgan gave up his attempt at using the weapon and ducked under his desk. The weapon struck the back of his chair and didn't slice but exploded it, sending wood, tatters of leather, and wisps of stuffing into the air. The crash as the weapon flew out his window was enough to roust the guards outside the door.
Two burly men, each holding a broadsword, threw open the door and entered the office the moment the Infinity Edge returned to its owner, smashing another window in its flight back into the room.
The thief caught his weapon in one hand. He turned to the guards, looked back at the desk where Morgan was cocking his Autocrossbow, and evidently decided even with this most excellent weapon, the odds were against him. Two Autocrossbow bolts struck the wall beside him as he threw himself out the window. Morgan instantly regretted that his office was on the first floor of this tower and not the tenth.
Morgan ran to the window and fired three more shots, but with nothing more than the moon to guide his aim, he had little chance of making his target. He paused before reloading his weapon, and could hear the light footfalls of the man, mocking him.
Morgan threw down the weapon and screamed.
The guard behind him slowly advanced. "Boss?"
He turned to him, eyes afire. "You. Go to everyone who owes you a favor in this town and find who that man is. I want his name, where he lives, and especially if he has any family."
One guard nodded and left. Morgan turned to the other. "Ready the carriage. We're going to the mortuary. I want to see the body they fished out of the lake."
Morgan barely held back a sob.
"I want to see if that fucking thief killed my son."
