SYNE
People don't know what they're missing. Take this town for instance, it's filled with those who can't cut it in society: outcasts, rejects. They can't even fit in with those crazies at FH. Dead, dry, decayed. The weakness in this town only makes me stronger. Makes me wish with every stinking breath I have to never end up like this. Complacent geezers. They probably ran and hid and cowered during the Sorceress War. Clearly not SeeD material. I wish I was old enough to be in Garden, old enough to be SeeD, but Hyne I wasn't even born yet and wouldn't be for some years. Sometimes I get the feeling that the I was born too late in the world. For the last seventeen years there have been no crises, no power hungry sorceresses, and only a couple of wars. (but those were just political squabbles and don't really count)
I'd be fighting alongside Squall Leonhart and the rest of the Fated, hacking away at monster and sorceress alike, saving the world and getting the girl, all before dinner to boot. But instead I'm in this shack of a town at the end of the world at the behest of my parents. All because I failed my field test. My instructor said I needed to "re-evaluate the reason for wanting to become a SeeD, including the responsibility and serious nature of this profession." Ha, like I need some bookworm shut-in telling me I need an attitude adjustment to be SeeD. To make Mommy and Daddy happy, I hopped on the first boat out of New Balamb to wherever, I didn't care. Guess I should have been more specific; I'd rather be anywhere but here. The next boat out of this hick town doesn't show up till next week. Hyne help me.
The inn I'm staying at is the only up-to-code structure in a 100 kilometer radius, and that's only for the fact it has running water and can pick up some of the low frequency channels on the reciever. Like all the other buildings here it's designed in the same hideous baroque style that dominates the architecture in town. The owner, a nearly handicapped man of ancient age and laid back attitude, claims that the inn is converted from the only genuine Centran structure in the area: a small ruin that was cleared out by Garden long ago. He got the name, My Blue Heaven, from another ruin he investigated when he was younger and had dreams of being an archeologist. He tells me all this while making morning coffee and idle chatter. I don't care for either. I nod as politely as I can while rolling my eyes. He's telling me about his failed attempt as an archeologist. I don't even know his name.
The owner's wife walks in and interupts us, chastising him about lax morning duties and something about the help. I could kiss her for saving me if only she weren't the most horrible old shrew I'd ever had the privalge of not running through with my gunblade. Everything about her screams "severe". The half moon glasses, the too tight bun, every button buttoned, every wrinkle ironed out. If she's trying to be the friendly and genial host, she's in the wrong business. I pity the old man even more. A failed dream, a sinking venture, a bitch for a wife. I grab my gunblade and head outside. The town is shit, but at the very least the beach is something to experience. Empty and forlorn with not a person in sight, the shore is clay red and the particles tint the sea this odd colour. I like to think that all the blood that was spilt from the Lunar Cry an era ago soaked and stained the ground, but it's probably just leftover mineral. It's the only passionate thing on this whole damned continent. It's also the perfect place to practice a gunblade.
Ordinary people leading ordinary lives. The owner and his wife, they are ordinary people. They know no greater glory, fight for no greater good, nothing to look forward to but a nice deep undisturbed grave. Like sheep to the pasture they graze away their lives oblivious to the world outside their self-made fences. I hold nothing but contempt for them. I pass the hired help on the way out.
Now there's the epitome of ordinary, a person whom you can only describe as "nice" in a not-so-nice kind of way. She has a muted face that would be pretty for her age if she wasn't so complacent and she's got this hazy quality around her, like she's going to disappear from all existance before your very eyes. Unnoticable, unremarkable, carrying a pile of freshly cleaned and folded towels. I wonder how she can stand her life, having to clean up after people all day, everyday. The hair underneath the perpetual cleaning cap could be blond, but most likely is dyed in a futile effort to keep the grey away. I notice for the first time she wears glasses; plain, non-descript glasses that frame her wrinkled face. She notices me and gives a weak smile that is polite and complementary and not at all sincere. It irritates me for some reason.
Even the owner, sorry excuse for an individual he is, once had dreams and aspirations. I'm certain that this woman who's more than twice my age has never had an independent thought in her life. This woman...she's entirely forgettable, like memory itself has forsaken her. Even her conversations are hard to recall. I think I first met her yesterday, or was it the day before? It doesn't matter. All I remember is that she works for residence of the small room the owner had graciously given her. She thinks that the owner is "nice", and that his wife will "get used to her". I found out that she's been working here for seventeen years. She's probably the owner's mistress because his wife's a cold-hearted bitch. It doesn't matter, they're background faces, the help, the owner, the wife. Hyne, this whole stupid town is a background! I doubt I'll remember it when I'm a SeeD and commander of New Balamb Garden.
I scrape my gunblade along the ground and throw a winning smile at Miss Teresa, who's sitting infront of her room reading some weathered hardcover novel. Miss Teresa is one of those people who can almost pass for a worthwhile individual. She's feisty and somewhat intelligent from having her nose stuck in a book all the time. Slightly corpulent, but in that jolly sort of way. She reminds me of my grandma. She has a Balamb accent like me, but much less pronounced. I asked her where in Balamb she was from and her answer was that she used to work in Garden. I don't believe her. What's a person from Garden doing in a place like this? Apparently she decided to retire quietly and has rented a room at My Blue Heaven indefinitely, or until she croaks from too many hotdogs. I don't think this place has ever heard of hotdogs. Nevertheless, despite these two things about her, she remains unextraordinary. But she's a Balamb native, so I should at least remember her name.
The shore is only a 15 minute walk away from the inn, and I take my time. The trip through town is uneventful and I once again silently mock the ridiculous architecture of LeGuin. People in town are just now waking up and the smell of bitter Centran coffee permeates from one or two buildings. Other than that, there's nothing rememberable of the town or it's inhabitants. The buildings stop and I notice there is nothing but sand and dunes. Nothing will attack me here and I'm almost dissapointed. Enroaching civilization on the lost continent of Centra forced most of the dangerous native creatures to withdraw inland. You won't even find a red bat unless you're really out looking for one. The beach is the same as when I had left it yesterday: still red, still empty. The only change being the breakers crashing over each other. I swipe at the sea air with my gunblade. I wonder how people will remember me when I'm famous?
People don't know what they're missing. Take this town for instance, it's filled with those who can't cut it in society: outcasts, rejects. They can't even fit in with those crazies at FH. Dead, dry, decayed. The weakness in this town only makes me stronger. Makes me wish with every stinking breath I have to never end up like this. Complacent geezers. They probably ran and hid and cowered during the Sorceress War. Clearly not SeeD material. I wish I was old enough to be in Garden, old enough to be SeeD, but Hyne I wasn't even born yet and wouldn't be for some years. Sometimes I get the feeling that the I was born too late in the world. For the last seventeen years there have been no crises, no power hungry sorceresses, and only a couple of wars. (but those were just political squabbles and don't really count)
I'd be fighting alongside Squall Leonhart and the rest of the Fated, hacking away at monster and sorceress alike, saving the world and getting the girl, all before dinner to boot. But instead I'm in this shack of a town at the end of the world at the behest of my parents. All because I failed my field test. My instructor said I needed to "re-evaluate the reason for wanting to become a SeeD, including the responsibility and serious nature of this profession." Ha, like I need some bookworm shut-in telling me I need an attitude adjustment to be SeeD. To make Mommy and Daddy happy, I hopped on the first boat out of New Balamb to wherever, I didn't care. Guess I should have been more specific; I'd rather be anywhere but here. The next boat out of this hick town doesn't show up till next week. Hyne help me.
The inn I'm staying at is the only up-to-code structure in a 100 kilometer radius, and that's only for the fact it has running water and can pick up some of the low frequency channels on the reciever. Like all the other buildings here it's designed in the same hideous baroque style that dominates the architecture in town. The owner, a nearly handicapped man of ancient age and laid back attitude, claims that the inn is converted from the only genuine Centran structure in the area: a small ruin that was cleared out by Garden long ago. He got the name, My Blue Heaven, from another ruin he investigated when he was younger and had dreams of being an archeologist. He tells me all this while making morning coffee and idle chatter. I don't care for either. I nod as politely as I can while rolling my eyes. He's telling me about his failed attempt as an archeologist. I don't even know his name.
The owner's wife walks in and interupts us, chastising him about lax morning duties and something about the help. I could kiss her for saving me if only she weren't the most horrible old shrew I'd ever had the privalge of not running through with my gunblade. Everything about her screams "severe". The half moon glasses, the too tight bun, every button buttoned, every wrinkle ironed out. If she's trying to be the friendly and genial host, she's in the wrong business. I pity the old man even more. A failed dream, a sinking venture, a bitch for a wife. I grab my gunblade and head outside. The town is shit, but at the very least the beach is something to experience. Empty and forlorn with not a person in sight, the shore is clay red and the particles tint the sea this odd colour. I like to think that all the blood that was spilt from the Lunar Cry an era ago soaked and stained the ground, but it's probably just leftover mineral. It's the only passionate thing on this whole damned continent. It's also the perfect place to practice a gunblade.
Ordinary people leading ordinary lives. The owner and his wife, they are ordinary people. They know no greater glory, fight for no greater good, nothing to look forward to but a nice deep undisturbed grave. Like sheep to the pasture they graze away their lives oblivious to the world outside their self-made fences. I hold nothing but contempt for them. I pass the hired help on the way out.
Now there's the epitome of ordinary, a person whom you can only describe as "nice" in a not-so-nice kind of way. She has a muted face that would be pretty for her age if she wasn't so complacent and she's got this hazy quality around her, like she's going to disappear from all existance before your very eyes. Unnoticable, unremarkable, carrying a pile of freshly cleaned and folded towels. I wonder how she can stand her life, having to clean up after people all day, everyday. The hair underneath the perpetual cleaning cap could be blond, but most likely is dyed in a futile effort to keep the grey away. I notice for the first time she wears glasses; plain, non-descript glasses that frame her wrinkled face. She notices me and gives a weak smile that is polite and complementary and not at all sincere. It irritates me for some reason.
Even the owner, sorry excuse for an individual he is, once had dreams and aspirations. I'm certain that this woman who's more than twice my age has never had an independent thought in her life. This woman...she's entirely forgettable, like memory itself has forsaken her. Even her conversations are hard to recall. I think I first met her yesterday, or was it the day before? It doesn't matter. All I remember is that she works for residence of the small room the owner had graciously given her. She thinks that the owner is "nice", and that his wife will "get used to her". I found out that she's been working here for seventeen years. She's probably the owner's mistress because his wife's a cold-hearted bitch. It doesn't matter, they're background faces, the help, the owner, the wife. Hyne, this whole stupid town is a background! I doubt I'll remember it when I'm a SeeD and commander of New Balamb Garden.
I scrape my gunblade along the ground and throw a winning smile at Miss Teresa, who's sitting infront of her room reading some weathered hardcover novel. Miss Teresa is one of those people who can almost pass for a worthwhile individual. She's feisty and somewhat intelligent from having her nose stuck in a book all the time. Slightly corpulent, but in that jolly sort of way. She reminds me of my grandma. She has a Balamb accent like me, but much less pronounced. I asked her where in Balamb she was from and her answer was that she used to work in Garden. I don't believe her. What's a person from Garden doing in a place like this? Apparently she decided to retire quietly and has rented a room at My Blue Heaven indefinitely, or until she croaks from too many hotdogs. I don't think this place has ever heard of hotdogs. Nevertheless, despite these two things about her, she remains unextraordinary. But she's a Balamb native, so I should at least remember her name.
The shore is only a 15 minute walk away from the inn, and I take my time. The trip through town is uneventful and I once again silently mock the ridiculous architecture of LeGuin. People in town are just now waking up and the smell of bitter Centran coffee permeates from one or two buildings. Other than that, there's nothing rememberable of the town or it's inhabitants. The buildings stop and I notice there is nothing but sand and dunes. Nothing will attack me here and I'm almost dissapointed. Enroaching civilization on the lost continent of Centra forced most of the dangerous native creatures to withdraw inland. You won't even find a red bat unless you're really out looking for one. The beach is the same as when I had left it yesterday: still red, still empty. The only change being the breakers crashing over each other. I swipe at the sea air with my gunblade. I wonder how people will remember me when I'm famous?