TERESA
"Tell me about Balamb Garden again."
I look up at my book at her. She is quietly (always quietly, always perfectly) folding and hanging the towels in the bathroom. It's not a question, but then, I can never say no to her. I acquiese.
"Well now, that takes me back." I shut the book, careful to put my bookmarker facing my current page. "I assume you mean the old Balamb Garden, I've never been to the new one, that fandangled thing."
She nods her head automatically, careful not to take her eyes, nor the major part of her attention away from her work. It's scrubbing now, a demeaning job if I ever saw one. Much more demeaning than say, slaving as a cafeteria worker. I try to lessen her load by cleaning up whenever I can and not leaving too much of a mess.
"It was like a pretty blue conch shell spiraling into the air. I was always amazed at the artistry of it all. I'd never seen anything like it, and no matter how much they update the systems or load it down with new guns, it won't ever capture the majesty of the original. It almost seemed alive, organic in a way, everything was curved and elegant like a woman. The old headmaster used to joke about it all the time." There is reminiscence in my voice.
"What happened to it?" It's a question this time.
"Originally designated for scrap after it was deemed obsolete. However a few influencial and wealthy benefactors, most of them admirers of the Fated, decided it would be best used as a reminder, so that's what they did. Now it's a memorial to all their achievements. Hmmph, a memorial to people who aren't even dead. Sure their glory days are over, but that doesn't mean they're useless and should be relegated to the geriatric ward." My indignation is obvious, and while I should have checked myself, memories of the past always make me excitable.
"What did you do at Garden, Teresa?" She is almost done with the cleaning and stands up to pack the supplies and move on to the next degrading task. She stands straight up, straighter than I've ever seen her and surveys her work, posing. She pushes the glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger and seems satisfied. She turns to face me and gives me a weak smile, she is slouching somewhat. "All done." There is no accomplishment in that statement.
"Nothing important at all, dearie, I was one of those forgettable people! Hahaha." And it's true. I doubt anyone would remember, why would they? Afterall, important people lead important lives. They are remembered and honoured and dignified. Or at least, they should have been. "Buh bye, Isti." She nods, and leaves.
I pick my book of my lap, A Case Study of Guardian Force Induced Memory Loss, and make my way to the make shift porch infront of my room. Isti is still on my mind. I wonder why she remains here, just as I have done a hundred times before, ever since I first arrived at LeGuin, hoping to lose myself among the faceless. She always answers that she is content; not happy, content. I can only accept her answer.
There is a scraping on the floor and I look up to see that young man, Syne, grinning that fool's grin of his. A SeeD in the works, and from the looks of it, he needs a lot of work. The first thin he needs to lose is the superiority complex, the second thing is that outdated gunblade. Does he think he's Squall Leonhart? He walks away and I'm wishing for Kinneas' rifle to give him one in the keister. He's off to swing away that gunblade of his again. On my daily walk along the beach I spotted him practicing his "forms", if you can call it that. His practice is more like an elaborate, flowery dance, that is about as dangerous and terrifying as the Galbadian ballet troupe. He couldn't even scratch a grat with the show he's pulling off down there.
I return to my book: Initial exposure to Guardian Forces produces memory loss at the very onset of junctioning. The first to be affected are the latent childhood memories that the brain has stored and accumulated. The effect is not noticable to the recipient of the Guardian Force and it is only through thorough questioning that an absence of memory is even acknowleged. Continued exposure to Guardian Forces is too dangerous to test on live subjects and those that have had prolonged junctions (e.g. the Fated) have refused to answer any questions on their experiences.
It's too nice of a morning to be stuck reading such studious material, so I tuck the book in my lap and simply enjoy the morning. Even here at My Blue Heaven, the shore is still visible. It's situated on top the highest hill in the area, which honestly isn't that high. It's high enough to overlook the town, with it's guady trappings. I'm glad Bill and Greta decided to purchase this inn.
Bill and Greta, an anomaly if I ever found one. He doesn't take things seriously enough, she takes them too seriously. He likes the summer where the heat gets hot enough to melt your face, while she prefers the winters that freeze the already battered ground and causes frostbite to exposed digits. It's like they can never compromise on anything. When I first arrived here they were courteous enough around me and managed to keep their personalities in check. Musn't drive away the cash cow, after all. After I had situated, they reverted to what they are now. She nags, he procrastinates. It's a vicious cycle.
At first I thought that Bill and Isti were having an affair. He was awfully nice to her in a manner unbefitting a married man. I later discovered that he flirts with anybody who'll listen to his glory days as an archeologist, once even with me. Oh, scandalous! If nothing else, Isti is a good listener, but only for the fact that she doesn't seem to posses opinions of her own. Or if she did, she's never expressed them.
continued...
Well, that was my first foray into FFVIII fanfiction. It's slightly unconventional in that the Liberi Fatali aren't even featured, just noted as a historical note. The timeline, incase it was unclear is that is is several decades after the end of the game and a new, perhaps blander, world has arisen.
I planned the work to be split into five parts, the first two presented here, each part has a labeled narrator in first person.
The fic itself is less of a plot centered story and more of a character study as well as a test of my own writing skill which is rusty after so many years of neglect.
"Tell me about Balamb Garden again."
I look up at my book at her. She is quietly (always quietly, always perfectly) folding and hanging the towels in the bathroom. It's not a question, but then, I can never say no to her. I acquiese.
"Well now, that takes me back." I shut the book, careful to put my bookmarker facing my current page. "I assume you mean the old Balamb Garden, I've never been to the new one, that fandangled thing."
She nods her head automatically, careful not to take her eyes, nor the major part of her attention away from her work. It's scrubbing now, a demeaning job if I ever saw one. Much more demeaning than say, slaving as a cafeteria worker. I try to lessen her load by cleaning up whenever I can and not leaving too much of a mess.
"It was like a pretty blue conch shell spiraling into the air. I was always amazed at the artistry of it all. I'd never seen anything like it, and no matter how much they update the systems or load it down with new guns, it won't ever capture the majesty of the original. It almost seemed alive, organic in a way, everything was curved and elegant like a woman. The old headmaster used to joke about it all the time." There is reminiscence in my voice.
"What happened to it?" It's a question this time.
"Originally designated for scrap after it was deemed obsolete. However a few influencial and wealthy benefactors, most of them admirers of the Fated, decided it would be best used as a reminder, so that's what they did. Now it's a memorial to all their achievements. Hmmph, a memorial to people who aren't even dead. Sure their glory days are over, but that doesn't mean they're useless and should be relegated to the geriatric ward." My indignation is obvious, and while I should have checked myself, memories of the past always make me excitable.
"What did you do at Garden, Teresa?" She is almost done with the cleaning and stands up to pack the supplies and move on to the next degrading task. She stands straight up, straighter than I've ever seen her and surveys her work, posing. She pushes the glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger and seems satisfied. She turns to face me and gives me a weak smile, she is slouching somewhat. "All done." There is no accomplishment in that statement.
"Nothing important at all, dearie, I was one of those forgettable people! Hahaha." And it's true. I doubt anyone would remember, why would they? Afterall, important people lead important lives. They are remembered and honoured and dignified. Or at least, they should have been. "Buh bye, Isti." She nods, and leaves.
I pick my book of my lap, A Case Study of Guardian Force Induced Memory Loss, and make my way to the make shift porch infront of my room. Isti is still on my mind. I wonder why she remains here, just as I have done a hundred times before, ever since I first arrived at LeGuin, hoping to lose myself among the faceless. She always answers that she is content; not happy, content. I can only accept her answer.
There is a scraping on the floor and I look up to see that young man, Syne, grinning that fool's grin of his. A SeeD in the works, and from the looks of it, he needs a lot of work. The first thin he needs to lose is the superiority complex, the second thing is that outdated gunblade. Does he think he's Squall Leonhart? He walks away and I'm wishing for Kinneas' rifle to give him one in the keister. He's off to swing away that gunblade of his again. On my daily walk along the beach I spotted him practicing his "forms", if you can call it that. His practice is more like an elaborate, flowery dance, that is about as dangerous and terrifying as the Galbadian ballet troupe. He couldn't even scratch a grat with the show he's pulling off down there.
I return to my book: Initial exposure to Guardian Forces produces memory loss at the very onset of junctioning. The first to be affected are the latent childhood memories that the brain has stored and accumulated. The effect is not noticable to the recipient of the Guardian Force and it is only through thorough questioning that an absence of memory is even acknowleged. Continued exposure to Guardian Forces is too dangerous to test on live subjects and those that have had prolonged junctions (e.g. the Fated) have refused to answer any questions on their experiences.
It's too nice of a morning to be stuck reading such studious material, so I tuck the book in my lap and simply enjoy the morning. Even here at My Blue Heaven, the shore is still visible. It's situated on top the highest hill in the area, which honestly isn't that high. It's high enough to overlook the town, with it's guady trappings. I'm glad Bill and Greta decided to purchase this inn.
Bill and Greta, an anomaly if I ever found one. He doesn't take things seriously enough, she takes them too seriously. He likes the summer where the heat gets hot enough to melt your face, while she prefers the winters that freeze the already battered ground and causes frostbite to exposed digits. It's like they can never compromise on anything. When I first arrived here they were courteous enough around me and managed to keep their personalities in check. Musn't drive away the cash cow, after all. After I had situated, they reverted to what they are now. She nags, he procrastinates. It's a vicious cycle.
At first I thought that Bill and Isti were having an affair. He was awfully nice to her in a manner unbefitting a married man. I later discovered that he flirts with anybody who'll listen to his glory days as an archeologist, once even with me. Oh, scandalous! If nothing else, Isti is a good listener, but only for the fact that she doesn't seem to posses opinions of her own. Or if she did, she's never expressed them.
continued...
Well, that was my first foray into FFVIII fanfiction. It's slightly unconventional in that the Liberi Fatali aren't even featured, just noted as a historical note. The timeline, incase it was unclear is that is is several decades after the end of the game and a new, perhaps blander, world has arisen.
I planned the work to be split into five parts, the first two presented here, each part has a labeled narrator in first person.
The fic itself is less of a plot centered story and more of a character study as well as a test of my own writing skill which is rusty after so many years of neglect.