Chiaroscuro
This is about one third of the first chapter of what started out to be a short story and grew, like Topsy, into a thing that is now in excess of 86K words. As it passed through the alembic of my mind, it transformed into something that Square-Enix would never recognize. So I changed all the names and locations and permitted it to follow the course it had found for itself in my own invented world. For the purposes of posting it here, I have changed names, etc. back to the ones in FFX-2 and attempted to reset the scene in the old familiar Spira. Please be kind enough to forgive any details I may have overlooked.
Formal disclaimer: I own a lot of things but FFX-2 isn't among them. It belongs to Square-Enix.
Chapter One
"Is he alive?"
"Only in a technical sense."
The operating theatre was filled; the seats behind the glass walls crowded with the governing elite of Spira, curious to learn why they had been hastily summoned to so unlikely a venue. In the well of the theatre, starkly illuminated by a glaringly white work light, was a metal gurney bearing the body of what had been a tall man, powerfully built but now torn and broken like a toy discarded by a careless child. Blood and the grime of battle compounded the impression that this had never been a living creature but was only a pacifist's puppet designed to dramatize the horrors of war.
Standing alongside the gurney, wielding a long pointer, was Gaing, an Al Bhed surgeon/technician whose unconventional theories had generated a certain amount of controversy among the doyens of his profession, his tanned skin contrasting dramatically with the white scrub suit that was his usual wear. "As you can see," he said, tracing a path on his subject as he lectured, "the main blow fell here on this side of the chest. The left arm was immediately vaporized along with the left lung and a portion of the shoulder. The heart was also destroyed."
"Then how does he live, even technically?" The interrogator was Quoin, a sour-visaged member of the Council of Maesteri.
"Four White Mages seized him in a stasis spell before he hit the ground and he was transferred here as soon as possible and connected to this." The pointer touched the small rounded black box that lay close to the body with tubes and wires extending into the awful opening of the wound. "This is the latest model of our internal pump, an implantable machina which both circulates and aerates the blood. It functions as a heart, preventing the deterioration of the brain and other tissues. We have made it smaller and more efficient and have been having a great deal of success with this version, which is less likely to be rejected than the older, larger device. But - to continue - the pressure from the attack has damaged the eyes; to what extent we do not yet know but we hope not badly. It also struck the left leg..." Here the pointer moved down to the lower body. The remains of the upper thigh dissolved into a scarlet mélange of torn muscle and splintered bone, tapering off into nothing.
"Are we here to look at another dead body? I didn't know the Council was summoned to an autopsy and frankly, I wouldn't have come if I had known; my digestion isn't up to this kind of exhibition. Are we supposed to comment on your skills as a teacher as we watch this ... this object finish dying? Or do you perhaps have a purpose in this demonstration?" the Maester asked.
Gaing sighed audibly, "Yes, I have a purpose for calling you into consultation. I can save this man – give him his life back. But I would like to have the blessing of the church before I start."
Quoin gaped. "You have a reputation for making wild claims for yourself but this exceeds even your audacity. You think you can put life back into this ... this corpse?"
"Yes, we can implant the machina heart, construct a new rib cage and lung – I have a prototype for a radically new method of doing that – and attach the most advanced machina limbs which are just being refined by our engineers. There is no reason he shouldn't live."
"But is there a reason why he should? We have rejected machina as a matter of principle, why change now? And there are thousands who have died in this war; why go to such extremes to save this one? Surely, if we are to compromise our faith, there are less drastically injured cases that could more likely benefit from your talents." Quoin was skeptical.
"This one, as you term him, is special," the voice from the gallery spoke with deep authority, "Less than a month ago you were all in the reviewing stand when I pinned Spira's highest honor on that chest. ... You've heard the news from Mount Gagazet ... You know who is said to have died there..."
Quoin interrupted, "Nooj? This can't be Nooj. It's nothing like him."
"This is Nooj – Nooj, the Undying."
"Undying? Apparently not," Rebant, the youngest Maester smoothly sneered. "Are we in the resurrection business now?"
"Don't be naïve, Rebant. How many people actually know what happened there at the end? All we have to do is change the story – substitute badly wounded for dead and announce we're making every effort to nurse him back to health. That way, if Gaing here is right, we are the benevolent saviors of the hero of the battle of Mount Gagazet and if the implants fail – well, at least we tried. We need the support of the public now. Don't you listen to the news? The War is not going well." The bulky man, the Obermaester Mounfar – head of the priestly Council - made a warning gesture, "We need to save him if we can. He'll be our most potent weapon on the domestic front if we can keep him alive and use him to influence the mobs and the army."
"I can't recognize that man down there; are you sure you have Nooj? I've heard that he was definitely killed in that campaign. You may have a hard time convincing the newsmongers that he is alive when they've all printed his obituary. And, moreover, even if he is who you say and can be saved, will he be able to lead the fight for us again? Will he be worth our investment?" Quoin continued to be dubious.
"It's Nooj; I'm sure of that and his future doesn't matter. The important thing is what the masses think we are doing. This is the most dramatic action we can take and the one with the most potential pay-off. Saving a real hero from certain death.... It's all in the image – even a child knows that. Haven't you learned anything at all since you've been on this Council?"
"But the expense..."
"Is worth it. I will pay." It was a woman's voice, dry and cynical.
"LeBlanc! And your reward for this generosity?"
"Access." She answered flatly and did not elaborate.
"Done. Then, if we are agreed...Gaing, you may proceed," Mounfar ordered with a thoughtful look at the woman, LeBlanc.
"Thank you; I shall inform you when the first surgeries are complete."
"We are not agreed. I most vigorously protest this costly experiment." The speaker was female, one of a small minority on the Council. "You've offered no justification for your decision and I insist that you reconsider. You are committing us to an act that is simultaneously profligate and unethical... That's quite a trick, even for you."
"Is preserving a life so unethical, Maestress Dida?" asked Mounfar.
"When it is a burden and not a grace. This Al Bhed came to us to request permission of the church to perform his experiments. And we're giving it to him without even discussing whether or not it's a moral act. I believe it is immoral to proceed in this without the consent of the one most affected. This man is not a laboratory animal and - face the truth – he's dead and incapable of consent. Let him go without further mutilation."
Rebant, who fancied himself a wit, called out, "Cheer up, Dida, the implants may not work. Maybe he'll stay dead anyway."
"You're an idiot! We are the Council of Spira and have standards to uphold. If we permit this act, let alone authorize it, we will have relinquished our right to govern in the name of God. We will have become worse than what we are fighting. Someone must set limitations or we become barbarian. Think! It's one thing to use prostheses like arms or legs and quite another to return life to a dead man, and – no matter how you dress it up – that's what you're planning to do."
"He's not dead, Dida." Insisted Normath, another of the senior Maesteri.
"He's not breathing; he has no pulse. What do you call it – rest and recuperation?"
Gaing interrupted the priestly bickering, "I wish you would see the humane purpose of this attempt. If I can save this one, we'll have learned how to preserve others like him. We won't have to lose so many of our strongest in our wars."
Dida leapt like a tigress, "So, you intend to make life even cheaper? Oh – you're a great humanitarian."
His voice heavy with exasperation, Mounfar ruled, "I have never been able to understand if you are more concerned with the ethical or the financial consequences of a dilemma; however in this case it doesn't matter. This woman, LeBlanc, has offered to bear the costs instead of the government. And the ultimate decision on ethics is mine. So...I have taken thought and it is enough; I am the Obermaester, the voice of God. Gaing, you have our consent and blessing."
Quoin waved his hand, "I have one more question. If the heart mechar'- thing will aerate the blood, why do you need to replace the lung? Surely the less surgery the better."
With a grimace of impatience the Al Bhed surgeon responded, "In order to talk he must have breath. After all, one of the reasons we are doing this is so you can use him for propaganda."
"And another reason is so you can try out your pretty new toys." Rebant laughed.
Gaing looked up at the Maesteri in disbelief. They were bickering about little things that had nothing to do with the miracle he was proposing to perform. When that LeBlanc woman had approached him, realizing that he was the only man on Spira who could do this, he had expected more enthusiasm and credit. But the Council had turned out to be as orthodox in its outlook as the senior surgeons– they all lacked any appreciation for progressive or innovative science. He turned back to the gurney with a snort, fixing his attention on the bloody unpromising form before him. This was the most rare of moments; he had the man not five hours after his apparent death, frozen in stasis and held stable by the most efficient machina. How many surgeons got an opportunity like this? He could intervene before more harm had been done and, with nothing to lose, could take the chances necessary to prove his theories. It was a glorious puzzle and for a change he had the financial backing and the permission to start reassembling it. He had judged so well - opting not to clean the body before presenting his case to the Council. If those risk-averse priestly politicians had seen the grayish pallor of the skin, the true extent of the massive wounds, they would never have believed that he could return this man to life. With a brusque gesture, he summoned his team to begin washing Nooj's body and cutting away the clothing left by the attack while he bent to the fascinating task of resurrection.
This is about one third of the first chapter of what started out to be a short story and grew, like Topsy, into a thing that is now in excess of 86K words. As it passed through the alembic of my mind, it transformed into something that Square-Enix would never recognize. So I changed all the names and locations and permitted it to follow the course it had found for itself in my own invented world. For the purposes of posting it here, I have changed names, etc. back to the ones in FFX-2 and attempted to reset the scene in the old familiar Spira. Please be kind enough to forgive any details I may have overlooked.
Formal disclaimer: I own a lot of things but FFX-2 isn't among them. It belongs to Square-Enix.
Chapter One
"Is he alive?"
"Only in a technical sense."
The operating theatre was filled; the seats behind the glass walls crowded with the governing elite of Spira, curious to learn why they had been hastily summoned to so unlikely a venue. In the well of the theatre, starkly illuminated by a glaringly white work light, was a metal gurney bearing the body of what had been a tall man, powerfully built but now torn and broken like a toy discarded by a careless child. Blood and the grime of battle compounded the impression that this had never been a living creature but was only a pacifist's puppet designed to dramatize the horrors of war.
Standing alongside the gurney, wielding a long pointer, was Gaing, an Al Bhed surgeon/technician whose unconventional theories had generated a certain amount of controversy among the doyens of his profession, his tanned skin contrasting dramatically with the white scrub suit that was his usual wear. "As you can see," he said, tracing a path on his subject as he lectured, "the main blow fell here on this side of the chest. The left arm was immediately vaporized along with the left lung and a portion of the shoulder. The heart was also destroyed."
"Then how does he live, even technically?" The interrogator was Quoin, a sour-visaged member of the Council of Maesteri.
"Four White Mages seized him in a stasis spell before he hit the ground and he was transferred here as soon as possible and connected to this." The pointer touched the small rounded black box that lay close to the body with tubes and wires extending into the awful opening of the wound. "This is the latest model of our internal pump, an implantable machina which both circulates and aerates the blood. It functions as a heart, preventing the deterioration of the brain and other tissues. We have made it smaller and more efficient and have been having a great deal of success with this version, which is less likely to be rejected than the older, larger device. But - to continue - the pressure from the attack has damaged the eyes; to what extent we do not yet know but we hope not badly. It also struck the left leg..." Here the pointer moved down to the lower body. The remains of the upper thigh dissolved into a scarlet mélange of torn muscle and splintered bone, tapering off into nothing.
"Are we here to look at another dead body? I didn't know the Council was summoned to an autopsy and frankly, I wouldn't have come if I had known; my digestion isn't up to this kind of exhibition. Are we supposed to comment on your skills as a teacher as we watch this ... this object finish dying? Or do you perhaps have a purpose in this demonstration?" the Maester asked.
Gaing sighed audibly, "Yes, I have a purpose for calling you into consultation. I can save this man – give him his life back. But I would like to have the blessing of the church before I start."
Quoin gaped. "You have a reputation for making wild claims for yourself but this exceeds even your audacity. You think you can put life back into this ... this corpse?"
"Yes, we can implant the machina heart, construct a new rib cage and lung – I have a prototype for a radically new method of doing that – and attach the most advanced machina limbs which are just being refined by our engineers. There is no reason he shouldn't live."
"But is there a reason why he should? We have rejected machina as a matter of principle, why change now? And there are thousands who have died in this war; why go to such extremes to save this one? Surely, if we are to compromise our faith, there are less drastically injured cases that could more likely benefit from your talents." Quoin was skeptical.
"This one, as you term him, is special," the voice from the gallery spoke with deep authority, "Less than a month ago you were all in the reviewing stand when I pinned Spira's highest honor on that chest. ... You've heard the news from Mount Gagazet ... You know who is said to have died there..."
Quoin interrupted, "Nooj? This can't be Nooj. It's nothing like him."
"This is Nooj – Nooj, the Undying."
"Undying? Apparently not," Rebant, the youngest Maester smoothly sneered. "Are we in the resurrection business now?"
"Don't be naïve, Rebant. How many people actually know what happened there at the end? All we have to do is change the story – substitute badly wounded for dead and announce we're making every effort to nurse him back to health. That way, if Gaing here is right, we are the benevolent saviors of the hero of the battle of Mount Gagazet and if the implants fail – well, at least we tried. We need the support of the public now. Don't you listen to the news? The War is not going well." The bulky man, the Obermaester Mounfar – head of the priestly Council - made a warning gesture, "We need to save him if we can. He'll be our most potent weapon on the domestic front if we can keep him alive and use him to influence the mobs and the army."
"I can't recognize that man down there; are you sure you have Nooj? I've heard that he was definitely killed in that campaign. You may have a hard time convincing the newsmongers that he is alive when they've all printed his obituary. And, moreover, even if he is who you say and can be saved, will he be able to lead the fight for us again? Will he be worth our investment?" Quoin continued to be dubious.
"It's Nooj; I'm sure of that and his future doesn't matter. The important thing is what the masses think we are doing. This is the most dramatic action we can take and the one with the most potential pay-off. Saving a real hero from certain death.... It's all in the image – even a child knows that. Haven't you learned anything at all since you've been on this Council?"
"But the expense..."
"Is worth it. I will pay." It was a woman's voice, dry and cynical.
"LeBlanc! And your reward for this generosity?"
"Access." She answered flatly and did not elaborate.
"Done. Then, if we are agreed...Gaing, you may proceed," Mounfar ordered with a thoughtful look at the woman, LeBlanc.
"Thank you; I shall inform you when the first surgeries are complete."
"We are not agreed. I most vigorously protest this costly experiment." The speaker was female, one of a small minority on the Council. "You've offered no justification for your decision and I insist that you reconsider. You are committing us to an act that is simultaneously profligate and unethical... That's quite a trick, even for you."
"Is preserving a life so unethical, Maestress Dida?" asked Mounfar.
"When it is a burden and not a grace. This Al Bhed came to us to request permission of the church to perform his experiments. And we're giving it to him without even discussing whether or not it's a moral act. I believe it is immoral to proceed in this without the consent of the one most affected. This man is not a laboratory animal and - face the truth – he's dead and incapable of consent. Let him go without further mutilation."
Rebant, who fancied himself a wit, called out, "Cheer up, Dida, the implants may not work. Maybe he'll stay dead anyway."
"You're an idiot! We are the Council of Spira and have standards to uphold. If we permit this act, let alone authorize it, we will have relinquished our right to govern in the name of God. We will have become worse than what we are fighting. Someone must set limitations or we become barbarian. Think! It's one thing to use prostheses like arms or legs and quite another to return life to a dead man, and – no matter how you dress it up – that's what you're planning to do."
"He's not dead, Dida." Insisted Normath, another of the senior Maesteri.
"He's not breathing; he has no pulse. What do you call it – rest and recuperation?"
Gaing interrupted the priestly bickering, "I wish you would see the humane purpose of this attempt. If I can save this one, we'll have learned how to preserve others like him. We won't have to lose so many of our strongest in our wars."
Dida leapt like a tigress, "So, you intend to make life even cheaper? Oh – you're a great humanitarian."
His voice heavy with exasperation, Mounfar ruled, "I have never been able to understand if you are more concerned with the ethical or the financial consequences of a dilemma; however in this case it doesn't matter. This woman, LeBlanc, has offered to bear the costs instead of the government. And the ultimate decision on ethics is mine. So...I have taken thought and it is enough; I am the Obermaester, the voice of God. Gaing, you have our consent and blessing."
Quoin waved his hand, "I have one more question. If the heart mechar'- thing will aerate the blood, why do you need to replace the lung? Surely the less surgery the better."
With a grimace of impatience the Al Bhed surgeon responded, "In order to talk he must have breath. After all, one of the reasons we are doing this is so you can use him for propaganda."
"And another reason is so you can try out your pretty new toys." Rebant laughed.
Gaing looked up at the Maesteri in disbelief. They were bickering about little things that had nothing to do with the miracle he was proposing to perform. When that LeBlanc woman had approached him, realizing that he was the only man on Spira who could do this, he had expected more enthusiasm and credit. But the Council had turned out to be as orthodox in its outlook as the senior surgeons– they all lacked any appreciation for progressive or innovative science. He turned back to the gurney with a snort, fixing his attention on the bloody unpromising form before him. This was the most rare of moments; he had the man not five hours after his apparent death, frozen in stasis and held stable by the most efficient machina. How many surgeons got an opportunity like this? He could intervene before more harm had been done and, with nothing to lose, could take the chances necessary to prove his theories. It was a glorious puzzle and for a change he had the financial backing and the permission to start reassembling it. He had judged so well - opting not to clean the body before presenting his case to the Council. If those risk-averse priestly politicians had seen the grayish pallor of the skin, the true extent of the massive wounds, they would never have believed that he could return this man to life. With a brusque gesture, he summoned his team to begin washing Nooj's body and cutting away the clothing left by the attack while he bent to the fascinating task of resurrection.