"Hey! Drink boy! Fill 'er up!" A thick, rounded mug wagged in the air,
annoying greatly the one to whom it was addressed.
"Oh, I hope Sin eats your face, Donebert." With a casual flap of the hand the 'drink boy' dismissed his elder in the newspaper business, Olge Donebert, and continued perusing his book. It was a tome on the hierarchical structure of the Yevon faith, one that the lad had been given the duty of reporting on.
His name was Maximilian Letouchas – generally known as Max – and he stood proudly as a born and bred Lucanite. A rather scraggly young man of the burgeoning age of twenty-one, Max was fresh, dynamic, outgoing, and, to his own senses, woefully underused at the Luca Weekly Gazette. He had joined up at the newspaper nearly a year ago to the day, and had yet to be given even a single story worthy of note: his most recent report on Yevon was only one of a string of dreadfully dull assignments laid on by the occasionally tyrannical Donebert, head officer of the whole business.
The same Donebert who, having knocked his young protégé over the head with his mug, now poured for himself a fresh batch of Shoopuf milk. The gigantic animals were useful for more than just transportation, and that which flowed forth from their udders – a little oddly placed near the ankle though they were – served up as a rather tasty, if somewhat rich, beverage.
It was all they could afford at the Gazette, really. The paper had recently fallen on hard times, and Max couldn't much blame them for it, either: the Bevelle Browser, a highly syndicated news forum, had begun to branch out into other cities, establishing a wide monopoly on the industry that had managed to put a great deal of other companies on the ropes. As such, the Gazette had little to report on, for the Spiran news net played on the rather annoying terms of first come, first serve. And the Browser, sadly, managed to get its people on the spot with a speed that made other companies reel in revulsion.
And so, the rookies – yes, even a year of experience still left one in the dust as a rookie – were relegated to the dregs. In other words, book reviews. Max had reviewed three dreadfully terrible books over the last month: the first a thesis on whether or not Fiends breed, the second a collection of essays regarding the geography of Spira – who writes essays about hills, Max despaired – and the third, a very in-depth look at why warrior monks were given the equal spot of, say, a local reverend in the hierarchy of Yevon. Snore, snore, snore.
It was this book that he was currently focussed upon, eyes slowly drowsing over and collapsing in on themselves. As his vision lured, Max reflected on the unfairness of it all: why the devil were the senior correspondents all sent out on assignment when each and every one of them was rotund, lazy, and despised the light of day? No wonder their paper did so poorly. After all, their last headliner had been 'Luca Goer Vizzi Vandros Seen Urinating In Back Alley: Is the Luca Spirit Draining Away With It?': such a ridiculous line being given the top spot at what had once been the most renowned newspaper in Luca only filled a person with utter resignation.
Max dropped his book and sighed. "Hey, Donebert!"
The boss man looked up from his curved, oaken desk, where he'd been half reading a report and half daydreaming about woman with large busts, all while sipping his milk. "What is it, drink boy?"
"When you gonna throw me a damned bone, big man? I'm sick of this office all of the time. The quill is cramping up my hand, ya?"
"Maybe when you show me the respect I'm due, kid. Or when you stop usin' that stupid accent just to bug me. You know I hate it." Donebert had been born in Besaid, a fact that seldom filled him with a sense of pride: Besaid, quite frankly, was known both for its crappy blitzball team, and the lower-than-average intellect of its citizens. Max suspected that was just a stupid stereotype that had worked its way into the mainstream; nevertheless, he happened to like it. Plus saying 'ya' all the time was kind of fun.
Philias Squire, an aged reporter who had barely left his desk in the last ten years for a story, wagged a finger at them both. "You children, you don't know how to talk properly. Where is your sense of civic pride? Be proud Yevonites." He bowed deeply at the mention of Yevon.
Donebert merely rolled his eyes. "Yes, Philias." Despite being the boss of the paper, Donebert knew better than to argue with the senile old man. Philias was the editor, and despite his nit-picky shortcomings, the old man could spot a typo from miles away. He also seemed to know the standard layout of each edition by heart, something that no other person at the paper could boast, which was a sad fact seeing as how they put the newspaper together fifty-one times a year.
The general humdrum of the relatively barren office resumed, with little to no work being done. Donebert read, and dreamed: Philias quietly settled down for a nap: and Max, wishing he'd become a waiter or a blitzballer or a Shoopuf driver or something else more exciting than this, closed his book and began to doodle.
And he doodled for the better part of an hour before Herbert Ronygan, the resident 'sniffer-outer' of stories, burst in through the door, looking as though he were ready to burst with excitement.
"We got a hot one, guys!"
---
Once the various workers had drawn themselves slowly from their comas and gathered around the breathless Herbert, he described the situation: he had just come back from meeting with a dock working friend of his, who had informed Herbert that a big story was brewing out on a small island, a few hundred kilometres off the coast of Luca. The worker couldn't give all the details – he didn't really know them all, himself – but what he did know was that it was a huge story in the making, and the Browser hadn't so much as a clue of its existence.
Which meant, of course, that first come, first serve.
Donebert was ecstatic. "Nice one, Herb. Perfect. Couldn't have had better timing on this one." Rubbing his knuckles together in anticipation, he observed the gathered crowd of reporters. "Somil, you're on it. Catch the next boat out there."
Somil, an emaciated old man whose bones cracked whenever he moved, declined quickly. "Sorry, sir, but my healer told me to avoid sea air. . . it makes me wretch. . ."
Donebert frowned. "Uhh. . . okay, Diltchy."
Diltchy was, unlike most of the others, middle-aged; however, he had the weakest stomach of the lot, and turned down the offer on account of waves rocking against the boat. "I'd wretch too, sir. Sorry."
". . . Ramsey?"
"Tendonitis."
"Arklay?"
"I have a fear of islands."
"Bremer?"
"I have bad, bad indigestion right now, sir."
"But it'd be gone by the time you were on the boat. . ."
"N-nah, this'll be lingering, I think."
Max nearly dislocated his shoulder, so vigorously did he wave. Donebert simply ignored him. "Good god, don't tell me not a one of you will go. What kind of useless idiots have I hired?"
Bremer interjected with an ill-placed "we've all been here longer than you, boss", which earned him a whack from Donebert's mug.
"Why don't you go, sir?" Ramsey offered.
Donebert paled slightly. "Uh, no, I'm needed here. The boss doesn't go in the field."
Bullshit, you lazy old man, Max thought to himself. Not that it mattered: they needed the story, and if nobody else would go. . .!
Donebert sagged. His eyes travelled across the whole sorry lot – strategically leaping over Max to focus briefly on an over-hanging clock – and, rolling back into place with somewhat exasperated resignation, came to a rest on the enthusiastic lad.
"Ugh, fine. Max?"
Max's whoop of joy could be heard out on the street, startling a battle- ready Ronso who nearly decapitated a nearby chicken with his axe, and who was soon arrested by the local militia.
---
Scant hours later, with strict orders to jot down every detail and to make sure that the Browsers keep their grubby hands off should they turn up, Max found himself on the seas. The cool, brisk air sailed through his dirty blonde hair, curly since birth and destined to stay that way his whole life. Ahh, this was the life, he thought.
Or, it would have been, had the damned Gazette scrimped for some better tickets. Much to his dismay, Max had been plopped on a fishing boat that would drop him off on the island as it made its rounds. He hung in utter dismay over the lip of the boat, staring off blankly across the ocean, his nose ruing the smell of rotten fish. Even for a fishing boat, the damned thing was bottom-of-the-barrel cheap.
("It's the only thing we could get. Get your ass out there, kid." Donebert had insisted gruffly. A "Sure thing, ya?" in reply earned Max a hard cuff to his head with Donebert's trademark mug.)
Stuffed deep into one of his deep, baggy pockets – Max believed in comfort over style, and as such, looked rather poor most of the time, which wasn't far from the truth – was enough money to get him back again. He'd be stuck for a week on the island, waiting for the bi-monthly boat to arrive and ferry him back, where he'd scramble back via Chocobo to Luca, story in hand.
And yet, he had no idea what the story was going to be. Hell, a new breed of beetle or something stupid like that could be the 'big scoop' Herbert had brought in, with no relevance whatsoever to the news at large.
Somehow, though, he didn't think so. Herbert had been in the business for years, and Max had heard wind of many of the stories he'd broken – a record that had earned him the nickname 'Old Reliable'. If Herbert was in such a tizzy, it had to be an item of at least marginal use.
"Ahh, with my luck, all the damned villagers blew themselves up, or something. Mass conniption fit."
But he didn't think so.
A school of large, amply jawed fish began to leap alongside the hull of the boat, a sight that drove the fishermen to lug out their reinforced steel nets and begin casting them out at a furious rate.
No, he didn't think so at all.
---
A few days later, Max, a little sick from the fare he had been supplied with on the boat – he swore never to eat another fish with teeth larger than his again – found the boat pulling in alongside a small, ramshackle dock. Hefting his leathern suitcase onto the dock with a loud thud and a slight crack, he thanked the captain, and stepped carefully down a thin ramp onto the worn wooden planks.
The captain saluted him once before pulling his ship out of the bay for good. "Welcome to Haliki, lad, Yevon capital of the ocean. Have a fun stay, and make it a good story, ya?"
"Oh, I hope Sin eats your face, Donebert." With a casual flap of the hand the 'drink boy' dismissed his elder in the newspaper business, Olge Donebert, and continued perusing his book. It was a tome on the hierarchical structure of the Yevon faith, one that the lad had been given the duty of reporting on.
His name was Maximilian Letouchas – generally known as Max – and he stood proudly as a born and bred Lucanite. A rather scraggly young man of the burgeoning age of twenty-one, Max was fresh, dynamic, outgoing, and, to his own senses, woefully underused at the Luca Weekly Gazette. He had joined up at the newspaper nearly a year ago to the day, and had yet to be given even a single story worthy of note: his most recent report on Yevon was only one of a string of dreadfully dull assignments laid on by the occasionally tyrannical Donebert, head officer of the whole business.
The same Donebert who, having knocked his young protégé over the head with his mug, now poured for himself a fresh batch of Shoopuf milk. The gigantic animals were useful for more than just transportation, and that which flowed forth from their udders – a little oddly placed near the ankle though they were – served up as a rather tasty, if somewhat rich, beverage.
It was all they could afford at the Gazette, really. The paper had recently fallen on hard times, and Max couldn't much blame them for it, either: the Bevelle Browser, a highly syndicated news forum, had begun to branch out into other cities, establishing a wide monopoly on the industry that had managed to put a great deal of other companies on the ropes. As such, the Gazette had little to report on, for the Spiran news net played on the rather annoying terms of first come, first serve. And the Browser, sadly, managed to get its people on the spot with a speed that made other companies reel in revulsion.
And so, the rookies – yes, even a year of experience still left one in the dust as a rookie – were relegated to the dregs. In other words, book reviews. Max had reviewed three dreadfully terrible books over the last month: the first a thesis on whether or not Fiends breed, the second a collection of essays regarding the geography of Spira – who writes essays about hills, Max despaired – and the third, a very in-depth look at why warrior monks were given the equal spot of, say, a local reverend in the hierarchy of Yevon. Snore, snore, snore.
It was this book that he was currently focussed upon, eyes slowly drowsing over and collapsing in on themselves. As his vision lured, Max reflected on the unfairness of it all: why the devil were the senior correspondents all sent out on assignment when each and every one of them was rotund, lazy, and despised the light of day? No wonder their paper did so poorly. After all, their last headliner had been 'Luca Goer Vizzi Vandros Seen Urinating In Back Alley: Is the Luca Spirit Draining Away With It?': such a ridiculous line being given the top spot at what had once been the most renowned newspaper in Luca only filled a person with utter resignation.
Max dropped his book and sighed. "Hey, Donebert!"
The boss man looked up from his curved, oaken desk, where he'd been half reading a report and half daydreaming about woman with large busts, all while sipping his milk. "What is it, drink boy?"
"When you gonna throw me a damned bone, big man? I'm sick of this office all of the time. The quill is cramping up my hand, ya?"
"Maybe when you show me the respect I'm due, kid. Or when you stop usin' that stupid accent just to bug me. You know I hate it." Donebert had been born in Besaid, a fact that seldom filled him with a sense of pride: Besaid, quite frankly, was known both for its crappy blitzball team, and the lower-than-average intellect of its citizens. Max suspected that was just a stupid stereotype that had worked its way into the mainstream; nevertheless, he happened to like it. Plus saying 'ya' all the time was kind of fun.
Philias Squire, an aged reporter who had barely left his desk in the last ten years for a story, wagged a finger at them both. "You children, you don't know how to talk properly. Where is your sense of civic pride? Be proud Yevonites." He bowed deeply at the mention of Yevon.
Donebert merely rolled his eyes. "Yes, Philias." Despite being the boss of the paper, Donebert knew better than to argue with the senile old man. Philias was the editor, and despite his nit-picky shortcomings, the old man could spot a typo from miles away. He also seemed to know the standard layout of each edition by heart, something that no other person at the paper could boast, which was a sad fact seeing as how they put the newspaper together fifty-one times a year.
The general humdrum of the relatively barren office resumed, with little to no work being done. Donebert read, and dreamed: Philias quietly settled down for a nap: and Max, wishing he'd become a waiter or a blitzballer or a Shoopuf driver or something else more exciting than this, closed his book and began to doodle.
And he doodled for the better part of an hour before Herbert Ronygan, the resident 'sniffer-outer' of stories, burst in through the door, looking as though he were ready to burst with excitement.
"We got a hot one, guys!"
---
Once the various workers had drawn themselves slowly from their comas and gathered around the breathless Herbert, he described the situation: he had just come back from meeting with a dock working friend of his, who had informed Herbert that a big story was brewing out on a small island, a few hundred kilometres off the coast of Luca. The worker couldn't give all the details – he didn't really know them all, himself – but what he did know was that it was a huge story in the making, and the Browser hadn't so much as a clue of its existence.
Which meant, of course, that first come, first serve.
Donebert was ecstatic. "Nice one, Herb. Perfect. Couldn't have had better timing on this one." Rubbing his knuckles together in anticipation, he observed the gathered crowd of reporters. "Somil, you're on it. Catch the next boat out there."
Somil, an emaciated old man whose bones cracked whenever he moved, declined quickly. "Sorry, sir, but my healer told me to avoid sea air. . . it makes me wretch. . ."
Donebert frowned. "Uhh. . . okay, Diltchy."
Diltchy was, unlike most of the others, middle-aged; however, he had the weakest stomach of the lot, and turned down the offer on account of waves rocking against the boat. "I'd wretch too, sir. Sorry."
". . . Ramsey?"
"Tendonitis."
"Arklay?"
"I have a fear of islands."
"Bremer?"
"I have bad, bad indigestion right now, sir."
"But it'd be gone by the time you were on the boat. . ."
"N-nah, this'll be lingering, I think."
Max nearly dislocated his shoulder, so vigorously did he wave. Donebert simply ignored him. "Good god, don't tell me not a one of you will go. What kind of useless idiots have I hired?"
Bremer interjected with an ill-placed "we've all been here longer than you, boss", which earned him a whack from Donebert's mug.
"Why don't you go, sir?" Ramsey offered.
Donebert paled slightly. "Uh, no, I'm needed here. The boss doesn't go in the field."
Bullshit, you lazy old man, Max thought to himself. Not that it mattered: they needed the story, and if nobody else would go. . .!
Donebert sagged. His eyes travelled across the whole sorry lot – strategically leaping over Max to focus briefly on an over-hanging clock – and, rolling back into place with somewhat exasperated resignation, came to a rest on the enthusiastic lad.
"Ugh, fine. Max?"
Max's whoop of joy could be heard out on the street, startling a battle- ready Ronso who nearly decapitated a nearby chicken with his axe, and who was soon arrested by the local militia.
---
Scant hours later, with strict orders to jot down every detail and to make sure that the Browsers keep their grubby hands off should they turn up, Max found himself on the seas. The cool, brisk air sailed through his dirty blonde hair, curly since birth and destined to stay that way his whole life. Ahh, this was the life, he thought.
Or, it would have been, had the damned Gazette scrimped for some better tickets. Much to his dismay, Max had been plopped on a fishing boat that would drop him off on the island as it made its rounds. He hung in utter dismay over the lip of the boat, staring off blankly across the ocean, his nose ruing the smell of rotten fish. Even for a fishing boat, the damned thing was bottom-of-the-barrel cheap.
("It's the only thing we could get. Get your ass out there, kid." Donebert had insisted gruffly. A "Sure thing, ya?" in reply earned Max a hard cuff to his head with Donebert's trademark mug.)
Stuffed deep into one of his deep, baggy pockets – Max believed in comfort over style, and as such, looked rather poor most of the time, which wasn't far from the truth – was enough money to get him back again. He'd be stuck for a week on the island, waiting for the bi-monthly boat to arrive and ferry him back, where he'd scramble back via Chocobo to Luca, story in hand.
And yet, he had no idea what the story was going to be. Hell, a new breed of beetle or something stupid like that could be the 'big scoop' Herbert had brought in, with no relevance whatsoever to the news at large.
Somehow, though, he didn't think so. Herbert had been in the business for years, and Max had heard wind of many of the stories he'd broken – a record that had earned him the nickname 'Old Reliable'. If Herbert was in such a tizzy, it had to be an item of at least marginal use.
"Ahh, with my luck, all the damned villagers blew themselves up, or something. Mass conniption fit."
But he didn't think so.
A school of large, amply jawed fish began to leap alongside the hull of the boat, a sight that drove the fishermen to lug out their reinforced steel nets and begin casting them out at a furious rate.
No, he didn't think so at all.
---
A few days later, Max, a little sick from the fare he had been supplied with on the boat – he swore never to eat another fish with teeth larger than his again – found the boat pulling in alongside a small, ramshackle dock. Hefting his leathern suitcase onto the dock with a loud thud and a slight crack, he thanked the captain, and stepped carefully down a thin ramp onto the worn wooden planks.
The captain saluted him once before pulling his ship out of the bay for good. "Welcome to Haliki, lad, Yevon capital of the ocean. Have a fun stay, and make it a good story, ya?"