There was a fizzling, crackling sound as magic clashed with magic. The air
shimmered as tiny incandescent waves rippled out from the small, runic
device that had been implanted into the dirt, which was currently
attempting valiantly to hang onto its life. It was all for naught,
however, and Mahri's powder did its job: the device, cracking almost
anticlimactically, gave up the ghost, bringing down the entire barrier with
it. The huge, green walls faded from existence almost immediately, leaving
a clear view of the forest beyond.
Max was instantly relieved. The idea that he might be trapped within the tiny square of land for a week while Alan's people tried to bring it down from the outside caused a tiny bit of panic. Especially now that O'aka had burnt his house down, and he along with it, thus depriving Max of any cover.
One week, he thought abysmally. O'aka had been in there for. . . Max paused and calculated briefly, running the numbers through his head. 51 weeks in a year, right. . .? Around six hundred and sixty times more than I would have had to spend. . . geez, no wonder he wanted to die. Max turned briefly to gaze back at the now ruined house. Only one wall still managed to remain upright: the rest had come crumbling down in the middle of the night, scaring Max half to death as he napped. It was just a big pile of ash and rubble now.
The young man sighed. He ran a hand up and down the sheath of his new sword, which had found a new home clipped to his belt. He still didn't feel as though he deserved it: after all, he really had no intention of following after Mahri on some mad crusade. But the old man had known as much, he supposed, so that dulled the feeling somewhat.
The thought on the whole flashed a twinge of guilt through Max. But why should it? Mahri wasn't his concern. Despite what O'aka said, Max was not Celina. He held no responsibility to stop that guy. Hell, he'd probably just get himself killed if he even tried. Informing the public was enough, wasn't it. . .?
But what if Yevon itself decided to take action? They'd be justified to, of course: but Mahri, well, he had just as much reason to be doing what he was, even if it was a tad bit extreme. Yevon had obviously hurt the teenager badly in his youth. And had they learned of what the people of Haliki had done to Mahri, Max had little reason to think that the Temple would apologize to an Al Bhed. It would hurt their credibility, and confuse the ever-dedicated masses as to what their position on the subject of Al Bhed and machina actually was.
"There's just no easy way around this." Max announced his conclusion to the empty forest: it returned to him no reply. Much to his surprise – it allowed Max to gain a sort of perspective on how torn he actually was – he was much disappointed at this development, for he really could have used some kind of opinion.
---
"How the devil did you get out so fast, kid?" Alan was rather astounded at the emergence of Max into his camp. The young reporter had barely even stopped to gawk once again at the dead village, passing silently amongst the corpses as though they were nothing more than tufts of grass.
Max shrugged listlessly. "Guess the barrier decided to die. Weird timing, huh?"
Alan, naturally, was far from satisfied with this answer, but no amount of grilling managed to get any information out of Max. All the captain learned was that there was a burnt house in those newly revealed woods, and that Max had noticed an unsent flitting about the ruins – in other words, a Summoner was probably called for.
"The old owner of that dump, I suppose. Who knows." Max's youthful face, still unable to hold in a lie, told Alan that he was being fed a pack of bullshit: especially considering Max had gone in unarmed and come out with a sword.
"Found it out there. Figured I shouldn't spend the night unarmed. Guess it kinda grew on me."
Alan received nothing more than this, and no protestations that he had probably put his neck on the chopping block to let Max get the story would yield the truth. "There's nothing else, man. Now, can I use the tent for a while? I'm dead."
Alan gave Max a flat refusal. His courtesy in allowing the press to have a look at the scene had been met with insult. No way in Spira would he let Max impose on them again.
This news met with little resistance: Max, seemingly, knew that his refusal to admit anything more than he had would result in this, and he simply sauntered out of the tent with his sword on one side and his suitcase on the other.
Luckily for him, the bi-monthly boat would show up the next day: for the moment, however, Max was relegated to stick with the island – now strictly forbidden from entering the village by Alan and his men – and he spent another restless night under the stars, sleeping and yet utterly haunted by dreams.
---
"I'm paying now for my failure, lad. Go, if you can, and rectify my mistakes. I'll be praying for your success."
These words remained in Max's mind the entire way back. Neither the poor food nor the abhorrent cabin he was given for his money on the small ferry managed to perturb the young man more than O'aka's parting lines.
He had been decided before, sure: but that dedication to remaining neutral in the matter of Mahri's vengeance was very tenuous, and threatened often to collapse entirely. And it wasn't just that he felt obligated to stop Mahri, either. No, it was also the clarion call of adventure that had filled his head, a call that insisted the threat of death was nothing compared to the sheer freedom afforded to any happy wayfarer.
Only this wasn't some pointless excursion: no, it was tailing a seemingly crazy youth – a youth who, somehow, had become supernaturally strong in the last thirteen years – and convincing him not to take on the greatest threat in the world, Sin, in combat. Not just a dumb adventure at all.
But, his mind argued, perhaps that was the point: not many people got this kind of chance in their life. A true, bona fide quest, one dedicated to righting wrongs and keeping the peace. Max would be a hero if he succeeded, an inspiration: not to mention he would invariably become incredibly attractive to members of the opposite sex. Despite the moral prizes of undertaking such a journey, the matter, for him, always came back to those with chests far larger than his. Maybe he could have a girlfriend, for one. . .!
Yes, but you won't manage a girlfriend if you're dead, stupid. Can't get laid in the grave, not unless the girl is. . . very disturbed.
And thus the debate raged for days as Max washed about in his dumpy little boat, not particularly anxious about getting home anymore. He'd actually have to tell Donebert – and the world – what he'd found out.
The limelight no longer looked attractive. It appeared to be very bloody, and painfully pessimistic.
---
The ship, taking a rather long route, docked at Bevelle, but Max had neither the time nor the inclination to revel in the metropolitan sights. Uncharacteristically quiet throughout his short stay, Max managed to rent a Chocobo from a small pen called 'Clasko's Queh' – whose owner, a stocky man bearing an orange, mushroom style haircut, assured Max that the Chocobo would head home as soon as the reporter was done with it, no matter how far away from Bevelle his destination was – and set out on the road. The Chocobo had been more expensive than Max had originally anticipated, but O'aka's present served to supplement the bit of money Max still had from the office. Luckily, the giant bird was well worth the money – tireless and swift, it had carried Max to the northern side of the Moonflow within three days, quite a feat considering the distance.
Getting around the Moonflow was a bit trickier. The long, wide river, bearing no obvious way of getting around it – Shoopufs would not be brought in for another seventy-five years – was quite daunting, and it took Max an entire afternoon of constant searching before he could find a shallow across which his Chocobo could wade. The Chocobo, obviously not at all acclimated to any level of water, protested greatly, and the passage took much longer than Max would have liked. Even the fact that he did not particularly want to get back to Luca did little to deter his annoyance at the delay.
The Moonflow's large population of Pyreflies did little to aid the situation, as well. Wispy and seemingly curious, they flew about the Chocobo in rhythmic circles, curving between its legs and doing their best to pester the bird. For its part, the Chocobo seemed duly terrified, and it even managed to pitch Max from its saddle at one point. The wet, bedraggled young man barely snatched up its reins before the Chocobo turned into a yellow streak, blazing off over the horizon.
After happily breaking company with the Moonflow, his Chocobo once again a running machine that obeyed his commands, Max resumed his flight towards Luca. Throughout the journey, he had not deigned it necessary to speak to anybody he passed, issuing verbal commands only to his Chocobo when absolutely necessary. His mind was still too far gone, wrapped up in the matters of Mahri and his bizarre mission. Not to mention what he was going to do about it when reporting back to the Gazette headquarters.
What the hell am I gonna do. . .?
---
Despite his Chocobo's antics in the Mooflow, Max experienced his only true predicament while travelling the Mi'ihen Highroad. Slowed to a mere trot, Max had been lazing about amongst the bright golden feathers of his mount's plumage, still mulling over his troubles, when a deep, throaty roar echoed loudly in the air. Somewhat daydreaming as he was, Max nearly tipped off the side of his Chocobo in surprise, and only a timely act of balance on its part kept him upright.
The first thought that entered his mind was wonderment at his Chocobo keeping him aloft, and curiosity at how intelligent it was: these musings were, of course, woefully out of place, and another booming snarl convinced him of this bit of wisdom. Clutching at the reigns with a renewed vigil, Max checked in every direction, head darting back and forth as he searched out the threat.
The Chocobo seemed to have caught on as to its positioning almost immediately – right behind them – and took off at a speedy gallop, screeching loudly as it went, talons kicking up puffs of dust and dirt amongst the long growing environs lining the road. Max, still searching frantically while attempting to put a stop to his rogue Chocobo, eventually began to notice two things: one, that there was a certain amount of booming erupting from just behind him, and two, the sun, which was currently floating implacably in the cloudless noon sky, had become eclipsed by a large, disfigured shadow.
Finally, Max looked back. His stomach promptly collapsed from fear.
---
The so-labelled 'Chocobo-Eater' had changed greatly over the years. Indeed, they were not all of one particular species of Fiend: it would just happen that one type of Fiend or another would find the taste of the big birds particularly tempting, and take up residence. There seemed to be a sort of ruling dynamic amongst the denizens of the road, in which only the strongest, biggest Fiend could pick off the Chocobos, and the rest were relegated to keeping their hands or claws off. Indeed, it took very big, very fast Fiends to keep up with Chocobos, as their incredible leg muscles and penchant for escaping from even the smallest of perceived threats with blinding quickness made catching one decidedly difficult for the average Fiend.
Thus, it took a greater-than-average creature to do the job. Just such a Fiend was currently on the tail of Max and his Chocobo.
It was a gigantic, thickly built monster, with mottled green skin and humongous grasping tentacles. Venomous ooze could be exuding from every pore on its body with a disgusting regularity, thus protecting the monster from any planned attacks, only excluding those delivered from a far range. Any who dared to attack at a short range – unless properly equipped, of course – would quickly find themselves covered in the thick, gooey mucus. It would induce a state of paralysis in short order, allowing the Fiend to eat at its own leisure. And even if any would-be assaulter got close, its tentacles would ward them off: long, vicious tendrils, they lashed the air with loud cracks, keeping the monster well defended. They also served well to snag any fleeing Chocobos, thereby delivering the hapless bird up into its maw: a huge, gleaming skull, with a lower jaw bisected not once but twice, creating two swinging outer pieces and a third, central, jagged platform used to impale the Chocobo in place. It's upper jaw, lined with gruesome stalactites for teeth, would perform the killing blow. Curving horns jutted out the back of its head, giving the impression of an insect mated with a goat. No eyes were visible within the inky blackness of its hollows.
All of this, combined with its height – a good seven metres – managed to instil in Max the relatively simple thought that he was about to die. And, yet, he could not help but attempt valiantly to hang onto his life, and he spurred the Chocobo on wildly, swinging the reigns and screaming at the bird to move faster, for the love of Yevon.
---
The burly man in the cloak, just a little way up the path and obscured by the tall grasses, could not help but be annoyed by the amount of racket that was heading his way. He'd been trying to sleep, after all: how could one be disturbed from a peaceful nap and not be a little irked? Especially this man, who, coated in dark, stained Fiend's blood from three days of constant travelling and battling as he was, possessed little in the way of a good mood?
"Sounds like a Chocobo mating with a Shoopuf, for shit's sake."
Max was instantly relieved. The idea that he might be trapped within the tiny square of land for a week while Alan's people tried to bring it down from the outside caused a tiny bit of panic. Especially now that O'aka had burnt his house down, and he along with it, thus depriving Max of any cover.
One week, he thought abysmally. O'aka had been in there for. . . Max paused and calculated briefly, running the numbers through his head. 51 weeks in a year, right. . .? Around six hundred and sixty times more than I would have had to spend. . . geez, no wonder he wanted to die. Max turned briefly to gaze back at the now ruined house. Only one wall still managed to remain upright: the rest had come crumbling down in the middle of the night, scaring Max half to death as he napped. It was just a big pile of ash and rubble now.
The young man sighed. He ran a hand up and down the sheath of his new sword, which had found a new home clipped to his belt. He still didn't feel as though he deserved it: after all, he really had no intention of following after Mahri on some mad crusade. But the old man had known as much, he supposed, so that dulled the feeling somewhat.
The thought on the whole flashed a twinge of guilt through Max. But why should it? Mahri wasn't his concern. Despite what O'aka said, Max was not Celina. He held no responsibility to stop that guy. Hell, he'd probably just get himself killed if he even tried. Informing the public was enough, wasn't it. . .?
But what if Yevon itself decided to take action? They'd be justified to, of course: but Mahri, well, he had just as much reason to be doing what he was, even if it was a tad bit extreme. Yevon had obviously hurt the teenager badly in his youth. And had they learned of what the people of Haliki had done to Mahri, Max had little reason to think that the Temple would apologize to an Al Bhed. It would hurt their credibility, and confuse the ever-dedicated masses as to what their position on the subject of Al Bhed and machina actually was.
"There's just no easy way around this." Max announced his conclusion to the empty forest: it returned to him no reply. Much to his surprise – it allowed Max to gain a sort of perspective on how torn he actually was – he was much disappointed at this development, for he really could have used some kind of opinion.
---
"How the devil did you get out so fast, kid?" Alan was rather astounded at the emergence of Max into his camp. The young reporter had barely even stopped to gawk once again at the dead village, passing silently amongst the corpses as though they were nothing more than tufts of grass.
Max shrugged listlessly. "Guess the barrier decided to die. Weird timing, huh?"
Alan, naturally, was far from satisfied with this answer, but no amount of grilling managed to get any information out of Max. All the captain learned was that there was a burnt house in those newly revealed woods, and that Max had noticed an unsent flitting about the ruins – in other words, a Summoner was probably called for.
"The old owner of that dump, I suppose. Who knows." Max's youthful face, still unable to hold in a lie, told Alan that he was being fed a pack of bullshit: especially considering Max had gone in unarmed and come out with a sword.
"Found it out there. Figured I shouldn't spend the night unarmed. Guess it kinda grew on me."
Alan received nothing more than this, and no protestations that he had probably put his neck on the chopping block to let Max get the story would yield the truth. "There's nothing else, man. Now, can I use the tent for a while? I'm dead."
Alan gave Max a flat refusal. His courtesy in allowing the press to have a look at the scene had been met with insult. No way in Spira would he let Max impose on them again.
This news met with little resistance: Max, seemingly, knew that his refusal to admit anything more than he had would result in this, and he simply sauntered out of the tent with his sword on one side and his suitcase on the other.
Luckily for him, the bi-monthly boat would show up the next day: for the moment, however, Max was relegated to stick with the island – now strictly forbidden from entering the village by Alan and his men – and he spent another restless night under the stars, sleeping and yet utterly haunted by dreams.
---
"I'm paying now for my failure, lad. Go, if you can, and rectify my mistakes. I'll be praying for your success."
These words remained in Max's mind the entire way back. Neither the poor food nor the abhorrent cabin he was given for his money on the small ferry managed to perturb the young man more than O'aka's parting lines.
He had been decided before, sure: but that dedication to remaining neutral in the matter of Mahri's vengeance was very tenuous, and threatened often to collapse entirely. And it wasn't just that he felt obligated to stop Mahri, either. No, it was also the clarion call of adventure that had filled his head, a call that insisted the threat of death was nothing compared to the sheer freedom afforded to any happy wayfarer.
Only this wasn't some pointless excursion: no, it was tailing a seemingly crazy youth – a youth who, somehow, had become supernaturally strong in the last thirteen years – and convincing him not to take on the greatest threat in the world, Sin, in combat. Not just a dumb adventure at all.
But, his mind argued, perhaps that was the point: not many people got this kind of chance in their life. A true, bona fide quest, one dedicated to righting wrongs and keeping the peace. Max would be a hero if he succeeded, an inspiration: not to mention he would invariably become incredibly attractive to members of the opposite sex. Despite the moral prizes of undertaking such a journey, the matter, for him, always came back to those with chests far larger than his. Maybe he could have a girlfriend, for one. . .!
Yes, but you won't manage a girlfriend if you're dead, stupid. Can't get laid in the grave, not unless the girl is. . . very disturbed.
And thus the debate raged for days as Max washed about in his dumpy little boat, not particularly anxious about getting home anymore. He'd actually have to tell Donebert – and the world – what he'd found out.
The limelight no longer looked attractive. It appeared to be very bloody, and painfully pessimistic.
---
The ship, taking a rather long route, docked at Bevelle, but Max had neither the time nor the inclination to revel in the metropolitan sights. Uncharacteristically quiet throughout his short stay, Max managed to rent a Chocobo from a small pen called 'Clasko's Queh' – whose owner, a stocky man bearing an orange, mushroom style haircut, assured Max that the Chocobo would head home as soon as the reporter was done with it, no matter how far away from Bevelle his destination was – and set out on the road. The Chocobo had been more expensive than Max had originally anticipated, but O'aka's present served to supplement the bit of money Max still had from the office. Luckily, the giant bird was well worth the money – tireless and swift, it had carried Max to the northern side of the Moonflow within three days, quite a feat considering the distance.
Getting around the Moonflow was a bit trickier. The long, wide river, bearing no obvious way of getting around it – Shoopufs would not be brought in for another seventy-five years – was quite daunting, and it took Max an entire afternoon of constant searching before he could find a shallow across which his Chocobo could wade. The Chocobo, obviously not at all acclimated to any level of water, protested greatly, and the passage took much longer than Max would have liked. Even the fact that he did not particularly want to get back to Luca did little to deter his annoyance at the delay.
The Moonflow's large population of Pyreflies did little to aid the situation, as well. Wispy and seemingly curious, they flew about the Chocobo in rhythmic circles, curving between its legs and doing their best to pester the bird. For its part, the Chocobo seemed duly terrified, and it even managed to pitch Max from its saddle at one point. The wet, bedraggled young man barely snatched up its reins before the Chocobo turned into a yellow streak, blazing off over the horizon.
After happily breaking company with the Moonflow, his Chocobo once again a running machine that obeyed his commands, Max resumed his flight towards Luca. Throughout the journey, he had not deigned it necessary to speak to anybody he passed, issuing verbal commands only to his Chocobo when absolutely necessary. His mind was still too far gone, wrapped up in the matters of Mahri and his bizarre mission. Not to mention what he was going to do about it when reporting back to the Gazette headquarters.
What the hell am I gonna do. . .?
---
Despite his Chocobo's antics in the Mooflow, Max experienced his only true predicament while travelling the Mi'ihen Highroad. Slowed to a mere trot, Max had been lazing about amongst the bright golden feathers of his mount's plumage, still mulling over his troubles, when a deep, throaty roar echoed loudly in the air. Somewhat daydreaming as he was, Max nearly tipped off the side of his Chocobo in surprise, and only a timely act of balance on its part kept him upright.
The first thought that entered his mind was wonderment at his Chocobo keeping him aloft, and curiosity at how intelligent it was: these musings were, of course, woefully out of place, and another booming snarl convinced him of this bit of wisdom. Clutching at the reigns with a renewed vigil, Max checked in every direction, head darting back and forth as he searched out the threat.
The Chocobo seemed to have caught on as to its positioning almost immediately – right behind them – and took off at a speedy gallop, screeching loudly as it went, talons kicking up puffs of dust and dirt amongst the long growing environs lining the road. Max, still searching frantically while attempting to put a stop to his rogue Chocobo, eventually began to notice two things: one, that there was a certain amount of booming erupting from just behind him, and two, the sun, which was currently floating implacably in the cloudless noon sky, had become eclipsed by a large, disfigured shadow.
Finally, Max looked back. His stomach promptly collapsed from fear.
---
The so-labelled 'Chocobo-Eater' had changed greatly over the years. Indeed, they were not all of one particular species of Fiend: it would just happen that one type of Fiend or another would find the taste of the big birds particularly tempting, and take up residence. There seemed to be a sort of ruling dynamic amongst the denizens of the road, in which only the strongest, biggest Fiend could pick off the Chocobos, and the rest were relegated to keeping their hands or claws off. Indeed, it took very big, very fast Fiends to keep up with Chocobos, as their incredible leg muscles and penchant for escaping from even the smallest of perceived threats with blinding quickness made catching one decidedly difficult for the average Fiend.
Thus, it took a greater-than-average creature to do the job. Just such a Fiend was currently on the tail of Max and his Chocobo.
It was a gigantic, thickly built monster, with mottled green skin and humongous grasping tentacles. Venomous ooze could be exuding from every pore on its body with a disgusting regularity, thus protecting the monster from any planned attacks, only excluding those delivered from a far range. Any who dared to attack at a short range – unless properly equipped, of course – would quickly find themselves covered in the thick, gooey mucus. It would induce a state of paralysis in short order, allowing the Fiend to eat at its own leisure. And even if any would-be assaulter got close, its tentacles would ward them off: long, vicious tendrils, they lashed the air with loud cracks, keeping the monster well defended. They also served well to snag any fleeing Chocobos, thereby delivering the hapless bird up into its maw: a huge, gleaming skull, with a lower jaw bisected not once but twice, creating two swinging outer pieces and a third, central, jagged platform used to impale the Chocobo in place. It's upper jaw, lined with gruesome stalactites for teeth, would perform the killing blow. Curving horns jutted out the back of its head, giving the impression of an insect mated with a goat. No eyes were visible within the inky blackness of its hollows.
All of this, combined with its height – a good seven metres – managed to instil in Max the relatively simple thought that he was about to die. And, yet, he could not help but attempt valiantly to hang onto his life, and he spurred the Chocobo on wildly, swinging the reigns and screaming at the bird to move faster, for the love of Yevon.
---
The burly man in the cloak, just a little way up the path and obscured by the tall grasses, could not help but be annoyed by the amount of racket that was heading his way. He'd been trying to sleep, after all: how could one be disturbed from a peaceful nap and not be a little irked? Especially this man, who, coated in dark, stained Fiend's blood from three days of constant travelling and battling as he was, possessed little in the way of a good mood?
"Sounds like a Chocobo mating with a Shoopuf, for shit's sake."