Sabin was, at heart, forever optimistic. He always looked upon the bright
side of things: and, perhaps belying his massive size and tough-guy air, he
managed to distil in his personality a certain amount of wit.
So, as he plummeted through the sky, blackened clouds rushing past, the whole world crumbling before his eyes, he somehow managed to make the best of it all with one simple sentence to himself:
"Damn, I can see Figaro from here!"
And then the sea ate him whole. Not that such things stopped the aptly named "Bear of Koltz", thus designated by his master: and as he would quite properly put it a year later, a little thing like the end of the world was nothing to him.
--
Such thoughts did little to comfort the bedraggled man, however, as he pulled himself from the sea and flopped up on a beach. He hadn't a clue where he was, nor did he care at the moment: indeed, or greater concern to Sabin was coughing up the ten gallons of water and seaweed he'd managed to gulp down. With several mighty heaves he expelled the vast majority of it, his coughs resounding up and down the desolate dunes. So mighty were his bellows that newly released demons, searching for prey, decided to look elsewhere for a meal. Essentially, and to his great comfort, Sabin was left alone.
But, as he flopped onto his side, panting from his exertion, he realized that that was the problem: he was alone. Not a single familiar face had washed up alongside of him. Or so he thought, anyway: it should be noted that Cyan, currently battling valiantly against the tides, was but a kilometre down the shoreline. Within minutes he would be freed of his cumbersome armour and dragging himself into calmer straits. But his story is not this story, and the tale of the woeful knight shall have to wait for another time.
Sabin rested a while, sliding his metallic battle claws off for comfort's sake. And yet, his body would not allow such a repose for very long, demanding within minutes – for his discipline as a martial artist allowed for no less – that he get up off his ass, and survey his surroundings.
There were times that Sabin wanted to strangle his own instincts. They always managed to get in the way of having a good snooze.
Naturally, body won out over mind, and Sabin, sore and soaked from head to toe, was on his feet and relieving himself into the sea. After drinking down so much water, it was, perhaps, to be expected.
"Well," he chuckled to himself, "at least it wasn't salt water. I bet that'd burn." His rationality soon began to debate this point, informing the burly blonde that his organs tended to break down salt – but he simply told it to screw off, and revelled in his rather lame joke.
The world was different. That much he could see. The sky, still fluctuating and swirling chaotically, had adopted a crimson hue, one that was steadily spreading to all corners of the globe. Off in the distance, Sabin could still hear – indeed, could even feel – the rumble of the continents speedily shifting into their new alignments, settling catastrophically in bizarre configurations. Even the grass and the plants were different, for they seemed to have lost all their vitality. Everything was steadily drooping. The normally crisp air was stale.
After only an hour, the world had turned into a rotting corpse.
After surveying this all, Sabin zipped up. It was all Kefka's fault, of course. He'd apparently been given the power of a god, despite their best efforts to stop them. The madman had, in essence, created his own world.
After only an hour.
"Shit," quoth Sabin, bitterly. He spat in the sand and rearmed himself. For, indeed, it was all very shitty. The world he'd known would never come back. Hell, for all Sabin knew, his friends could be dead.
Sabin thought on that a moment. Their images, perhaps even their phantoms, floated through his brain, each touching his thoughts. He'd known them all, perhaps not intimately, but well enough: and he'd not wish death upon any one of them. From his well-known brother to the little punk artist girl that he'd only become acquainted with for the sum total of three days, they all held a place in his heart. Places that, in some cases - perhaps even all cases – may have remained vacant forevermore. They could all be dead.
So Sabin thought. On it all.
And then, he laughed. And laughed. And continued to laugh until he was hoarse.
To think on this occurrence, one might consider Sabin to have gone insane from despair: however, it was not so. The very tone of his laughs, absolutely jovial and full, carrying equal portions of brightness and cheer, said otherwise. It was good humour, pure and simple. The very air, forbidding and gloomy, seemed to draw back in horror at his energy, fearful that so brilliant a man might still exist in this newly desolate world.
"Dead? Yeeeeeeeeah right!" Sabin howled. "Not a one of those stubborn buggers bit the bullet! What a stupid-ass thought!"
Thus freed of any sorrow, tears of joviality streaming down his face, Sabin wandered away from the beach, into this harsh new world of his. And every shadow that had originally borne down on him, pulled up on the shore as he was, seemed now to cringe out of his way.
--
As fate would have it, Sabin headed away from Cyan. Both men had managed to find their way to the small continent on which Maranda, Jidoor, and Zozo were now situated. Sabin headed north, along the long, thing corridor towards the bulk of civilization; Cyan, bereft of his armour, headed south. They would not see each other even once during their respective tenures on the island.
--
Furthermore, Sabin managed, through his incredible knack for navigation, to miss Jidoor entirely. Fighting his way through the hostile wilderness for a good seven days, he skirted along the coastline – the only path that would allow him to completely neglect seeing the big city lights of populous-rich Jidoor – and only wound up travelling inland when he noticed the curve of a somewhat diminutive mountain range. Instinctively heralding back to the days of his training, Sabin made a direct beeline to those mountains, carving an easy path through sparse forests and occasional bands of demons. The mountains, however small, still proved relatively barren and inaccessible, their higher paths too steeply located for Sabin's current location. So, he followed the base of the range for a further five days, making far better time than he earlier had.
Come the end of his journey, beleaguered and weary, marred with the many scrapes and bruises that came to travellers in those days, he witnessed a sight that managed to invoke in him one powerful, singular response.
At the end of his journey, he came to Zozo.
His response?
". . . to hell with this place, I'm safer out there." And thus, he continued journeying.
--
It had come to pass that, shortly before the time of the great shift of the continents, the inhabitants of Zozo had constructed a sort of harbour. To even consider it a 'sort' of harbour is to be generous: indeed, it was little more than a shack and a pier, complete with two sailing boats, neither of which looked particularly trustworthy. One, dubbed the 'Pride of Zoz' – the O had been accidentally painted over – bore several conspicuous holes in the hull, one of which was of a considerable size. The other, 'Sex Master', had been called as such by its incredibly vain former owner; although, being a citizen of Zozo, it's hard to tell whether there was any merit in the boast or not. Ironically enough, the 'Sex Master' bore only half a mast.
Incredibly ramshackle and looking ready to fall apart, the whole conglomeration that was mistakenly considered a harbour had managed – and this is sure evidence that the gods have a sense of humour – to drag itself along with Zozo during the cataclysm. The boats, somehow safely moored, both survived with only a token amount of water floating about in their cargo holds. Its two attendants, Gus and Randall, had slept through the entire debacle, only discovering the change when Randall decided it was time to awake and use the can. Neither particularly cared about their new circumstances, since, indeed, these circumstances were identical to the old ones.
They'd had, since their grand opening, precisely zero customers. Nobody wanted to go near the men, let alone the boats. Yet out front Gus had deigned it necessary to paint gigantic signs, proclaiming that 'The Zozo Marina is the choice of Emperor Geshtahl' and 'We have a safety record second to none'. Which, when considered, is quite true, as nobody else fell so low in safety standards as these two boobs.
It was this poor sight that Sabin beheld on the thirteenth day of his journey. He'd already decided, upon realizing where he was, that his friends were probably anywhere but: and if he were to make any progress in finding them, he'd no doubt have to make his way to new territory. In other words, a different island. And how else would he do that but by locating a port?
Squinting at the tiny harbour from atop a hill, Sabin had his doubts, but decided to quash them: one only receives great boons by taking great risks. He started making his way down towards the shack.
Randall was out front, frying up a sumptuous breakfast of dead slugs and a few miscellaneous bird eggs. Underneath his weather beaten frying pan was a roaring fire, perhaps the only thing that looked professionally done in the whole place. Tasting a simmering slug tentatively, he decided the concoction needed a bit of flavour, and spat mightily into the middle of the pan. His burbling spittle ran slowly amongst the food, bequeathing. . . well, never mind. You all get the point. From within the shack erupted an enormous fart, let fly by Gus, who yet dozed.
Apart from his fire making abilities, Randall had one other positive attribute: he possessed hawk like vision. So, as Sabin slowly trudged down the hill, his bulky travelling sack slung over one muscular shoulder, spiky hair waving in the dead breeze, Randall spied him from the corner of one eye. He gasped, snatching up ample amounts of air and heaving suddenly at the exertion. With a cough he collapsed on the ground, calling out vainly for Gus to come a'runnin'. Gus, naturally, continued to slumber, letting off only another thunderclap in response.
Sabin, noting the fact that the dirty looking beanpole of a man in front of the shack was choking on the ground, broke into a powerful run, his legs carrying him quickly across the barren plain towards the sea. He winced as Randall came within mere inches of rolling himself into the fire, then sighed with relief and continued running as the man decided to head in the opposite direction. With a loud thud, Randall propelled himself into the side of the shack, knocking himself senseless.
Eventually arriving, Sabin grabbed Randall's shoulder, dragging him onto his back and calling out a worried "You okay, man?" Randall, somewhat dazed, finally managed to catch his breath, and coughed out a weary "no", but rising to his feet regardless. Sabin gave him a light pat on the back and helped him up. Hacking up another wad of mucus, Randall leaned against the shack and waved at Sabin.
Sabin stepped back and scratched his head. "Uh, hi."
Randall, chest calmed at last, returned the greeting in his own fashion. "Ya."
Sabin blinked. ". . . okay then. Is this a harbour, by any chance?"
Randall shook his head adamantly. "No." With a single, gnarled fingernail, he tapped a nearby sign. It read, "Zozo Harbourfront – We Guarantee Your Satisfaction!"
Sabin looked at the sign a moment. His eyebrow flew up altogether involuntarily. "But. . . that says it is. Right?"
"Does not." Randall ahem-ed lightly and stretched his gangly limbs, peering at his breakfast; it was now scattered amongst the dirt. "Whadda great day!" he proclaimed happily, gathering up the still sizzling slugs and plopping them back in the pan without bothering to scrape off the grime. Sabin winced at the sight but said nothing, instead turning back to his point.
"But it does. Like, right there. Can't you read?"
"Of course I can't! It does not! What are you, stupid or sumthin'?"
Gus could be heard within, roused by their conversation, slowly lumbering towards the entrance to the shack.
"But you have. . ." and then Sabin stopped cold. He took another look at the sign. "Zozo Harbourfront". Zozo. He smacked his head, suddenly feeling very stupid.
"Oh shit. Not guys from Zozo."
A thin, angry voice erupted from the shack, and the door flew open, smacking Randall squarely in the face and sending his breakfast flying once again. "The hell is Zozo? Some kinda weed?" Out stepped a tiny man, almost fully three feet in height, wearing a grimy bandana and bearing on his belt tools of all sorts. His face was decorated by a long, curling moustache. "Man, I'm absolutely stuffed. Where's breakfast?"
Sabin gritted his teeth. "Tall and small. I should've figured this would happen."
Spinning on one heel, Gus roared in a squeak. "I'm as tall as a damned mountain! Don't you forget it! I love you, man!" and with that he charged at Sabin, fists swinging. With a casual motion Sabin cut out his legs from beneath him and caught Gus with one hand, setting the man back on his feet within seconds, safely diffused.
Gus blinked, somewhat confused. Randall was licking his slugs up from amongst the reedy blades of grass. Sabin, already mightily annoyed but deciding this dump was his best bet, realized he'd have to forego the usual rules of sanity to deal with these two.
Gus spun again. He eyed Sabin incredulously. "Man, you suck. I could kick your ass! Man!" Stepping forward, he shook Sabin's hand vigorously. The feel of his skin made hackles rise on Sabin's own, so clammy was it.
Sabin forced a grin. "Th. . . thanks. Uh, you gonna help your pal out there?"
"Sure am, man!" Gus proclaimed loudly, and then remained rooted in place. Randall was heaving about on the ground again, perhaps choking on one of his delicacies. Sabin made sure to watch from the corner of his eye, lest Randall roll into the embers.
"Riiiiiight then. Listen. I need a boat. You got one?" Sabin asked, peering at the boats that sat floating in the purplish waters.
"Of course not. Whaddya think we are, man, a harbour?" Gus scoffed.
"Sure. Gotcha. How much is fare gonna be? To, say, the next nearest island?"
Gus considered this a moment. "Three hairs of a dead man's beard, no less."
Sabin shuddered. "How the hell am I supposed to do this? Do I have to start at the lowest damned monetary denominator and work my way up until you agree?"
"Shit no, man!"
And thus began a very long afternoon. After two strenuous hours of negotiating – Sabin was awed by how many lies Gus could spew in a limited amount of time – they settled on two thousand. Gus accepted the fee with a hearty "this ain't near enough, man! Shit!" Throughout the process, Randall aided his fellows by interjecting with helpful proverbs that had no bearing on it all and were, on the whole, all lies anyway. "The intelligent man will empty his pockets and walk away" was one of Sabin's favourites, alongside "Gestahl say soldier with no armour have urinary problem".
The labour complete, Sabin finally had enough sense of mind to ask their names. Naturally, Gus was Randall and Randall was Gus.
--
Their departure time was, as quoted by 'Admiral' Gus, "tomorrow". So they immediately set out in the "Pride of Zoz", plying the seas at record low speeds. Sabin couldn't help but try and punch Gus when he received the following reply to his inquiry on whether they knew where they were going or not:
"Of course, man! Shit! Trust me!"
--
Their voyage would last a devastating seventeen days. Sabin spent his time attempting, largely in vain, to avoid the dynamic duo. Randall, the 'wiser' of the two, spent his time bequeathing on Sabin more nuggets of knowledge than the big man thought could ever existed. Those that were lies generally bore no merit even when converted in his mind; those that had no discernable lie were, for the most part, just plain gibberish anyway. Gus instructed Sabin on the fine art of fishing, one that he did not excel at in the least – even after sorting out the lies, Sabin found nothing worth listening to strewn forth by the man. It was only through the vigilance of Sabin that they actually managed to get anywhere, as both men had a tendency to nod off at the wheel.
One event of particular note was their attempt at a card game:
"No, you son of a bitch, that's a two, not an ace!"
"It is so! Man!"
"Solitary dove say, never cross paths with the consummate shopper. I'm playing the King of Rubies."
"There's no such goddamned suit as the Ruby! For the love of –"
And so it went. Sabin hoped, practically prayed, for some manner of sea beast to swallow them all up, and end his misery. For a month after his journey with the gruesome twosome, his normally optimistic spirit waned into outright pessimism, and he considered petitioning Kefka to bomb the hell out of Zozo with his supernatural powers.
--
The sight of land brought to Sabin tears of joy. He'd never seen so lovely a thing. It was like some huge, gem-encrusted land of gold, one bereft of lies and fish and assholes who perpetually smelled of old cheese. So great was his joy that, forgoing a traditional landing, Sabin simply leapt over the side of the boat and swam the rest of the way. Sadly enough, he made better time than the 'Pride of Zoz', which lumbered along without a captain at the helm until Randall sleepily assumed the wheel and steered the boat into a collision course with a partially submerged tree.
Somehow, they both made it back to Zozo in safety.
--
Sabin thus began a very long, arduous journey from that point on – landed near the tower of the Cult of Kefka as he was – one fraught with dangers, and peril, and little hope of seeing his friends again. Yet, he endured it all, keeping with him a high heart. But always, for years to come, his nightmares would harken back to the time in his life when, for seventeen long, deathly days, suicide seemed a viable option.
So, as he plummeted through the sky, blackened clouds rushing past, the whole world crumbling before his eyes, he somehow managed to make the best of it all with one simple sentence to himself:
"Damn, I can see Figaro from here!"
And then the sea ate him whole. Not that such things stopped the aptly named "Bear of Koltz", thus designated by his master: and as he would quite properly put it a year later, a little thing like the end of the world was nothing to him.
--
Such thoughts did little to comfort the bedraggled man, however, as he pulled himself from the sea and flopped up on a beach. He hadn't a clue where he was, nor did he care at the moment: indeed, or greater concern to Sabin was coughing up the ten gallons of water and seaweed he'd managed to gulp down. With several mighty heaves he expelled the vast majority of it, his coughs resounding up and down the desolate dunes. So mighty were his bellows that newly released demons, searching for prey, decided to look elsewhere for a meal. Essentially, and to his great comfort, Sabin was left alone.
But, as he flopped onto his side, panting from his exertion, he realized that that was the problem: he was alone. Not a single familiar face had washed up alongside of him. Or so he thought, anyway: it should be noted that Cyan, currently battling valiantly against the tides, was but a kilometre down the shoreline. Within minutes he would be freed of his cumbersome armour and dragging himself into calmer straits. But his story is not this story, and the tale of the woeful knight shall have to wait for another time.
Sabin rested a while, sliding his metallic battle claws off for comfort's sake. And yet, his body would not allow such a repose for very long, demanding within minutes – for his discipline as a martial artist allowed for no less – that he get up off his ass, and survey his surroundings.
There were times that Sabin wanted to strangle his own instincts. They always managed to get in the way of having a good snooze.
Naturally, body won out over mind, and Sabin, sore and soaked from head to toe, was on his feet and relieving himself into the sea. After drinking down so much water, it was, perhaps, to be expected.
"Well," he chuckled to himself, "at least it wasn't salt water. I bet that'd burn." His rationality soon began to debate this point, informing the burly blonde that his organs tended to break down salt – but he simply told it to screw off, and revelled in his rather lame joke.
The world was different. That much he could see. The sky, still fluctuating and swirling chaotically, had adopted a crimson hue, one that was steadily spreading to all corners of the globe. Off in the distance, Sabin could still hear – indeed, could even feel – the rumble of the continents speedily shifting into their new alignments, settling catastrophically in bizarre configurations. Even the grass and the plants were different, for they seemed to have lost all their vitality. Everything was steadily drooping. The normally crisp air was stale.
After only an hour, the world had turned into a rotting corpse.
After surveying this all, Sabin zipped up. It was all Kefka's fault, of course. He'd apparently been given the power of a god, despite their best efforts to stop them. The madman had, in essence, created his own world.
After only an hour.
"Shit," quoth Sabin, bitterly. He spat in the sand and rearmed himself. For, indeed, it was all very shitty. The world he'd known would never come back. Hell, for all Sabin knew, his friends could be dead.
Sabin thought on that a moment. Their images, perhaps even their phantoms, floated through his brain, each touching his thoughts. He'd known them all, perhaps not intimately, but well enough: and he'd not wish death upon any one of them. From his well-known brother to the little punk artist girl that he'd only become acquainted with for the sum total of three days, they all held a place in his heart. Places that, in some cases - perhaps even all cases – may have remained vacant forevermore. They could all be dead.
So Sabin thought. On it all.
And then, he laughed. And laughed. And continued to laugh until he was hoarse.
To think on this occurrence, one might consider Sabin to have gone insane from despair: however, it was not so. The very tone of his laughs, absolutely jovial and full, carrying equal portions of brightness and cheer, said otherwise. It was good humour, pure and simple. The very air, forbidding and gloomy, seemed to draw back in horror at his energy, fearful that so brilliant a man might still exist in this newly desolate world.
"Dead? Yeeeeeeeeah right!" Sabin howled. "Not a one of those stubborn buggers bit the bullet! What a stupid-ass thought!"
Thus freed of any sorrow, tears of joviality streaming down his face, Sabin wandered away from the beach, into this harsh new world of his. And every shadow that had originally borne down on him, pulled up on the shore as he was, seemed now to cringe out of his way.
--
As fate would have it, Sabin headed away from Cyan. Both men had managed to find their way to the small continent on which Maranda, Jidoor, and Zozo were now situated. Sabin headed north, along the long, thing corridor towards the bulk of civilization; Cyan, bereft of his armour, headed south. They would not see each other even once during their respective tenures on the island.
--
Furthermore, Sabin managed, through his incredible knack for navigation, to miss Jidoor entirely. Fighting his way through the hostile wilderness for a good seven days, he skirted along the coastline – the only path that would allow him to completely neglect seeing the big city lights of populous-rich Jidoor – and only wound up travelling inland when he noticed the curve of a somewhat diminutive mountain range. Instinctively heralding back to the days of his training, Sabin made a direct beeline to those mountains, carving an easy path through sparse forests and occasional bands of demons. The mountains, however small, still proved relatively barren and inaccessible, their higher paths too steeply located for Sabin's current location. So, he followed the base of the range for a further five days, making far better time than he earlier had.
Come the end of his journey, beleaguered and weary, marred with the many scrapes and bruises that came to travellers in those days, he witnessed a sight that managed to invoke in him one powerful, singular response.
At the end of his journey, he came to Zozo.
His response?
". . . to hell with this place, I'm safer out there." And thus, he continued journeying.
--
It had come to pass that, shortly before the time of the great shift of the continents, the inhabitants of Zozo had constructed a sort of harbour. To even consider it a 'sort' of harbour is to be generous: indeed, it was little more than a shack and a pier, complete with two sailing boats, neither of which looked particularly trustworthy. One, dubbed the 'Pride of Zoz' – the O had been accidentally painted over – bore several conspicuous holes in the hull, one of which was of a considerable size. The other, 'Sex Master', had been called as such by its incredibly vain former owner; although, being a citizen of Zozo, it's hard to tell whether there was any merit in the boast or not. Ironically enough, the 'Sex Master' bore only half a mast.
Incredibly ramshackle and looking ready to fall apart, the whole conglomeration that was mistakenly considered a harbour had managed – and this is sure evidence that the gods have a sense of humour – to drag itself along with Zozo during the cataclysm. The boats, somehow safely moored, both survived with only a token amount of water floating about in their cargo holds. Its two attendants, Gus and Randall, had slept through the entire debacle, only discovering the change when Randall decided it was time to awake and use the can. Neither particularly cared about their new circumstances, since, indeed, these circumstances were identical to the old ones.
They'd had, since their grand opening, precisely zero customers. Nobody wanted to go near the men, let alone the boats. Yet out front Gus had deigned it necessary to paint gigantic signs, proclaiming that 'The Zozo Marina is the choice of Emperor Geshtahl' and 'We have a safety record second to none'. Which, when considered, is quite true, as nobody else fell so low in safety standards as these two boobs.
It was this poor sight that Sabin beheld on the thirteenth day of his journey. He'd already decided, upon realizing where he was, that his friends were probably anywhere but: and if he were to make any progress in finding them, he'd no doubt have to make his way to new territory. In other words, a different island. And how else would he do that but by locating a port?
Squinting at the tiny harbour from atop a hill, Sabin had his doubts, but decided to quash them: one only receives great boons by taking great risks. He started making his way down towards the shack.
Randall was out front, frying up a sumptuous breakfast of dead slugs and a few miscellaneous bird eggs. Underneath his weather beaten frying pan was a roaring fire, perhaps the only thing that looked professionally done in the whole place. Tasting a simmering slug tentatively, he decided the concoction needed a bit of flavour, and spat mightily into the middle of the pan. His burbling spittle ran slowly amongst the food, bequeathing. . . well, never mind. You all get the point. From within the shack erupted an enormous fart, let fly by Gus, who yet dozed.
Apart from his fire making abilities, Randall had one other positive attribute: he possessed hawk like vision. So, as Sabin slowly trudged down the hill, his bulky travelling sack slung over one muscular shoulder, spiky hair waving in the dead breeze, Randall spied him from the corner of one eye. He gasped, snatching up ample amounts of air and heaving suddenly at the exertion. With a cough he collapsed on the ground, calling out vainly for Gus to come a'runnin'. Gus, naturally, continued to slumber, letting off only another thunderclap in response.
Sabin, noting the fact that the dirty looking beanpole of a man in front of the shack was choking on the ground, broke into a powerful run, his legs carrying him quickly across the barren plain towards the sea. He winced as Randall came within mere inches of rolling himself into the fire, then sighed with relief and continued running as the man decided to head in the opposite direction. With a loud thud, Randall propelled himself into the side of the shack, knocking himself senseless.
Eventually arriving, Sabin grabbed Randall's shoulder, dragging him onto his back and calling out a worried "You okay, man?" Randall, somewhat dazed, finally managed to catch his breath, and coughed out a weary "no", but rising to his feet regardless. Sabin gave him a light pat on the back and helped him up. Hacking up another wad of mucus, Randall leaned against the shack and waved at Sabin.
Sabin stepped back and scratched his head. "Uh, hi."
Randall, chest calmed at last, returned the greeting in his own fashion. "Ya."
Sabin blinked. ". . . okay then. Is this a harbour, by any chance?"
Randall shook his head adamantly. "No." With a single, gnarled fingernail, he tapped a nearby sign. It read, "Zozo Harbourfront – We Guarantee Your Satisfaction!"
Sabin looked at the sign a moment. His eyebrow flew up altogether involuntarily. "But. . . that says it is. Right?"
"Does not." Randall ahem-ed lightly and stretched his gangly limbs, peering at his breakfast; it was now scattered amongst the dirt. "Whadda great day!" he proclaimed happily, gathering up the still sizzling slugs and plopping them back in the pan without bothering to scrape off the grime. Sabin winced at the sight but said nothing, instead turning back to his point.
"But it does. Like, right there. Can't you read?"
"Of course I can't! It does not! What are you, stupid or sumthin'?"
Gus could be heard within, roused by their conversation, slowly lumbering towards the entrance to the shack.
"But you have. . ." and then Sabin stopped cold. He took another look at the sign. "Zozo Harbourfront". Zozo. He smacked his head, suddenly feeling very stupid.
"Oh shit. Not guys from Zozo."
A thin, angry voice erupted from the shack, and the door flew open, smacking Randall squarely in the face and sending his breakfast flying once again. "The hell is Zozo? Some kinda weed?" Out stepped a tiny man, almost fully three feet in height, wearing a grimy bandana and bearing on his belt tools of all sorts. His face was decorated by a long, curling moustache. "Man, I'm absolutely stuffed. Where's breakfast?"
Sabin gritted his teeth. "Tall and small. I should've figured this would happen."
Spinning on one heel, Gus roared in a squeak. "I'm as tall as a damned mountain! Don't you forget it! I love you, man!" and with that he charged at Sabin, fists swinging. With a casual motion Sabin cut out his legs from beneath him and caught Gus with one hand, setting the man back on his feet within seconds, safely diffused.
Gus blinked, somewhat confused. Randall was licking his slugs up from amongst the reedy blades of grass. Sabin, already mightily annoyed but deciding this dump was his best bet, realized he'd have to forego the usual rules of sanity to deal with these two.
Gus spun again. He eyed Sabin incredulously. "Man, you suck. I could kick your ass! Man!" Stepping forward, he shook Sabin's hand vigorously. The feel of his skin made hackles rise on Sabin's own, so clammy was it.
Sabin forced a grin. "Th. . . thanks. Uh, you gonna help your pal out there?"
"Sure am, man!" Gus proclaimed loudly, and then remained rooted in place. Randall was heaving about on the ground again, perhaps choking on one of his delicacies. Sabin made sure to watch from the corner of his eye, lest Randall roll into the embers.
"Riiiiiight then. Listen. I need a boat. You got one?" Sabin asked, peering at the boats that sat floating in the purplish waters.
"Of course not. Whaddya think we are, man, a harbour?" Gus scoffed.
"Sure. Gotcha. How much is fare gonna be? To, say, the next nearest island?"
Gus considered this a moment. "Three hairs of a dead man's beard, no less."
Sabin shuddered. "How the hell am I supposed to do this? Do I have to start at the lowest damned monetary denominator and work my way up until you agree?"
"Shit no, man!"
And thus began a very long afternoon. After two strenuous hours of negotiating – Sabin was awed by how many lies Gus could spew in a limited amount of time – they settled on two thousand. Gus accepted the fee with a hearty "this ain't near enough, man! Shit!" Throughout the process, Randall aided his fellows by interjecting with helpful proverbs that had no bearing on it all and were, on the whole, all lies anyway. "The intelligent man will empty his pockets and walk away" was one of Sabin's favourites, alongside "Gestahl say soldier with no armour have urinary problem".
The labour complete, Sabin finally had enough sense of mind to ask their names. Naturally, Gus was Randall and Randall was Gus.
--
Their departure time was, as quoted by 'Admiral' Gus, "tomorrow". So they immediately set out in the "Pride of Zoz", plying the seas at record low speeds. Sabin couldn't help but try and punch Gus when he received the following reply to his inquiry on whether they knew where they were going or not:
"Of course, man! Shit! Trust me!"
--
Their voyage would last a devastating seventeen days. Sabin spent his time attempting, largely in vain, to avoid the dynamic duo. Randall, the 'wiser' of the two, spent his time bequeathing on Sabin more nuggets of knowledge than the big man thought could ever existed. Those that were lies generally bore no merit even when converted in his mind; those that had no discernable lie were, for the most part, just plain gibberish anyway. Gus instructed Sabin on the fine art of fishing, one that he did not excel at in the least – even after sorting out the lies, Sabin found nothing worth listening to strewn forth by the man. It was only through the vigilance of Sabin that they actually managed to get anywhere, as both men had a tendency to nod off at the wheel.
One event of particular note was their attempt at a card game:
"No, you son of a bitch, that's a two, not an ace!"
"It is so! Man!"
"Solitary dove say, never cross paths with the consummate shopper. I'm playing the King of Rubies."
"There's no such goddamned suit as the Ruby! For the love of –"
And so it went. Sabin hoped, practically prayed, for some manner of sea beast to swallow them all up, and end his misery. For a month after his journey with the gruesome twosome, his normally optimistic spirit waned into outright pessimism, and he considered petitioning Kefka to bomb the hell out of Zozo with his supernatural powers.
--
The sight of land brought to Sabin tears of joy. He'd never seen so lovely a thing. It was like some huge, gem-encrusted land of gold, one bereft of lies and fish and assholes who perpetually smelled of old cheese. So great was his joy that, forgoing a traditional landing, Sabin simply leapt over the side of the boat and swam the rest of the way. Sadly enough, he made better time than the 'Pride of Zoz', which lumbered along without a captain at the helm until Randall sleepily assumed the wheel and steered the boat into a collision course with a partially submerged tree.
Somehow, they both made it back to Zozo in safety.
--
Sabin thus began a very long, arduous journey from that point on – landed near the tower of the Cult of Kefka as he was – one fraught with dangers, and peril, and little hope of seeing his friends again. Yet, he endured it all, keeping with him a high heart. But always, for years to come, his nightmares would harken back to the time in his life when, for seventeen long, deathly days, suicide seemed a viable option.