Disclaimer: Squaresoft owns all; leave me alone.

Warning: dark, some naughty language, violence, possible future slash (this chapter is slash-free, and I'll include it in the warning if any ever appears)

Rating: R

Notes: Not sure where i'm going with this; may be rough as i'm just writing off the top of my head; comments & criticism greatly appreciated. This is not a love story. Get over it.

The Nature of Our Misery

By Creole

Chapter Three: People Are Liars

Bickson smiled wider, shaking hands and signing autographs. Endlessly. He looked at all the eager faces, the happy people. But who knew if they were really happy? Everyone thought he was happy. But he couldn't find it. He couldn't find anything to make him want to be happy. He would continue to destroy himself, slowly. Kill himself with this martyr-mission. The strain of working youself so hard, knowing that everyone is counting on you, needing you. He'd already come close to a nervous breakdown last practice; how much longer would it last? He was so tired... maybe soon he wouldn't have to be happy anymore... to pretend to be happy...

Maybe no one was ever happy. Maybe no one can ever be happy. Maybe everyone else is pretending too, so everything that they are doing is for nothing. Perhaps he'd been throwing his life away for nothing. Nothing could make them forget Sin. Even if Sin were destroyed... the people that died won't ever come back. And the people here will still miss them. And people will still kill and steal and rape and lie because they are filthy. Because they love to suffer and cause suffering.

He couldn't help but feel cheated, disgusted by everyone around him. He felt his life being stolen from him, stolen by these people with their gleaming eyes and wide smiles. If they were liars too... then his life had been a waste.

Balgerda nudged him sharply in the ribs, her unsubtle hint for him to stop brooding. Come back to reality; your job here isn't over yet. He accepted various bits of adoration with a duller grin, witty remarks flying out of his mouth without him even needing to think. Like a machina. Not even alive.

He tried not to snarl as an overenthusiastic fan flung herself upon him. He felt angry now, definitely. He wanted to pry her off, slap her so hard her head would spin. She didn't understand! She didn't even know him, what he was like. Instead she presumed that she knew him from watching him compete in the sphere pool, that he was okay with being hugged. She didn't know what a bastard he was, and her arms around him were proof. She bought his lie, and was lying to him and herself in thinking that she knew him. In 'loving' him. He awkwardly patted her on the back, managing to disentangle himself and wade into the thick of the crowd, putting a distance between himself and the girl. He had seen her eyes shining up at him with adoration, felt the fluttering of her little heart against his stomach.

Repulsion churned his stomach. He had looked at a little girl and hated her. She was his reason for everything. Her and all of the others, everyone who had suffered because of Sin. ...But then, hadn't he always hated them?

He had always remembered when he was young, younger even than that girl- and the Calm came. His parents were relieved. Their cowardice would no longer prevent them from giving Bickson the best blitz facilities in all of Spira. So they came out of hiding in the mainland, came back to his father's business in Luca. They didn't get a warm reception, of course; they had left. They had escaped to safety in the hills. Left everyone else behind to die. Everyone had lost someone, or knew someone who had. Everyone had suffered but them. Their wealth allowed them to escape Yevon's punishment.

So Bickson came to Luca for the first time quiet and shy and unsure of himself. But he was optimistic, like all children. It was a big city, with thousands of other children who could become his friends. He entered his first day of class with a bashful smile and a blitzball tucked under his arm. He left it blitzball-less and with a new perspective on the world. When his mom asked how his day had been, he gave her a shaky smile and went to his room to cry alone.

He remembered those brief years spent attending the most exclusive preparatory school in Luca. Years of hateful looks, sharp jibes. Years filled with longing for escape. He would sit quietly in class, wishing to be home, never speaking out-of-turn. The teachers, of course, loved him. He was so sweet, such a model student! ...Of course, that only made it worse. For every compliment he recieved from a teacher in class, it was multiplied tenfold in insults later. He formed a feeble defense, one that grew stronger over time. Soon, he could not only defend but counterattack. Every time a child lashed out at him, his sharp tongue made them pay. They learned that messing with him wasn't worth the humiliation.

The flood of insults tapered off. He was insulted less and ignored more. A lonely year spent in which no one would attack him, but no one would befriend him. The world made its indifference known.

He remembered well the layout of the playground, with the gazebo at one end and swings in the middle. He remembered the farthest end, the little brick courtyard where no one played. No one but him. He would sometimes bounce his expensive blitzball off the wall, catching it as it bounced back. Repeat. An escape from sadness. Over and over and over until the bell rang that signaled the end of his torture.

Sometimes he played City with the ants that infested a corner of the courtyard, where the wall was cracked. He would build little cities out of sticks and leaves, nudging the ants to do as he pleased. He found a beetle once that he appointed mayor. Unfortunately, he died and the citizens ate him. The ants tore the mayor apart, carrying off bits of him and dragging him down to their underground kingdom. Bickson remembered watching the ants tear off his shell, revealing the tender parts underneath. Then they began to attack in earnest, ripping out great hunks of his insides. Young Bickson had just gotten the first glimpse of the mayor's yellow guts when the bell rang. When he came back the next day, nothing was left of the mayor but his exoskeleton. He remembered the blue-black gloss of the mayor's shell, the purple splash left by his innards and mentally named him Bickson.

The crowd pulsated around him, nearly swallowing him. He knew that his silence disconcerted them. He stopped contemplating his past, announcing: "Now that my brief meditation period is over, I believe that the best team in Spira, led by yours truly, needs to grab a bite to eat."

He paused, and the crowd's cheers swelled, rising in a wave not unlike those preceding Sin. "Thank you! Thank you! Now, who is going to take home the Cup this year?"

The crowd screamed as one: "The Goers!" A few startled seagulls abandoned their perches.

Bickson turned towards the cafe, and the roaring crowd parted before him. He swaggered onward, the heat of his teammates at his back.

When he pushed open the cafe doors, the bar had been emptied of patrons, as per the team's request. Guards stood in position by the doors, locking them behind the team. Bickson gave them a nod of thanks, and headed towards the bar, where his teammates were already seating themselves. He perched on a stool between Abus and Doram, hopefully asking the bartender for a beer.

The bartender gave him his usual stern look and slipped him a water. He winked; it was a practiced joke between them. One of those tired, crippled jokes that won't die because you won't let it; one of those jokes made because there is nothing to say.

He stared at the woodgrain of the bar counter through his water glass. The wood of the counter with darker spirals, crooked lines- continuing in some untraceable but meaningful pattern. Seemingly just a bar, but once a great tree. A tree that lived and was in some far-away place before it was chopped down to come here in the form of this bar. Still a part of history, on until the wood rotted...

The bar was completely silent. They were all weary. Some more tired humor was in order.

He nudged Doram, joking, "So, do you come here often or do I only see you in my dreams?"

Her face caught fire and she stammered, "Well, um. Bickson, what are you- um, er-"

Bickson cut her off: "Couldn't help noticing how lonely you looked, babe." So it must be true, then. She must... have a crush on him? But then, he knew the game that she and Balgerda played, the crazy twittering lovesick girls. They were both heartbreakers, the two of them: efficient, ruthless, convincing. But why would she play the game now? Was she good enough to fool him? Why would she keep the mask on? Was this a test? Was she testing him for weakness, or was she an innocent girl with a crush? His mind raced, for once unable to tell the difference. Donram's eyes shone with something- was it cunning or love? He-

Abus walloped him from behind, interrupting whatever Doram may have had to say. "You know better than to play with a young girl's heart, you dirty old man!"

Bickson looked at him, startled. Abus's tone was joking, but his eyes were serious. Apparently he believed that Doram's crush was genuine. Or he was pretending that he thought so. Bickson squinted, peering into Abus's eyes in a manner that he hoped would somehow reveal his inner workings. Would he flinch, turn away? Abus held his gaze. Bickson nodded, imperceptibly. So they would keep playing the side-games, even without the outside... He put on his own mask. Whether they were genuine or not, he didn't need to know. He would act as though they were either way. The response was the same; the truth didn't matter. How convenient, though, that Abus had provided him with an escape route.

"Ah, so you want her for yourself! If I had known, I wouldn't have made the move, my smelly companion!" Bickson replied, making a deferential gesture.

Abus and Doram both choked, and Bickson felt vaguely self-satisfied. He was winning this one. He pulled them close, whispering confidentially: "Alright, I'll leave you lovebirds to it. Just don't get too graphic, eh? You might scar me." He patted Abus on the back, retreating to the relative safety of Balgerda on the opposite side.

Balgerda silently acknowledged him. Looking at her, you wouldn't know that she could ever break. Calm, collected, never a hair out of place. If he hadn't seen it himself, he would never have believed it.

He recalled the evening Balgerda chose to stay home rather than dine at the cafe with the rest of the team.

"I feel rather unwell," she had said, stoic expression in place. If she felt ill, she didn't show it. But the team knew that it wasn't physical illness she spoke of. They accepted her explanation and braved the cafe without her.

The team had become overwhelmed with fans on the way home and forced to pick their way through back alleys than spanned half the city. By the time they found their way back to the townhouse, it was technically morning. Bickson was the only one who felt the need to shower, to scrub off the stench of the people that loved them so. He had watched the others retire to their rooms before heading to the bathroom. He was reaching for the doorknob when the sound of running water and the light from under the door registered. He hesitated for a moment before entering. He knew it would be her. But he had expected to see her scrubbing furiously in the cleansing ritual that the team shared, or perhaps simply enjoying the hot water running over her skin. Not on the floor of the shower.

He was frozen in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her crumpled form. She seemed insensible, eyes staring vacantly into some other time. Bickson reached under the shower's spray, finding that it had long lost any heat. He cut off the water and slowly reached down towards Balgerda. He gathered her in his arms, wrapping her in a towel as she twitched and muttered in his arms. Insensible gibberish poured from her lips, the only lips that could pour out words cruel enough to match his own. Words smooth enough to capture your heart, jagged enough to break it in an instant.

The only sign of lucidity came when he set her down on her bed, when she clutched at his uniform and softly cried out: "Papa..." He disentangled her fist from his top, stepping back to observe her for a moment.

Bickson felt a part of him analyze her weakness, pick it apart. It was like he was very far away, watching himself watch her on the couch. All in third person perspective.

He watched Bickson watch Balgerda.

The other Bickson saw her tremble and jerk, murmuring things with no meaning. He saw her shudder and turned away.

He walked out the door without looking back.

It was funny how the team's loyalty worked. They trusted each other with their lives but never with their sanity. They were too brutal for that. There was always the game, in the pool and everywhere else.

The team would tolerate weakness, but only to a certain extent. If it became too pronounced, things were to be done. It would be handled in whatever way the team deemed necessary. That was how they worked. Only the strong survive. And they were strong, all of them. Or they seemed strong, which worked just as well.

The bartender slid their meals down the counter. Time to eat. They mechanically shoveled the tasteless slop into their mouths. The nutritionally-balanced Luca Goers fare. In preparation for the season, they were tortured with some of the worst-tasting cuisine in Spira. What a morale-booster.

Tomorrow they would head out to Kilika to pray for victory. To ask for Yevon's blessing. Or to get the approval of the Maesters, which they always had in any case. After all, they were the best Luca had to offer. The best in Spira. Worthy. That's why Yevon loved them so.

Not like Yevon had ever done anything for them, but... whatever. They'd win again this year; they always did.

He turned, hearing a thump at the window. There was the face of that girl, shining eyes and blushing face... and as she was pried away from the window, the faces of others. So that's what they were doing this for. These fucking pigs. Couldn't get enough of them, ever. Susie doesn't have a life because Mommy and Daddy are pathetic losers with nothing better to do than stalk their favorite blitz team! ...Delightful.

Fuckers.

Talk: Well, I gave some stuff on Bickson's past. I plan to bleed more of his and the other Goers' pasts over time... hopefully. The joy of unplanned storylines.

Well, thanks to my one (and only... ) reviewer, tenshi no ai, I finished this. I think I would have given up completely otherwise. On a personal note, thank you so much. Your review made me insanely happy. Even one review was enough to motivate me. And it was so very in-depth, too- I feel flattered that you took the time to write so much. Indeed, this story is very... personal. And the Psyches are arguably the coolest blitz team, but many well-written fics already cover them. I wouldn't want to infringe. And when I said possible slash... it's not what you're thinking. But it most likely won't happen; I suppose it will be a matter of interpretation.

Once again, thank you for reviewing. While I am disheartened by the fact that no one else has reviewed, I will try to force it out as long as at least one person is reading it. Thanks for your support.

Edit: Didn't preview well enough; changed a few errors and tweaked the ending. Sorry for how this chapter jumps around- I'm doubting that this series will last very long and I need to cram in backstory somehow... sigh. And yes, the ending was obvious. But I'm bad with endings, ahem. Er.