Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am not making any money from this writing. Characters are property of SquareEnix.
A Dream Deferred.
Kefka enjoyed his dreams. He did not have them often, his sleep consisting mostly of extended blinking fits. When sleep was sound, it was all he could do to remain in dreamland, enjoying the sensation of floating displacement. There he found ruins of great cities, reduced to twisted metal and garbage clawing into a choked brown yellow sky. Mothers wailed and children screamed, their husbands and fathers burned to ash. Most would never know the breadth of rich detail to be savored in a child's scream—a fact Kefka considered a shame. His dreams were visions of a world very close to perfection.
Men expended their entire lives in the pursuit of perfection: the perfect sculpture, the perfect dish, the perfect marriage. Kefka found such pursuits vile and useless. Did they not see? Flawlessness could only be realized in complete destruction. Creation took lifetimes, but the greatest works of man and nature could be erased in a day, or a second. Obliteration was final and within reach. It was a clear lesson that proved all matter, at its core nature, worked to return to Null.
And so Kefka's dreams gave him succor in times of disappointment. He treasured each in its turn, revisiting them at will.
Only one galled him, one he could not deny. It was the dream of a genesis all too necessary, and threatened to make hypocrisy of his every cherished belief. It was the dream of his birth.
In a Magitek laboratory beneath the clanking bowels of Vector, General Palazzo awaits the transfusion. His grin is cocky and bold; he salutes the scientists and troops assembled and tells them he expects a grand banquet in honor of his bravery. "Boil a lobster for me, boys. It's not everyday a man masters magic in the span of a minute. Learning is hungry work, I suspect I'll be famished."
The troops and scientists chuckle at this. Always a kidder was Palazzo. Even Emperor Gestahl nods, his presence a testament of how momentous the occasion is. If all goes well, General Kefka Palazzo will be the first human in a thousand years to utilize mana—a force long thought lost. Not since the War of Magic has human kind wielded it in battle. The Empire's manifest destiny would be realized. Cid, the chief researcher, is mincing about in a hurry, checking all the preparations a third time. In his odd hooded coat he resembles a stuffed yellow condom. General Palazzo laughs at this impression, a rich chuckle coated in mirth, and shares his insight with Cid, who scrunches his face and turns back to his readouts.
This part of the dream consumes Kefka with disgust. He hates the man lying on the slab and wishes to tear at the general's face with his bare hands. It takes a few minutes for Kefka to cool down and remind himself that swatting at shadows is pointless, and besides, Palazzo will be dead soon enough. Even so, his hands twist and squirm, opening and closing into clawed fists as he watches from a darkened corner of the room. Kefka knows that he needs to concentrate on what is about to happen, lest he miss a detail that could solve the riddle. The madman slinks further into the shadows and waits, eyes gleaming.
The time for the operation to begin has arrived. Researchers and soldiers scramble into position. Every precaution is taken, for no one knows entirely what to expect, not even Cid. Palazzo is prone on a steel slab, encircled by the mana transfusion apparatus placed beneath his metal bed. The transfuser resembles a giant metallic crab, or spider, turned on its back, the conducting clamps arching over the table its legs, square magicite tanks and machinery its body.
The general breathes deeply and stares into ceiling of tangled pipes and girders. He loosens his muscles and relaxes. Off to his left, a researcher pulls a lever among the computer banks, and the mana transfuser latches onto Palazzo's body with the array of conducting clamps. Finally, a device is lowered onto his head, which covers his pate down past the brow, over his eyes. It resembles an oversized crown of copper alloy and wires. Palazzo's plaster white teeth glimmer in a wide grin beneath the crown. "Gentlemen, lets light this fire," he says. Cid throws a large switch covered in red plastic.
The mana transfuser shrieks to life. Palazzo's and Kefka's view disintegrates into a greasy blur. A pain that rattles teeth fills them both. There is no sound. They scream in union, but can't hear it. The general goes limp after forty seconds. The clamps release and the crown comes off.
For a minute the General doesn't move–nobody in the lab moves. Palazzo's head sags down to the right, his eyes glassy and wide in a dead man's stare. Cid makes his way to the General's side and lays a hand on his shoulder. "General Palazzo. Are you all right? Can you hear me?" There is no reply for he is gone. He is gone but Kefka is there now. The neck stiffens, eyes blinking. Kefka's left hand shoots out and wraps Cid's collar in its fist. The researcher, mistaking the movement for one of panic, reassures the man on the slab that everything went okay, and that he is safe in a Vector lab.
Kefka means to throttle the stocky little man for being so annoying, and because he wants to see him die. But he holds off, feeling now the need to lay low. Instinct tells him allaying suspicions is vital, at least until he has assumed control of the situation. He can see many people around him, staring, which means he is not in control. So he lets go of Cid's collar and brushes off the officer's coat that is not his. New, more fitting attire will be found later, he promises himself.
He turns to the man the general's stolen memories tell him is the Emperor. Kefka prances up and bows with a flourish. The soldiers look at him askew, for the general never pranced once in his entire life. "Congratulations, Palazzo. How do you feel? Can you use the magics?" Gestahl asks.
Kefka feels doubt, so he points at one of the scientists and wills for lightening. "Bolt!" he cries out in an effort to summon the power. The reaction is immediate. The victim is struck by a bolt of blue-white lightening, and drops limp on his face. His white lab coat smolders to a dark brown, then coal black as the body begins to burn inside out. Stunned, some of those assembled began to clap, unsure of what response is expected. Cid bends over the recorded energy readings, his face dewy with sweat. Gestahl smiles thinly.
Taking in the crowd's reaction, Kefka throws back his head and lets out a whooping laugh, which is cold and high pitched. It is the one thing he failed to steal from the dead man.
Kefka cut the dream short and brought himself to consciousness. Expending mana, he vaulted from the clean basement floor as a vampire rises from its coffin. Anger and frustration pulsed in the madman like a migraine, for the dream had yielded no clues to solving his problem—a severe lack of all-consuming power.
There was nothing for it. He would use Gestahl a while longer, a notion that made his mouth bitter with loathing. Once inside the realm of the Espers he would only need access to the three gods briefly…and that would be that.
Making his way to the ground floor of the Imperial Palace, Kefka found a fresh night's darkness flooding the sky's void beyond the lobby windows. His dreaming had carried away the day. Coming to the exit, the sounds of revelry drifted up from the soldier's barracks, irritating and loud in the stuffy night air. It felt a fine night for experimentation. Not caring who saw or heard, Kefka bounded into the night, laughing.
The End.