Chapter 1

Stale and Pissed

The ale was stale. Hatefully stale. He was very much hating the ale right now.

He wasn't exactly a person to do a lot of hating, but the occasion seemed to call for it. Going through all that trouble—

A passer-by accidentally kicked the leg of his stool and he grabbed the edge of the counter to keep himself upright, losing track of his thought.

The pub was pretty stuffed. And stuffy. Damn, but hadn't the barkeeper ever heard of opening the windows and airing the place before letting in the customers and settling down to business for the night? He sent a slightly unfocused glare in the direction of the man's back. Yes, the barkeep had his back to the customers. Wiping the glasses or whatever. Damn thoughtless of him.

"Hey," he called out, shaking his glass so that the rocks in it clinked. "Gemme another one!"

Looking considerably peeved, the barkeep – a rather large man, one might add – turned to scowl at him. He dug a bottle from under the counter, an opener from the pocket of his apron, slammed them both on the counter, and glared at him until he had coughed up the required amount of coins. Then, swiping them up and stuffing them into another pocket – after counting them one by one, the cheap bastard – the barkeep fished out his rag and returned his attention to the dusty glasses.

He popped the cork, which went rolling down over the counter's edge and bounced away on the floor, and poured the dark, maroonish liquid into his glass. Judging by the smell, it was just as bad as the previous one. But hey, not much of anything else had gone well today, either – and to be honest, at this point, all he really cared about was that the stuff would go down, stay down, and get him drunk.

"… so, my cousin got a post in the city guard a few weeks back," someone was saying in the other end of the counter. "No heathen scum's getting past him, that's for sure—"

What had it been that his pop had used to say? 'Gippal, never get drunk in a bar full of Yevonites'?

Bloody friggin' Yevonites.

He took a swig from his glass and grimaced at the taste. Yep, no improvement there.

It all boiled down to Yevonites. Everything kept getting stuck to those damned Yevonites. Every damn time. He wasn't a spiteful person by nature, but tonight, he just wasn't feeling very understanding. By now, he had gone through no less than six – six – enrolment offices for Crusaders, and countless of unofficial conversations. And every time, he got the same damn response.

Hell, Crusaders weren't supposed to be zealots. He knew that because he'd helped haul weapons on a ship, damn machina weapons, one year ago, to be taken to the Crusaders. He'd thought that they had at least an ounce of sense. More than an ounce, in fact. And decency, too. Going off to face Sin, using the best weaponry they could find regardless of temple sanctions, protecting the citizens of Spira and trying to find alternatives to the endless chain of summoners' sacrifices... He'd admired them. Had wanted to be one of them.

But apparently, the Al Bhed weren't... eligible.

The word kept ringing in his head, bouncing off the insides of his skull, boing, boing, boing, like one of those elastic balls his sister's children played with all the time. Wasn't it part of the credo of the Crusaders that they accepted anyone willing? What a load of crap. If you happened to be Al Bhed, that is.

Today had been yet another fantastic example of an Al Bhed's life in Spira. To begin with, he'd almost got run over by a troupe of chocobo riders on the highroad – free drinks for the one who bowls over the heathen! – and then he'd fallen down the stairs after stepping on a loose brick and landed face first on the pavement at its foot, his bag on his head. He'd cursed himself heartily for the moment of insight that had made him disassemble his rifle and pack it in there. It was heavy. Shaking off the bunch of kids snickering at him, he'd made his way into the Luca city, where he'd got lost in a suburb where no one wanted to talk to him, regardless of how many notches he turned up his charm – or maybe it had been because of that? – then thrown out of a store for suggesting that the cooling system needed a fix, and finally apprehended by the Crusaders on guard duty after getting into a yelling contest with merchant who thought he'd been trying to steal something. For some reason, "Hey, I was looking for you guys – I'm here to enlist," hadn't seemed to make a very favourable impression on them.

The visit in the office for enrolment was something he was hoping to forget. The woman running the enlisting had seemed almost sympathetic to his plight… until she had said that word, that damn word again.

He had been close, frighteningly close, to falling to his knees and begging. Maybe even promising to wear goggles all the time, to hide his eye. Not that that would really have disguised him very effectively, but it had seemed almost like a valid option at that point. Sheer frustration did strange things to your head sometimes.

And then he'd ended up drunk. In a bar full of Yevonites.

It was definitely not his day. So he had a pretty decent excuse to be feeling spiteful.

And the ale really was darn hateful.

"Hey barkeep," he shot across the counter. "Where do you get this thinned-out engine oil from? Labelling stuff like this as ingestible should be made a capital offence."

The street kept tilting annoyingly to the side. Well, of course, it wasn't the street that was doing the tilting but his brain, which was swimming in the beer – no, in that stuff which was just pretending to be beer – horrible thought – but due to the fact that his brain was swimming in that stuff, it created a very convincing illusion of the street tilting to the side.

In addition, he was nurturing a bruised thigh – which hardly helped with the tilting – and in the morning, he would probably be sporting a spectacular black eye. Which was not a marvellous thing, considering that he only had one of them in use.

Still, he received some satisfaction from the knowledge that although he'd gone down and got thrown out in the end, he'd given a split lip and taken a tooth or two with him in the process. Getting to land a few punches on that apron-clad bastard had definitely been worth it. The man had been a royal pain the entire evening. Not to even mention the stuff he served as ale.

It was too damn bright. He buried his face into the pillow, trying to block out the light that was etching its way in through his eyelids, no matter how tightly he squeezed them shut. It felt like a hrimthurs was beating its fists on his head, and, occasionally, on his stomach. Pound pound pound, jolt, pound pound, jolt. Pound, jolt. Jolt.

Seconds later, he shot out of the bed and stumbled into the small toilet, hand clapped over his mouth.

Gippal had never had a high tolerance for booze.

Breakfast was anything but inviting. Granted, it looked tempting enough, with loaves of bread straight from the bakery, hot bacon, and fresh fruit, served on a perfectly clean plate and complete with a jug full of clear, cool water. He just couldn't swallow anything beside the water right now. So he kept pushing his not-very-cheap bacon across the plate, back and forth, and wondering, for something like the twentieth time already, how he had managed to land in such a damn expensive inn. Considering the state he had been in, he was surprised that the owner had actually let him through the door.

The waitress, who was making her way towards the kitchen, slowed down obviously when she got near his table. He glanced up and found her looking at him. She flashed him a wide smile, then flushed a deep beetroot red, looked down hastily and hurried away, almost knocking a chair over in the process.

Well, someone had let him through the door. Perhaps his charm had not been completely disabled by this city and the series of misfortunes.

Or by the ale. Which spoke volumes in favour of his charm.

"… decent food," a voice from behind carried to his ears. When he'd entered, the only other occupants of the dining hall had been two men sitting at a table near the windows – a priest and a roughed-up looking warrior – so that must be one of them. Guessing by the gruffness of the voice, he guessed it was the latter.

"Yes, definitely," said another voice, whom he guessed was the priest. " 'Specially the fruits. Try the apple."

Spearing a slice of the apple on his fork, Gippal brought it up to his face and considered it carefully. His stomach was telling him no, but his money bag, which was getting worrisomely light, was telling him that he'd better.

He had been travelling for three months already, and his meagre stash of gil had dwindled alarmingly. Of course, he had saved wherever he could – slept out in the wilderness, traded work for food – but the fact remained that he had to eat, and sleeping outside in some places would have meant that he could just as soon have donated his remaining gil to whomever it was that would be in charge of arranging his untimely funeral.

Maybe joining an organisation that was actively seeking trouble with Sin could be compared to having a death wish. Heck, being a summoner was the same as having a death wish – a good many Al Bhed thought so, anyway. But at least both of those would have been a far more meaningful – not to mention dignified – way to go than being nibbled to death in your sleep by a stray fiend.

Favouring the advice of his money bag over that of his stomach, he bit into the apple. If being nibbled to death by a fiend was a fate he was hoping to avoid, he'd better stop wasting his resources – and what else could the previous night be called but a tremendous waste?

At least it hadn't taken very much to get him drunk. The Al Bhed generally didn't drink a lot, and practically not at all when not safely stashed in the bowels of their Home. Losing control like that wasn't very wise when it was quite possible that the person sitting next to you was just as likely try to stab you as to buy you another drink.

Then again, Gippal did not label himself as a wise person. But he didn't really drink, either, because he was always left with a terrible hangover. It was only under the direst circumstances that he ever managed to convince himself that suffering the consequences was worthwhile. In retrospect, by a rule, he failed to remember why he had been so convinced that it would be such a good idea, because he was always left with the same damn trouble he'd started with, only with additional nausea… and occasionally further trouble, caused by the acute loss of rational thought.

Like now. The waitress was peering at him from the kitchen, wearing a look that clearly signified that she wanted something of him.

Whatever he'd told her, he really hoped it couldn't be deciphered as any sort of a promise.

He dropped the fork and leaned his head on his hands, massaging his temples. The brow over his good eye hurt like hell when he touched it. He had been damn lucky that no one else had dared to get in the way when the barkeep was dealing with him. Otherwise he'd be sporting a lot more than a couple of bruises.

"What have you been up to lately?" asked the priest behind him. "Same old?"

"Pretty much."

"Ever get tired of it?"

Hell yes, Gippal thought.

"A bit," agreed the warrior, though with considerably less vehemence than Gippal did.

"Well, you ever thought of doing something else?"

Yeah, like going back to Home and admitting failure. He didn't want to even think about it. Everyone had thought he was mad enough to actually go for it. He didn't want to speculate how they'd react if he went back, saying he hadn't been admitted.

"Something else what?"

"Well, I've got the scoop – word travels around faster than you'd think. It seems that they're going to establish some sort of an elite fighting force. Maybe you'd want to try out for it."

Elite fighting force? Like the Crusaders? Well, that sounded pretty good and everything, but what was the damn point?

"Well, I bet they have plenty enough warrior monks in Bevelle alone to fill the positions. Not much in the way of a chance for me, is there?" asked the warrior, much along the lines of Gippal's thinking.

"Well, that's the scoop," said the priest, sounding pretty smug. "You see, they're casting the net quite far. Anyone who has what it takes is admitted."

"You've got to be kidding," said the warrior disbelievingly. "There has to be some selection guidelines. There always are – even for Crusaders."

Bingo there.

"Well, I suppose there will be guidelines, but for the candidacy, anyone can enter. And I mean anyone. I heard the secretary aide talking with one of the abbots. He said they're not going to look into race, either."

As if. Gippal reached for the water jug.

"What do they expect, then? Ronso applying?"

"Nah—"

"Hypello?"

There was a snort of laughter, and Gippal had to suppress a snort of his own. He poured himself another glass of water.

"No…" confirmed the priest

"Certainly not the Al Bhed," said the warrior dismissively, making Gippal's shoulders tense. Damn, but these people were making him edgy. Al Bhed this, Al Bhed that. Not a single good word. It'd apparently be too big an insult on the temple folk if an Al Bhed went and died protecting them—

"Actually," said the priest, and it sounded almost like there was a hint of a smile in his voice, "that's what the abbot said. And the aide answered that if an Al Bhed would qualify, then he'd qualify."

Gippal had gone very, very still, his hand still clutching the handle of the jug, straining to be silent so as not to miss a word. It sounded too good to be true. Which it probably was. Still…

"Can't be," protested the warrior, predictably.

"The abbot threw a fit, I might add," said the priest, and his tone now held a definite amused quality. "Little he could do about it, though, like the aide said – orders from above and all that."

"Temples these days," grumbled the warrior. "How do you bear with it, anyway?"

The priest laughed. "With dignity, my friend. With dignity."

The two of them proceeded to discuss the abbot's fit in considerable detail. Gippal, who was still sitting in the same position, holding the water jug, couldn't have cared less. Normally, he would probably have enjoyed listening to an irreverent dissection of a Yevon priest any time, but the rest of the conversation he'd overheard stuck to his mind, making him oblivious to everything else. Although the topic of the abbot's fit couldn't have lasted longer than a couple of minutes, it felt like hours to him. He was already on the edge of his seat, about ready to shoot up and go ask the priest himself, when the warrior finally took the conversation in the direction Gippal wanted it to go.

"So then… where's the signup?"