Better The Kefka You Know

Having somewhat adjusted to his new medication, Kefka is convinced to make amends for the many, many wrongs he has committed. (I'm so going to hell for this one).

TRAILS OF VIBRANT bunting were tethered between the sloping, cottage rooftops of Doma. Garlands and ribbons adorned the ceremonial Maypoles, while the clash of cymbals, pipes and drums filled the warm, Spring air. It was May Day; an ancient, Doman festival of food and music. Crowds amassed before the castle's steel-wrought gates, babbling excitedly. For many of them, the May Day celebrations were an entirely new experience.

A year and a half ago, Doma's population had suffered a swift and decisive decline. Unluckily for those who had drunk from the effervescent rivers that day, an unpleasant and rather embarrassing death had befallen them. Still, time had pressed forward and, succeeding the fall of Doma, came the ruin of the entire globe. Luckily for the survivors of these heinous catastrophes, there existed a stretch of rolling pasture with a stone-walled castle and numerous quaint little cottages for rent. And so the refugees came to settle and resurrect Doma to its former glory.

Upon the balcony of Doma's castle, a young man in a gleaming, golden crown emerged, much to the cheers of his supporters. He was swarmed by his regal, blue robes and the ermine edging on the material had brought out a rather nasty rash on his neck. The young King bore a very tenuous claim to the throne. Some claimed he was the distant cousin-thrice-removed to his royal ancestors. Others said he had spent twenty-five years inhabiting the marshland near the Serpent Trench and saw a grand opportunity to climb the social ladder.

"Good day to ye, my countrymen," he stammered, still unable to grasp the Doman dialect fluently, "today is a day for feasting, music and general merriment!" Scattered applause punctuated his speech. The young King turned to his advisor and, with a few hastily-exchanged whispers, whirled around to the crowds with a majestic wave.

"Before the day's festivities commence, there will be a short speech, as May Day custom dictates! Could you please lend your ears to our special guest…" The audience, who had begun to shuffle and stamp their feet with impatience, were suddenly frozen in horror. Standing beside the King, his green cape billowing in the soft breeze and a new, glossy chocobo feather adorning his hair, stood Kefka Palazzo.

The last time witnesses recalled the man's presence upon balcony of Doma Castle, he had allegedly been dancing a Charleston to the music of a thousand voices screaming in unison.

Today however, he regarded the assembly sombrely. Kefka cleared his throat noisily, shuffling a small deck of prompt-cards between his pale hands. He narrowed his eyes, deliberating as to whether it would be simpler to read out the apology Celes had written for him, or to fling the entire pile over his shoulder and speak from the heart (or rather, the heart-shaped void in his chest). If Kefka was tempted by the latter, then he would have to explain everything from the beginning…

~̃*~*~̃

For the past three days, Kefka had been stowed away in the Falcon's Engine Room, along with an assortment of the Returners' other inanimate objects. He had sat, propped up in the corner, drifting in and out of consciousness as Cid's home-brewed sedative gradually dissolved into his bloodstream. The professor had been applying different concentrations of his concoction with varying degrees of effectiveness. The first time Kefka had awoken, he had requested a glass of water, before promptly looping his intravenous line around Cid's neck and throttling him. A disappointing result, the professor had later noted, but based on my previous experience, not entirely unexpected.

Following a much stronger infusion, Cid had arrived to check up on Kefka, only to find the man cradling a giant slab of dried-out coral which had long been abandoned in the Engine Room. He had turned to stare at Cid with wide, tragic eyes.

"Water! Can't you see he needs water?!" His voice broke as he slumped, sobbing into the pale rock. "Do what you want with me but for the love of God, he has a family!"

With the dosage of his tranquilisers adjusted accordingly, Kefka was finally proclaimed to be a tolerable member of society. His mood swings were still alarming to say the least, and there was no cure for his nihilism towards all life-forms. Despite such a bizarre twist of fate, the Returners conceded to let Kefka stay on-board the Falcon with them. They deemed themselves collectively responsible for the man whom they had killed, resurrected and then emotionally-engineered. Moreover, all agreed that he could not possibly prove to be worse company than Ultros.

Only, Kefka wasn't planning on staying.

Upon the mage's request, Setzer landed the airship just outside of Jidoor. With a snarl and a sweep of his cloak, Kefka had stormed away through the city's bustling streets, vowing never to set his eyes on any of their repulsive faces ever again.

That same evening, he returned.

"Cid," he greeted the Falcon's crew bluntly. Still breathless from waving down the airship, Kefka staggered up the gangplank. From his right hand trailed a withered stick, around which he had fastened his green cape as an improvised flag. With poorly-masked indignation, Celes lead the mage down to the Engine room, which now also served as a makeshift laboratory for the professor's odd experiments.

"Cid… I'm sick…" As Kefka meandered feebly into the middle of the room, Cid looked up from his lab specimens in curiosity. With laboured breathing, the mage gripped at his chest dramatically, his face contorted in pain. Cid sighed and placed the trembling moogle that he had been handling back in its cage.

"What appears to be the problem?"

Having gathered a quill and his notes, Cid and Kefka each took a seat. The mage divulged a lengthy list of ailments, most of which were symptomatic of Veldt Whooping Fever. Eventually, the professor completed his annotations with a flourish. He regarded Kefka over the top of his spectacles and flashed him a wry smile.

"Kefka, these are all symptoms of guilt." Cid sidled forward in his chair, clasping his hands together solemnly. "I'm afraid you have developed… a conscience." From the wild stare of Kefka's eyes, it seemed Cid had announced that he had contracted one colossal kidney stone.

"Well – get rid of it!"

"There is only one course of treatment," Cid continued in a grave voice, "you must make amends for all of your wrong-doings."

Kefka scowled. In retrospect, kidney stones would have been a pleasure to pass compared with the sickening notion of redemption. The old doctor leant backwards casually in his seat, a hint of smugness playing about his mouth. It somewhat soothed Kefka's rage to hear the crack of broken chair legs just seconds before Cid was upturned onto the floor.

As much as he willed himself to simply feel better, Kefka continued to suffer audibly throughout the following day. Excruciating guilt crushed his soul, much like one of Ultros' four-tonne weights. Eventually, whether due to his own conviction or the intolerance of his crew mates, Kefka became resigned to his fate. He knew that he must go forth as all other goody-two shoes had gone before him. However, as Terra was forced to explain, this was not merely as simple as "hugging a tree or whatever." Kefka finally agreed to pay a brief visit to Doma in favour of a legendary mountain-climbing expedition which Celes had suggested for him. Something about the name 'Mount Ordeals' had sounded far too tedious for his liking.

~̃*~*~̃

So, it was before a packed courtyard of Doman locals where Kefka stood, shuffling his prompt-cards awkwardly. The compulsion to ad-lib his performance had waned, leaving him to simply read out Celes' handwritten notes in a monotonous drawl. The Returners had interspersed themselves amongst the crowd for moral support. Although painfully boring, Kefka's speech at least lacked his usual insolence.

"So… yeah… sorry again for the massacre. I feel terrified." Celes flinched as though someone had sworn in church. Beside her, Locke stirred uncomfortably.

"What?" he whispered. Celes closed her eyes in irritation and, with her hands pressed against her temples, stood mouthing the correct expression under her breath. Locke looked up to the balcony where Kefka was frowning at the card in his hand.

"Terrible!" he shouted jubilantly then, in a lower voice, he continued, "yeah, that's what I meant. Nice handwriting, Celes." A splatter of unenthusiastic applause marked the end of his speech, most likely because the King's guards had drawn their katanas as a subtle reminder of what poor behaviour could evoke. As the King gave his public thanks, Kefka was escorted back down to where the Returners were gathered to the left of the castle's gates.

"Good job, Kefka," Edgar remarked dryly as he approached, "I sure the victims' families will always remember those heartfelt words." Kefka waved at him dismissively and glanced away to where the King's guards held their glinting swords in the pale sunlight.

"Did you even hear what I said?" the engineer hissed, to which Kefka replied with an angry buzzing sound. He took a few steps, then broke into his frantic, disjointed jog towards the line of guards. Edgar widened his eyes purposefully at the others.

"This can't be good. After him!"

Resplendent in his azure armour, Cyan Garamonde stood upon a stone-flagged wall, overlooking his troops with dark, keen eyes. He glared suspiciously as a golden feather cleaved its way through the assembly towards him. Cyan hesitated then, with his misgivings confirmed, he gripped the hilt of his katana warily.

"What dost thou want Kefka?" he seethed as the mage materialised before him. Without even pausing to reply, Kefka began rummaging within the recesses of his green cape. Cyan gave a nod for his men to raise their weapons.

"I shalt give thou until the count of three. One-" But before the samurai could finish, Kefka produced a small, delicately-wrapped box which he shoved into the man's hands.

"I told you no ad-libbing!" Celes roared, as she and The Returners emerged from the crowd, "what have you done, Kefka?!" The mage waved his finger obnoxiously at her.

"It's just a little apology present!" Cyan's eyes slid cautiously between the polka-dot packaging and Kefka's expectant grin. There was only one gift Cyan would have been glad to accept as compensation for the murder of his wife and child. However, considering that this was still firmly attached to Kefka's neck, he knew that whatever the box held would be bitterly disappointing in comparison.

"If this is some sort of sick joke-" Locke cut in, but Kefka shook his head emphatically.

"No joke! No joke! Open it." Cyan fixed the mage with a final, venomous stare and then tore through the wrapping in one, fluid motion. He lifted the lid, only to find himself gazing at a pile of loose sheets covered in cramped handwriting. He lifted the first piece of parchment and read along the first few lines soundlessly. This was replaced for the second, then the third. Cyan looked to Kefka, his dark brow furrowed in bewilderment.

"These are legal forms. A copyright contract for what looks like…" Cyan rustled the papers and brought out the last piece of the documentation. "A chemical of sorts. A poison? This is your foul concoction!" He glared at Kefka in disgust. "Why should I, of all people, desire something so hideous?" Kefka, who could barely keep himself from rising onto his tip-toes, beamed at the samurai in glee.

"Read the last bit!" Cyan's eyes flicked to the bottom of the page, where they remained fixed in horror.

"Thou hast n-named it… CYANIDE?!" Kefka clapped his hands together in delight.

"I know! It has nice ring to it doesn't it?"

~̃*~*~̃

Having narrowly escaped the riot which ensued shortly after Kefka's insensitive declaration, The Returners amassed themselves on-board the Falcon's deck. The aircraft had still not recovered the ability to fly, leaving Setzer and his crew to frantically paddle the ship out of the path of a thousand flaming arrows as they sailed down from Doma's battlements. Once they were safely out of range, Terra launched herself at Kefka with all the fury of an upturned Phantom Train.

"How could you do that?!" she screamed, swinging her palm into Kefka's jaw. The mage staggered backwards, dazed by the blow. "After everything Cyan went through and you…!" It took some time to pacify her, and even longer for the Returners to gather some understanding of Kefka's actions.

After he had cast a small block of ice to ease the bruising on his face, the mage dutifully explained how he had never partaken in the tradition of gift-giving before, and was unlikely to try anything alike it again. Kefka divulged his understanding that the desire to leave a legacy was universal to all humans, himself included. Where one might construct a tower out of a dilapidated landmass, others would leave their names to something great. By the end of his account, Terra found herself staring at the red mark on her hand uncomfortably.

"Sorry…" she managed quietly, "we should have known you were trying your best… even if you did cause an uprising."

From that day on, The Returners vowed never to try and make Kefka a better person ever again. Little did they know that Cid's sedative, still at work within Kefka's bloodstream, was compelling him to become more docile with each passing day. The nights brought strange but subtle sensations too. He experienced visions of a purple octopus who inspire cunning schemes, like giving the rights of a class-A toxin to Cyan Garamonde…

Setzer's Airship Repair Fund: 0 gil