The heavily accented voice broke into Felix's dreamless sleep. "Hey, sleepyhead! Rise and shine, ya?"

Goddammit! "What time is it?" Felix groaned. Even what seemed like a tropical paradise had its own, annoying as hell alarm clocks.

Wakka shook Felix's shoulder, something Felix did not appreciate in the slightest at this ungodly hour. "Time to go! Ship's gonna leave without us, Brudda!"

Felix rolled onto his back and blinked hard, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. The light shining down let Felix know all-too-cheerfully that it was nowhere near as early as it felt. "Where's my kit?"

"Your what?"

"My gear, dumbass," Felix grumbled, scratching things that desperately needed to be scratched.

"Lulu took it on board, brudda. We got some questions about it," Wakka added, his eyes narrowing, "but those can wait until the Liki leaves."

"Ten-four," Felix mumbled.

"When?"

"It means 'okay'," he groaned. Goddamn, was everyone here this irritating in the morning? If they are, there's gonna be one helluva population cut soon.

Wakka shrugged and walked off as Felix flipped himself out of the hammock and crashed to the beach. The ship waiting at the dockwas an ungainly monstrosity of wood, driven by two giant paddlewheels on either side. The painted hull was in different shades of blue and white, and a tall boathouse stood above the deck. Green and orange sails mounted on a high, tapering white mast wavered in the breeze; their taut edges acting as resting-places for large, white birds. The last time Felix had laid eyes on anything that looked so un-seaworthy… Hell, he didn't think he had.

Disgusting 'man titties' were present and in force on an overweight man standing on the gantry. "All aboard the SS Liki for Luca," the man called out, waving with pudgy fingers at the ship, chins jiggling with each syllable, "passage is two-hundred and fifty Gil!"

Wakka's voice rang out from the bow. "Let 'im on, Brudda. We paid for him."

Felix walked onto the low ramp and onto the SS Liki. The boathouse he saw from the beach was actually an observation platform of some sort, with crates and barrels here and there. Wakka and Lulu stood by the thick ropes bordering the wide, peaked bow, talking to one another as they watched a little boy in red shorts run about on the deck. Felix sauntered over, just missing a large ball that whistled by his ear. "Kid can kick," he observed, amused.

Wakka nodded. "He's the top scorer in his league."

Lulu smiled at her husband, her set of violet lips curled upward at the corners. "Like father, like son." She turned back to Felix. "I take it you want your equipment?"

"Yeah."

"Second room to the right."

Felix nodded and walked back down the deck. Stacks of wooden containers and coils of rope shielded the sunken entryway, obscuring the view into the passage. He opened the metal door and stepped below deck. The cool air was free of the salty smell of the sea. Small lamps on the walls illuminated the corridor, reflecting off the brass panels and small circular portholes of the doors that lined the hallway. He opened the door Lulu had specified, and sure enough, his vest and belt were sitting up against the far wall, dirty and muddy.

He fastened the canvas belt around his waist, making sure to engage the polymer clip. Felix decided that now was a good time to make a quick check of what gear remained. The Cordura sheath kept his knife secure, but his pistol was still gone. Shit. The thumb-break rattled as Felix slapped his empty holster in frustration. A pop-flare remained fastened to the knife sheath with a length of paracord. The flare reminded him of another lesson he learned in the Green Berets: whatever you desperately need to survive, goes on your first line gear.

He walked back onto the deck, nearly losing his balance as the ship rolled to the side. Felix was glad he wasn't the only one lacking sea legs. He noticed a young man clenching tightly to one of the ropes on the bow, bending over the twisted cord, surrendering the contents of his stomach into the ocean. Felix let out a chuckle. So even here, people get seasick. It took a considerable amount of willpower for Felix not to help the boy find his way overboard. That usually cured seasickness.

Wakka walked over and stood next to Felix. "Kid can't keep his lunch down, ya?"

"I was just about to go show him what the underside of the ship looks like."

Wakka laughed. "Dunno if that would help, Brudda. That kid's always losin' his breakfast on the ship."

"Yeah?" Felix popped his knuckles. "Think he'd've adapted by now."

"Some people are just slow learners, ya?"

"Damn right," Felix chuckled.

"So how you feelin'?"

"My head hurts like a bitch. Other than that, I'm golden," Felix said, offering a lame smile.

"You remember anything?"

Yeah. "Unh-uh."

"Nothing at all?" Wakka squinted at Felix, as though he were attempting to zero in on what the contractor was thinking.

"Nothing." Felix continued to lie.

Wakka sighed. "So I guess you aren't from Spira after all."

Felix scratched at the short black hairs covering his jaw. "I guess not." He wasn't lying; part of him still maintained that he'd wake up in a few minutes and laugh about the crazy-ass dream he had. The icy knot in his stomach, however, continued to remind him that there were too many things not jiving with his theory. "So tell me about this 'Luca'," Felix continued.

Wakka fell backwards and leaned against the wall of the boathouse. "S' a typical big city, you know? Lotsa people, runnin' around and tendin' to business. There's a huge Blitzball arena in the center of the city, right next to a sphere theater."

"Sphere theater… Sounds like an IMAX."

"A what?"

Felix shook his head. "Screw it," he said, "you were saying something about 'Blitzball'?"

Wakka scratched at the red stubble on his chin. "The Blitzball arena draws huge crowds. Like, we're talking tens of thousands of people a day. The sport kinda died down after Sin was defeated, but with the way things are goin' lately, the people needed a distraction, you know?"

"Sure. So Luca… it's the capitol, right?"

"Unh-uh, Brudda. Bevelle is the capitol. S'where Yuna was supposed to be today, but she came back here to heal your leg."

"Huh," he grunted. Magic was something little kids watched on a stage in Vegas, not something that could sew a gaping wound back together. I ain't buyin' this. "That was… Magnanimous of her."

"That's just how she is. Real nice, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess." Magnanimousness was not a trait Felix often displayed; it wasn't even a word he had the opportunity to use. "I never was one for first-aid, though. Most of my work involved killing people," he said, too casually, "not healing them."

Wakka narrowed his green eyes. "Brudda," he said, "what… did you do… exactly?"

"You mean what I was doing when I ended up here? Military contracting."

"Never heard of it," Wakka commented.

"People pay me to fly into dangerous areas and protect their sorry asses," Felix replied, his voice carrying a fully intended edge. If he gets hostile, I'm putting his ass over the railing.

"So you were a professional Guardian?" Wakka's eyes widened. "That's like… a huge honor, ya?"

That wasn't a hostile remark, far from it. "Not exactly," Felix said, his own eyes narrowing. What the hell is he talking about?

"Around here," Wakka explained, "Guardians used to defend Summoners who were going on a pilgrimage. Me and Lu, we used to be Yuna's Guardians."

And I thought it was rough learning Arabic. "How much she pay you?"

The curved crest of red hair waved side to side slightly as Wakka shook his head. "We volunteered, Brudda. We wanted to keep her safe, you know?"

"I get paid to do the same thing." One of Felix's hands dropped to his belt, resting on the cord-wrapped grip of his knife. "Course, from the looks of things, I'm a helluva ways away from a contract."

"What's the knife for?" Wakka asked, either ignoring or not hearing what Felix said.

"Cuttin' line, brush, tape…" Just for shits and giggles, Felix decided to try getting inside Wakka's head. Hell, none of this is real anyway! "…and people."

Wakka raised one eyebrow. "Most guys just use a sword, you know?"

Back fucking water. Felix shrugged. "I'd put two in 'em before they got it out."

"'Put two in 'em'?"

"Bullets," Felix explained. "Nobody really uses swords anymore. Least, not where I'm from."

"You used machina," Wakka said, raising his eyebrows.

"If that's what you call it, then yeah, I used 'machina'."

"Why use one of those?"

Felix sighed. "Oh, gee, I'm not sure… maybe because I can just blow their fuckin' head off from a couple hundred yards away instead of lettin' 'em get close enough to see the size of my—"

"I get it, Brudda," Wakka said, holding up a hand to indicate that he didn't want to hear the end of the explanation. "There just aren't many guys usin' those around here."

Felix snorted. "There ain't many smart guys around here, then."

"All I know is that the Crusaders use swords," Wakka conceded, making a gesture of apathy, "and the Al-Bhed use machina."

Felix drummed his fingers on the corded handle. "Back home, everyone used 'machina', or whatever you call it." He glanced down at his empty holster. "I lost mine when I showed up here."

"Your machina?"

"Yeah, a pistol. Tracy—" Felix stopped, remembering the argument he had with his then-wife about buying the Kimber. "It'll be fuckin' expensive to replace."

"She your wife?"

Felix spat into the ocean. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, the bitterness in his heart finding its way into his voice.

"Sorry, Brudda," Wakka said. "Didn't mean to upset you, you know?"

"S'okay." Felix pulled the knife from his scabbard and flipped it in his hand idly, alternating between a blade up and a blade down grip. The honed edge flashed in the midday sun. "You said earlier you wanted to ask about my gear."

Wakka indicated his agreement. "Yeah. Mind telling us what it's for, Brudda?"

Felix shrugged. "Told you 'bout the knife and pistol… er, machina. Flare here's for signaling in an emergency," he said, pointing at the pop-flare strung against his knife sheath.

"What about that vest?"

Felix rubbed a kink in his shoulder. "Stops bullets," he said, rotating his shoulder to get the knot worked loose.

Wakka laughed. "No, really! What's it do, Brudda?"

"Stops fucking bullets," Felix shot back. "It's made of Kevlar." Yeah. That'll help, DiMarco. Because every caveman islander knows about Kevlar.

"Of what?"

Felix shook his head. "Nevermind," he said, exasperated. Whatever place this was, it was getting way too fucking weird for his taste. I'll take Earth back, divorce and all, thank you!

"So you're a professional guardian," Wakka continued.

"Military and security contractor," Felix corrected him. "But I think they might be the same thing."

"You'd've made a killing a few years back."

The knife slid back into its sheath. "Dangerous place?"

Wakka nodded. "You got no idea, Brudda."

Yeah. We all know that three fucking wars ain't jack shit. "I think I do," Felix said.

"I dunno if you do, exactly."

"I've killed enough people that there isn't much left to phase me." There was one thing Felix absolutely could not stand: somebody, anybody - calling his expertise into question. As his eyes narrowed into slits, Felix felt an overwhelming sense of anger – he had just been snubbed by a figment of his fucking imagination.

Wakka chose to leave it alone. "So what're you planning to do in Luca, brudda?"

"It's hard to plan something when you don't know what the hell's goin' on," Felix snapped.

"Sorry," Wakka apologized, his tanned face reddening, "I guess we've kinda kept you in the dark, ya?"

"Yeah," Felix admitted, "you have." Already calming down, he drummed his fingertips against his sheathed knife again. "'Course, not like it matters right now. I oughta be worried 'bout writing this dream down, just to prove I actually had it."

Wakka raised his eyebrows. "Dream?"

"Yeah," Felix said, chuckling to himself. "There's no way in hell any of this shit is real."

"Brudda," Wakka sighed, "what's it gonna take to convince you?"

Hang on…when I was a kid, my dreams always ended when I got hurt - maybe if…

"Hey! What the-

He slid the knife though his thigh, piercing deep through skin, sinew, and muscle before the tip caught the edge of Felix's femur and came to a sudden, painful stop. "Fuck!" Felix snarled through clenched teeth. Pain was something he could deal with, just not when he caused it himself.

"What in Yevon's name did you do that for? Felix, you okay?" Wakka asked, frantically, between shouts for help.

The blood spread rapidly outward from the hilt of the knife and through the cotton of his tactical pants. The warm, sticky fluid trickled down Felix's leg into his boot. He grasped the cord-wrapped handle and yanked the knife back out. The blade slid against his flesh and through more blood. "Fuck," he growled again. His pounding heartbeat drowned out the screams of concerned passengers. That wasn't supposed to happen! I should be awake now!

The sound of heeled footsteps came clattering from the bow. "Felix," Yuna called out, dropping to one knee. "You're hurt!"

"I don't… He just… What the hell is goin' on?" Wakka was standing a few feet to the side of him, gesturing wildly.

Yuna was on her knees, examining the wound with all the tenderness of a surgeon. "It's very deep," she said with a sigh. "What in the name of the Fayth did you do that for?"

"I'm awake," Felix deadpanned, blinking hard. He looked to his bloodstained hand, to the bloodstained deck, to his bloodstained pants covering his bloodstained leg. "Awake," he repeated, with even less emotion than before.

She raised an eyebrow.

"So I'm not dreaming."

The other eyebrow raised.

Goddammit, is that how she heals people?

"Well," she sighed, withdrawing a small vial from within her belt, "you're definitely awake. Drink this."

Felix took the glass vial from her hand. He pulled the cork stopper with his teeth and let the pale blue liquid trickle down his throat. The bitter taste caused him to gag at first, but he swallowed the rest of it. If it's poison, at least I'm outta here. Tingling and a gradual numbness replaced the pain in his leg. His vision swirled as he tried to fix it on his - holy shit! The bleeding slit closed to an almost unnoticeable red speck. The severe pain was gone, replaced by a high-frequency vibration oscillating from his knee to his hip. "What…" he gasped, "the fuck…was that?"

"A potion," Yuna said. Her smugness would have irritated Felix if it weren't for the circumstances. "We use them to heal wounds that aren't very serious."

Felix put his weight back onto his leg. It held. This is officially the freakiest goddamn thing that's ever happened to me. He forgot the free ride that landed him in this freak show.

Wakka broke the silence, scratching the back of his neck as he spoke. "So Brudda… You believe it now?"

Oh, hell yes. "I'd say… I'd say I'm pretty damn convinced," Felix said, clenching his fists to hide the trembling in his hands.

The beads on Yuna's earring rattled as she shook her head. "Whatever it takes, I guess."

"So what do you think?"

A half-asleep Wakka rolled over to face his wife. Her makeup, now washed away, revealed the flawless white complexion of her skin. The light blue sheets contrasted her long black hair. "I dunno, Lu," he breathed, eyes wandering down her figure.

"Why would you say that?" Lulu adjusted the sheet on top of her, pulling the rustling cotton fabric tighter around her body.

"He just seems… I dunno, it just doesn't sound right, ya?"

Lulu raised an elegant eyebrow.

"I mean," Wakka continued, "Tidus came from a place that existed once, you know? But this 'Felix'…"

"Hasn't told us where he's from yet," Lulu whispered, correcting her husband gently. "But I understand what you're getting at."

"He said he was a professional guardian."

The eyebrow raised again. "Felix said that?" Lulu asked.

"Not exactly," Wakka admitted, "but that's what he meant."

"Either way, we can see if anyone in Luca knows him," she offered, yawning.

Wakka shook his head, his whiskers rubbing against the pillow. "That won't work, Lu, and you know it."

Lulu pressed her lips together. "Time will tell," she conceded. "Right now, I'm more worried about Yuna."

"She's just under a lot of stress, Lu. She'll be fine."

The salty breeze carried the sound of a soft whistle from the opened doorway.

"I hope so," Lulu breathed.

Somewhere over Iraq
September 13, 2004 – three years ago
2200 Hrs local time.

"Yo, Felix! You cool, kid?"

"I'm ice," Felix lied. The sickening, sweet smell of jet fuel was almost overpowering inside the enclosed body of the UH-60 'Blackhawk' transport chopper. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears, drowning out the steady thump-thump-thump of the carbon-fiber rotors, their reverberations carrying down the magnesium frame and into the body armor encasing Felix's chest.

He fingered the charging handle of his carbine, the standard-issue M4-A1 fitted with a 'red-dot' sight and a sound suppressor. Looking down, he studied the custom-painted drab green finish - worn back down to the black metal in many places, completely burned away in others. His last name – DiMarco - was stenciled on the side of the collapsible stock in mustard-yellow craft paint; the only pigment on the M4 that mattered to the Army.

"You ain't lookin' no ice." Dante scooted next to Felix on the low metal shelf that served as seating for the six Green Berets riding inside the bird. His porcelain teeth stood out against the dark green paint on his face. "What's on your mind, kid?"

A helluva lot, actually. "Nothin'," he lied again. "Just the usual jitters." The noise of the flying helicopter forced the men inside to yell at each other just to make themselves audible.

"Damn, son, you gotta get rid of 'em sooner or later!" Dante shook his head. The grenade pins clipped to the foliage loops of his boonie hat clinked against each other and the large headset he wore to communicate with the pilot.

"Yeah, man, I know." Felix wasn't scared. After ten years, being shot at, for him, was like walking to the mailbox for Joe Suburbia. He was more concerned with the letters from home and the disturbing infrequency with which they arrived. Felix knew he shouldn't be surprised, though. The more time a man spent in a combat zone, the less and less he received letters from home. It was true back in 1967 and it was true now. And, he noted, biting his lip, the less intimate they became.

Dante paused for a moment and fixed his gaze on Felix's carbine. "You ain't got no nickname yet," he observed, hijacking Felix's train of thought.

Fuck. Felix turned around, studying the other man's gear. The yellow lettering 'HOLLYWOOD' barely stood out on the equally well-beaten stock of Dante's M4. "Guess not," Felix admitted.

Sergeant 'Hollywood' grinned. "You know why they call me that?"

"Nope."

"I got such a damn pretty smile, that's why." Hollywood bared his set of large, straight, white teeth and clicked them together twice to reinforce the point.

Felix didn't like where this was heading. At all.

"Boys," Hollywood said, deepening his already smoky voice, "looks like Private DiMarco here ain't got a nickname yet."

A round of snickering rippled through the chopper.

Felix was fucked, and he knew it. In the world of special operations, there were two things you always dreaded: your birthday, and getting your nickname. Shit.

Someone in the back spoke up. "Hell, how 'bout the 'Italian Stallion'?"

"Fuck that," someone else replied. "He ain't badass enough."

"Blow me," Felix yelled. "I'd kick your ass up 'n' down Durka-durka-stan."

More snickering.

"How 'bout 'Rocky'?"

"Fuck no," Hollywood sneered. "Anyone got any REAL suggestions?"

"Well, he's pretty fuckin' thick… 'Tiny'?"

Another voice from the back. "I think the 10th Mountain has a 'Tiny'."

Felix heard Kirk's voiced suggestion from one of the front seats. "I got one. 'Diesel'."

"Fuck, man!" Hollywood groaned.

"Nah, listen. Built like a diesel engine, he works like one, and he makes so much fucking smoke that you can't even breathe!"

The Blackhawk burst into laughter, and Felix reddened underneath the paint on his face. Having Tracy and the doc tell him to quit smoking was one thing. Having his squadmates ridicule his for it was another. "Some of you motherfuckers smoke more than me!" He protested. No joy, not that he really expected any effect.

"Yeah," Kirk reminded him, jabbing a gloved finger at the stock of his own carbine, "but we already got our nicks."

"Hey," the co-pilot called over the intercom, "how 'bout 'Tinkerbell'?"

"Careful," Felix warned, "or I might accidentally have a weapon malfunction, and accidentally blow a fucking hole in this bird when I get off it."

"Looks like you're Tinkerbell, asshole," Kirk informed him, "unless someone has something better."

Now the suggestions really started coming in.

"'Flashdance'!"

"'Zoolander'!"

"'Sunshine'!"

Felix put his face in his hands, the scuffed leather palms of his assault gloves rubbing against his painted flesh. Christ.

Hollywood shook his head. "I ain't rollin' with nobody who got no faggoty-ass nickname. So no more of this fuckin' 'Tinkerbell', or 'Prison Bitch', or 'Butt Buddy' shit, got me?"

"Fuck it," Kirk said, rolling his eyes, "let's just give 'im 'Diesel'."

Sgt. Hollywood reached into his kit bag, sitting on the floor, and pulled out a can of Coors. "In the name of thy God," he invoked, with all the flair of a Southern reverend, "I christen thee 'Diesel'." He popped the can open with a snap-hiss and dumped its contents over Felix's head.

"Shit," Felix snarled. The hot – not warm, hot – liquid trickled down his face and over the rim of his jungle hat, pooling on the metal floor of the Blackhawk."

"Well," Kirk laughed, "I guess it's official."

Hollywood pressed the earphones tighter to his head. "Pilot says we're five mikes out. Get ready to drop."

The newly christened 'Diesel' flicked the floppy brim of his jungle hat with a gloved finger, sending drops of beer flying. "Ten-four, motherfuckers," he muttered, knowing full well that he was the only person who could hear his remark. It was going to take forever and a fucking day to get all the Coors out of his hat and gear.

Sgt. Hollywood held up one finger. "One mike."

Felix squeezed the grip of his M4 tighter, the skateboard tape on the carbine's polymer pistol grip scuffing the palms of his gloves even more. Diesel. He'd have to re-stencil all his shit. And get used to the new nickname. Hell, he thought, at least I ain't 'Tinkerbell'.

A/N: And there's Chapter III. Thanks be to fabulous1 for beta-reading my work; a good beta is the key to any good story. Chapter IV has just been sent off, so it will be up on the site faster than this one was. Another long wait for Chapter V, though, so you've been warned. Also, if it's not too much, I'm going to shamelessly plug one of fabulous1's stories: Parallel Worlds. It's very good; I highly recommend it to anyone looking for an interesting read.