A/N: Well, here it is. I said I would have it up. I believe I may need a beta reader for a while, as my longtime friend and editor has been called up by RL. Shoot me a PM if you're interested in giving my chapters a once- or twice-over before I publish 'em on here.

Wess stood in awe before the alien device. It dominated the small space within the ruins, appearing to warp the light and space around it. He shivered. His touch against the pitted surface touch left a mottled, oblong reflection peering through the grimy dust. Wess coughed into his hand and wiped orange-gray saliva onto his pants.

"So that's the prize?"

He turned to face his companion. "Seems like it. Did you get our skiff repaired?"

Jaste nodded, his blond curls waving. "It'll make it back to Bevelle, but comms are still down." He stepped down into the chamber and rapped his knuckles against the device. "Doesn't look like much."

"Sure doesn't," Wess admitted. "They said it was some kind of transport. Can't see why anyone cares this much about an airship. The Al-Bhed build more than enough of the damn things, why can't we just lift one from Bikanel after we torch the place?"

"You know the Council," he said, wiping more of the dust from the metal skin. Jaste picked at one of many spots of rust with a dirt-caked fingernail. "Mountains out of molehills."

"Yeah, but molehills usually aren't hidden in a temple at the ass end of Spira."

"And usually aren't home to a couple giant squid," Jaste added, with a meaningful glance at the circular abrasions down Wess's arm.

"Nobody warned us about the fiends in the ruins. If we didn't have the Crusaders with us, that squid would've taken a lot more than Vance's legs."

"Good luck convincing Bevelle of that – it's their money on the line out here."

"Like I care." Wess paused a moment. "Doesn't look like there's any way to open it from here, if the thing can even fly at all."

"Waste of time and money."

He sighed. "No use staying down here any longer – we need a way to let Bevelle know we found what they're looking for. Call topside and get the lift down here."

Nayla blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. A lifeless, aquamarine sphere sat atop a sheaf of papers on the desk before him. The soft patter of raindrops on windowpanes provided the only sound in the small room, aside from the Maester's occasional cough. A faint wedge of light crawled out from under the door and left thin shadows along the lush carpeting. A light touch activated the sphere, projecting a two-dimensional block of text into the chill air. The image scrolled upward, each word flickering as Spiran print replaced Al-Bhed script. Nayla scanned the translated lines without blinking, his eyes flashing across the suspended pages. He spun a small nub on the sphere's casing, and the hologram expanded to display a second page of translating text.

"Fascinating." Nayla withdrew a sheet from under the sphere and studied it for a moment. He tapped the nub, and the text disappeared.A long sigh escaped Nayla's lips. He ran his fingers along the lines of his medallion. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. "How fascinating."

Wedge set his glass down on the table. "So you're the man to see," he said.

"Yep." The Lucan sphere technician took a shallow pull from a glass. The patch on his vest read 'Tel', and the highlights in his hair read 'douchebag'. "I'm the best damn tech this city's ever seen, and for the right price, I'm yours."

Felix had seen the type before: in the rear with the beer and the gear, typically playing soldier with local women over some cheap vino. Pogues like Tel could be a good source of hard-to-find shit, such as porn whilst stranded in the Middle East, but the cocktail-gulping Guido across the table didn't seem like the type to appreciate a pair of tits, unless they belonged to a trucker named Hank.

"Shouldn't you be helping us as part of your, you know, duty?"

"Shouldn't you have some sort of official clearance? Last I checked, the Crusaders frown on lone dingoes. Wonder how your C.O. would take to hearing-"

"I am my C.O," Wedge interrupted. "So there's my clearance. What's the price?"

The techie set his glass down and tapped his thumb on the table. "One thousand, three hundred gil. I charge extra for hazard pay," he added, glancing at Wedge's assault gear.

Wedge reached into his pocket and produced a small leather pouch; it clinked when he dropped it onto the table. "There's fifteen hundred – hazard pay's included."

"Must be a good life in Besaid, with that kind of pocket change."

Felix clenched his teeth. With the last of his gil sitting on the table, along with much of Wedge's savings, the black vulture of poverty loomed over his head once again. "Who said it was pocket change?"

Tel smirked. "You did, when you took it out of those giant-ass pockets. How's a grunt like you get this kind of cash, anyway?"

Felix leaned forward. "If you wanna keep your kneecaps, you'll stop asking questions."

"You, dear Sergeant, are a man after mine own heart." The Lucan reached for the bag, but Felix pinned his wrist to the table.

"Six hundred up front, and the rest once you're done."

"A man after mine own heart, indeed." Tel withdrew his hand. "But what happens if you get iced before I get the rest of my money? I can't collect from a stiff."

"You're comin' with us if we bite it, so I wouldn't worry too much. Six up front."

Tel grinned, and accepted a measured out quantity of coins from the bag. "My services are at your command, gentlemen. Now, if you would be so kind as to inform me of the reason those services are required?"

"We need an antenna fixed."

"Personal?"

"No." Felix pointed out the window. "The sphere station."

"For fuck's sake." Tel sighed. "I shouldn't have given you the 'Brothers in Arms' discount."

"There's no need to skulk about in the shadows." Maester Nayla did not turn his head, but switched off the glowing sphere. "Higa is waiting outside, and I doubt he enjoys waiting."

The Al-Bhed stepped out of the darkness near the window and crossed his arms across his chest. "I am afraid I am your only company for the night, Maester Nayla."

"So it would seem. State your business or leave me to my work."

"Your work is my business tonight, Maester Nayla. Our transponder intercepted a signal directed at Bikanel, warning the island of the Spiran offensive."

Nayla let his fingers trail over the edges of his medallion. "I trust it was lost in transit."

"Of course. Along with the flood of other such calls emerging from the city. I do not think it matters, though, whether or not they get through."

"What leads you to this conclusion?"

He turned towards the window and slid it open. "The stage will soon collapse – pray that your hands are not revealed on the marionettes' strings."

"You dare threaten me?"

"Consider this a simple warning, Maester Nayla, from one who knows Highwind. Tread lightly." With that, the Al-Bhed man disappeared out the window, leaving only a fluttering curtain in his wake.

"Oh," Felix muttered, "for the love of- you're kidding me." He squatted down next to Tel at the foot of a stairway and rested on one knee. A few dozen meters away, halfway down one of the numerous piers radiating from the stadium, a long, thin bridge extended over the dark waters. Yellow flags stood at even intervals down its length. At the far end sat an elegant, swooping structure that seemed like a transplant from the home of one of Tracy's plaid-clad, Pabst-drinking artist friends. It looked like the skull of a gigantic alien bird, with narrow spires stretching up from the rear. "How the hell do we cross?"

He squinted in the relative darkness, the only illumination coming from flames reflected in the lapping surf and the glow from the stadium's spheres. In the stadium itself and the city beyond, the constant staccato of gunfire was punctuated with an occasional explosion. The din forced the three men to hoist their voices almost past what could be considered yelling.

"Swim, I guess."

Felix glared at Tel. "When I want your input, I'll tell you what it is."

"Lovely. I suppose you have a boat and some oars, then?"

"We've got a former blitzer," Wedge interjected. "Played growing up, tried out for a few pro teams, never quite made it. Swimming that gap isn't a problem."

A black-water swim? Felix clenched his teeth. For a moment, the grip of his pistol belonged to a battered M-16; his gear was replaced by a tattered rucksack and a too-big K-pot. "Let's say that swimming is out of the question. Any other suggestions?"

"The bridge is right there," Tel shouted, pointing down the pier. "Hasn't moved."

Felix shook his head. "And probably being watched."

Tel rolled his eyes. "We do that 'low profile' thing all the way up that skinny little bridge, then bam!"

"Provided a machine gunner doesn't paint that concrete with our brains, that's a wonderful idea," Wedge quipped.

"Well then, genius, what's yours?" Tel demanded.

Felix looked out at the station. Floundering beneath the chlorinated surf, waterlogged equipment dragging on his limbs, spots of light piercing a band of black terrycloth... He hoped nobody saw him shiver. "Wedge, how far do you think it is out there?"

He pondered the question. "Couple hundred yards."

"Think we can grab a boat from somewhere?"

Wedge shook his head. "Going in by boat after the Al-Bhed spotted us off the coast yesterday? That's suicide."

"Damn it," he rumbled.

"Felix, either we walk down or we swim down, but we need a decision now."

Felix contemplated the pitch-black ocean for a moment. The water swished and gurgled around his head as he flailed. The edge of his helmet smashed his nose. The water near his face felt warm. "Fuck!"

Tel smirked. "Don't worry. The fiends here leave after they bite off a leg or two."

Wedge leaned against the low wall, slid a leg out from under him, and launched Tel into the surf. He turned to Felix. "Stick to the side of the bridge, and we'll come up next to the entrance!" The Crusader jammed his beret down the front of his coveralls and leaped headfirst into the black water, reappearing with a full-speed breaststroke a few meters away.

Felix shoved the pistol into the holster strapped to his thigh, tucked his beret into his vest, and spat onto the concrete. He plunged feet-first into the ocean and felt the weight of his clothes fight against his movement.

Fuck.

He kicked and thrashed, struggling to break free from a sand-filled rucksack. His boots punched right through the bottom of the pool and into a hellish nothingness. Was he sinking? Felix kicked harder, the air in his lungs full of needles. Clenched eyelids kept the pool at bay. He felt the caress of fresh air and gasped. Wedge and Tel were gone, somewhere up ahead, or down with whatever gurgling abominations lurked beneath the waves.

Blinking from the salt, Felix started what felt like a brisk sidestroke. He clenched his eyes shut again and closed out the world around him. He wasn't drowning – he was in a moonlit hotel pool back in Israel, along with a battalion of ass-naked IDF poster girls. Felix's next stroke brushed the tips of his fingers against smooth, unyielding stone. Four hands seized the back of his webbing and hauled him onto the concrete, choking on a stomach full of seawater and God knows what else. Choking and humiliated, but alive. He drew himself up on all fours and hacked.

"For Yevon's sake, Felix, what's that vest made of?"

"You really think those cigarettes are a good idea now? That's the slowest I've ever seen a grown man move!"

"Fuck you." Felix pulled his beret out of his vest and wrung it dry before snugging it down on his head. He whipped his pistol through the air a few times and jiggled the slide to clear the barrel and action. He blinked hard, trying to clear the stinging saltwater from his eyes. The rucksack fell away from his shoulders.

"Calm down." Wedge opened the bolt of his carbine and turned it on its side, letting a small amount of water trickle onto the ground. "The door is around the front. This way."

The actual construction of the sphere theater consisted mostly of a strange, stone-like substance pockmarked with bullet holes but altogether intact. He followed a swooping wall beneath the skull-like stone canopy, pistol at the ready. In front of a low, hemispherical counter stood a pair of Al-Bhed footsoldiers in their distinctive khaki garb. Their rifles sat leaning against the counter. One of the men reached forward and manipulated a sphere. An image of a familiar-looking redhead sprung into the air over the sphere, and the two soldiers began chattering in their consonant-heavy language as she stripped away what little clothing she wore.

Where were those channels back on the ship?

The three Crusaders stepped out of the shadowed entrance and into the light. Felix dropped into a half-crouch and fired twice, his shots leaving a pair of red blotches on a nylon-covered chest. He swiveled to fire again, but Wedge beat him to the punch. Felix edged forward and knelt over the man he shot, pressing two wet, grimy fingers against a tan neck. "Clear."

"So much for 'keep a low profile,'" Tel quipped.

Felix holstered his pistol. "Plan B makes the world go 'round." He picked up one of the rifles. By now, Al-Bhed weaponry made him feel right at home. Felix withdrew the magazine and tapped it against his thigh – it felt full enough. He worked quickly, yanking the remaining ammunition from the soldier's vest and inserting it into his own.

"Felix," Wedge hissed. "Let's go; we don't have time!"

He reinserted the magazine as he stood. "You know where we're going?"

Tel nodded. "What kind of a technician doesn't know where he works?" He stepped forward. "We're in the theater now."

"How far's the antenna?"

The technician paused a moment, scratching his head. "Two doors, give or take."

"You little shit, you said you work here!"

"I do."

"Then how the fuck do you not know where the station is?" Felix demanded.

Tel shrugged. "'Work,' 'worked,' same thing. So maybe my floor plan is a little outdated, but hey – Plan B makes the world go 'round, right?"

Felix glowered.

Wedge delivered a powerful kick to the edge of the closest door, smashing it inwards. He charged into the space beyond, carbine at the ready. Felix and Tel followed close behind. The door opened into a three-way intersection, each hallway terminating in a few feet with another stylized wooden door. He glanced around at the green and white walls. Felix turned about in the puddle of water beneath his feet and furrowed his brow.

Tel completed the mercenary's thoughts. "Where the hell's every-"

The pounding of booted footsteps echoed from the lobby behind them. Wedge grabbed Tel by the utility vest and flung him into the nearest corridor. "Here they come!"

"Jazo, you see that?"

He squinted behind the Al-Bhed marksman's rifle. "Affirmative. Looks like that stadium just got real busy. I count," he squinted through the scope again, "at least twenty of the sandeaters, sir, give or take a few."

Gatta whistled. "Wonder what stirred 'em up."

"A swarm of Lucans made it into the market district, sir. Could be reinforcements." Jazo pulled the rifle in tighter. He swiveled the weapon a fraction of a degree and squeezed the trigger.

"Fuck," Biggs shouted, "warn me first!"

"Sorry." Jazo smiled and ejected the spent shell. "Looks like our brothers need all the help they can get." He slid another round into the chamber. "I have clearance to shoot, right sir?"

Gatta nodded.

Felix stuck his rifle around the corner and fired, straining to keep the weapon's muzzle level. He yanked it back and pressed himself against the wall again. Rounds chipped away at the wall in front of him, coating the floor in a layer of pulverized stone and drywall. He glanced over his shoulder. "Get the fucking door open!"

"I'm trying!" Tel snapped.

He leaned out from the corner and cut loose a long burst, sweeping the white-painted front sight over the doorway occupied by Al-Bhed infantry. A flash of movement to his right attracted both Felix's eyes and the muzzle of his rifle. He fired again. A crimson spray elicited a predatory grin. Felix returned to cover and dropped the spent magazine to the floor as Wedge took his place, partially exposing himself to lay down a blanket of fire. "Dammit," Felix snarled, tugging another magazine out of his vest.

The technician crouched in front of a brass-accented wooden door. Picks and probes of various shapes and sizes sat wedged between it and the doorjamb. Tel removed a spidery hook from his mouth and inserted it beneath the lock. "How're my favorite Crusaders doing?"

"Goddammit, Tel! speed it up!"

Tel didn't look away from the dissected assembly. "You can't rush art. Now keep killing things."

He gritted his teeth and jammed the magazine home. "Boy, don't tempt me."

A moment later, a shout of triumph pulled Felix away from the bullet-riddled corner. "Got it," Tel sang. "Behold, the glory of the other side." He pulled the door open.

On the other side of the door, a grimy sink stood beside an equally decrepit toilet. A scratched mirror hung above the sink, topped with a yellowish fluorescent light. An off-center, abstract painting of red and yellow triangles adorned the opposite wall. The delicate fragrance of cleaning agents and urine mixed with seawater and cordite assailed Felix's nostrils, and he tightened his grip on the assault rifle.

Two languages' worth of profanities and vulgar abuses utterly failed him.

"You jerk."

Tel slid past Felix and into the bathroom. The technician smirked at the two Crusaders and unsheathed his shortsword. "Observe, ye of little faith." He smashed the weapon's pommel into the mirror, which shattered to reveal another bathroom, just as filthy as the first.

Felix leaned out from the corner and fired another long burst. "Why the fuck do they have a windo-"

"Two-sided mirror. Cutting costs means cutting corners." He raked the remaining shards of glass away from the window frame before sheathing his sword. "Now, who wants to go first?"

"Diesel, go!" Wedge called out.

Felix stuck his rifle through the window and dropped it on the floor, hooking a hand around one side of the opening for leverage as he clambered over the sink. The wet fabric over his knee slipped on the porcelain, and Felix snarled a series of unintelligible expletives when his groin met a hard, plastic knob on the faucet. He pushed himself through the window headfirst; the unforgiving steel magazines in his vest broke the impact of his fall. Felix snatched up his rifle.

Tel slid through the window next, feet first and with considerably more grace. "Everything in one piece?"

"I hate you."

"Message received."

A loud thwump announced Wedge's arrival. He rose to his feet and dusted himself off, then bent and retrieved Felix's pistol. "Let's move before they figure out what happened. I wedged the door shut with the toilet seat."

Felix took a step backwards from the door. He lifted his rifle and blasted away at the doorknob, tracing a semicircle around it. The impact of his foot smashed the door outward and bounced it back to him off the wall. Felix stopped it with an outstretched hand.

"Impressive," Tel said. "Doors unlock from the inside, though. Which, you know, is where we are."

"I need a smoke."

"And some therapy."

Wedge stepped in front of Felix before Tel received a rhinoplasty courtesy of a flying sink. "Kids," he said, pushing the technician out the door, "we're running out of time here."

Yuna plucked at the red fabric of her pajamas as she looked about her room. The pale light of dawn seeped in through the blind-shielded porthole on the far wall, its rays casting a lattice of thin shadows on the rug. A number of inert spheres hung or sat on various surfaces within the cabin. Yuna leaned against the back of her chair, tapping a fingernail on one armrest. The sphere on the desk before her continued to emit white noise until Yuna switched it off with a small sigh, scooting forward in the wicker chair. She rose to her feet; the wood planking creaked beneath her as she paced the distance from the desk to her bed and back. She sighed. "A return to the spiral in two years. Yunalesca must be proud." A film of tears spread over Yuna's eyes as she muttered the last four words, and she shook her head.

She returned to her chair and ran a finger over the edge of the desk. A lock of hair fell into her eyes, and Yuna brushed it behind her ear. She turned her gaze to the still-closed door, then to the porthole, and finally to the lifeless sphere on the desk. Yuna bit her lip. "I stopped it the first time; I can do it again." She turned the sphere on once more. "Pick up, Uncle."

"The Lucans are moving on the stadium, sir. We have to help them."

Gatta shook his head. "No way, Private. It's too risky for us to cross. Lulu's tits are less exposed than that street. Besides, you said there's a whole mess of 'em."

"With all respect, sir, I highly recommend we take action." Jazo blinked hard and licked his lips; his tongue ran quickly over cracked skin. "From what I've been seeing, sir, the Lucans are taking brutal casualties." His thumb toyed with the selector switch of the rifle, taking the weapon from safe to fire and back again. His other hand reached up to wipe a smudge from the scope lens.

"He's right, Gatta. I watched six of 'em go down right in front of the doors. If Jazz-"

"It's Jazo."

Biggs glanced at his comrade, then back at Gatta. "Unless we give support, our friends across the street will all end up like Darren and Leks." He pressed his lips together.

Gatta appeared to weigh the decision in his head, his fingers drumming on the grip of his carbine. "Jazz, you think you can give us some cover?"

Jazo clenched his jaw. "It's Jazo, sir. Yes sir, I can cover you as you move across." He left the selector on fire and tapped the trigger guard with his index finger, licking his lips and blinking hard once more. Spidery, red lines crisscrossed the whites of Jazo's eyes, and a semicircle of congealed blood adorned the skin beneath the right one. He nodded against the rifle's stock. "Come out and play," he whispered.

As Biggs and Gatta climbed down the stairs out of the loft, the two men spared a glance backwards. "That kid could scare a Varuna half to death," Biggs muttered. "Last time I saw that kind of bloodlust, the guy was covered in markings and holding two pistols at once."

"It's just adrenaline. He'll probably bail on us as soon as he has time to think."

Biggs paused at the door to the street. "And if he doesn't?"

"We'll thank the Fayth he's on our side." Gatta peeked out the door. "Feeling up to a sprint?"

"Not really."

"Too damn bad." He leaned out again. "We'll head through that plaza." Gatta looked up at the ceiling. "You better be sharp kid. Biggs?"

"On you."

Gatta nodded and tightened the sling of his carbine. "Right. Count three after I go – they'll only get one of us that way."

Biggs chuckled. "Hope their aim sucks," he said, half joke and half prayer.

A deep crack resounded from upstairs, and Biggs hurled himself into the street. A swarm of angry, lead hornets hissed and crackled past his head. The inert fountain at the center of the shopping plaza drew ever nearer. Gatta raced ahead of him. The officer reached the sidewalk a moment too early, and let out a shout of alarm as he tumbled to the pavement in a heap.

Biggs grabbed the back of Gatta's assault vest with an outstretched hand and dragged him through a nearby doorway. "I gotcha, cap."

Silence.

"Gatta?" Biggs released his grip on the nylon handle and turned around. "Let's-"

"Luzzu." The name blurbled out of Gatta's mouth around a gout of thick, dark blood. A trio of neat holes, islands in an expanding sea of red, stared up through the gaps in his vest's webbing. Gatta clutched at his wounds with dirty fingers, staring at the blood on his hands with an expression of puzzled frustration. A glassy sheen crept into his eyes as his gaze locked on the ceiling. "Luzzu," he repeated, his arms feebly rising like an infant reaching for his invisible mother.

Gatta's arms fell.

Biggs picked up his Captain and set him down atop an elaborate wooden bar that stretched from wall to wall before an ornate, colorful glass structure. A few drops of blood oozed out of the corpse and left little streaks across a plaque triumphantly announcing the name of a champion blitz team. Gatta's arm flopped down. Biggs lifted it and set it back on the Captain's chest. Blue and gold lights glared down through the glass, reflected in the lifeless film over Gatta's eyes.

He set his back to the scene. Gunfire crackled and roared outside, but the little pub seemed untouched by battle. Biggs walked to the door; his boots left dark prints on the wooden floor.

Behind him, Gatta lay entombed in a world of wood and glass. Three drops of blood began to congeal on the polished surface of a plaque honoring a team of underdogs from a backwater island.

Jazo licked his lips and pulled his face away from the scope, blinking. He ejected a shell and rubbed his eyes. The Al-Bhed guns fell silent as he slid away from the window and lay flat on the ground. He cradled the rifle in the crooks of his arms, crawling on elbows and knees with his stomach almost dragging along the floor. Jazo's breathing came slow and deep, hitching at times. A glance over his shoulder revealed only the imagined hordes of enemies in the stairwell. He pulled his rifle to his side and cleaned the dust from the scope lenses, fogging up the glass with his breath and then wiping it clean with the cuff of his coveralls. "It's okay, sis," he whispered. "They can't hurt anyone anymore."

He rose to a knee and over the windowsill. The street still echoed with the din of a nearby battle from the Lucan Stadium, but the city behind him lay dormant. For now. A low, drawn-out rumble shook the building. Jazo lifted his rifle and paused. His lips pressed together as he scanned the area from his vantage point, focusing on a large chunk of rubble that drifted towards the stadium. He set the rifle on the windowsill and studied the object through the scope. "What the hell is that?"

Felix dragged a splintered desk in front of the double doors. The handles of the doors sat just above the top of the desk, and would be unable to turn further than a few degrees. He turned around and surveyed what had once been the main hall of the sphere theater, according to Tel. Concentric rings of wooden desks lined the vast space, each with its own small monitor. An unidentifiable device dangled awkwardly from the high ceiling. Here and there, anemic flames licked at the velvet fabric of chairs or at the desks themselves. A slight breeze, wafting in through the gaping hole at the far end of the room, twitched the papers that lay about the floor. The scorched, blackened corpses of men and women lay sprawled on the ground, their clothing peeled from their bodies. "Bomb," he said.

Wedge nodded. "Musta been a big one, too."

"Shit," Tel laughed. "Looks like there isn't even an antenna to fix!" Broken glass crunched under his boots. "Now would be an excellent time to mention I don't give refunds."

Felix stepped over one of the bodies, towards the missing section of the theater. A few pebbles dislodged by his movements skittered over the edge and disappeared into the water. Hope that bomb didn't crack the foundation, or we're screwed. Something on the floor caught his eye. It looked like someone had managed to shatter a bowling ball made of blue glass. Felix gave a jagged, hemispherical shard a nudge with his boot; the fragment turned into a viscous, opaque blob at the moment of contact. "What the-"

"Piece of a sphere. Don't ask what they're made of, because it's crazy enough to rape your mind and your dog at the same time. The one that used to be in that array was powerful enough to redirect transmissions from other spheres.'"

"So in light of that," Felix said, pointing at the decimated structure hanging from the ceiling, "we're boned."

"Bingo," Tel said, snapping his fingers.

Wedge sighed and looked around. "Let's get the hell out of here; it's too quiet for my taste."

Inside the stadium, shards of glass danced about on trembling concrete. Streams of lead spat from pockets of Al-Bhed soldiers, crouching or standing throughout the corridor. The sword-toting Crusaders took refuge behind any and all solid outcroppings, pressing themselves against the unyielding stone. Bodies and body parts lay strewn about the stadium floor, the colors of their individual articles of clothing indistinguishable in a sea of scarlet. One Crusader, his purple and white uniform splattered with that same hue, turned towards Biggs, who sat behind a curved lump of concrete. "They tried to take us out with a charge," he screamed, "but we cut them back! Now they're just picking us apart!"

Proned-out behind an overturned bench, Roland slapped a nearby Lucan on the shoulder. "If we get their heads down, can you clear 'em out?"

The Crusader nodded.

Lying on Roland's left, Jassu nodded. "Ready!"

After a deep breath and a muttered prayer, Roland inched sideways on his belly until he could peer around the side of the bench. His jaw clenched. The tip of his finger alighted on the trigger of his carbine and slid halfway down the striated surface. "NOW!"

The Al-Bhed who forsook solid cover to stand and fire at the Lucans found themselves exposed to twin clouds of speeding lead. Those with the faculties to do so turned to run, but not before a pattern of deep red blotches traced up their bodies. Shaven heads ducked below cover. The bolt of Biggs' weapon locked back. He reached for a fresh magazine.

Through the cacaphony, a high-pitched note from a whistle reverberated off the stadium walls.

An ocean of purple and white burst forth from behind planters and inside nooks and crannies. The Lucans surged down the corridor; their long, hooked swords flashed in the artificial light of muzzle blasts. Roland and Jassu rose to their feet. The Lucan formation crashed against the Al-Bhed fortifications with an inhuman cry. Flesh and steel collided. The vicious ocean did not slow. In its wake lay the remnants of men. Spots of purple dotted a khaki and red field.

The men from Besaid lowered their carbines as the battle began to subside, the former din lessened to a dull roar in the not-so-far-off distance. Jassu shook his head; rivulets of sweat ran from his bleached hair onto his dark skin. "Yevon help the Al-Bhed."

"Not even Sin could stop that," Roland muttered. He crouched beside the wounded Lucan. "Jassu, go track down a mage or some potions. We can't leave these guys here."

Biggs tapped the Lucan on the shoulder. "Where are the rest of us?"

The man turned. A large, broad bandage was tied around the top of his head. "Saw some of you Besaid boys headed up for the station earlier, but there's two just around the corner."

"Thank you for your help." He stumbled past the wounded Lucan and towards a door at the end of the blood-soaked hallway.

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" The Lucan reached into his pocket. "You're soaked in blood - here, I've got a little potion left."

Biggs regarded him with a blank expression. "It's not mine."

"Oh." He withdrew his hand, paused, then raised his eyebrow. The bandage on his head wrinkled. The Crusader was an older man with a graying mustache and a swarthy complexion. "You sure you're alright?"

He kept a newborn deer's pace towards the door, his boots leaving long, smearing, bloody prints on the spaces not already stained. "Yes."

The doorknobs bounced off the top of the desk twice, then returned to a neutral position.

Wedge and Felix leveled their weapons at the wooden doors. "Who's there?"

"Biggs."

Felix pushed the table away and edged to one side of the doors. "It's open," he said, finger tightening on the trigger of his rifle. He motioned for Wedge to move to the other side of the entrance. The doors swung open, and a haggard-looking Biggs stumbled into the main hall. His coveralls were drenched in blood. He didn't look like a dead man walking – he looked like some sick bastard that slept in an abattoir. "Jesus, you scared the piss out of me. The hell happened to you? And why the hell're you out here?"

"Gatta's dead."

Silence.

Wedge pressed his lips together. "Were you-"

"I was with him."

Silence.

Biggs looked Felix straight in the eyes. "This was your idea. It's your fault."

Wedge stepped forward. "I planned the-"

"I knew you would go to the station," Biggs continued. "You should have died instead."

Felix didn't flinch. "You wanna kill someone right now, don't you. You want someone to bleed to death right in front of your fucking eyes. That's just what you want, isn't it." His voice lowered. "You just want to start killing and never stop."

Biggs clenched his teeth. "I hate you."

"Hate whomever you fucking please."

"You deserve to die."

"No shit!" Felix roared. "You think you're the first to say that? Listen up and listen good, because I have had it up to here with this bullshit. This is a fucking war. People die. Gatta was a damn good man, but he's just one more cog to this fucking machine. And so are you, and so am I, and so is this bitch," he said, waving at Tel.

Silence.

"If you want to kill someone, then quit acting like a schoolgirl and go wipe out the cunts that started this whole war. That's why we're here – to finish this shit. We are going to march straight over the Valley of Death, because we are gonna fill that motherfucker with Al-Bhed and piss in it."

They stood in silence for a long moment.

Biggs nodded at last.

A few moments later, Felix swung his legs over the counter and set his feet down on the bloodstained floor of the sphere theater's entrance. The bodies of the two Al-Bhed soldiers still lay in the same places, the coppery smell of blood thick in the air. Felix wondered if somewhere, in a few days, two aged Al-Bhed couples would receive a letter from the government filled with hollow condolences. He nudged a bloody face with his boot, and stared down into its glazed eyes with calm satisfaction. And how much money did YOU earn for college, asshole?

Death didn't bother Felix. After all, he had made quite a living snuffing out the lives of others. A smile curled his lips. After almost twenty years of pulling triggers and throwing grenades, only three pairs of vacant eyes ever managed to trouble him. A sea of blood and booze kept those faces submerged, though. He kicked the dead man back over before his mind turned the corpse into something else.

Outside, the first rays of dawn began to peek over the watery horizon and cast long shadows on the concrete. Felix's head began to pound, and he reached up with his left hand to rub his temple. I need a cigarette. Along with six nukes, a Maker's, and a girl who could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.

"Headache?" Wedge asked.

"It's fine. Let's move."

Wedge stopped. "I hear something."

"Can't say I do."

He closed his eyes. "It's like a-" His eyes opened as the pebbles on the ground in front of the five men began to hop and skitter across the stone.

"Oh, fuck!"

The Crusaders' weapons would be of little use against the monstrous invocation of Murphy's Law gnashing its way out of the stadium and onto the thin strip of concrete connecting the theater to the city itself. Wooden flagpoles snapped like frozen strands of hair before being thrown into the ocean. One minigun stuck sharply outward, and the machina's turret sat at an awkward cant, its muzzle skimming just above the black waters of the Lucan ocean.

Felix took a step backwards, then broke into a full sprint. His boot slipped in the puddles of gore atop of the counter. He threw his hands out at the floor racing up to meet him, but his reflexes failed; Felix's elbows bounced off the unyielding floor a fraction of a second before the rest of his body. He pushed himself up and turned around, expecting a pair of notched, steel screws to begin tearing his body apart. Instead, Felix watched them scrape away at the sloped flanks of the entrance until the machina burst through the outer wall and sat with its nose in the lobby.

The smells of exhaust and diesel fuel assaulted Felix's lungs, and he attempted to eject one of them through his mouth. The grinding engine eased away from its powerband as the screws ate away at the stone like a pair of massive drills. The limp turret swayed and twitched with the slightest movement of the tank's body. He gritted his teeth and lifted the assault rifle – he'd pop their eardrums, at least. Two other guns added their futile voices to the deafening clamor; their rounds sparked off the steel chassis and screamed into the dawn sky. The machina continued to churn its way forward, undeterred by minute acts of defiance.

Dislodged from the central support, a smooth, curving piece of stone bounced off the angular flank of the machina before it, too, was swept backwards by one of the screws. The stone lodged itself between the twisting steel and the entryway, and Felix heard the engine's roar become a high-pitched whine. The machina rocked back and forth, yet the brick refused to give way.

He's trapped.

Felix launched himself back over the counter and past the soldiers on the floor, his feet racing ahead of his mind. He clambered up the front of the tank, using the twisted minigun as a handhold to pull himself upward. Beneath his boots, the machina continued to buck against the jam. Felix pried at a raised panel, but it refused to budge. He beat against the hatch with the butt of his rifle, screaming at the men within the steel shell. "Fucking open!"

Wedge hauled himself onto the machina and shook Felix by the shoulder. "Hang on, it's jammed!" He leaned over the hatch, fiddling with the latch for a few seconds. He rose to his feet. "Hit it towards the back!"

He nodded, and shifted his weight onto the other knee. Felix drew his rifle back and smashed the butt into the U-shaped handle welded to the top of the hatch. The mechanism gave way inch by inch, opening the hole wider with each slammed against the edge of the opening. He raised himself from his knees and shoved his rifle into Wedge's arms. "Hold that!"

Felix slid his pistol from the battered, waterlogged holster strapped to his thigh. He set one foot on the uppermost rung of a red-painted ladder. Felix pointed his handgun into the dim chamber as he descended. His boots touched down on the perforated metal floor and he crept further into the tank's cacophonous gullet. The blinking of innumerable LEDs and digital readouts painted the constricted space in hues of yellow, blue, and orange.

The shaft of light from the open hatch disappeared, and a sense of dread filled his mind.

That dread soon found itself replaced by adrenaline as a man erupted from the shadows. Felix ducked a gloved fist headed for his face, but received a boot between his legs. His vision filled with stars. He squeezed the trigger, but his pistol was torn from his hands as it fired. The corrugated steel floor dug into his face and hands. It felt like a baseball bat swung full-length hit him between the shoulder blades. Someone lifted him by his vest and rammed his head into a monitor. Shards of glass sliced into his flesh. Felix crumpled to the ground and fumbled for his knife.

The man was on him as the blade slipped free. Felix felt a pair of strong hands wrest it from his grasp. A wet, warm film covered his eyes, blanketing everything in darkness. He strained against thick forearms, heart racing as they slid ever closer. The sound of the other man's breath was a growling hiss, a cross between a wild dog and a snake. His arms were dying. Felix could almost feel the tip of the knife. His breathing became a series of ragged coughs. It was over as quickly as it began, and Felix's attempt at last words ended in a pained whimper.

A shaft of light obliterated the darkness.

With a pair of gunshots came a sudden torrent of warmth and two blows to the ribs. The crushing pressure against his arms disappeared. The tanker collapsed onto Felix's left side, and the grip of the knife pressed against his elbow.

A familiar, youthful voice cut through the sensory haze. "Sergeant, are you alright?"

"Your boy went to get a white mage from the Lucans. Felix should be fine. Dunno what the kid was thinking, shooting into that machina. Lucky he didn't blast Felix's head clean off." Tel eased himself onto a battered and charred red velvet chair. "Tough bastard, he is."

Wedge nodded. "He'd give an Unsent a run for their money," he said, wiping grease from his chin. "Few screws loose, too."

"Why did the hatch close?"

"I guess that's how it's designed. Soon as he went in, the damn thing snapped shut. Didn't even have time to blink."

Tel chuckled. "Ain't that just a bitch."

"Yeah." Wedge stood and began walking towards the large hole in the back of the sphere theater. He paused at the edge, glancing for a moment at the fingers of dawn creeping over the water. "It's a bitch, alright," he muttered.

A/N: And that's another one down, people! See you when Sixteen is done.