Ominae: Isara will have the spotlight for now, as she works around the Gallian Army…
Cloner4000: For the kiss, it was meant as sort of a "formal" one. Ever been to Europe? That's my inspiration. Still… it might just be a prelude… :3 And the door and bathroom scenes within the tunnel were meant to be small scenarios to watch. Welkin getting mad the next time they see each other? Well, remember, we still have half the entire game to wait out. Let's just say that when our two protagonists reunite with Welkin, he's going to be torn between ecstasy and berserk rage…
SovietSniper92: Ramal… doesn't exist here. I started writing before I knew about the anime, and so obviously, I've gone too long without any sort of reference to him to try and shoehorn him in now.
I was going to write about the trip to the base, but decided that the scene added little to the characters or plot. Now we get to see this Gallian base…
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Sullenly, Isara slid off the high back of the heavy truck, landing heavily onto the dirt – Gallian soil, surrounded on all sides by a company-sized base teeming with life. The eight or so soldiers that had made up the rest of Ralf's squad and the truck's guards followed her, hopping down with a confidence born from familiarity.
The ride had be quiet and awkward. The varied soldiers – although none of them nor any passing by were Darcsen, a fact that Isara didn't miss – hadn't made any small talk, perhaps bothered by the prisoner on the floor of the vehicle.
She stepped to the side and waited for the last of the soldiers to raise their rifles and cover Celes as he came down himself. He'd "recovered" from his "injury" during the half-hour ride, and widely had chosen not to move, given the ropes around his arms and hands and the number of armed men ready to fill him with bullets at a moment's notice.
Foolishly, she wanted to offer him a hand as he regarded the four-foot drop quizzically from a half sitting, half laying position. With a panel of wood still around his leg, there was little hope of him coming down as gracefully as any of the other soldiers, and he didn't even have a free hand to guide himself.
Her throat constricted as she watched him take the spill into the earth, rolling off the platform into the air. His body collapsed heavily, bouncing a good couple of feet away from the point of impact, before he staggered back into the same awkward position he'd spent the whole trip in, albeit more stained with dirt than before.
Absently, she realized that he'd fallen to avoid crushing his bag. Oddly enough, no one had thought to search it, perhaps thinking that there was nothing a bound and burdened man could utilize.
She hoped they were wrong.
As if united by a single mind, the soldiers silently began to walk towards the rows of semi-permanent tents that filled the base. Isara followed Ralf blindly for a few steps, but then hesitated, looking back. Celes sat there, a distinctly unamused impression on his face.
"Do you expect me to crawl, Gallians?" he growled at her – them, she corrected herself.
Ralf suddenly turned and walked rapidly next to Celes – before anyone could say a word, there was the sound of flesh on bone. Both of them recoiled away from each other, both wincing with pain. Even as the older man began to swear and hop on the spot, flapping his hand into the air, Celes barked, "Stop moving that hand!"
The Gallian froze on the spot, face starting to flush with pain. "If you'd have punched me properly, this wouldn't have happened," Celes explained. "As it is, you've broken your knuckles."
"No shi-"
"If you'll be as kind as to open my bag and untie my hands, I can treat that," Celes interrupted. He was remarkably calm for someone whose cheek was starting to purple with internal bleeding.
Ralf turned skeptically towards the rest of the spectators. Isara watched as they shifted uncomfortably, not quite knowing how to respond. He began, "I think I'll just find our me –"
"That won't be necessary." Celes smiled benevolently. "You have the guns here – I'm not going to try anything funny. And you can go ahead and search my effects. You haven't done that yet."
So much for that idea.
Slowly, the Gallians walked back, forming a rough circle around Celes and Ralf, rifles ready but not aimed. None of them moved to help either of them, though, more interested in watching than acting, fearful of committing one way or the other.
Isara took a deep breath, and stepped out from the crowd. Feeling their eyes upon her, she crouched down to Celes, putting her face on his level.
"Bag," he muttered to her. She nodded, and swung the bag off of his back into her arms. Gloved fingers worked at the clasps, and soon the container's contents were laid bare. Several large metal boxes rattled inside, as did a few smaller tubes and cartons. There were no apparent weapons, something that might have surprised Isara earlier, but after her admittedly scant experiences with him, it didn't seem like him to hide firearms within a medkit. Everything was covered with Imperial script, cosmetically different than Gallian printing but still the same language.
The superficial difference made her ponder. Outside, they looked different, but upon a meaningful reading, were they really any different?
Shaking off the errant metaphor, she began to follow Celes's guidance. "That box over there," and she cracked open a container of bandages. "Those capsules," and blue ragnaid crystals winked at her. "That case," and a few tools, including a strange long rod that seemed to serve no practical purpose, rolled free. With a gauged look, she carefully took the only knife in the box and tucked it into a slot beside the rest of the tools on her skirt; Celes shrugged helplessly.
Gear now prepared, Celes raised his bound arms and hands to her. Even as she began to pluck at the knots, he rattled off further orders to Ralf, who had by now sat down in front of him, cautiously offering Celes his injured hand braced with his good one, like a man might offer a rabid wolf a piece of meat. His face, ugly with pain and hate, was reflective of his displeasure at doing so.
When the ropes slipped free, without the slightest show of discomfort, the Imperial immediately took the Gallian regular's hand. His thumb swept across the structures – Ralf twisted his mouth in pain, and opened it as if to complain –
"Breaks there… and there…" Celes muttered. Ralf shut his mouth, but opened it again at the speed with which his healer worked.
Isara was suddenly delegated to nurse duty, cutting and rolling bandages, filling that strange rod – which turned out to be hollow – with ragnaid crystals, and, according to Celes, "comforting the patient". At that, Ralf took offense.
"What kind of coward do you think I am, Imp?" he snarled.
Celes let his face meet palm. "I'm sorry. I was just following the list in my head…"
"Stop following your damn lists – if you're going to heal me, do it and stop trying to look professional, you quack!"
Briefly, she wondered if Celes would go berserk like he had on her back in Lia, but instead of burning hot, he turned ice cold with contempt. "Hold out your hand." The ragnaid-filled tool swept over a knuckle; with a quick, familiar action, Celes clicked a toggle on the other end of the rod. Blue light bathed its end for a good ten or so seconds; Ralf gasped as the tool fused together the fractured bone and cartilage at the point of contact. A snap off; a second sweep; a second snap on; and the Gallian inhaled again.
She hadn't known that ragnaid could be applied for so long. She'd heard enough stories about the side-effects of ragnaid overexposure – overgrowth of tissues, deformed growths – perhaps it had something to do with the apparent precision his tool had?
Quickly and yet still gently, Celes snatched the cloth rolls out of Isara's hands. In the same manner, he padded areas of Ralf's hand and wrapped them in place, leaving it a sort of cradle in which it could finish healing. The rod came back over, and gave the whole arrangement a fast shower of sterilizing blue light.
Upon finishing, Celes sat back on his hands and sighed, briefly adjusting his eyeband, which had moistened with perspiration during his frenzy of activity. "You're good," he said flatly.
Ralf looked down, turning the hand up and down, flexing the wrist back and forth, weighing the bound hand.
"Well damn!" he finally burst out. "It don't hurt at all!"
Isara sighed, doing her best to hide the smile that threatened to spread across her face. Perhaps there was some hope for peace after all.
Her hopes were dashed a moment later. Instead of being grateful, Ralf stood up and kicked Celes in the ribs – hard.
Something cracked. Not Ralf's foot.
"What the hell did ya do ta me, ya Imp bastard?!" he screamed, bringing his foot down onto Celes's chest again. Still dragging a wooden panel on his leg, Celes could only slowly and painfully turn onto his side, taking the blow on his arm instead of his chest. There was a second cracking sound; Isara's remaining patience snapped like her benefactor's arm.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, private?" she demanded, rushing forward and pushing him back. "This man has just done the finest job on an injury I've seen in a long time –"
She was suddenly reminded of her still healing wound as the abused tissue in her shoulder cried out in pain. Her teeth ground together – she growled at him like that. "–and then you go and attack him! If you were in my squad, I would have you court-martialed, you –"
The pain subsided, and she almost burst into laughter at the irony. She was only here and standing because of Celes's work, and here she was mentioning it again. It was too bad she couldn't bring that up as well – it would undermine her position, and conflicted with her original story to boot.
Unable to form any more coherent words, she flailed her arms in silent rage. In front of her, Ralf smoldered back – and suddenly threw another kick towards her.
Although she'd never had direct combat experience, it wasn't as if she was helpless. A reflexive half-spin to the side meant the relatively clumsy attack only clipped her hip, pushing her a short distance away. It wasn't too short, though, and, livid with rage, her hand snatched up her wrench, whipping it around as she spun to face him once more.
SMASH. Isara swore she saw blood fly from a busted lip. The man tumbled back into the bare earth. He didn't stir, knocked unconscious.
Even as the watching soldiers – a crowd that had only grown with time - flew to restrain her, shouting varied exclamations, she wondered if she had just wasted every single chance she had.
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The figurative dung continues to smash against the fan. Uh oh.
Coming up next: the aftermath of the "brawl" and insight into their situation….
