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Final Fantasy VI: The Sands of Time

Book 1: The Beginning

Chapter 1 - Pandora's Box

Part 1.2 - The Storm

Dune, aware of the Captain's sudden lack of interest, looked in the direction the Captain's attention had strayed to. What Dune saw was quite different than what the Captain saw, though. To Dune, there was a beautiful landscape spread out before him. Yes there was sand, but sand swept into intricate swirls and eddies by the wind, constantly appearing to undulate up and down due to the extreme heat's effect on the surrounding air. As always, he was mesmerized by the playful actions of the very phenomenon he was named after, and continued staring at the waves of sand, as if in a trance. Like the changing of a dream into a nightmare, though, something on the horizon shattered his vision of paradise. A vast spread of ominous looking black clouds were gathering on the very edge of the skyline, and threatened to consume all the surrounding land in darkness. Dune, being well aware of desert weather patterns, knew that this was not something that happens in the desert very often, and wondered what unlucky twist of fate had brought this unwelcome guest here at this inopportune moment. What was especially unsettling to Dune was the fact that his experience in such places had assured him that it had not rained here for many long years. Centuries as far as his trained eye could tell from the rock patterns. What could have caused this sudden change in clime? Dune tapped the Captain on the shoulder and pointed to the wall of black that was steadily approaching them from the east. The Captain nodded and continued to grimace, although he seemed strangely excited.

"Ha! Now this is more like it! A storm! A squall! Now this is an unexpected treat! A shame she had to come just as we were leaving, though. Nothing makes these old bones feel more alive than a good storm," the Captain said with a grim smile. "Well, let's get back to camp before she breaks," he added almost sadly, as if he would have preferred to stand his ground and test his own strength against nature's.

The Captain started walking at a brisk pace back toward their camp, which was some two hundred meters from the dig site in the opposite direction of the storm. He moved with surprising speed given his girth and age, not to mention his wooden leg, and Dune had trouble keeping up with him, sometimes falling behind as if an invisible force was pulling him back. His eyes constantly looked back to the crack, his crack. He longed to penetrate its depths, to find something to make this venture worthwhile, to satiate his explorer's hunger. The Committee would be disappointed when he came back empty-handed. They had obviously expected him to find something here, although what made this desert so special to them was a mystery to Dune. He was only given the order to survey this area and to do so with minimal equipment and personnel. The Committee had apparently wanted to keep this trek as low key as possible. The mystery of what they had hoped he would find kept turning itself over in his mind. Suddenly, an idea struck Dune. The pickaxe! He had forgotten it in the hurry to get away from the storm! This was the perfect excuse to go back to the site and have one last look at the crack, without the Captain's wooden leg hanging over him.

"Sir! If you could wait a moment, please!" he called out to the Captain, who had put quite a distance between them while Dune mused over his plan.

"Hm? What are you doing lagging back there? Get up here and stop fooling around, or we'll never make it back to the camp before the storm hits." The Captain's paunch was heaving as he walked back to Dune.

"Captain, sir, if you could just wait a moment," Dune repeated with an acute awareness of the Captain's growing frustration. "I seem to have forgotten my pickaxe back at the rock. It will only take me a few minutes to run back and get it. Don't worry, the storm seems to be unusually calm for the time being, as if it were waiting for something. We should still be able to make it to the camp safely."

Sure enough, the wall of blackness had seemed to cease its tumultuous gathering of strength, and sat hanging above the eastern border, quietly brooding. It really did seem as if it were waiting for something to happen. What could have caused this sudden change? This storm was surely no ordinary storm. It almost seemed alive...

"Fine. Go get your precious pickaxe, but get your ass back here pronto! Five minutes, that's as long as I'll wait. After that, it's just you and the storm. It seems as if it is intent on waiting for you anyways. Never seen anything like it, on land or sea. Storms don't just stop once they get going...," the Captain said with an air of uncertainty and impatience. He never liked waiting, for men or for nature.

Dune sprinted back to the rock, aware of the strangeness of the idea of the storm waiting for him, as if it had read his mind and knew his plans and was waiting to see what course he took. He was having second thoughts about going back and inspecting the crack again. What if the storm and the crack were connected? Ridiculous. Absolutely unscientific. He dismissed the idea at once, ashamed he had ever thought it. Still, he felt something dark and wild weighing on his soul, as if the storm had transferred its life into his very being. With every step towards the rock he felt the inner storm's rage increase, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to move forward. Now he felt as if there was a second force pulling him back toward the Captain. His mind and body were trapped in a tug-of-war between the gods, and every moment he felt the strain grow in intensity. Surely this is all an illusion, a trick of a guilty conscience due to lying to the Captain perhaps? There is nothing here. Nothing in this desert. Nothing at all. With the unwavering clarity and certainty of mind only a man raised on logic and objectivity could possess, he pushed through the waves of chaos and disorder that were threatening to overtake him.

He had almost made it to the rock, when an explosion of thunder and roar of wind nearly threw him to the ground. That was no illusion. But where was the lightning? Surely such a noise could only have been caused by a lightning strike very close by. Dune had seen nothing though. He looked at the storm on the horizon, but noticed no change in its eerie vigil. "Heat thunder," he muttered to himself, only half believing it, but believing it enough to keep a clear head. Heat thunder is an atmospheric phenomenon, though, and doesn't nearly knock a man to the ground, his suppressed doubts whispered to him. He regained his balance and clarity of mind and continued toward the rock. He found his pickaxe lying by the rock where he had carelessly tossed it down earlier and lifted it, ready to take one final decisive swing at the accursed crack. Now was not the time for the careful picking of weak points with fingers. He felt the unbearable strain of the storm within him, and sensed the stirring of the outer storm as well. As if sensing his defiance to its will, the storm had started to move again, but slowly. It was silently swirling, twisting the tendrils of darkness around itself, as if it too was readying for one final strike. The air was painfully still, and Dune had trouble breathing as he raised his weapon. He would not let this darkness best him. He was in control, not the storm. With a yell of defiance and frustration, he swung the axe down hard upon the crack and shattered its remaining borders. The crack was gone. He had won. He laughed, but caught himself and greedily reached his hand into the gaping maw of the beast he had slain. His fingers clutched something icily cold. Unnaturally cold. He let go for an instant in surprise, but he quickly grabbed it again and pulled. It seemed as if the very earth itself refused to give up this icy prize. The storm had not forgotten him, either. Steadily, silently it advanced towards him, its black tendrils increasing in size and intensity. It wouldn't be long before it was upon its prey. Unaware of the storm's increased activity, Dune pulled with all his might against the obstinate earth which denied him his treasure, ignoring the biting cold of the object in his hand. The earth groaned(or so Dune thought for an instant), and he was thrown onto his back, dazed, the hard-earned prize securely in his hand. At that moment, the floodgates were swung open with a vengeful howl, and the storm's fury was unleashed full upon its victim. Everything went black.

Almost immediately, Dune was brought back to his senses by the torrents of rain and hail that had fallen on him. He opened his eyes and realized that he could see nothing. A fierce flash of lightning lit up the desert for a moment, and he was aware of where he was and what was happening. The storm had broke. He quickly got up, and ran back toward where the Captain hopefully was still waiting. He had lost track of time during his fight with the elements, and was unsure if his five minutes were up or not. He knew the Captain was a man of his word, and would not wait for him a second after the allotted time had expired. What would the Captain think of this tempest that whirled viciously around him, though? He would probably envy Dune, perhaps even wait a bit longer to feel the awesome power of nature course through his tired veins once more. No, the Captain may be a bit eccentric, but he was no fool. This storm was too much for any sane man to grin and bear, and he must surely have made it to the camp by now. It was just Dune and the storm now. It had caught him in its jaws and was fully intent on tearing him to pieces. With this bitter realization, he braced himself against the wind and rain and moved forward as best he could. It was only two hundred meters, after all. He could make it in about two minutes if he put all his energy into the dash. A mad dash straight for the camp was his only hope, and he paused for a moment to gather what was left of his strength after the ordeal at the rock. He suddenly remembered the object that had caused all this chaos("ridiculous...unscientific...bad timing...that's all it is"), and gripped it tighter in his hand, which was now going numb from the cold. He guiltily stuffed the object into one of his shirt pockets, feeling a welcome relief from the unnatural cold. He leaned forward like a sprinter readying himself for the run, trying to focus all his mind and body into this flight from hell. As if to signal the start of the race, another flash of lightning illuminated the sky, and a boom of thunder like a gunshot sent him running.

The rain and hail were now beating down on him without mercy, pelting him like frozen bullets, and he could taste the warm blood trickling down his face. The storm seemed to know his plans, again, and was not going to let him get away without a fight. One hundred meters. He was now nearly blinded by sleet, hail, and blood, but he kept the sprint going, heedless of the warning shots the storm was sending down around him. Fifty meters. The searchlights of the camp should be visible by now, assuming the Captain had turned them on, but there was nothing ahead of Dune except darkness and pain. He was afraid that the storm had ripped the camp from the ground and sent it flying far out of his reach, taunting him in his futility. At this thought, his hatred and defiance toward the storm increased, and he gained his second wind. He stumbled forward blindly, his mind and body ravaged by the storm, but he would not give in. He was closing in on what he had estimated to be the camp's location, but still could see nothing. The storm was tired of toying with its prey, though, and readied its weapon for the kill. Dune continued running madly forward, his scientific surety convincing him he would run into the immovable metal door of the camp at any moment. Of course the camp would still be there. No mere storm could lift it from its foundations of steel. If he could just make it to the door everything would be fine. One final warning shot from the storm revealed that Dune's estimations were correct. In that brief moment of brightness Dune could make out the tall, steel walls of camp, still standing in silent defiance to the storm. "Finally," Dune groaned piteously as the vision of safety faded back into the darkness. But the storm's wrath could wait no longer. A flash of horrible light was all Dune saw, and then he fell as if struck by a glistening blade of pure hatred. The storm had won. A continuous low rumbling of thunder could be heard as the storm dissipated, as if it was laughing at its triumph over this mere mortal who had dared to defy the will of the gods.