Author's Note: So, this story hasn't been updated for a little while because I didn't know which direction to move in, so this chapter may concordantly have something of a mish-mashy tone to it. That'll mostly be because it's actually sewn together from bits of other chapters that I've been writing and have just gotten stuck on or not been willing to pursue fully yet.
However, this is actually the first chapter to contain both a story-fragment AND a technical primer document (the two are not as easily related to each other as the others might have been, but there's a slim justification in there…).
This chapter's story-fragment is a someone plot-free little slice-of-life for two characters who deserved a win after all that crap they went through in the game.
This chapter's tech-primer is about the continent of Centra, seemingly the most important place in the whole world that nobody apparently wants to talk about…
More world-building for me then, I suppose.
I wanted to dwell on a couple of things that I really liked in this game in particular, and one thing that I like from FF games more generally.
The former point is the Gardens, I still remember the scene when I first saw the Garden spring to life and start flying as one of the most impressive things I'd ever seen. I still think it holds up, to be honest. As much as the layout of the Garden doesn't make a lick of sense if you actually look at it in any great detail (where does that pilot's elevator come from? You can't see it from the atrium?) the notion of a village-sized building just floating on a giant fancy ring is a pretty compelling one. I think the fact that it's so old that nobody even remembers that it does that is especially compelling. If Centrans could just abandon something like this, imagine what they would have actually cared about keeping… I also threw in some Battlestar Galactica references along with some more historical ones too (specifically the Krakatoa eruption of 1883 and the popular myth of the Man-Eating Tree).
The latter point is the Tonberry. Kind of a joke enemy that just turns into this punishingly hard battle of attrition. I wanted to see if I could make them more serious without having to actually change anything about them. My chief inspiration for this passage was the Bikura from Dan Simmons' Hyperion. Definitely worth a read to just about anyone, honestly do not have enough praise for that book.
Anyway, quite a lot going on in this chapter and I'd really appreciate any feedback you guys have for me, I honestly would.
Time Compression +4 years, 3 months, 9 days:
The gulls snapped angrily at each other over scraps of discarded trash near the small open window of the repair shop. The brown-shirted mechanic pulled lumps of engine matter desiccated by rust out of the ruins of an old hot-rod.
"Useless piece of junk! How can you expect to run a car near all this damn saltwater?!"
He wrenched out a waterlogged spark-plug with an audible shlorp noise and tossed it irritably into a dark corner.
"And what's with all these crappy tools they keep giving me?!"
He tossed his hands up in frustration and stalked over to his workbench, where a sandwich had been placed along with a bottle of beer. He saw the napkin provided and used it to grab the bread without covering it in grease, taking a big bite and cracking the beer open on the steel counter-edge.
He took a grateful glug of the lager as he looked at the car with dismay. The owner was expecting it to be fighting-fit in two days, and Biggs would need at least that to source the necessary replacement parts…
His thoughts were interrupted by the tinny jingle of the shop's doorbell in the front room.
"Yo, anyone in here? Hellooooo?"
Biggs waited a good ten seconds in the hopes that he wouldn't have to get that, but the interlopers remained stubbornly un-dealt with. He huffed petulantly and dumped the rest of his sandwich on the delicate china plate it had been served on.
He stormed through into the reception area of Biggs' Major Mechatronics and saw two young people with T-Boards under their arms.
"Hyne do I hate those bloody things…" Biggs thought to himself.
A pretty girl with a long ponytail was conversing with what Biggs assumed was her boyfriend, who was facing away from the mechanic. She saw Biggs emerging from the garage like an oil-soaked Wendigo and pointed at him, nudging the other customer's shoulder.
The boyfriend turned around and Biggs saw a lurid and familiar-looking facial tattoo tha-
"YOU!"
They both screamed at the same time as Zell dropped his broken T-Board to affect a combat stance.
Biggs dove over the wooden counter like an action movie hero and then painfully collided with the ground behind it. He gave a decidedly unheroic wheeze and scrambled towards the Officer's shoulder-kit he kept stashed for emergencies.
The commotion drew thunderous footsteps from above and the man Zell assumed to be Wedge practically threw himself down the stairs in a flailing cluster of limbs. He saw the scene of impeding carnage and surveyed it with confusion.
"What the hell is going on down here?!"
Zell turned to face his new opponent, his eyes nearly popping clean out of his head with shock and battle-fury. Wedge placed himself next to the counter and peered over to find Biggs still scrambling through the shelves looking for bits and pieces, wheezing and cursing under his breath.
"Zell… What's going on? Who are these men?"
The girl with the ponytail was standing quizzically in the corner, smartly selecting a position that would place her outside her boyfriend's fearsome melee range. She grasped her own T-Board over her chest as impromptu armour-plating.
Sensing that no imminent danger was forthcoming, Wedge elected to work on defusing the tension.
"That depends, Miss. Are the two of you here to cause trouble?"
Wedge reached calmly under the counter and grabbed his old A-Pattern Army Sabre, placing it on the counter just in case. The girl looked at the sword, and then at her boyfriend, who was beginning to look a bit sheepish.
"Umm… No. We were looking for… uh… someone to fix my T-Board. We're vacationing."
Wedge took Zell's explanation at face value and visibly relaxed, placing the sword back under the counter. He slipped easily into customer service mode as if he'd been doing it all his life.
"Oh, that's nice. How long are you two in FH?"
He strolled over and scooped up the broken T-Board to give it a quick appraisal, having no technical knowledge to speak of but checking for obvious problems.
"We're uh… Mostly passing through on our way to Galbadia. Road tripping, really…"
Wedge couldn't see anything conspicuously wrong with the board, but he left this sort of thing to the Mechanic anyway. He absentmindedly wondered what he was still doing under that counter when with a thundering crash the battle was rejoined.
Biggs threw himself up to a kneeling position, wearing a full G-Army Issue Officer's Shoulder-Kit, the heavy-pauldrons leading down to two vicious sub-machinegun gauntlets. He slapped his right hand onto the counter, pointed aggressively at the two SeeDs. He wheezed something that might have sounded badass if he hadn't been so winded, and triumphantly held down the trigger.
Zell had just enough time to cry out in shock before…
…
…
…
Nothing.
After several seconds of tense silence, punctuated with the odd frustrated click as Biggs tried to will the gun to fire… The two SeeDs found themselves curiously unperforated. Wedge sighed despairingly and stood in his partner's line of fire, putting his hands up in a 'we'll come quietly' gesture.
"Don't mind him, Sir… He just gets a little testy at times like this."
Biggs issued a wheeze that nobody save Wedge could interpret, which caused the ever-diplomatic ex-soldier to purse his lips patiently.
"Because I unloaded it nearly two years ago. It isn't safe to leave a loaded firearm on a shelf, and you know that just as well as I do."
Wedge's calm tone seemed to visibly deflate his former CO, who slumped petulantly and focused on coughing until his ribs knocked themselves back into alignment.
"Umm… Zell, should I call someone? You know the rules about fighting in the town, right? Why are we starting a diplomatic incident over these two?"
Zell came to realise the absurdity of the situation and uncurled his fists, putting one hand on his hip and rubbing the back of his head sheepishly with the other.
"Uh… nah, don't worry about it, babe… These two are… were G-Army back in the day. Biggs and Wedge, right?"
Biggs stood up and make an uncomfortably wet hacking noise in his throat, while Wedge offered a hand for a prim handshake, which both SeeDs accepted casually.
"Well, sir… Technically it's Biggs and Biggs now, but for brevity's sake Wedge is fine."
Zell made a little noise of quaint surprise before answering.
"Oh. Oh. Congratulations, I was wondering what you two were going to do after quitting the army. How did you even get out of the Lunatic Pandora, anyway?"
Zell's ponytailed paramour dropped her jaw in surprise.
"Hang on, these two were there when you attacked the Crystal Pillar?!" She immediately darted forward and grabbed Biggs by his steel gauntlet.
"Tell. Me. Everything. Zell can hardly remember a thing he was so hopped up on adrenaline! What was it really like in there?!"
Biggs' face perfectly conveyed a blend of irritation and confusion as he regarded the unusually chirpy SeeD girl.
"It was alright, I suppose…"
Wedge's own brow furrowed in confusion as he picked apart Zell's sentence.
"Wait… how did you know we decided to desert on Lunatic Pandora? How did you even know we were stationed there?"
Zell laughed raucously as if he were having a drink with old friends rather than a standoff with old enemies.
"We were literally standing right behind you when it happened. Biggs was doing some kinda repair work on a console and just stormed off in a huff, ordering you to go get a drink with him. It was pretty weird, actually… I mean, we'd just driven a damn spaceship through the outer hull not 100 feet from you…"
Wedge's face radiated palpable shock at this revelation.
"Honestly… I think my ears were still ringing after all those explosions… I genuinely don't know what to say… Well if you saw that, there isn't any point keeping the rest of it from you. We hijacked a couple of Botflies to make our escape, promptly crashed them into sand dunes, and spent the next three weeks walking west. We found the Rail bridge, and by the time we got to FH we were probably halfway to dead…"
Biggs shuffled uncomfortably in his position, then went over to grab the broken T-Board, letting his mechanical instincts take over as Wedge continued their story.
"I thought that a couple of G-Army soldiers too weak to hold their weapons would be taking a long walk off of a short pier before the sun went down, but the townsfolk took us in and tended our wounds. We were bedridden for about a month, and the first thing he does when we're on our feet is barge me into the tavern for this drink he promised nearly two months ago!"
Wedge smiled knowingly and folded his arms as Biggs starts poring over the guts of the T-Board.
"As you may have inferred, I count that as our first date. We talked about a lot of things, but mostly we talked about where we should go next. I knew there was something not being said when neither of us had any thoughts about going our separate ways…"
Biggs had by this point enlisted Zell's girlfriend as an assistant and was getting her to hold open the engine casing while he rummaged around in its arcane guts.
"We stayed here. Best damn town in the whole world. Never gonna leave. Never."
Biggs said this with an undercurrent of emotion that his face didn't convey, and Wedge nodded solemnly in response. With a twist of his meaty hand something snapped inside the board, and Zell winced at the thought of his most prized possession being manhandled by a G-Army Commandante (former or otherwise…). Wedge continued, smiling at his partner's curmudgeonly ways.
"He's a 'proud local' now, though you'd never know it. Anyway… We stayed. Nobody said a word. Two months earlier they'd had G-Army soldiers threatening to burn their homes to the ground and not one of them said a single word against us… So, we settled down and made a life here. Took me more than a year to stop calling him 'Sir' but we got used to it."
"Speak for yourself, I wouldn't mind a little more of the 'Sir' every once in a while…"
Biggs offered this thought morosely as he yanked out the rear anti-grav unit, a chunky disc attached to a yellow battery-casing. Wedge rolled his eyes while smirking.
Wedge looked at his mechanic's gaze and correctly assumed that something important had happened. "Well, it looks like we've found the issue at least. Thoughts?"
Biggs sucked his teeth in the time-honoured fashion of auto-mechanics everywhere.
"Yeah… The problem is these janky Estherian float-boxes. They look all fancy, but they'll fall to pieces after a month without fail. You want good old-fashioned turbines for a board like this…"
Zell snorted dismissively, his inner gear-head rising to the fore. Both Wedge and the girl Zell came in with rolled their eyes reflexively, all too aware of what was coming.
"You're talkin' out of your ass, I've seen those things hold up Gardens for crap's sake!"
Wedge made a point of turning away from the impending argument, motioning for the girl to follow him through to the kitchenette with the universal hand gesture for 'coffee?' She assented with a somewhat tired smile and followed. He flipped a couple of chrome switches on his beloved coffee machine, which in turn responded with a happy burbling noise. He smoothly prepared an espresso for his guest and a big milky latte for himself (hey, civilian life had to have some perks, right?)
"So, I never did catch your name?"
Garden Historical Database Entry A/14:
The History of the Eternal Centran Empire: An Overview
The 'Eternal' Centran Empire was a civilization that had persisted in one form or another for more than 4000 years, spreading ideas, philosophies and technologies that would kickstart true human civilization across the entire planet. They originally lived in small villages or settlements that would be packed up and moved with the seasons, following game and fertile grounds in cyclical patterns that were rigidly adhered to by tribal leaders. They are believed to have persisted in these patterns for many thousands of years before eventually being unified under the rule of the Sorceress Temuj, who took the title Fiero Khanoum in recognition of her complete dominion over the tribes (Khanoum was an ancient Centran term that can be loosely translated as 'Queen' or 'Empress').
This hardy culture would go on to spread across the planet, always at the behest of a Sorceress. Those who did not wish to follow the Sorceress were free to take their leave (for the most part) and went on to found other empires in other parts of the world. While none of them could boast the sheer longevity of the Centrans, they did eventually form those cultures that define the world we live in today.
The Founding of the Empire:
Orthodoxy states that the Warlord Fiero Khanoum took over the continent by using her unnatural magical powers to terrify the tribes into submission, but few historical documents of note corroborate this. Indeed, the Khanoum actually seemed reticent to exercise her power if it could be helped at all. Besides, she took territory in all directions in her wars of consolidation, and it is quite impossible for a single Sorceress to be everywhere at once.
From a military perspective the more decisive factor was probably the use of mounted cavalry forces provided by Artos of Krem, the leader of an order of ascetic warrior monks who rode tamed Chocobos into battle. Artos was said to have drilled man and bird with equal ferocity, robbing the normally skittish animals of any hesitation or fear in the face of the enemy. While most modern Chocobos are friendly to the point of pathologically tame, the birds of those days were wilder and more aggressive. The Chocobos he would have rode had thicker, tougher beaks and were not averse to eating meat where they could get it. While principally omnivorous scavengers (much as they are today), they were not above chasing down a foe and biting clean through its armour to get at the meat inside.
A personal diary written by one of Artos' scribes sheds some light on the circumstances that brought the him into contact with the Sorceress:
For three nights we deviated from our appointed course, with brave Artos often no more than a plume of dust being pulled down into the horizon. Sore as we all were, none thought to break from what we now knew to be a pursuit of our wayward Great Schema.
On the morning of the fourth day we were pleased to find that the chase had ended, as Artos' bird lay gasping for air and feed on the edge of a woodland glade. We arrived in good time to see Artos leap bodily from the bird's back and scramble into the trees, and Trotos, Arame and I were selected to follow him.
So it was that we found ourselves beholding a pool of clear water, which Artos waded into until the flow was about his waist. There he stopped as if caught in the gaze of a Ya-Te-Veo*, unable or unwilling to move. We beheld her shortly after and were struck equally as dumb by the site. She stood alone washing herself in the stream, and with shame I admit myself taken with her beauty. She looked to Artos as if expecting him, and walked to him without fear. After days at the saddle, I have no doubt we all looked and smelled fearsome and wild to a creature such as her, but she only smiled.
"Whatever be thy name, I would have it known that I love thee entirely. Art thou an angel? Or merely a trick of the mind? It matters not if only you will speak, Nymph."
Artos spoke these words with a sense of wonder I had never heard of him, and I was humbled further for my impure thoughts towards the water-spirit. She said nothing, merely taking him into an embrace as tender as if they had been joined years ago.
This was how we were sworn into the service of the Daughter of Hyne, and each of the Order accepted her dominion without hesitation.
*The Ya-Te-Veo alluded to here is believed to be a now extinct variation of the modern Malboro, which was said to exude a smoke that entranced victims, compelling them to walk placidly into its mouth.
Once Artos' order was added to the Khanoum's regular forces, she began aggressively ranging out of her strongholds in the Kabari Plains (sadly no longer above sea-level) and taking territory in all directions. The key to her army's success was the fact that her advance forces didn't require supply lines or other logistical concerns. Artos' troops were used to riding for weeks without supply, subsisting on game and Chocobo eggs from their mounts when game was sparse. Though small in number, their mounts meant that they were more than a match for any individual village or warband.
It was often remarked that the Khanoum's armies only arrived in a territory once all the fighting was over. This was perhaps something of an oversimplification but one with a kernel of truth to it. Fiero Khanoum's troops were therefore trained and prepared to be administrators and protectors of the new territories rather than aggressors.
Within 15 years, Fiero and Artos had conquered most of the continent, barring a scant few desert tribes hanging onto lands so bereft of resources that they were hardly worth bothering with. The Sorceress had built an empire, and crucially had done so with a Knight at her side. To this day the mythology of Sorceresses often leave room for the character of The Knight, a champion selected by fate to love an inhuman Goddess. Whether there is any truth to the stories of a supernatural pseudo-magical bond between Sorceresses and their chosen Knights, they are a quiet but eerily consistent part of the history of the Sorceresses.
It is said that when Artos died, his holy sword was passed down among generations of Sorceress' Knights, further cementing the claim that these inscrutable and unusual men were imbued with Fate's Blessing. Unfortunately, the location of Artos' fabled Zantetsuken was lost in the events of the Lunar Cry and is unlikely to be recovered.
The Centran Empire at the turn of the Last Century:
The Empire built cities and trade routes steadily over the next 4000 years, inventing everything from calendars and written languages to motor-cars and anti-gravity technology. They spread out across the planet, seeding communities that would grow into the Dollet Empire in the West and mysterious Esther in the East.
The only consistent part of the Centran Bureaucracy was the leadership of Sorceresses, who would be sought out if they were not readily available. Sorceresses would carefully curate lines of succession by selecting their preferred candidates in youth and grooming them to inherit magical potential at the time of their forebear's death. The genealogy of Sorcery was therefore a full-time occupation for many of the city's political class.
Other civilizations emerged in other corners of the world and fell in their due courses, while the Empire persisted. Many competing theories abound regarding the remarkable resilience of the Empire, but the Sorceresses themselves believed that once a society stopped moving, it was doomed to be overtaken. They took this somewhat literally, having entire cities ritually deconstructed and moved to new locations periodically. While many would assume that such a wasteful upheaval would spell death to any society, it actually seems to have worked as intended. Centran architecture was originally designed to be modular, entire buildings being collapsed and bolted back together when necessary. Later mechanical revolutions allowed for entire buildings to be rolled along on mechanical tank tracks, and the invention of the Centran Halo allowed for entire towns to hover serenely over the landscape.
That isn't to say that people didn't live sedentary lives, but this was mostly confined to the working classes, with the Empire's true power contained within its enormous floating fortresses. Little of this architecture survives to this day, but those examples that do persist are often remarked to be as strong and ornate today as they were 100 years ago. It would seem that Centran architects still have much to teach us even now.
The Death of the Empire:
Unfortunately, the 'Eternal' Empire was not to last. While there have been Lunar Cries roughly once a century for all of recorded history, the one that struck the Centran Mainland in the fifth month of 4282 AU (After Unification) is commonly regarded to be the most violent ever recorded. The Cry itself happened at 10:47 AM, striking the Kabari Plains and unleashing a maelstrom of violence as monsters were flung hundreds of miles in all directions by the prevailing magical discharge.
Records recently released by the Esther government show that the most likely cause of this Cry's unusual severity was the Crystal Pillar, a colossal chunk of mineral matter carried to the surface from the Moon itself. This enormous structure resonates with a particular magical 'frequency' that seems related to the Cries themselves. When the Pillar made landfall, it was immediately followed by a magical discharge that seismologists registered all over the world. This shockwave was so strong it passed around the entire planet no less than eight times before dissipating. The immediate effects were a temporary disruption of certain radioactivity spectrums in particular materials, notably those pertaining to Infused Hypro-Caesic Alloys (IHCAs) which lasted roughly an hour.
Unfortunately, these particular alloys are a crucial component of all anti-gravity technologies, particularly the Centran Halo.
The flying cities of the Centran Empire came crashing down to the surface, destroying much of the Empire's crucial infrastructure (and the nearby countryside) in one fell swoop. Those who survived the initial crash were overwhelmed by ravenous monsters within minutes, often taken entirely by surprise as the swarms forced themselves outward looking to escape the crush of bodies behind them. Those living on the ground fared no better, unable to defend themselves against the sheer weight of Lunar monsters. Those vessels still at sea did not fare much better, sinking to the bottom of the ocean like stones without their Haloes.
If this were not enough, the force and shock of the Cry caused the formerly dormant Mount Olum to violently explode, tossing such a quantity of volcanic ash into the skies that the entire planet was cooled by three degrees Celsius for at least five years after the fact. The eruption was so cataclysmic that it shattered the continent's tectonic plate and sank the entire Kabari region into the depths of the sea. The sound of the explosion was heard in Northern Trabia as a clear gunshot, and in Esther City the blast shook windows out of their frames and caused several riots as scared civilians took to looting essential supplies for what they believed to be an imminent apocalypse.
Within a month, the Continent of Centra was considered to be entirely bereft of Human life, the only survivors being those coastal villagers who survived the tsunamis and launched their boats before the monsters overran them. These survivors numbered less than 50000, from a civilization that had consisted of more than 400 million souls less than a year earlier. A single aging Centran battleship guided the survivors to the western coast of Esther after more than two months at sea, after which it was scuttled along with the other ships.
Their ancestral home was considered a Natural Exclusion Zone for the next 30 years, as the surviving Lunar monsters ate every scrap of organic matter before turning on themselves in a cannibalistic orgy of pure destruction. Those who had escaped this disaster made no attempt to assert their identity as Centrans and drifted across the world trying to live as quietly as possible. Even as most of their history and culture was lost, they made no attempt to preserve what little they had left.
Their self-imposed wall of silence was so complete that the only first-hand account of the disaster came from a minor functionary of the Dollet Dukedom, who was lucky enough to find himself on one of those vessels fated to escape the cataclysm. He described the final days of the Empire as being ones of paranoia and insular scheming. The Sorceress Athelia and her Knight had apparently retired to a great laboratory in the wilds to embark on a magical experiment that had left the Empire with no leadership at a crucial moment.
The Centrans evidently believed that their Sorceress had somehow planned for or even actively instigated the catastrophe that murdered their entire civilization. However, the diplomat did add that there was no actual evidence of any of this, as it was merely the strongly held opinion of the survivors.
Unbeknownst to the survivors, three Centran Halo-ships survived the extinction event by virtue of being docked for maintenance far away from the mainland at the time. They were abandoned by their crews and forgotten by the world at large until the Garden Organisation refurbished them for use as training academies, unaware of their true purpose or abilities. While one of these vessels was rendered permanently inoperable by Galbadian Cruise Missiles in the opening days of the Second Sorceress War, the remaining Gardens have since been restored to full working order by the Garden Organisation.
The Modern Centra:
After the 30-year quarantine was over, people began to cautiously make their way back to the abandoned continent in dribs and drabs. Government-sponsored surveyor teams shared boats with opportunistic treasure-hunters in their rush to get a look at the ruined landscape. They arrived on a shore that looked as if it had never been inhabited by Man. All evidence of human habitation had long since been ground into dust or buried under deep ash flows. What remained was an untouched wasteland, mostly poisoned and crawling with dangers. While most of the Lunar monsters had long since eaten each other, the surviving monsters (native and foreign) were now the toughest of the tough.
Many of the initial explorers were simply swallowed up by the new island chains that were once the Kabari Plains, unable to compete with the vicious and territorial wildlife. Those who persisted were eventually able to eke out a hard-scrabble living along the coastlines, and these shantytowns became a hotspot for smugglers, pirates and criminals of all shades looking for a place to hide out. The various great militaries of the surviving world powers saw no way of actually retaking and protecting the Centran territories, so they were simply left to nature. After decades of healing and conservation projects, the wildlife is starting to return to something approaching pre-Cry levels, with many forests starting to once again take root in the Southern Reaches of Lenown.
However, the cities and structures of the Centran Empire are for the most part entirely gone, with only a scant few outposts surviving by some strange quirk of fate. These structures exude an aura of palpable menace, and even the most seasoned of natives won't go near them. The irony being that they are mostly descended from fortune seekers who came to Centra looking for these very sites. Some opine that those who lacked a healthy respect for the ruins were not around long enough to propagate their bloodlines, but they also concede that there are probably amazing treasures buried within reach.
The Centran Halo:
The height of the Centrans' technological arts, the Centran Halo is a masterwork of mechanical engineering that looks like Sorceress-level Magic to the uninitiated. The knowledge necessary to recreate these devices is no longer known in anything but a theoretical sense, with only Estherian scientists able to recreate the phenomenon on a much smaller (and less useful) scale.
The technology consists of a solid ring of Infused Hypro-Caesic Alloy (the precise isotope used is no longer known) that selectively negates gravity when charged. These colossal structures turn electrical energy into directional anti-gravity fields that allow even city-sized structures to hover serenely over the landscape. Paired with a complex Centran gyroscopic stabilization unit, these ships can drift over uneven ground in such a way as to completely negate turbulence or altitude variation.
Estherian technology companies have been able to produce much smaller units of limited utility that allow man-portable sleds to hover a foot or so off the ground. These boards are little more than interesting toys though, disregarded as without utility by transport firms. Many Estherian car manufacturers utilise these miniaturised Halos to create roadcars that are well suited to the glass-smooth highways of the Great City, but would be the first to admit that their utility decreases exponentially outside of the city limits. The rest of the world knows them as the key lift generator for T-Boards, a simple hover-sled popular with extreme sports enthusiasts.
The key issue with reproducing these ancient machines is a lack of knowledge regarding the precise chemical formula necessary for synthesizing the IHCAs used. The only source of unused alloys is the now permanently grounded Trabia Garden, but the Garden Organization viciously guards the site, stating that any attempts to breach T-Garden's perimeter would constitute an act of war against SeeD.
Part of this protectiveness is the spiritual importance of the site to SeeD as a place to bury their dead, but they are also acutely aware of the tactical value of the ruined Centran technology within. They may also need those resources to repair the other two Gardens in case of serious mechanical failure, something that they are constantly bearing in mind when thinking of the aging Balamb Garden.
Whatever the reasons, the reintroduction of Centran Halo technology to the world has prompted an enormous interest in archaeology, with several expeditions ranging across the forgotten continent every year in search of some forgotten tidbit of knowledge.
Some of them do come back, occasionally with all of the parts they set off with.
The Tonberry: Centra's Silent Pilgrim
The wildlife of Centra is even now deeply divergent from all of the other continents, with several mutations and aberrations that make them even more dangerous than their distant cousins on other landmasses. There is however one form of life that is entirely without precedent, one with no prior history or genetic relations.
The humble-looking Tonberry is a simple pseudo-humanoid, standing about four feet in height and garbed in the burlap trappings of an old Monk. There exists no record of these beings in any bestiary or document written before the Lunar Cry that destroyed Centra, but they also have nothing in common with those creatures from the Moon that pollute any ecosystem they enter.
Physically, the Tonberries all seem to be exactly alike in physical appearance, to the point where it is impossible to differentiate them by gender or any other signifier. Certainly, researchers have noted that they participate in limited ritual behaviour, walking through ruins carefully with the air of ancient holy men.
Locals view them as the most unsettling feature of the new Centra, their apparent harmlessly and infantile obliviousness hiding something hideously unnatural. There is also the fact that if humans interrupt a Tonberry in the middle of it's rituals (by walking across their path or moving something that they do not wish to be moved) the Tonberry will invariably (if slowly) attack and kill the interloper. Those who wish to defend themselves will find that the Tonberry possesses an abnormal regenerative ability that knits together ruined tissue quicker than most weapons can ruin it. Even seasoned soldiers with magical or technological support will often just flee the field rather than try to actually kill them.
The only researcher to have made a substantive study of these strange creatures was a Priest of Hyne by the name of Father Grengor Hallain, who was travelling with an archaeological expedition through the great and nameless octahedral ruins (colloquially referred to as 'Blue Heaven' nowadays). Below are transcribed entries from his journal, recovered some twenty miles south of the ruins along with his body.
Day 42:
Jonah, my old friend. I've much to atone for this morning.
They're all dead. My friends and colleagues. Their throats cut in the night and me powerless to stop any of it.
The little green ones in cassocks. We'd been so very careful, trying to set up camp far away from their little patrols. It wasn't enough, they must have decided to come to this section of the ruins and found us… 'in their way'.
They move so quietly, not so much as a rustle from those cloaks as they walked calmly among us, opening a throat here or there without so much as a peep.
I know because I watched it happen… I woke midway through the grizzly job and was too paralysed with fear to do anything (my shame, Jonah… I am trapped under the sheer weight of it). I'm sure they knew full well that I was there, but they never so much as looked at me. By the time the sun was rising they were done, ambling onward in that strange, childish way that they do.
I am committed to following them.
It is all that I can do. If I can understand what happened, I can prevent it from happening to anyone else. I think my friends would be satisfied with that much, at least. I buried them and gave the last rites as best I could.
How heavy those beads felt in my hands, Jonah…
Day 45:
I have caught up to the procession with little difficulty. They proceed at so leisurely a pace that I would have been at risk of overtaking them altogether. Fortunately, they seem unconcerned with concealing their tracks, and I have tracked their shallow sandal-prints through the dirt with some cleverness on my part.
I am reminded of our days with the Junior Scouters. Do you remember those days, Jonah? We strung together wobbling bivouacs out of dead sticks and twine that would hardly have kept out a string of spittle, much less a rainstorm.
I am reminded of my own inadequacy with each passing moment, made all the worse by these infuriating simpletons. Not once have they stopped for rest since I have known them. They only seem to eat once every two or three days, and a handful of foraged nuts or berries will do for them. If they are thirsty then they take a swig of foul, brackish water from a puddle and are contented for another day, not a peep of discomfort or distaste on their part.
They seem to have an uncanny sense of direction, though. They've walked in perfect right-angles for the last two days, and they only stop for a moment every so often, staring at nothing like…
Like cattle, I suppose.
With a compass and a little savvy, I can catch them up quickly enough when I need to stop for sleep.
They still pay me no mind, as if I were not there at all. I do not wish to test the theory too closely however…
Day 49:
Jonah, it is the Cassock!
I have not taken it off since that night, and I am convinced it is the reason for my safe passage here.
I mentioned before that they are all dressed in sacks of burlap fashioned into rudimentary smocks, and I (as we all have) assumed that it was merely the only form of clothing that they knew how to make…
What if they think I'm one of them? They're such simple creatures I might just believe it…
Why a Cassock, though? Surely even simpler garments could serve just as well?
Perhaps they are more intelligent than they first appear? They carry torches seemingly wrought of brass, and iron knives that look devilishly sharp…
However, they lack even a rudimentary spark of cognizance. They just drift from place to place, observing their pointless little rituals with no seeming knowledge of their significance (actual or imagined…).
Although… I suppose I can't really fault them for that, can I?
I never was a particularly good Evangelist at the best of times, and these days I am having a great deal of difficulty believing the parts of our creed that speak of hope, or virtue, or divinity…
How could Hyne make a world like this and be satisfied with his work?
Day 58:
They have made precious little progress, and their behaviour has become more erratic. They walk along the unnaturally straight paths and periodically stop or twist or step to the side, as if to politely let a fellow traveller past.
I watched in shock for more than a minute as they all stood stock-silent in the middle of a field of wild-grass, not a thought crossing those placid brows. After some uncommunicated but very specific amount of time, they all continued they ramble much as before.
I had decided to start cataloguing them by name, but they are so difficult to distinguish from one another…
Jonah, I wonder sometimes if I am going quite mad looking at these strange little creatures.
No… More than that, I worry that I am no longer angry at them for what they did at the campsite. Some part of my mind tells me that these idiot children simply didn't know what they were doing when they did it.
It isn't a good enough excuse.
For now, anyway.
Day 62:
I believe I've been very foolish indeed, Jonah. I've seen these behaviours every day of my waking life, looking out of the window every morning in the Seminary.
When a Tonberry steps to the side, or shuffles away from something, or just plain stops for something that I can't see, I recognise what they're doing.
They're walking through a town. Or maybe a city…
The point is, they're seeing the world as I'm sure it looked more that 70 years ago, before the Lunar Cry!
They're stepping aside for towncars! And pedestrians! And railway-gates! Ones that stopped passing through here long before you and I were born, Jonah!
Now I see it, and I feel foolish for not seeing it all along. They're wearing cassocks, Jonah! Not burlap sacks that look like a monk's garb, but the actual article!
They are brainless little priests of Hyne, who after all was a maker of things and beings since time immemorial, was he not?
He made we humans to be his Caretakers, did he not? Tending the garden of his world so that he might sleep, yes? We can all agree on that much, surely? I'm not so pulled into atheism to deny that much…
Could he not have made others to take on other tasks for him? Or perhaps the Tonberry is some abortive ancestor of ours? Some sort of failed prototype that he sealed away when he had no need of it anymore?
For I am convinced that these beings came from below the earth, not above. I'm certain enough of that, at least. The size and set of their yellow eyes, their squatness, their little brass lanterns that cast that sickly light…
I envisage runs and warrens buried deep beneath the crust of the world, so deep that no miner could ever hope to dig down to it. Perhaps Hyne simply left them sealed up in a tomb, crammed in together like sardines but uncomplaining and uncomprehending of their fate…
Were it not for that dreadful Lunar Cry they'd likely have stayed down there forever, but when the moon fell it broke the very shell of the world, Jonah!
Things from far down in the deep would be able to find their way out into the light of day, surely?
Day 63:
I believe that they can see me.
Goodbye, Jonah.