a chaotic heart
Chapter 12

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Work is like a dream for her this night. She's exhausted both physically and mentally, and the lull of routine is enough to let her tuck her mind and heart away and let her body rule. It's a bad idea in hindsight, but she can't bring herself to care. Can't care her body's been, for an eternity, honed for fighting – and not the clumsy drunken brawls that occur and that letting herself be inattentive means she's not pulling any punches and she's chosen a place to work where she needs to be able to pull her punches.

And she's not surprised when her boss – at the end of his saintly patience, no doubt – pulls her aside. 'You know, you got a few hits with the baton.'

She blinks. No, she doesn't – though if she has, she'll feel them in the morning when they bruise.

'This isn't the first time.'

'I'm sorry.' She's not sure what else to say. She can't promise to do better. It'll be an empty promise if she does.

He shakes his head. 'I've wondered,' he admits, not sounding annoyed – because she wonders if he's even capable of annoyance sometimes but knows he must be, such a human reaction it is, 'why you'd chose to stay in a place like this.'

A bitter smile worms its way to her lips. 'Selfish reasons.' She doesn't know why his expression prompts her to elaborate, but it does. And she does. 'I'm helping people drown their sorrows or fatigue or…whatever. Saving no-one.' And there's another reason too. 'And you remind me of someone.'

'Oh? Someone good, I hope.'

She snorts at the mention of "hope", but doesn't answer him.

'But I've wondered,' he continues, 'if you're not just holding yourself back out of…gratitude or something.' He blushes lightly. Innocently. How does a guy like this wind up running a bar? she wonders. 'But your answer is "selfish".'

And she realises she didn't need to give him the details at all. "Selfish" is enough of an answer to placate him. And yet…it doesn't matter anymore. It's not an important enough reason for him to need, or want, to fight for her. And she's got no idea where to start looking because she wants a job free from responsibilities and where does someone find a job like that? Even in the bar, its part of the job description: to make sure none of the customers are heading towards alcohol poisoning or the likes. The bouncers of course have it tougher: they need to watch out for drunken brawls and breaking them up when they happen, party drugs that shouldn't be floating around any legal place and bars are still legal, and then their day job of checking IDs and faces.

'I'll bring in the uniform tomorrow,' she says.

'Please.' He nods at her, though he seems surprised as well. Planning a speech he's now spared the trouble of giving, or so it seems. Or she's misunderstood something and that's the least likely differential. After all, it's not the first time she's harassed customers more than usual. Not the first time they've had to call in the ambulance for them and have to borrow some of Serah's teaching salary for the fines because her own meagre one doesn't cut it. Serah won't accept money back, either, and that's a mixed blessing in disguise. She takes days of babysitting instead. Days that are piling up because she's not willing to accept the fact that either she or Snow is barren and keeps on trying and Snow's too much of a teddy bear to push for adoption – or there's something deeper there and it's another stab to her gut that tells her she's never bothered finding out.

She tunes back in to her boss – ex-boss – in time to catch the tail-end of his commentary. 'Do you know how to use a baton?'

She blinks. What have batons got to do with the conversation…except the bruises that will grow throughout the day. 'Not specifically,' she replies. 'I can use guns and blades – short or long.' And gunblades, but those don't seem to exist in this new world.

He shakes his head. 'You should be in the police force.' No, she thinks. Definitely not. 'Being a bouncer is probably beneath you.'

'Wait.' Her mind races to consolidate that statement with the rest of it. 'You're – not firing me?'

He looks appalled at the question. Right, too nice and idealistic for his own good. I forget. Still, it doesn't top Hope hiring his future murderer – in multiple timelines – as his assistant. Most people had some subconscious feeling that nudged them away from danger after the third or fourth repeat, but not Hope. But the biggest destroyer had come only once and there'd never been a chance to dodge.

But it's not Hope right now. It's her boss, and they're discussing her employment. 'You've tried to be a waitress,' he explains, 'but it's not good for you and it's not good for the customers either. They're less likely to harass a bouncer and you can feel more relaxed in…ahh, warding off unwanted advances.'

Might make them less likely too, she thinks. A bouncer is far more off-putting than a sullen waitress. But being a bouncer also means protecting people. Keeping them safe. 'I'm sorry,' she says, and she is sorry because here's a guy who's given her a tolerable job and now she's throwing it in his face. 'I can't.'

'Why not?' he's confused. He can't see she doesn't want the responsibility of anyone on her shoulders even if that's not possible because she's got Serah and Snow and now Hope and maybe she'll have to check on the others again as well –

'I just can't.'

He offers to keep her as a waitress. Even with the assault charges she'll have to ask for a "loan" from Serah to pay off again.

She turns him down. It's one too many, these distractions.

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What next? she wonders. She needs to look at picking up another job and soon because she's never had much saved up. Not in this new world, anyway. Maybe a librarian? But she's pretty sure one needs a course for that. Two courses, actually. Cleaner? No way. The thought repulses her; exactly what Bhunivelze had tricked her into doing in the old world. Maybe she can be a fighting instructor. Who was it that had joked about that once upon a time? But she still needs certification before she can go and do something like that. Quick fixes – don't really seem to exist in this world. The simplest helping out in the store jobs are always reserved for the youth: people Hope's age. But maybe she can find some filing or phoning job.

She sighs. She's grown complacent. Wants to be complacent. I know I'm just running away, but… She's spent too long fighting. Too long saving the world. Honestly, the world should be grateful I'm not destroying it instead.

And yet, there are some people she can't turn her back on. Not that I've done much to help. Serah and Snow. All she is is a witness on their marriage certificate and that's because Serah insisted. And the occasional visitor, asking favours from one or the other now that she's thrown her pride – or that part of it – out the window, and doing favours in return when she can and it's never much. She's storing them all up, for a time that looks more and more like it'll never come.

And then there's Hope, and she's no clearer on the burning question than she was before the visit to the Estheims.

Or…that's a lie. She knows the real Hope – that sweet little boy turned strong and smart man – is in there, no matter if or how much of Bhunivelze attempts to drown it. Bhunivelze has no reason whatsoever to flee from Snow while Hope, potentially, has three. Or maybe two. Did he say Snow's name? She can't remember now. She can remember things from over a thousand years ago, but not something from yesterday.

What she doesn't know is how much of Bhunivelze is there as well.

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Her landline's ringing when she gets home, and she misses it in unlocking the door. It rings again in a few minutes though, urgently, and she snatches it up.

It's Bartholomew again, and this time he's in a panic – a panic she's never heard. Even when his house was aflame. Even when they left him, trussed and defenceless. Even when she took his son away, and he didn't know if they'd ever meet again.

'Hope's gone!' he gasps. 'I mean, he's done this before, but not in the middle of the night! And he hasn't taken anything: no shoes, or wallet, or transport card – He's still in his pyjamas!'

He won't last long, she finds herself thinking. She's been worrying about her own funds and here's a boy who's run off without even a cent. 'He can't have gotten far,' she says aloud, instead.

'He's not in town.' Still frustrated. Panicked. Far from his usual calm. 'Nora and I've already looked. Asked a few neighbours to drive out, but –'

It's morning and they've found nothing yet. That's why he's calling. 'What do you want me to do?' She's phrased it wrong, she realises belatedly. Should have said "what can I do" but it's too late, and it doesn't seem to matter.

'Just – if you see him –'

'Of course.' But it's too little. Too little.

'…when Vanille saves the souls of the dead, what will happen to me? My soul?'

'Hope? What –'

Too little. Too late.