Disclaimer: The characters, items, places, etc. of Final Fantasy VI are property of
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It was cold.
General Ezra Loraec absentmindedly ran a hand over his black slacks, clearing them of the wrinkles that had formed since he had sat in this chair. It was an action borne of pure boredom, or maybe it was a nervous tick. He allowed himself a small smile. Nervous of what? This room? Well, maybe. The large chamber was overwhelming, arching high above his head, somehow threatening even with its lightly crystalline and distant presence. It wasn’t, however, as threatening as the scowl etched in the face of the most beautiful woman he knew.
Loraec tipped his goblet, watching dispassionately as the expensive red wine poured over the golden rim to spill over the mahogany table. Is this what is happening? he thought, staring at the red liquid as it glittered merrily in the light permeating through the room from a softly glowing candelabra. The Empire is being slowly leeched, sucked dry of its proverbial blood, in this case represented by the little beads of wine flowing from this golden flagon. Are my fingers wet with it, stained with the delicate taste of this spiced liquid? Am I to blame, as well?
He ran.
© 1999 by Junj.
4. The Empire
by Junj - junj1@ibm.com
It should’ve been the icy cold of steel and stone, not the dank chill that was far too reminiscent of the sewers. It should’ve been cold and dry and lonely, with no one to talk to or to listen to, with no company besides solitude for a friend. It should’ve been like that. Or so he heard, anyway.
Or maybe it should’ve been hot, scalding heat that melted men’s eyes and burned their skin. Weren’t you supposed to burn? He’d heard that, too, and, of course, there was no way of knowing which was right. He guessed cold and wet was how it was supposed to be. After all, if that was how it was now, it must be right, right?
He cracked open his eyes, letting them adjust to the dark that surrounded him. With a small grunt, he rolled onto his back, the cold stone digging between his shoulder blades. The ceiling circled around him for a moment, disorientating him before slowly coming to a stop. He pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing the back of his head with his good hand, noticing with a grimace that his right wrist felt as though it had been doused in ice.
He frowned as his thinking became clearer, the muddled mush in his head thinning out to the rational thoughts most useful to a thief in a pickle. From the dank surroundings, to the darkened corners, to the metal bars, to the sickly aftertaste in his mouth, he knew exactly where he was. He groaned as he let himself fall back to the cold ground.
“Damn…” he muttered. “Hell looks a lot like an imperial prison.”
He sighed and was rewarded with a flash of pain in his side. He swallowed against the dry stickiness in his throat, suddenly wishing that he could recall exactly what had led him here. Though he was thinking rather clearly, the details of the last few weeks escaped him. Damn, the last thing he remembered was leaving Celes at Figaro, but that must have been days ago. It could’ve been last year for all he knew. He hadn’t been this confused in a long time.
He stood suddenly, ignoring the flash of pain that flared through his arm. He cursed as he flexed his fingers and was rewarded with an almost continuous agony. Well, it was probably broken, and it hurt like hell. That was about the extent of his doctoring knowledge. If it hurt, something was wrong.
Well, broken or not, hurting or not, he had to find a way out of here. And he’d find a way. If there was a way, he’d find it. All he had to do was set to finding it. And that was a task he wasn’t exactly looking forward to.
The cell had a high ceiling to it, far too high to reach even if he jumped. The lighting fixtures were barely operational, covered in a grating that seemed to mesh with the metal ceiling. No chance of escape there. He bit his lip, looking around the room. He had virtually nothing to work with. There was a toilet-type fixture in the back corner made from metal. He walked over and pulled on it sharply. It didn’t budge.
“Okay…” There was no water in it, no pieces to pull off and fashion into a weapon. No help. He looked away.
Shoved in the other corner was a mat, a make-shift bed that could be moved around. It was probably nothing more than a bunch of hardened sawdust wrapped in ratty rags. Hardly worth investigating.
The walls in the place were smooth. A couple of three bars broke the monotony of the wall above the mat where a window was positioned high up next to the ceiling and far too small for even his wiry body to squirm through. The next wall held nothing, half of it doused in shadow where one of the lights had burned out. The third wall, where he assumed there was a door, was completely dark. He had no idea where it even began. The thought of that wall housing a door somehow scared the hell out of him. There could be anything in the dark, and he’d never know.
The last wall was, as far as he could tell, his only hope. Positioned almost directly above the toilet fixture was an air vent, the most probable way he could escape. It had no bars over it, just a plain grating that was as cheesy as the type that could probably be found in most of the building’s offices. Whoever had designed the cell was not very good at it; the man had just given Locke an easy way out.
He ran his hand on the wall, wishing that it didn’t have to be so smooth, and stepped up into the metal bowl. He leaned heavily on the wall, frowning with the realization that his good arm was on the wrong side. Oh well… He reached up with his right, gritting his teeth as his tendons pulled on shattered bone. At least he should be able to tell if this was going to be his salvation or not.
He stumbled with numb fingers around the bottom of the vent, leaning heavily against the wall for fear of falling backwards. It was a silly thing, really, but he’d never been fond of climbing much of anything. His finger was pinched as it reached the farthest corner, and he smiled smally. Here it was, his chance. Rusted screws were always helpful when pulling off a vent.
“I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”
Locke twisted sharply, his precarious position on the toilet compromised by his sudden movement. He caught himself before he fell to the ground, twisting his ankle painfully in the process as he landed hard on one foot. With as much dignity as he could muster, he yanked his boot from the toilet and straightened, smoothing out his tunic.
His efforts were rewarded with a spasm of pain. He fell to his knees, sure he felt something tear as he did so, and cupped his hands protectively around his side. Warm blood trickled through his fingertips, and everything came back to him.
The memories hit him like a rock.
I sold us out Locke you really shouldn’t lie to your comrades like that betray them it all comes down to this you are the broken, cheating, lying, little snake I don’t know why I put up with you all comes down to this betray them…
“Oh, God, no,” he whispered. Edgar had run him through. The two-timing jack-ass had stabbed him. And he had stabbed Edgar as well. By pure luck, he had rammed Excalibur through that shining armor. Edgar was probably dead. He was a bastard, but he was still a friend. “Oh damn…”
The person who had spoken before, whom he had forgotten stepped away from the shadows that encased nearly the whole side of the room. “It might be fun to watch you splatter yourself all over the ventilation shafts when you reach one of the fans, but I can think of more profitable things we can do first.”
Locke looked up with a grunt of surprise. Of course, he had known that there was someone standing there, he had heard the biting words and evident scorn. Only he had not taken any special notice of the fact that the person was there through his haze of pain. And he had not taken notice of the fact that the person standing before him was a woman. A beautiful woman at that.
Slender legs set the pace for perfect curves into her slim waist and up to her chest which housed large, ample breasts that seemed to demand every man’s eye like moths to flame. And the uniform she wore hugged all the right places to make every single curve painfully obvious, flaunting her good fortune to be the owner of many a man’s second glance. Her face was palely beautiful, accented by lips that were painted a deep red and large emerald eyes that held a glow of mirth in their cold depths. Long red hair caught a glimmer in the dim light as it cascaded over her shoulders like a bloody waterfall descending into the shadows of hell. She smirked.
And if not for that smirk, she would’ve been the most beautiful creature to ever grace the land. But that smirk brought with it the twist of insanity, the half-grin of a person who enjoyed seeing others suffer, a sadist’s smile. He’d seen it before on Kefka. He hated it. It was as sickening as anything he’d ever seen. And he’d seen a lot.
“Well, in that case, I guess I’ll just have to wait a couple of days,” he declared, forcing a bravado into his voice that he didn’t feel. He’d figure out when the fans were shut off. And they were. He was not stupid. He knew where they were, heard about its rebuilding, knew that they had remodeled exactly after the old. Vector – and this was Vector; the interior decorating was unmistakable – didn’t have the power to keep all the fans running simultaneously as well as all of the factories which were spewing out war supplies. Fans or factories, air conditioning or war supplies, that was a tough choice in the middle of a revolution.
Her smirk widened out into a broad smile that was, as he feared, truly genuine. Her eyes narrowed. “And what are you thinking? Finding a flaw in my fortress that you can exploit? It would be rather interesting to know how you plan to escape. I’d really like to see what you come up with.” Her voice held and undertone of humor that was soon dismissed. “Oh, well, it is a shame that you won’t have the time to carry out any plans. I’d feel horrible if you were to escape and ended up shot, so I made some special arrangements. Unless, of course, you want to walk out the front door.”
He frowned, forcing himself to stand up, ignoring his pain. He’d deal with that later. “And what’s the catch, deary?” he asked though he could guess what that was. Rat out on his friends.
“Just give me a little information.” He smiled thinly. Bingo. “You tell me what I need, and I give you what you need. Strategic for both of us.”
“You’d let me go, huh?” He hoped he sounded a little more than hopeful. Let her think that he was considering her proposition.
She smiled thinly. “Maybe. If what you say rang true, and if what you say is what I want.”
He tried not to let his small smile slip. That would strike out lying. A stupider person might have overlooked the amazing skill of lying. And another option could always be to just give her what she wanted. If they had such twofaced bastards on their side like Edgar, then whatever information he could give would just be something that she already knew.
She smiled, coming near to him. “Oh, what are you thinking about now?” she asked, her voice sickeningly sweet.
He grinned a large, silly grin. “You know, I’ve barely been in your presence for fifteen minutes, and I have already decided that you lie almost as well as I do.”
She frowned, suddenly unnerved at his change in attitude. His blunt admittance of seeing through her façade was as disarming as it was irritatingly insolent. And to top it off, she had slipped up with a momentary lapse in her expression.
She had to salvage whatever poise she had left. “And what makes you think that?”
Locke flicked a fuzz off of his tunic, setting a nonchalant tone. “Well,” he started with a sigh, meeting her cold gaze. “You have a sizable army which is about matched with ours. What we lack in training, we have in experience. What you lack in tactical thought, you have in materials. So I’d say this war will go on for a couple of more years, unless…” He paused, looking to her. She looked bored.
“Unless what?” she snapped. “I am losing patience.”
“Unless someone was to give little tips to the wrong side, dealing out some information about regiment movements, feints, attacks, locations, you know all that schlock that makes running a war about as easy as walking and chewing gum at the same time.”
She smirked again, her lips curling back around pearl teeth. “Can you do that?”
He frowned. “Run a war? Nah… Especially when you got spies everywhere. So, you see my point, here, is that if I say so much as one word to you about moving around armies or something, that won’t mean crap. You already have someone telling you your ass from your head, maybe more than one. Anything you get from me, you’ll already know. Keeping a promise like the one you proposed would be a waste of time and effort.”
A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she wrapped a hand around his neck. “Well, well, aren’t you the genius? But, you know, I do like to verify the information filtered to me,” she said, pulling his head close enough to hers that he could feel the warm puffs of her breath. “Are you willing to die for your cause, my friend?”
He stiffened. Was he? He didn’t know. He would fight, yes, but die? He wasn’t even sure of their cause. “Maybe,” he stated, careful to keep his face neutral. “I would imagine that that depends on how you’re planning to kill me.”
She giggled. “I wouldn’t want you killed so quickly. I still want my verification. Besides that fact, both you and I know that a leak has been taken care of by your merciless steel. My most dependable, unfortunately. I can only hope that they take good care of him over at Figaro. I would be most disappointed if he were to die.” Her tone suggested otherwise, but the words sounded true enough. They only hurt him, though. “His merciless steel”. Well, that was a slight exaggeration on her part. It was more like his blind luck and helpful fates. Or damning gods. Or all three.
She smiled, modestly. “Will you help me? I would be most obliged, and you would be aptly rewarded for such a valiant effort.”
He frowned, his face tight with anger. Is this what he thought it was? What kind of sick woman had he stumbled upon? “I am sworn to another,” he said carefully, watching the glowing gems she called eyes. They grew cold with anger, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, his face stinging painfully, his wrist and side throbbing horridly.
She loomed above him like a fire of rage. “You sworn to another?” She laughed briskly. “Only a fool would dare to turn down such a generous offer. If you won’t agree to help me, you will bend to my will,” she growled, her eyes flashing with hot anger. “You will be my dog, you will give me anything and everything. You are mine.”
With her final words, she turned and melted into the shadows, walking away silently. A door slammed shut with an echo that reverberated through his skull, pounding in time with his heart as he glanced once more around the room.
It was still wet and cold, not fiery and hot, and chillingly hard as steel. It was still recognizable as a silly cell, but imperial prison was starting to look a lot like hell.
Muryel Shinar, ruler of the Imperial Court, defender of the Nine United Nations, blah, blah, blah… Loraec shook his head slowly, imperceptibly. That was all she was. A bunch of long titles attached to a pretty face – a very pretty face, that, he would admit, he could watch all day without ever become bored with it. But she was only a figurehead for the most powerful nation in the world. She may have thought she was the main honcho, but she was sadly mistaken. Oh, was she ever.
“So, what do you think?” he asked carefully, breaking the uneasy silence that had fallen over the room in a thick blanket. He watched her brilliant eyes cloud over with barely contained rage. She was beautiful when she was angry.
“About what?!” she demanded hotly, her voice echoing softly through the large room. “There is nothing that I could pretend to be pleased about. You have nothing. If you want positive input, then show me some bloody good reports, not this crap you pass as our statistics! Our popularity is falling, our debt is rising, and our men are deserting! Tell me, what am I supposed to think about that?!”
Loraec leaned back coolly in his chair, folding his hands on his lap, glancing up at the crystal ceiling as he uttered an oath. She was beautiful when she was angry, but she was also a pain in the ass. Everything was about her. That’s what came of figureheads he supposed. He brought his gaze back down to her. “Maybe if you didn’t spend all the money on silly crystal ceilings, we’d be better off,” he muttered softly, his sharp black eyes narrowing as he looked at her. He cleared his throat as she glared at him, warding off the unspoken threat in her eyes with a slight frown. “That wasn’t the news of which I was speaking, my lady,” he continued slowly. He was fully aware of the thin ice he was now treading upon, and he didn’t like it.
She mirrored his frown, but the scowl was slowly rising from her features as she leaned back into her elegant chair. “And just what news were you speaking of, my dear general?”
He couldn’t hold back a grin. It was a character flaw, he supposed. Of course, the grin was just his pride breaking through his stone mask. Nobody could ever hide pride. “My newest acquisition, of course,” he declared, and his voice was layered thickly with it. “And my newest achievements on the battlefield.”
Her scowl returned to her face with the ferocity of a rabid dog. She snorted, her fiery mane of red hair cascading down her shoulders. “What care have I for your conquests?” she asked haughtily. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. “As long as you win this war, I could care less what whore you picked up over there!”
Loraec cringed inwardly, wishing away the shaming feeling he always received when she bit a chunk out of his pride. Outwardly, however, he forced a shadow of a smile upon his face. “Oh, really? I thought you liked him.”
She stared at him coldly for a long time before the ice melted into a small smile. Her laughter rang out through the room, matching the crystalline ceiling with its soft tinkling sound, echoing through the chamber as though the intricate murals were laughing as well. “Really, Loraec. If you weren’t amusing, I would’ve killed you long before this.” His eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened. He was not liking this. “And, as far as your battles go…” She arched an eyebrow, her laughter gone. “You had better keep winning them.”
He nodded stoically. “I have my methods,” he stated simply.
“Well, then, make sure your ‘methods’ don’t go out of date,” she replied smoothly. “I would hate to see the same happen to you.”
His hand wiped through the small pool of wine, wiping it in a long smear across the table. It reformed, coming together to form smaller globules. He frowned. That really wasn’t what he intended. He had wanted it to be something a little more dramatic than a smear of red wine. Now, he had to clean it up.
“Damn it,” he growled, standing. His chair scraped against the white marble floor with a sound that reverberated through the empty dining room. It really didn’t matter how loud it was. He was alone, in a private dining room, waiting to become hungry before he ate anything. It was better that way, to be hungry when you ate dinner. Everything was that much more meaningful. It was no longer a period just stuffing your face. It was something for which he could be thankful.
He sauntered to the end of the table and picked up a napkin of soft, white linen. He looked carefully over its pure white color, its flawless embroidery, its expensive texture. It was one of the few things that had been recovered from the old Vector before it had been attacked by the Espers and later decimated by the breaking of the world. He shrugged and began mopping up the split wine.
“Don’t you ever regret anything, Ezra?”
Loraec didn’t look up at the new voice, knowing full well who it was. He shook his head, soaking up the last few blotches. “No,” he stated simply, holding the ruined napkin for his companion to see.
Jake Price sat down at the table, leaning back and crossing his legs comfortably. “You could’ve sold that to a collector for a hundred gold pieces or more,” he argued. “Now, you’ll never get that stain out of it without ruining its grain. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra…”
Loraec frowned as he looked over his bastard brother. If there was any resemblance at all, it was just a little trick that made people see what they wanted: a couple of half-brothers. They could have been complete strangers. And that they were related at all was a fact Loraec didn’t appreciate. “Don’t call me that,” he growled, sitting back down and burying his nose in the remainder of the wine. “You will treat me with respect, damn it. I’m a bloody general; I earned it.”
Jake snorted. “By having no regrets, I bet. What if our wonderful leader comes down here and sees you ruining all her pretty handkerchiefs? Won’t she be angry with you?”
“Shut up,” he ordered. “You’re a disrespectful whelp, you know that. It’s a damn good thing you’re a bastard because I’d hate to have to explain your actions if you weren’t. You will not speak of our empress behind her back.”
Jake arched an eyebrow. “Walls have ears, and the ceiling, eyes,” he declared absentmindedly. “Like she would do anything to you, anyway. Everybody knows you’re her favorite, you know.”
Loraec glanced up. “Huh?”
Jake grinned. “You two were made for each other. You’re both bloody, twisted sadists.”
“Oh.”
Jake’s grin disappeared. It wasn’t really funny when he thought of it. His silvery gaze found the face of his brother, and he hated the sight of it. He hated what his brother did, hated being related to that scum even if it was only through unofficial means. And he hated his father, too, for being a little bit too fair to that boy he had spawned when playing with one of the emperor’s handmaids. If only things had been a little different, then he wouldn’t have to sit at the oversized table in a hot, black uniform with a couple of silver bars on it that marked him as a captain. He hated the army. His brother’s army. What a nice brother he had, too.
Make sure.
Those words were ice in his ears, numbing. He cold still hear them, ringing through his head as though they had been shouted with an overwhelming ferocity. They were cold, dispassionate. It was as if everyone was just a name on a long list that could just be scratched off without a regret. But he never regretted anything, did he? No, never. No regrets, no guilt, nothing. An automaton. Ezra Loraec had no feelings.
“I saw William today,” Jake declared suddenly, feeling as though he had to change his own private subject before the thoughts swirling around in his mind overwhelmed him. “He was distraught.”
Loraec grunted into his goblet before taking another drink. “Isn’t he always?” he asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Jake grunted in response. “No… I don’t think so, Ezra. I think he might, I dunno, jump off a cliff or something.”
That comment was rewarded with laughter. “You don’t really think so, do you?” Loraec queried, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “That is rich. Forget selling these silly napkins! Go sell that story to some comedian on the street corner. You’ll be in for the better bargain with that one.”
The younger man narrowed his eyes at his brother, his brow furrowing in anger. “Look, here, Ezra, this isn’t funny! Goddamn you! Why do you have to be like this?! The only thing that matters to you is yourself. Don’t you give a damn about anybody else?!”
Loraec stood up, and his chair slammed backward into the ground with a crash that resounded through the dining room. “Why the hell should I?!” he demanded hotly. “Why the hell should I have to care about you or anyone else?! Huh?! Is it some sort of obligation that I owe you?! I don’t owe you anything. You are nothing to me. You could very well be one of those bloody Returners for all I care!”
Jake stood slowly, leaning forward on the table, watching him with easily controlled fury. It was something he had learned to do growing up. Never lose your temper. It was the last thing before death: anger. Oh, how many men had died with anger as their last emotion, how many had died in a fit of fury. He wasn’t about to. “I don’t know why I even think to sit with you, or join you for dinner, or even follow your bloody orders,” he declared slowly before he pushed himself off of the table and started walking to the broad, arching doorway. “You can take your orders and shove ’em up your ass sideways for all I care.”
He slammed the door behind him, cutting off any rebuttal Loraec had waiting for him. The sound echoed for the few moments it took Jake to regain his composure. He leaned against the hard wood of the door with a sigh before he straightened his uniform and started down the empty hall.
He hated the Empire.
Sticks and branches grabbed at him, pulling his clothes as though they wanted him to stay, as though they were acting out the wishes of fate. Not this time. Oh, no. He was going to leave this time; he was going to get out. Nothing was going to stop him now. Especially a bunch of branches. Those branches would have to kill him to stop him. That was the only force that could stop him: death. Well, death and those bloody scouts.
But he had been smart. At least, he thought he had. He’d studied the bloody scouts’ routes for weeks, tagging along with them under the pretense of wanting to become one himself. No one could say anything against him. He might have been young, and he might have had not one day in battle clocked with him, but he had more authority than any of the generals in that entire army. That’s what came of being related to the right people. He could do whatever he wanted, and no one would raise a word against him lest he have their heads cut off or something. He would never do that, of course. Just let them think it.
He ducked under a tree branch and emerged in a large grassy field that stretched for miles in any direction. He had made good time despite the branches. He was at least a mile from the army now. The scouts were lazy; they rarely looked this far from the camp. In another mile, he could be sure that they wouldn’t catch him. All he had to do now was watch out for the creatures that prowled the plains and any imperial scouts. It would be simple.
He took a step out of the woods and jogged down a small hill until he was knee deep in sweet smelling grass. He wanted to dance, to pause and do a little jig of joy. He had left. He had left it all behind! He was on his way to doing the right thing now. He was about to redeem himself, to repent for all the sins of his people. One little action could do it. He had it. He was brave and strong, and he could stand up to all those bloody soldiers and generals and do this. They could say all they wanted about him, they could even miss him if they wanted; he didn’t care. He was free now.
With one sure yank, he ripped the Imperial insignia from his jacket, throwing it as far away from him as he could. He didn’t see it land, didn’t hear it hit the ground. He didn’t care. Let some crow find it and be pleased with itself for finding such shiny objects. That’s all they were worth. They weren’t suited for anything other than an animal’s collection of useless trinkets. They would serve well there.
He started walking again, breathing deeply, the warm air tickling at his nostrils. No more chains to bind him to a hateful service, no more selling his life to people who cared more about their bloody empire than the people living in it. No more killing for something that didn’t matter; no more pretending that it did.
No looking back.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking briskly through the grass. His foot snapped down on a stick, breaking it in half with a sound that echoed through the night on a whisper of wind. He took another step, carefully. He was free, nothing would stop him much less a twig.
Five figures rose like specters from the grassy surroundings, weapons pointed maliciously at him. His heart sank with dread. His eyes stared at them. Maybe he wasn’t free, maybe he hadn’t left it all behind.
“You’re under arrest.”