Author's Note:
Oh my. And I was debating whether I would write this chapter at all. Stepping back, I now think it's the best one thus far. It demanded to be written. The ideas came to me this morning on my way to work, and I've been hammering this out ever since I got home, unable to do anything but.
I switched voices here, because now we're nearing the storyline (-18 months) and entering familiar territory. I'm channeling a bit of John Updike with the switch to present tense and abuse of a stream-of-consciousness writing style. Thus the title of the chapter.
Standard boilerplates apply, please contact the author for details if you can't figure it out. As always, remember your mantra. Review. Review. Review!
Chapter 6 - Rabbit Redux–Autumn, 704 VE
The skin itches where the leather wraps around her shin. Fran shifts the weight of the pack full of pelts to the opposite shoulder, and leans over to rub the sand out from between the shin-guard and her leg. To many the ornamental armor is base and scandalous and they avoid eye contact– to the more worldly they incorrectly conclude she just stumbled out of the Golmore, eyes squinting– to the few Imperials who have glimpsed her so clad it would be a wet dream made real, or perhaps a case of déjà vu– to the Moogle artisan it is his finest handiwork– and to Fran... she shakes away the memory. It's mid-morning and the sky over the Westersand is a clear, vibrant blue, the harsh sun conveniently obscured by steep canyon walls, and she won't dwell on such things.
"Rather pleasant in the autumn when the winds are calm," she remarks to no one in particular.
Presently she stumbles upon an air anchor where the rift valley is wider. She peers up the cable looking for its owner, and the dividing line between shadow and sunlight is visible on it some distance above, but the end seems tethered to the sky itself. Considering that it may be too high above to be visible, she estimates the cable itself would weigh more than most airships at that distance. She laughs briefly at such preposterousness.
It must be cloaked. I wonder if this is the work of Moogles or of Draklor?
But she does not stay long to ponder this intriguing technology (aside from throwing a stone skywards in the off-chance it was low enough to hit; it was not). It will be hot later, and she is still a few hours from Rabanastre where she intends to lighten her load.
She is still throwing backward glances, hoping to catch some visual anomaly caused by such experimental technology, when she hears the distinct report of an Altair some distance ahead. Fran wonders whether the firearm's owner and the anchor's owner might be one and the same. A few minutes worth of quiet progress later, and another cluster of shots drifts towards her ears. Fran has the benefit of retracing her steps through the Westersand whence earlier she cleared of wolves and cockatrice, but this traveler is less fortunate, and his are the stragglers that hide in other corners of the windswept maze.
She abandons the hope of overtaking her path-displaced companion when no further sounds of gunfire occur and half an hour passes. Around the midway point of her trek back into town, she hears the far-off cry of an alpha wolf, daring to return with his pack to areas she chased them from earlier. From her opposite shoulder she produced her longbow and holds it loosely.
Fran was hesitant to start up with the bow again after spending weeks recuperating from the accident some months ago. She hadn't used it since she left the foreign legion, and made little regular use of other weapons either. But she knew full well the longer she went without practice, the harder it would be to get the strength back in her upper body. The first month was torture on her right shoulder, and she even considered switching draw hands, but by the third the arrows flew as effortlessly as if she never left the wood warders. She smiles, mildly surprised to find two dead cockatrices at the bottom of a dune; she doesn't remember dispatching them while lost in thought seconds ago, but they are full of her arrows.
There are three unwritten rules of game hunters. The first of these is: kill only to poach or in self-defense. Second is to never take unclaimed loot you did not acquire yourself. The third and most important was also the least clear. Be fair to your fellow entrepreneur. What this amounted to was: "Don't dump fifty prime pelts in the bazaar early in the morning, or the rest of us won't get squat for our hauls." Not as succinct an expression, but more to the point. Fran considers each of these maxims in turn as she cautiously advanced.
Game hunters were an odd bunch. They fancied themselves an Ivalice-wide brotherhood of sorts, even if they weren't as organized as mark hunters with their clans and guilds. And as such, there was resentment when their own yearned for higher aspirations, plowing through packs of foes, gaining experience with which they might become more proficient and take on higher visibility targets. The oft-used excuse was that such activities would endanger loot-stock populations, but as Fran put a few well-placed arrows through regrouping wolves, she knew this to be nonsense. She ignored the pelts but kept the fire stones they left behind; of the former she had plenty, but the latter were easily pocketed.
She considers the second rule a double standard. She is leaving behind what she cannot take with her, but how could one fault the next person who comes along from taking advantage of her surplus? After all, according to the first rule, if one did not have to even engage a serpent to have his scales, would this not be a greater good? For a brotherhood, the virtue of cooperation is markedly missing. Working in a team never came naturally to Fran, but after floating through two clans and the military, she appreciated that with coordinated effort great (or abominable) things might be achieved.
"But who am I to judge?" she asks under her breath, working with her dagger to claim a prime pelt from an already-dead rare specimen that nearly tripped her. It will not fit in her pack, so she discards a bundle of feathers to make room. As she folds it, she notices two bullet holes in the tuft of the neck. The downy fur is scorched and smells of gunpowder; the bitch must have been a rough playmate for her earlier desert companion.
It is still not yet noon, and the western gate of Rabanastre is now in sight. Her pace quickens, ignoring sleeping cactrots and avoiding the well-known haunts of the weaker canines here. Early yet in the trading day, Fran hopes to earn enough to exchange for the last bazaar good she needs to complete her checklist. With that out of the way, she'll be able to pick up the toy she's planned on acquiring for weeks. There's no reason to be fair to your fellow entrepreneur if you no longer compete with them for the same prize, she reasoned.
She gently bit her lower lip with anticipation.
No one waiting in line at the gate is happy to see her. Perhaps it was her quickly acquired reputation for not playing by the rules. It did not help that everyone was already on edge in Dalmasca considering recent developments in Hume politics, and the continuous presence of the Archadian military compounded the resentful atmosphere. She stuck out like a sore thumb by appearance alone, and her attitude was not appreciated in an community of increasing conformity, whether it was in silent unity against von Rosenburg and House Solidor, or by not attracting attention to ones company in face of irritable judges. Or perhaps it was the smell of decaying flesh that stuck to the pelts she carried.
In any case, she had every right to be as mad at her former countrymen as the citizens of Dalmasca; alas she could never tell anyone why, lest she compromise herself and eventually be found out. Joan Kenroh: deserter and traitor. Instead it was always scoffs and dirty looks. "Oh no," they would say, "you wouldn't understand, you're not from here anyway, this isn't your fight." And what of it? Fran nearly joined the Dalmascan rebels out of spite, but thought better of it. She wouldn't be satisfied unless she was given some responsibility, and that was unlikely.
A Bangaa on chocobo and a foot soldier were getting into a row at the gate, much to the protest of some further ahead in line. Ivalice was changing, indeed. She desired to play a part in it, but her experience thus far was not what she had imagined. I will make my mark in my own way.
Self-examination and musings of Galtean social interactions are little comfort to Fran as she waits to be admitted into West Gate. She furrows her brow and purses her lips, as she is wont to do when she can no longer hide her displeasure beneath that mythical veil of Vieran impassivity. What little of that trait she had was shed long ago before she left the wood, and now she must practice at it. When dealing with anyone in town, no one wants anything to do with your troubles, and transactions go more smoothly when you can pretend to care about their own.
In any case she preferred not spend any more time in this place than she needed to; this lent a continual air of urgency to her presence in town. Most nights she retreated to the little villages on the Nebras. They were a place of gathering when she was in clan Atma, they were a relaxing excursion when she had leave from the barracks, and they were a godsend when she needed a healer who didn't ask questions after her tumble from a wild chocobo into the middle of camp.
More importantly, the satellite community functioned as a makeshift bank. Without Archadian citizenship she could no longer partake in financial instruments the gentry enjoyed, IOUs only held weight if she had a long-standing positive reputation (hah), and barter was a fickle thing subject to the whims of the bazaar. But the little towns were watering post to all manner of caravans and couriers with which Fran was most familiar from a prior life, and she curried favor with them. In exchange for information– shortcuts and optimal stopover routes that she could recite from memory, news of recent feybeast sightings, warnings of bandit activity –they could fetch or ferry anything she wished with a reliability surpassing any shmuck with a stall in the Muthruu. And she liked to keep her gil and precious stones in a jar made anonymous by a pile of disused pottery behind the elder's hut. No plucky street urchins there to pickpocket you.
And those plucky street urchins follow you like the Lorelei when you drop hints to said caravans' arrival times. Perhaps I should stop playing both sides of the fence and just become an actuary; they benefit no matter what...
Her thoughts are interrupted by a second particularly loud exchange to her immediate left upon the Aerodome steps. She is at first annoyed by the outburst, then amused by the queer sight: a tall, markedly handsome man with blonde hair and an unusual choice of shirt is arguing with a diminutive Nu Mou, comically separated by the stack of journals he carries. She catches a few words that might be proper nouns: "Balthier" and "Strahl". She laughs quietly, the names are plucked straight from a play for spoiled Archadian bastards. And the tall one (Balthier?) seems to be losing, his hands are now in his hair, slicking it back while he comes up with a retort— and none is coming! The little harbormaster pitters back into the darkness of the antechamber. Deflated, 'Balthier' (oh gods that's rich) turns on his heel and strides purposefully back out towards the Westersand, reaching for an Altair which was strapped across back. She blinks and wipes her eyes, just to make sure she hadn't mistaken it for a Sirius.
Fran finds herself watching his head disappear behind a sand dune when she realizes the line has moved, and nature abhors a vacuum. She smiles meekly at the annoyed enqueued behind her and closes the gap. So that is the kind of mummer they're allowing to test pilot nowadays? Now I've seen everything. So much so that I'm seeing them twice; I know I've seen that guy before.
Anyplace in Lowtown would have been less shady than the back alley behind the Sandsea. But her contact insisted she meet them there with the odd cache of items they requested. Someteen broken staffs, half as many sickle cell blades, and fire crystals? She'd rather not know the intended purpose. And who was this 'them'? The intonation suggested some subversive element, the rebels perhaps, and to be safe she disguised herself. Ears carefully folded back and tied with ribbons into her hair, nails trimmed, a simple work smock and sandals, all tucked under a worn cloak to hide her memorable hair and face.
Zodiark, it's hot. How do Rabanstreans stand any clothes at all in the summer?
As time dragged along while she made her way through the twisted labyrinth, she regrets the layers of excess clothing. After all, everything that Bangaa told her was framed with conspiracy and paranoia, even while exchanging simple pleasantries. "What do you mean you think it's going to rain?" he had shrieked, and all within earshot in the Muthruu tensed up, conversations derailed. And he had this nervous tendancy to look about his person in guileless gestures as though he was tracking a flying insect by sound. Against her better judgement, she asked him if he knew anything about a man calling himself 'Balthier'. Of course he did, and she was treated to a drawn out account of fantastically-daring-yet-noble pirating deeds which she found suspiciously similar to the first and second acts of the eponymous play. But the story diverged in the third act, and there she listened more closely.
She wasn't sure how much of it could be believed considering the source, but she was pretty sure two of claims were meritable. He had commandeered an appropriately fantastic airship, and he was looking for a partner.
What do you care?, she asks herself as she rounds the dark final corner of the forgotten backstreet. He couldn't even win an argument against a stack of books. So what if he looks like an older Ffamran?
This thought causes her to stop midstride. But the bag she carries is heavy, and the heat of the afternoon is sweltering even in the shade, so she quickly abandons this internal line of inquiry. There were more pressing matters at hand.
Fran climbs down a short flight of stairs that recess into the pavement and approached the door. She hesitates briefly before knocking as there is an argument going on inside; no answer comes but the shouting match continues unabated. After a few minutes the smell of stale beer, urine, and vomit wears her patience, and she knocks a second time more loudly.
The door opens suddenly to reveal a large, plain-faced man with short black hair. His cheeks are red and his breath audible. "What the fuck do you want?!"
"I'm supposed to give you these—" Fran produced the bag from under her cloak. The man ignores it and peers at her hood, straining to glimpse her face.
"Who beck– «cough» who's that at the door?" a woman asks quietly inside. Her accent strikes Fran as peculiar, as if she was an educated thespian, researching the part of a tavern worker for her next play.
"Someone is trying to sell us a sack of gods know what. Did you know about this too?" From his build and mannerisms, she knew this friendly fellow had done his stint in the military as well. Recently.
"I had it set up. She's okay, please let her come inside."
Fran quietly made her way to a table in the middle of the room. Maps or perhaps blueprints coverd it; she couldn't tell, as the black-haired man was hastily gathering them up while throwing her suspicious glances. She put the bag and the checklist down on the table.
The man left, while the woman stayed in the corner by the door to the adjacent room, purposefully far enough from the light hanging over the table that her face stayed unlit. Here they had something in common. She was dressed in typical Dalmascan garb, though she seemed to have something for fuchsia.
"Let's keep this short," she begins, in that forced colloquial tone, "I trust you have everything we asked for, or you wouldn't have wasted your time to come here. What you want is in the Aerodome, bay 15, under the name of Amalia." Fran wondered briefly whether her accent sounded that odd those first few years as a caravan rider.
In a show of good faith, Fran takes a moment to empty out the sack and segregate its contents for her, laying them out so the woman could see them clearly from the doorway. She smiles, Fran notices, her teeth moderately visible in the indirect light.
"Thank you for this. Enjoy it, but be careful," the woman adds, her hands now on her hips.
Odd young girl. Fran took her leave and carefully closed the back door. As soon as the latch clicked the voices began again; not quite so loud as before but she supposes they would be if she eavesdropped long enough. Mixed up in the wrong sort of thing...
Upon emerging from the alley into the bustle of East End, Fran throws back her hood, frees her ears, and lets her hair down. She makes her way south with a spring in her step, barely able to contain her glee.
"And here we are, miss, uh, Amalia." The Nu Mou who won the argument earlier peered up at her over his glasses, thoroughly unimpressed. He unlocks the double-leaved hangar door with a wave of his hand; the sections retracting soundlessly, a stenciled '15' thereupon becoming '1' and '5', and presently they were inside the man-made cavern with optional sunroof.
Her new hoverbike looked out of place, moored comically to a palette jack, as if it was cargo left behind by some substantial vessel. But she doesn't mind the juxtaposition; it was her new baby and she started bonding while it was just specs on paper, long before she lay eyes upon it. Lithe but sturdy, it was a respectable gunmetal gray molded into an aggressive shape; a single glossair ring domainated the nose and two crimson upholstered seats fell in line behind it. Fran smiles as she entertains the idea to practice flying it indoors, being so dwarfed by the size of the hangar bay. She turns to jokingly ask the harbormaster if he'll permit her to do so, but is surprised when she can't find him, then reminding herself he's one third her height.
Giddy and unable to remember the question she wanted to ask, she merely glances down at him. He's busied himself with a clipboard. Gazing at the hoverbike amidst the cavernous hanger again, she considers how the Nu Mou and Fran would be just as odd to see side by side. And for that matter so had been he and Balthier! Or even Balthier and she. The bike did have room for two.
Where the hell did that come from?
A cough floats up from below her, and she is surprised to find him now standing in front of her, holding up a clipboard with dangling pen. Fran suppresses an embarrased grin and takes it from him. She signs an illegible scribble at the bottom of the page, making the transaction official enough. He takes them from her, and she strides over to her new beau.
"Ahem. You'll need to come back for that in an hour. That's an unregisterable vehicle, so it has to go through customs, besides it won't be able to take off through the roof. It will be waiting for you outside West Gate."
Fran frowns, if briefly. "Fine. One hour."
The feet seem to have a mind of their own, and they've taken her back to the Sandsea. She enters through the front door this time.
The mouth seems to have a mind of its own, and it orders brandy of serpentwine. She drinks it from a shot glass this time.
The ears seem to have a mind of their own, and they alert her to the presence of a novel, cryptic notice on the board. She considers hunting a challenging mark this time.
The nose seems to have a mind of its own, and she finds herself in front of the notice board. She takes down the bill, claiming it before other would-be adventurers this time.
The eyes seem to have a mind of their own, and she finds herself skipping to the bottom.
An illegible signature, and below that, a singular printed name: Balthier.
Sand is whipping up into a wake behind Fran as she speeds across the open plateaus of the Estersand. The painted walls of encircling rock become a colorful blur if she regards them from the corner of her eye. Never has she felt so free in her long life.
And never has she been so apprehensive. She has little more than a week before she is supposed to meet this Balthier, and she has a long list of preparations. So much to do, so much to do, but it could be worse. I could be huffing it and kicking away cactrots.
Fran grins so widely bugs might chip her teeth, and she covers her mouth this time.