Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THIRD SORCERESS WAR

Part I

Not Under Her Control

December 22^nd, 270 A.U

250 years after the Third Sorceress War

At a location they believed known only to them, Gerra Almasy surveyed the impressive machinery while Odine entered the final preparations into the mainframe.  The device emitted a low hum as it came to life, the lights coming on and bathing the walls of the long-abandoned naval building with a neon-blue hue.  It was huge, containing a domed chamber vast enough for one to run circles around, accessible by a single airlock and viewable by a surrounding window.  In the chamber’s centre was a solitary marble archway in the ancient Centran décor. It stood some ten feet high, its legs grooved, the frescoed surface of the arch recently polished to its former brilliance, although besmirched at intervals with thick ceruleum cables.

Gellert Odine IX looked to one of his assistants.

'Throw the first switch!' he commanded, in a voice that showed he was used to having his instructions followed without question.  As chief researcher of the Empress, his methods were rarely questioned.  However, what he and Gerra were planning was by no means in service to the Empress.  ‘Phase one!’

'Yes, sir!'

Odine did not have the notorious accent of his most infamous ancestor, as the Millefeulle Archipelago had long since been reclaimed by the raging seas, but the peculiar dress sense of his clan had been honoured as a testament to the Odine Industries of the Old Empire.  He was barely five feet tall, with thinning, ever-greying hair in a small bun on the crown of his head, and he retained the comically large collar around his neck.  His wispy moustache was even lighter.  His wide trousers were green, and he wore black, pointed shoes.

Gerra stepped towards the airlock with a little apprehension, the flat of his ancestral Hyperion on his shoulder.  Having seen thirty namedays, he was a little over six feet tall, with a mane of long, brown hair now receding from a broad forehead.  He had a neatly trimmed beard and green eyes which were full of intensity.  His muscular bulk was largely hidden by his black trenchcoat.  Around his neck was a silver chain from which two orange magicite crystals steadily pulsated with the essence of the Guardian Forces they enslaved; sunburst for Ifrit, golden for Phoenix.

'Phase Two!' Odine shouted, as the low hum from the machine went up a pitch, increasing in tempo.

'Yes, sir!' a dark-haired female assistant called obligingly from her terminal. Her eyes were tight with concentration as she hit a series of keys and threw a switch.

When the airlock opened, Gerra stepped through the opening, into the sizeable chamber beyond.  Searing blue lights shone, momentarily dazzling him and throwing his shadow in all directions, though he walked determinedly forward, towards the archway.

Suddenly, there was a horrendous bang audible over the machine's noise, from one of the giant double doors to the old facility. As everyone looked in its direction, Odine shouted, 'Phase Three, now!'

'Aye, sir!' a third assistant stammered.

The bang was repeated a second time, as loud as a thunderclap, then a third. The doors crashed inward, one of them knocked clean off its weathered hinge by the sheer power of the assailant.

Gerra immediately recognised the sapphire-hued, human battering ram which marched through the opening.  It was the Forestaller of Omega himself, Leonidas of House Christophe, High Commander of all imperial forces.  A Son of Almaj well and true, Leo was a colossal six feet six and over twenty stone, donning heavy obsidian armour and a crimson cape.  At over forty namedays – a feat in itself in this harsh world – he was at least ten years Gerra’s senior, told of by his once-golden mohican which now greyed at the roots, and his even greyer horseshoe moustache.  Across his massive back was a twin-bladed gunblade, also obsidian in colour and nearly as long as him, known as Harbinger.

Like Gerra, Leo wore a magicite crystal at his throat, and his enormous body was surrounded by the blue aura of Bahamut, whose power he had stolen but a fraction from to force entry to the building.  Even more worrying was that Leo was followed by the dozen ruby-armoured soldiers which comprised Sorceress Ultimecia’s Praetorian Guard, the only twelve imperial soldiers which did not come under Leo’s jurisdiction, and each with a magicite crystal of their own.

'Gerra!’ Leo's deep voice was amplified by his GF, resonating around the facility with a chilling menace as he ran for the airlock, super speed drawn from Bahamut.  ‘Odine! The Empress knows of your betrayal!'

'Close the airlock!' Odine shrieked, terror evident in his voice.

Gerra raised his gunblade with his right hand. The Praetorians rounded on the scientists as Leo cleared the opening just before the airlock closed. He met the overhand blow with the flat of his Hyperion, retaliating with a backhand slash that Leo instinctively batted aside. Gerra knew the plan had gone beyond the point of no return, and Leo himself getting inside the airlock was a dangerous complication.

The longest serving member of the Twelve was Vargas of the Zebalga clan. He was dark-skinned, but with his tri-goggled headgear only part of his face and neck were visible, including some spiralling and intertwining lines of keloid scarification.  Vargas had been the only Praetorian to survive the calamitous battle with Omega Weapon some years earlier, and while there were no ranks among the Twelve, this newer batch all naturally looked to Vargas as a leader.  Not least because they were petrified of him.  His magicite of choice was that of Tiamat, equalling Bahamut’s in power.

Vargas stepped toward Odine and pushed the tip of his sickle-shaped khopesh into the scientist's neck.  'Stop that contraption, now!' he demanded.

'No!' Odine said defiantly. 'Everything is in motion! You cannot stop us now! In the name of my forefathers, I am willing to die for this cause!'

Odine's eyes moved to the gigantic machine as the steady hum increased a couple of octaves and pounded their eardrums.  The neon ceruleum lights began flashing around the facility even more brilliantly, but the headgear worn by the Praetorians automatically prevented dazzling, and they did not respond with a sense of urgency.  Odine’s gaze returned defiantly back to Vargas as he ordered all but three of them to surround the closed chamber, and he now betrayed no fear.

Vargas believed Odine's resolve. He merely grunted and swung at the scientist's neck. The blade cut just above the ludicrous collar and parted the scientist's head from his shoulders.  Gellert Odine IX's body crumpled to the concrete floor with the head following, which rolled to rest against the base of the terminal.  The scientist's lifeless eyes betrayed a hint of surprise from the sight of the swinging blade in the last second of his life. A growing pool of blood poured from the neck of the headless corpse, changing the colour of the collar.

'Bring them to me!' Vargas ordered, to the three Praetorians still covering the scientists.

Inside the machine, Leo and Gerra were battling fiercely, super speed and strength gifted to them via their GFs, their gazes locked on one another with grim determination and paying no mind to what was going on outside.  They both had apparitions of wings on their shoulders, too; Gerra’s were golden as Phoenix's were, and Leo’s were a blazing sapphire.

To hell with Leo and his honour! Vargas thought as he ran to the airlock. He saw it was blast reinforced, probably bolstered by an invisible forcefield.  He would have to use Tiamat to force his way inside.  The reactivated ancient archway displayed an image, almost like a two-dimensional screen in between, though it kept shifting.  A glorious castle of five towers; a stone lighthouse on a peninsular; a floating colossus with a great ring at its base; a long-lost city of a thousand lights with a pall of storm clouds above it – which seemed tiny in comparison to a sprawling, sapphire-coloured metropolis that was now being displayed.  Vargas just stared in dismay.  He knew what some of these images were, that they were throwbacks to a previous time, to before the Great Konquest!

The light and noise intensified to a point where the scientists could barely see or hear Gerra and Leo.  Lacking protective headgear, they shut their eyes and put their hands over their ears.  The image between the arch was now that of a giant white dish. Vargas watched haplessly as Gerra, having finally created some distance from Leo, flew into it.  Leo followed him a heartbeat later.

Vargas resolved to follow, as the remaining eleven Praetorians were more than sufficient to search the facility and round up any of the researchers.  Drawing on Tiamat's strength, he begun to kick the airlock much the same way Leo had forced through the entrance to the facility, but an instant later the ceruleum lights disappeared as though somebody had flicked a switch, and the image of the white bowl projected between the archway vanished.  The surrounding machinery was rapidly powering down, and Vargas realised he must have triggered some sort of failsafe.  The marble archway was as lifeless as the unearthed relic it was, as though the images between it had been mere illusion.

He looked to the scientists that were being held at sword and gunpoint at their terminals. Out of all three, only a young male showed any sign of fear.  As the elder of the scientists remained motionless, the young man was visibly quaking.

The grey-haired male next to him smiled, then said, 'It is done.'

Vargas snarled and ran him through with his sickle sword, the older man's body collapsing much like Odine's as he began to bleed out on the cold concrete.

'I know what you have done!’ Vargas said coldly and lowly to the acne-stricken and greasy haired young man.  ‘Reactivate that machine, immediately, so I can follow them to the past!'  The young man just stood there quivering, and Vargas leaned forward until his face was an inch from the young scientist's. 'Unless you wish to spend the rest of your life in the Empress’ dungeon, with the Red Giant as your cellmate!'

The younger scientist was visibly going through a panic attack. He was sweating now, and breathing heavily. He looked at his dying colleague, then fearfully back to Vargas. 'I don't know how!' he blurted.

Vargas gestured with his khopesh to the female researcher.

'Bring her over here!' he instructed.

One of the Praetorians roughly marched her roughly toward him from her station.

'Reactivate the archway!' Vargas ordered.

'It's too late!' she said boldly and defiantly. 'And I will not help you. I am willing to die for this cause.'

Vargas curled his lip.  'You, perhaps. But is this one?'  He pointed his khopesh threateningly at the young man, then looked to the Praetorian on her left and said, 'Kill her.'

The elite wordlessly drew his plasma pistol and shot her point-blank. The young scientist remained frozen, his face now plastered with her blood.  But then his face began to change, his fear giving way to adrenaline.  His jaw set and his eyes looked determined.  Vargas recognised the look of resignation and knew he would not be able to follow Gerra and Leo, not anytime soon.  While he could torture the man, and would savour every second, he feared there was precious little time.

Surprising Vargas, the young man lunged for the gun arm of his colleague's murderer.  Another Praetorian run him through with his sword before he could begin to take the weapon.

'Fool!' Vargas admonished his fellow elite, as the young man's blood dripped from his weapon. 'How will we get to them, now?' he spat.  Furious, he turned to the others. 'Get on those terminals! We need to find some way of restoring that archway!'

A frantic, but ultimately fruitless search followed.  Odine had programmed the terminals to be erased as soon as the operation was complete. As a failsafe, he had also planted a reverse-engineered nuclear weapon in the sub-levels of the facility, which was currently counting down to zero - reusing antiquated Galbadian technologies had pleased him as much as using ancient Centran ones.

As eleven Praetorians were left scratching their heads and being callously berated by Vargas, the entire facility went up in a ten-kiloton nuclear explosion which completely obliterated what once known as Fisherman's Horizon.  The blast certainly destroyed any trace of Gellert Odine IX’s Timegate Machine Ellone, ensuring that no one could follow Ultimecia’s Knight, nor her High Commander, to the past.  Furthermore, it vapourised every member of the Twelve, along with their magicite crystals, freeing the Guardian Forces from Sorceress Ultimecia’s control for the first time in two and a half centuries; with their lairs long since compromised, they immediately started seeking out the White SeeD Ship.

In a castle thousands of miles away, upon her oversized throne, Sorceress Ultimecia was despairing at the betrayal of her Knight and his earlier destruction of her Junction Machine Ellone.  She felt the massive disturbance upon the aether. In that moment, she knew she was alone, and that she had become more vulnerable than she had been since before her Great Konquest.

March 17^th, 5020 A.H (20 A.U)

20 years after the Second Sorceress War,

and 19 years into the Third

After the light enveloped Gerra, and then Leo, they had seemingly been thrown into an empty void, moving at impossible speed but feeling weightless at the same time.  Gerra could only liken it to a wormhole or crossing through the fabled Interdimensional Rift.  How long this went on for was impossible to say, as Gerra could hold no coherent thought in his head and time itself seemed incomprehensible.  Time passed, for it must have done so. Gerra started to fear that something had gone wrong, that he would spend the rest of eternity in this state, ceasing to exist. Suddenly he materialised into the bottom of a massive bowl – the Sun Dish of Fisherman's Horizon in all its former glory.  Phoenix’s wings had suddenly deserted him, causing him to fall roughly to the surface.

This giant dish, Gerra knew, had been the nerve centre of renewable energy for the ocean city in its heyday, containing hundreds of solar panels and surrounded by countless wind turbines at its rim. At the centre of the dish was a substantial raised platform, atop which was a dwelling.  The solar panels were raised vertically to the east to catch the rising sun.  A waxing moon, almost full, bathed the dish in silver light.

As per Odine’s instruction, Gerra had thrown out a mental bond with the Centran archway much like how he controlled his GFs through magicite enslavement.  Except Leo had fractured his concentration as soon as he appeared, and for a few seconds the arch had been showing a gateway to Leo’s ancestral Lenown Castle in the completely wrong time period.  Fisherman’s Horizon was not where he wanted or needed to be, even though the naval facility had been located on what remained of its future counterpart.  Assuming this was the correct year, ‘FH’ was likely under imperial control and it would be difficult – but not impossible – for him reach the western continent.

Gerra scrambled to his feet just as Leo’s large caped and armoured form thundered through the arch – absent Bahamut’s wings, Gerra immediately noticed, clattering to the floor where he had just been.  A second later, the image of the goggled Vargas about to force his way beyond the airlock winked out as though it had never been there, and the marble archway disappeared along with it.  In the next second, Gerra and Leo met each other's gaze.

'What in the name of the Empress have you done?' Leo demanded, as he swiftly regained his footing.

Gerra was about to answer, when he noticed the crystal at Leo's neck was devoid of its usual light-blue resonance.

'You no longer have Bahamut,' he mentioned.

Leo's eyes moved to Gerra's own necklace after seeing his own.

'Ifrit and Phoenix are gone, too,' he said.

Shit! Gerra thought.  Losing his GFs had not been part of the plan, even though Odine had warned him that this might happen, as bringing them across time could lead to... complications.  But for now, Leo not being able to draw on the mighty Bahamut would even things between them.

'We'll settle this man to man, then,’ Gerra said.

Leo nodded once, planting his feet and resuming his stance as he replied, ‘You are a champion of the arena, after all.’

Gerra lunged at Leo with a quick upthrust, who easily angled his great gunblade downward to parry, stepping forward and swinging Harbinger crosswise, his movements no less lithe for a warrior of his girth.  Gerra simply stepped out of line and swung backhand in the same instant. The twin blades of Harbinger whistled through where he had been standing a moment before, though Leo pivoted and caught the tip of Hyperion near his own gunblade's double hilt.

The two gunbreakers uttered nothing save for a few grunts as they moved back and forth in between a line of solar panels.  Gerra was only lightly armoured beneath his trench coat, which had always been his preference to remain more supple. He had never believed in taking multiple hits inside a suit of armour, having initially learned to fight as a gladiator, where armour was forbidden and there were no second chances. Leo was widely held to be the finest swordsman in the Empire; even Vargas would have stood little chance against him, nor the green eleven Praetorians who had replaced the ones killed by Omega. But for all Leo's discipline against Gerra's brawling style, it was akin to an unarmed martial artist trying to subdue a torama. Still, even a torama's endurance was not unlimited, and eventually Leo would find the opening he needed - he would only need one.

Leo would never dishonour himself by using bullets.  Harbinger was loaded with blanks to increase the devastation of a slash, so Gerra did not have to worry about remaining within it.  Hyperion was loaded with live ammunition, as Gerra did not have the same reservations.  Gerra parried a knee-buckling cleave from Leo, brought his elbows in, and squeezed the gunblade's trigger.  The bang from the high calibre shot reverberated around the crater-like Sun Dish and the bullet caught Leo in his breastplate.  The obsidian armour, made impenetrable by Ultimecia's sorcery, stopped the bullet cold, but the force of the shot was enough to make him stagger. Even so, Gerra knew that only a shot to a join in the armour, or a headshot, would be enough.

Gerra pressed his attack, but a simmering rage began to manifest in Leo's expression as he gradually regained the offense, something Gerra had never seen from him before.  The big, broadfaced High Commander emphasised each statement in between powerful strikes of his gunblade, which almost made Gerra lose his footing.  'You were never. Worthy. Of being. Her Knight. You honourless dog!’ he profaned.

'Halt!'

It was a crisp command coming from the raised premises at the Dish's centre, followed by a single warning gunshot. Gerra and Leo simultaneously backed off and turned toward it.  On the platform's edge were soldiers in uniforms which Gerra recognised as being from the Old Empire: tight bodysuits augmented with purple cuirasses, brassards, and greaves, in addition to beige elbow and knee cops.  Nine had old Esthari-style 'shotgunblades': double-bladed pickaxes topping stubby, triple-barrelled shotguns. The soldiers stood as a contubernium of ten, the decanus in the middle absent a primary weapon, but with a ceruleum-augmented sword at his waist.

Without his GFs for flight or super speed, Gerra would not be able to flee as easily, so decided to stand his ground.  Leo must have come to the same decision. They slowly inched away from one another to face the soldiers, who kept their stubby pointed at them as they quickly made their way down the steps.

'Don't move!' the same crisp voice commanded.

Gerra did not fear the shotgunblades.  Even without Ifrit or Phoenix's magic barriers, the invisible shield generated from the device on his belt would protect him from gunfire beyond a certain range.  Leo would have one, too.  Depending on the year, the Esthari may not have even invented them yet. Upon seeing the Esthari, Gerra had feared he may have arrived too late into the past, but the mention of Ultimecia’s mortal enemies with the connotation that they were still a clear and present danger to her instilled him with some hope.  By the same token, he could have arrived much too early.  Sadly, Gerra knew that FH's Founding Fathers had stubbornly pursued their pacifistic ideals and it had been an easy acquisition for the Empress in the early years of the Great Konquest.

The decanus sized them up.  He naturally seemed to be more wary of the more imposing Leo, glancing from his giant gunblade to his armour, and then to Gerra's Hyperion.  He stopped a couple of yards away, the subordinates just behind him.

'Western gunblades,' he observed. 'Are you SeeDs? Identify yourselves!'

'SeeDs?’ Leo snarled in disgust, uttering the name like a curse.  ‘Do I look like one of those pale, marauding locusts?’

‘Where are you from?’ the decanus demanded, before looking between them again. ‘Centra?’

Leo said nothing in response, though it intrigued Gerra that their Centran accents would still be recognisable to those in the past.

‘Probably, sir,’ one of the legionaries piped up.  ‘Some of the nomads still wear steel armour, don’t they?’

‘Steel?’ another one scoffed.  ‘The big one’s armour looks like it’s been carved from basalt!’

The decanus held up a hand to silence the legionaries, continuing to glance between Gerra and Leo.

‘Well?’ he demanded of them.

‘I implore you,’ Leo said suddenly, ‘in the name of the Empress, to take this man into custody.  I will give myself up, but only on the condition that you grant me an audience with the Empress.’

‘Don’t do it!’ Gerra urged spontaneously.  ‘He’s one of SeeDs assassins, targeting the Viceroy!’ 

An uneasy silence followed.  The legionaries held their weapons stiffly, awaiting the command of the decanus, who looked between Gerra and Leo one final time.

'I am placing the pair of you under arrest,’ he decided, ’for violating curfew, carrying arms in public, firing a weapon and disorderly behaviour.  You will be subject to interrogation and questioning, and if either of you resist, you will be killed.  Throw down your weapons immediately!'

‘I shall say this once,’ Leo warned.  ‘You are making a grave error.  As long as this traitor draws breath, the Empress is in grave danger.’

'Don't believe a word he says!' Gerra urged.  He was closest to the nearest row of solar panels, some three yards to his left.  If the soldiers approached Leo first, he would have a chance to escape.

‘Fire!’ the decanus suddenly commanded.

Ten blasts of buckshot plasma roared in unison, each stopped in midair by an unseen forcefield about a yard away from either target.  Their projectile shields would not give Gerra and Leo unlimited protection from gunfire, but it was enough for now.

Leo took a single step forward and beheaded the decanus with a great swing of Harbinger before he could even draw his ceruleum-lit sword.  One of the nearest two legionaries was so stunned at the sudden, violent action he had frozen with terror, but the other uselessly fired his weapon again.  With Harbinger having almost double the length of his projectile shield.  Leo moved diagonally towards them and struck with a devastating stroke that ripped through both breastplates, cutting them nigh on in half. A third legionary turned to flee as Leo's twin blades pierced his back with a great thrust.

As the rest backstepped well out of Harbinger’s range, squeezing their triggers out of primal fear, Leo looked over his shoulder for Gerra, who was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Text

Gerra took his opportunity to pass behind the nearest row of solar panels as Leo struck the first soldier.  By the time the fourth was dead he was well away.  Leo had not seen which way he had gone, and with each passing second, the High Commander’s chances of locating him among the vast array of solar panels – all the while fleeing nearby contubernia patrols – would be remote.  As he made his way steadily up the bowl, he could hear Leo bellow somewhere below him, along with shouts of alarm coming from all directions.

What had once been the Mayor’s dwelling on the raised platform had been bulldozed to make way for a small barracks, and with the sudden death of at least four of their number, an entire century of imperial soldiers would be converging on them soon.  Piercing alarm wails suddenly came from the warning sirens throughout the bowl, although Gerra knew they were not foreshadowing a storm or flood.

Gerra passed the final row of panels and came to a wall he knew bordered the old train tracks, as it was still somewhat intact in the future.  He hurriedly put his boots back on, sheathed Hyperion behind his trenchcoat, and scaled the wall.  He surveyed the dimly lit train tracks from the top, the flood-defence measure being wide enough for him to lay spread-eagled on top.  Gerra began to crawl along the top of the wall, painstakingly making his way around the sun dish on unprotected knees, in the direction of FH's centre.  He was exposed to the biting ocean breeze.

Below him, two contubernia of Esthari rapidly moved towards the nearest communal steps into the dish, mechanically answering commands in their earpieces.  Gerra believed they were the old android 'Terminators' by the way they synchronically moved, in perfect tandem with one another.  He would have to take care not to be spotted by one of them, as they did not need headgear to see in infrared or night vision.

Gerra also did a quick sweep of the night sky for drones, but could only identify two for certain, and they were far from his position.  The only movement Gerra saw was a number of feral cats atop the wall, which he realised would be inadvertently helping to hide him from any aerial infrared sweeps.  As most of these malnourished cats saw him approach, they hissed and attempted to make their frail bodies look larger before jumping to the nearest solar panel.  He made out similar fleeting shapes on the railway on his right at regular intervals.

When a drone began to approach, Gerra had no choice but to drop to the other side of the wall.  Hopefully, the movement would be mistaken for that of a jumping cat, though he did not land on his feet as gracefully as they did.  He heard the drone pass onward, and there were no more soldiers on this section of the train tracks.

Safely on the outer side of the wall, Gerra saw the colour of the sky had begun to change to an orange and pink swirl in anticipation of sunrise.  He could now see the sunlight twinkling off the ocean under the sleepers beneath his boots. In his era, it was not a sight one ever saw over Centra, and to view such an amazing sky necessitated a perilous voyage to one of the few landmasses unspoiled by natural disaster.  Still, there was no time to enjoy it.

When the train tracks started to run parallel with an alleyway behind a row of shops, Gerra moved behind a dumpster.  Another skinny cat, this one with matted ginger and white fur, removed its small head from a bag it had been foraging from and bolted.  He crouched there, his knees sore from crawling along the rigid wall earlier.  Eventually, the sound of the klaxons ceased.

Gerra could hear FH slowly coming to life as the dawn grew and early shift workers began their day.  He surmised the alarm had been stopped so as not to alarm the population any further, and he knew better than to think Leo had been captured or killed, even outnumbered ten to one.  The High Commander would be fine, saved for a bruised pectoral from Hyperion's shot.  We will meet again soon enough.

After a short time, Gerra continued into what seemed to be a network of back passages, passing none other than homeless men and women, all dead to the world.  They all reeked of stale sweat, wore dirty hats and were wrapped in sleeping bags or blankets. Most loosely held spirit bottles, and many had discarded syringes around them.  The curfew that the decanus had alluded to, it seemed, did not extend to these alleyways, which was handy to know.  Gerra guessed that trying to regulate the homeless population of this province was not something its governor cared for.

This ocean settlement, Gerra knew, had been a technological marvel at its inception, founded by dissatisfied engineers, pacifists, and politicians during the twilight years of Sorceress Adel’s reign.  It was completely self-sufficient, with wind turbines as far as one could see along with numerous hydropower and desalination plants.  This technology, in addition to fish, had been its main exports.  Many of the dwellings – at first glance looking crudely constructed – were built from recycled materials, and not one was north facing in a bid to maximise solar power.

He remembered the decanus asserting that carrying weaponry was prohibited. He found an adequate hiding spot for Hyperion between a collapsed cavity wall of a disused building; full of litter and broken bricks, it was good enough, and it was the best he could do on short notice.  If not, then it would be found and sold by one of the local rough sleepers to fund their substance habits for weeks to come.  Reluctant to part with it, Gerra removed Hyperion’s sheath and buried it beneath the broken breezeblocks.  He also removed his necklace, looking at its two lifeless magicite crystals before putting it in a coat pocket.  He still had a dagger and his barrier shield, but without his GFs and Hyperion, Gerra could not help but feel vulnerable.

He moved on and stumbled out into the main market square of FH.  Merchants were busily setting up their stalls, organising their wares as road sweepers and litter pickers mechanically went about their early shift. A fishmonger picked up a plastic gun and mercilessly fired water at a couple of bedraggled cats which were eyeing up his display; Gerra had seen more of these felines than anything else here, the ocean settlement seemed to be full of them.

To his left was the large entrance steps of the disused train station.  Displayed from the top of the old building were two hanging banners.  The first was Esthar's imperial war standard, swiftly restored following the bloody end of its inter-Sorceress period; it was a semi-transparent light blue and adorned with black tribal symbols.  The second was the national flag of Fisherman's Horizon: two golden fish biting each other's tails, with bronze murals – the trademark of FH's engineers – on their fins, set within a deep blue background but with a light blue strip running diagonally through its centre.

I need to get somewhere quiet and empty, Gerra thought, to decide on my next move.

He strode across the square and up the steps to the station, which would no doubt be full of more down-and-outs, much like the passageways he had just left.  The stench of the old building contrasted with the smell of the ocean outside; a mixture of urine, vomit, alcohol, tobacco, burning plastic, vinegar and excrement all hit Gerra before he was even inside.  Trying to breathe through his mouth only made him want to vomit himself.  Despite this, he strode confidently and with purpose.  A couple of wasters briefly stared at him with dilated pupils before going back to those coveted highs, but most were sleeping off the binges from the night before and paid him little mind.

He made his way through the station, down a platform and back onto train tracks. Further ahead, he could see an imperial checkpoint restricting traffic in and out of the city from the eastern continent.  Gerra walked to the edge of the tracks, climbing down a maintenance ladder to a yard at the back of the building, which was in full shadow and mostly empty of rough sleepers due to the ever-present wind.  On one side, a woman was sitting against the wall of the station, staring into the middle distance.  To her left, an old drunkard lay on a tattered and nicotine-stained mattress, a large bottle of amber spirit clutched in one hand.  The smell here persisted but was not half as bad as inside the station.

Gerra walked to the base of one of the railroad bridge's piles and sat with his back against the concrete. From here, he had a decent view of the whole yard and remained hidden from some steps that led to the market square.  He took a couple of deep breaths of ocean air, wondering where Leo was.

A White SeeD walked among the incomplete market stalls, some of the vendors calling or gesturing to her, hopeful to get an early sale even before their products and price lists were ready. Thalassa Dincht treated them the same way she would the local beggars, pretending they did not exist and not stopping in her stride.

She was petite, though well-toned with little body fat. Her sun-streaked, naturally blonde hair was tied into pigtails, her determined eyes the colour of the ocean. She had a slight nose and a small mouth, and she had inherited her mother’s slanted eyes.  More than a decade at sea had resulted in a near permanent golden-brown tan.  Thalassa was absent the iconic white uniform, as to wear it in Esthar-occupied territory was nothing short of suicide.  Instead, she was wearing a navy waterproof jacket, beige combat trousers and comfortable walking shoes, so as not to be impeded if she had to defend herself.  While she was a gunbreaker, Thalassa had left her gunblade on the trawler she had infiltrated FH with, although she did have a sheath fastened to the inside of her jacket containing her tanto.  Like her late father, the Armageddon Fist, she was also an expert martial artist; her shins were as hard as iron, and her fingerless gloves were inlaid with metal.

She reached the steps on the far side of the square and descended to the rendezvous point, observing the spacious but dirty yard below.  Her eyes moved from a gaunt woman who was staring vacantly, to an old alcoholic snoring at the bottom of the steps, to another rough sleeper laid on his side with a black trenchcoat pulled over his head.

Thalassa crossed to the corner of the yard and waited.  After some time, another woman came down the steps, this one wearing a legatus uniform characterised by a black cloak, and green and black armour.  There was a choker with a lightning blue crystal at her throat, containing her subjugated GF, Ramuh.  Thalassa knew this was her contact even before the woman removed her headgear and lowered her hood; she recognised the gait, which was identical to her mother’s.

Tyris Almasy looked at her for a few seconds, saying nothing, her expression as unkind and serious as it ever was.  Her shoulder length hair was a dark brown with blonde highlights, a few bangs covering the left side of her face.  She had inherited her mother's profound brown eyes as well as her father's prominent jaw, which gave her face a striking fullness.  Tyris was just as ravishing as her mother, if not more so.

The guilt welled up in Thalassa, as it always did whenever she saw Tyris, no matter how much she tried to convince herself that things could not have happened any differently on that fateful night twelve years ago.  They had been children. Yet it always seemed as though Tyris' unapproachable demeanour was her way of punishing Thalassa for her more fortunate fate, for being a ‘chicken-wuss’ when Tyris had been the brave one and gone to help Matron.

'It's good to see you, Tyris,' Thalassa said earnestly.

She felt pathetic as soon as the words escaped her.  As she expected, Tyris did not return the courtesy.  Instead, when Tyris spoke, her voice was clear and sharp; she sounded like an Esthari now, the well-rounded and regal tone befitting her position.

‘Was it you who killed my legionaries last night?’ she accused.

Thalassa shook her head.  ‘No, Tyris. I just got here.’

Tyris glowered at her for a few seconds, then said,  ‘Pardon my assumption.  I know assassination is one of your accolades.’

Thalassa did not respond.  She watched as Tyris unclipped her cuirass to reveal some documents on the inside, unfolding them and offering them to her.  Tyris spoke matter-of-factly as she clipped her light armour back on.

'The XXVth Legion, along with the IInd, will be invading northern Trabia in the coming days. It will be all human units; obviously, our Magitek and Lunarians cannot function in sub-zero temperatures.  Reina believes she has discovered the Guardian of Trabia's location. She will strike at her with Zebalga and the Praetorians. When she has defeated her, she will be using one of Odine’s diadems to bend the Guardian to her will, with her Knight likely used as leverage if he is not killed outright.  As for the western continent, I know the invasion of Galbadia is imminent, and it will likely go ahead as soon as the Guardian is enslaved.  The current plan is in there.'  Tyris paused only to incline her head towards the documents.  'A two-pronged land assault from the Monterosa Plateau and the Winhill Bluffs,’ she added, ‘accompanied by an amphibious assault from the north.'

'How imminent?' Thalassa asked urgently.

'Very.'

The abrupt, monosyllabic reply made Thalassa think of Fujin.

Tyris turned to leave, which made Thalassa impulsively start after her.  The meeting had gone too quickly! She got to see her childhood friend so rarely! Even though she knew that Tyris had died along with Matron and Cid twelve years before; that Tyris had not had any choice but to die, in what she believed to be the only course for survival.  And now, the two of them were on opposing sides in a two-decades long war.

'Tyris!' Thalassa cried out futilely.

Tyris did not stop, nor did she even glance over her shoulder before she pulled the hood of her bodysuit tightly over her highlighted hair.

'Tyris! Just come back to Galbadia with me! Please!'

Tyris ignored her again, donning her headgear and ascending back to the market, leaving Thalassa to tug at her pigtails.  While it was inevitable that Galbadia would be the theatre for the last decisive battle of the Third Sorceress War, President Caraway did not think Sorceress Reina would be ready to attack Galbadia for another year or two.  That the next battles would be upon them so imminently filled Thalassa with a sense of dread.  As a SeeD, she was destined to be a part of them.

Before the rendezvous, Gerra's early morning had been uneventful.  He had decided it had been best to dirty his face and clothes to better blend in with his new neighbours.  With the raise in temperature, he had decided to try and get some sleep.  He had always been a light sleeper, so did not expect to drift off easily, if at all. His eyes had opened as soon as he heard the shorter woman descend into the yard.

Afterward, Gerra watched the female legatus leave the yard through the slit in his jacket. The shorter, pigtailed woman in the outdoor clothing did not follow, but her sudden raised voice had made the stupefied alcoholic stir, and she watched him warily for a few moments before following the cloaked legatus up the steps.

Gerra was not particularly interested in what he had just witnessed. Being from the future, he knew that meeting, although significant, made no difference in the grand scheme of things.  Crucially, it gave him something of a timeframe, and if it was the year 20 A.U, then he believed he was almost too late to change anything.  But not for certain. Gerra was wondering if that petite, pigtailed woman knew the location of Squall the Lionheart, or could at least get him to Galbadia.  If that legatus had trusted her with such a warning, the pigtailed woman must have high contacts within the ‘Allies’ and could even be a SeeD!

His attention moved to the drunkard, who had noticed Gerra and was attempting to get to his feet, one hand nursing what was no doubt was a splitting hangover.  Gerra rose and headed for the steps, but the homeless man moved to cut him off.  He gave off a stench even before Gerra got close, his body odour competing with the whiskey-stained overcoat.

'Oi! Dick’ead! Who the ‘ell are yer?' he slurred in what must have been the common fisherman's accent, all flat vowels, missing consonants, and lazily shortened words. 'This is my fuckin' pitch!' he asserted, lisping the first two words.

Gerra shifted his weight about a yard away and drove the heel of one boot into the man's groin. The drunkard's face immediately contorted with agony as he doubled over. Walking around him, Gerra reached the steps.  As he ascended, he heard the man vomiting up his mainly liquid diet of the night before. Not a good start to the day, he thought.

When Gerra reached the square, he saw they were now fully set up for the morning's trading.  It was beginning to get busy, and his stomach growled as he smelled some fried bacon and sausages from a nearby catering stand.  He had only just remembered how hungry he was, and he had no way of buying anything.

He looked for the pigtailed woman and saw she was queuing at a stand.  He stopped and pretended to be interested in the fishmonger's display of cod, flounder, and sea bass.  The vendor looked at Gerra's dirty face, then went back to scanning passer-bys, shouting out the same special offers every ten seconds or so.  The vendor looked back at him and seemed about to speak, but when Gerra saw the woman had her breakfast in a brown paper bag and was moving, he turned to follow.

She stopped at another stand, this one a bookkeeper.  Scanning a rack with particularly thin books, she briefly glanced at the cover of one and exchanged some words with the seller, handing over some gil and accepting some change.  Gerra waited in front of a florist but could not tell one set of flowers from another, ignoring the elderly lady behind the stall as he resumed his pursuit.  The pigtailed woman stopped a third time, this time at a stall of rectangular plastic cases with small pictures at their front.  Are they... movies? Gerra thought. Videos?  She only scanned briefly before moving again.

If she was a SeeD, Gerra knew it was likely she was putting in some countersurveillance.  The pigtailed woman finally left the market and walked up a curving slope that led up to the railroad bridge. When she reached the top, she turned right, heading for the main commercial district.

When Gerra got to the top, he saw FH's harbour for the first time, on the other side of the bridge. He had never seen such a bustling port in his own timeline – even at Vektor, the imperial capital.  Despite the Esthari occupation, there were masts and moving vessels everywhere he looked; fishing trawlers, private leisure yachts, speed boats and giant merchant vessels interspersed the grey water.  Further out, there were Esthari naval vessels at regular intervals – more resembling what Gerra had always imagined space shuttles to look like, with their sleek designs – confronting all traffic into and out of the harbour.

It astonished him how advanced the Old Empire seemed in comparison to the one he hailed from.  When Gerra looked left, he was taken aback by the giant structure that had to be the shipbuilding facility, the same facility Odine had used to house the TME in the future!  And the irony was that Gerra had ended up mere kilometres away from it in the past, when he had intended to land well outside of imperial territory.  It looked relatively new and nothing like the rest of the buildings in the area.

He increased his pace a little to catch up with the pigtailed woman, who was walking briskly down the tracks along the harbour.  She kept looking forward, confident in her stride, showing no interest in the happenings of the harbour or the commercial shacks on her right.

After a few more minutes of pursuit, Gerra was suddenly distracted by the raised voices of two disagreeing trawlermen on his left.  As soon as the older, bearded fishermen stormed off towards a structure on the beginning of a jetty, Gerra looked back down the tracks and saw the woman was gone.  He almost stopped, scanning the retail units to his right. The first was an antique shop, next to an alley, on the opposite side of which was a hotel.  Deciding this must be where the woman was staying, Gerra began walking diagonally towards it.

Passing the near side of the alley, he was aware of movement to his right. A waterproofed shoe and leg headed straight for his face.  Gerra instinctively planted his rear foot and brought both arms up, his elbows tucked in to deflect the high roundhouse.  The pigtailed woman's shin was very hard, and if Gerra did not have the underneath of his burly forearms facing forward, she could have broken both of his arms. Still, the strike was enough to deaden them.

Gerra too was a master of hand-to-hand, having been forced to spar for hours every morning as a teenage gladiator, with weapons and without.  The woman followed with a sidekick from her other leg, but Gerra simply flexed his upper body out of line, and it struck the air in front of him.  Her reaction time was good.  She instantly retracted her leg, her balance perfect as she darted a couple of steps back into the alley before adopting an orthodox fighting stance.  If she was alarmed by his reflexes, she did not show it.

'Who are you?' she demanded.

Gerra raised his pained arms up, his palms outward in an attempt at a peace gesture.

'I mean you no harm!'

'You were in the yard!' she accused, speaking in a fiery accent he had never heard before; she likely hailed from one of the inhospitable provinces long abandoned by Ultimecia.  ‘Why are you following me?’

Gerra hesitated, sticking to the cover story he had constructed during his failed sleep attempt.

'I escaped from one of Esthar's mines some time ago!’ he said.  ‘I saw you with that legatus earlier and was hoping that you're a SeeD! I’m just desperate to get out of imperial territory!'

The woman said nothing. Ever so briefly, Gerra thought he saw an emerald-green hue pass over her eyes and knew what that meant. She has a GF! He did not know what it communicated to her, but she remained in her fighting stance.

'I know that you’re lying,' she said bluntly.

Gerra’s studies of history were limited.  He had not even learned to read until adulthood, having spent the first eighteen years of his life in bondage within a ludus - or gladiator school.  Although he remembered that the free Guardian Forces had possessed 'aethereal sight', much like a Sorceress did, and that it was impossible to deceive one.  His only recourse here was total honesty.

‘Fine!’ he breathed.  ‘But you can trust me when I say we’re on the same side!’

After a few moments, she said, ‘Open your coat!’

Gerra obliged, gripping both ends of his trench coat and opening them wide, revealing the hilt of the dagger behind his back and the projectile-shielding device on his belt, which he had turned off to save charge.  She would know what the device was, but be unfamiliar with the design, as the model had not been invented in this era yet; it lasted a lot longer than the ones soldiers would possess today.

He saw the misty emerald-green come to her eyes briefly again, but the woman did not speak for a few seconds.  She slowly lowered her stance, then reached into her pocket, producing a fifty gil note.

 'Go into the hotel and order a room with twin beds,’ she instructed. ‘for yourself and Thalassa Dincht.’  Dincht? Gerra thought, feeling as though he should know of that clan name.  ‘Just one night, no room service.  I need a moment out here.  Get yourself cleaned up if you want.'

Gerra nodded, accepting the money gratefully.

'Thank you,' he said earnestly.

Chapter Text

Keeping a safe distance, Thalassa followed him to the doors after picking up her things from the market. She waited at the entrance as the dirty, trenchcoated man with the brown hair walked to the hotel's reception and requested the room.  The female receptionist gave him an incredulous look but could not argue with the high value gil note in his hand, making eye contact with Thalassa through the glass.  Thalassa nodded and mouthed that they were together.

She took out a boxy e-cigarette she had received from the trawler captain who had smuggled her into FH – or rather, won when George had exhausted his Triple Triad wagers.  As a fitness enthusiast, Thalassa detested smoking or taking drugs of any kind, and she only consumed alcohol on occasion, but she needed a reason to be standing out here while she internally consulted with her GF.  She puffed lightly on it, exhaling softly through her nostrils as she pretended to be scrolling on her phone.

You're sure about his aura, Buncle?

Yes! Carbuncle's high-pitched voice resonated throughout her head.  I know not who he is, but he means you no harm, and he desperately needs your help!

Thalassa looked at the man again.

There is something else, though, her GF added abruptly. The aether moves strangely around him. It is as though he – Carbuncle hesitated a moment – does not belong in this world!

Doesn’t belong here? she questioned, then asked, like Gilgamesh, you mean?

She waited while Carbuncle pondered his answer.

No, not quite the same.

From another timeline, then?

I believe so.

Being who she was, Thalassa was well versed in the truth of the Second Sorceress War. Anyone who had ever lived had felt some effect of Time Compression, however briefly, though only a select few knew the whole of it.  If people were interfering with time again, Thalassa did not think it boded well for the present.

After about a dozen drags on the vape, Thalassa about-faced and walked into the hotel. The Man Who Did Not Belong had finished checking in.  He was helping himself to a cone cup at a water dispenser.  Looking at Thalassa, he chanced a grin as she approached, his teeth cleaner than his face.

'Hey, you said no room service!'

She rolled her eyes and said, 'Give me the change and one of the keys. What's the room number?' The man obliged and told her, then headed toward an elevator. 'Take the stairs.' Thalassa said assertively.

Ordinarily, she would only use elevators in tall buildings and was not ready to be alone with him in an enclosed space.  The man said nothing as he calmly strode up two flights of stairs, following the signs to their room. He seemed momentarily confused by the locking mechanism, holding the card in front of the lock before realising he had to swipe it. He’s never used one, she observed. Thalassa let him walk well into the room before following and closing the door gently.

She had stayed here before. The room was spartan, with a bunk in the far corner, a kitchenette, and a round table on the left side.  A flat-screen television was fixed to the wall and turned off. Next to the bathroom door was a bookshelf containing magazines or non-fiction books pertaining to engineering and FH's history, the latter of which Thalassa was already well learned.

Thalassa watched as the man hung his trenchcoat on a chair, slowly removed the dagger sheath from his belt and left the weapon on the table.  'Allow me to get myself cleaned up, then.'  She watched him carefully as he walked into the bathroom but left the door open.

Thalassa turned on the TV, which was pre-set to Esthar24.  It was a press conference featuring the Esthari-appointed Viceroy for FH, Octavia.  Inset at the bottom of the screen were  pictures of a whole contubernium of imperial soldiers – the same ones Tyris had alluded to, she guessed – all murdered in the early hours of the morning at the 'Sun Dish'.  The assailant had not been sighted, but the murder weapon was distinct in that it was a double-bladed sword.  There was a hotline for anyone with information to come forward.

Definitely not me, Tyris, she thought.  Even if she had her gunblade, it was single-edged and single-bladed.

Thalassa looked to the open bathroom door, the soft sound of running water coming from within.  She wondered if this man had been the assailant.  Eventually he appeared in the doorway, patting his clean face with a towel before turning to hang it next to the door.  His long hair was damp and now had a neater parting.  Even before, Thalassa had conceded his broad face, green eyes and dark features were handsome.

'Well, Thalassa Dincht, I believe we got off on the wrong foot,' he said with a faint smile, making a show of  rubbing the  forearms he had used to check her roundhouse.  'My name is Gerra.‘

He spoke somewhat like the Centran nomads, she had observed, with upward inflections at the end of his sentences, but it was a variation she was unfamiliar with.  If he really was from the future, then an adulterated Centran diction would make sense.

‘I'm assuming you're a SeeD,’ he said now, his green eyes affixed on hers.

‘I am,’ she said, then clarified, ‘A White SeeD.’

His eyes widened at this.  Thalassa knew for certain that White SeeD, at least, existed far into the future.  Her father had witnessed three of their number at the gates to Sorceress Ultimecia’s castle, albeit dead ones.  Her gaze did not waver, and Gerra broke away the eye contact, taking a seat. He looked at the TV screen and did not look surprised by the reports of the dead imperials.

‘I need to meet with Squall the Lionheart,’ he stated, ‘before the invasion of Galbadia.’

'If you wish to warn SeeD about the invasion, there is really no need,' Thalassa said. 'I have the plans in my pocket. That's what Tyris gave me. We will know how Esthar is going to attack, and we can plan accordingly while they're in Trabia.'

Gerra shook his head.  'It will make no difference. Unless I can get to the western leaders first, Galbadia will fall.'

Thalassa hesitated, then addressed the behemoth in the room.

'Carbuncle suspects that you don't belong in this world.'

Those green eyes found hers again.  'Carbuncle would be correct.  I don't belong here.'

'You're from the future, aren't you?’ she asked bluntly.

He nodded once, then suddenly asked, ‘What’s the date?’

'March 17th,' she said immediately.  It would have been her father's thirty-seventh nameday – and in the years since the Fall of Balamb, its oppressed people had wanted to make it their national holiday, something Sorceress Reina would never stand for.  Then she realised that Gerra would want to know the year, and added, '5020 A.H.'

‘After Hyne, correct?’ he asked.  Thalassa nodded.  ‘I feared as much when I heard your conversation with the legatus,’ he said, and sighed.  ‘I’ve arrived a year later than intended.’

‘So,’ Thalassa said.  ‘When are you from?’

Gerra spread his hands.  ‘When am I from?  Allow me to start from the beginning, Thalassa.  I was born into bondage more than two hundred years into the future.  My father died in a gladiator bout before my birth, and my mother died in childbirth.  My nameday wasn’t recorded, and the month could be one in three.  All I have is a meaningless clan name and a weapon for a memento, which my dominus kept for me because my father made the ludus lots of gil.’

‘That’s tragic, Gerra,’ Thalassa said sardonically, ‘but I was asking what year you came here from.’

'All you really need to know is that the Empress will win the Third – and last – Sorceress War,’ Gerra stated flatly.  ‘The Galbadians and the remaining SeeDs will lose the Battle of the Great Plains, and swiftly afterwards the Battle of Galbadia City.’

Thalassa found herself listening carefully,, as though she had spent her life’s savings on a true fortune telling.

'At Trabia, the Empress succeeds in enslaving the Guardian of Trabia with one of Odine’s diadems, and her Knight dies trying to save her.  Later, on the Great Plains of Galbadia, the Azure Sorceress confronts her dear friend, the marionetted Guardian of Trabia.  As she cannot bring herself to strike her close friend down, the Azure Sorceress is killed instead.  At the city, the Lionheart is cut off from the Defender of Timber by Agamemnon Zebalga and the Praetorians – he is crushed.  Now standing alone against both the Empress and the Guardian of Trabia, the grief-laden Defender of Timber stands no chance, and is also killed. Following this, the Empress is free to dispose of the Guardian of Trabia, unifying Hyne's complete Half for the first time since His fall.'

Gerra paused for Thalassa to silently process the information.

'Hyne,' she whispered.

'Even He couldn't stop the Empress, after the Great Konquest. She becomes as powerful as Hyne – even more so after she conquers all of the Eikons.’

‘Eikons?’ Thalassa inquired.

‘It’s what she renamed the Guardian Forces,’ Gerra clarified, then shrugged.  ‘After all, the Lost Kingdom used to call them Eidolons, and the shumi called them Espers. She saw “GF” as SeeD terminology.’

He cleared his throat.  'Anyway. The survivors of the last great battle, along with the last remaining SeeDs, attempt to regroup.  Now led by the Prowling Torama, they flee to Wilburn for a last stand.  The canyon citadel is quickly blockaded. The Empress completes the siege by cutting off the mountain passes into the city.  Rather than delay the inevitable, the Galbadians surrender the SeeDs.  Although Ultimecia had promised mercy, she kills the last SeeDs personally, on the pretext of avenging Sorceress Adel.'

Thalassa’s mouth parted.  ‘Ultimecia?’ She questioned incredulously. ‘But, she-!‘

'This effectively marked the end of the Third Sorceress War,’  Gerra switched to past tense.  ‘But the Great Konquest was still ongoing.  The Empress set about bringing all the remaining free Eikons under her control, binding them all within magicite.  The Eikons had been largely divided since their civil war of legend and, alas, the warning of the collective threat to them was never sounded.  The Empress leaves Eden until last, and upon defeating the Elder, she becomes its Dominant.  In capturing every last Eikon her Great Konquest was complete, and this ushered in a new age.  Reina of the Vlahos clan, the daughter and Successor of Adel, had become the ultimate Sorceress.  And from that day forth, she renamed herself Ultimecia.  Humanity had entered the Age of Ultimecia.'

Gerra trailed off.  Thalassa shuddered inwardly upon hearing that name again.  It can’t be her! she thought.  She can’t be here, in the present!

‘Really, it should have been an age of peace and human advancement.  Theoretically, uniting the Planet under a single banner eliminates any need for war – which was the vision of her mother, Adel, before her.  And two millennia before that, the same vision was held by her grandsire, Emperor Axtius.  And for the first twenty or thirty years, it was peaceful. After four decades of devasting global war out of six, the World began to recover.’

‘A World fuel of mind-controlled beasts, brutally oppressed cultures and brainwashed child slaves!’ Thalassa interjected bitterly.

‘But, unbeknownst to the Empress,’ Gerra continued, as though unhearing, ‘by continually syphoning the Eikons’ aether, she was disrupting the natural order of elemental balance in the world.  Legend tells us that the Triumvirate of Elders created the elemental  Eikons to oppose one another; Gaia to oppose Pandemonium, Shiva to oppose Rubicante, Leviathan to oppose Raijin – before some of those Eikons had their power split.'

Gerra trailed off, sadness creeping into his voice in the first display of any emotion. Until now, he had told the story as though reciting a history lecture.

'I learned this from Odine – Gellert Odine the Ninth, I mean, not the one who you will be familiar with.  Every one of his clan has been researcher to the Empress since the Great Konquest.  Yet Ultimecia refused to listen to reason about the Eikons.  Instead, she believed she was being undermined by Hyne Himself.  After the Konquest, she used Eden to travel to the Moon.  She located the Spirit of Hyne, or so she claimed.  Knowing He was outmatched, and that He would never reclaim His lost Half, he fled before her, back to the coattails of the Cloud of Darkness.  And while He would return to induce a couple of Lunar Cries, the Empress was never able to entrap Him.’

Thalassa said nothing now.

 ‘Across the following century, global warming had increased to unprecedented levels. Desertification had accelerated to cover most of Galbadia. Esthar, along with Dollet, had become even hotter and drier, blighted with constant drought.  As the ice caps melted, most small landmasses – including Balamb – was reclaimed by the sea.  Timber and the Grandidi saw mass deforestation.  Most of Trabia had become too cold for human habitation.'

Thalassa did not know what to say to any of this.

'The tonberries, the moogles and the chocobos are all gone.  Ultimecia had all of the sentient shumi killed when their Elder refused to swear fealty, and although she took their moombas for hard labourers, they eventually died out,’ Gerra noted.  ‘By the year 270 A.U, Odine estimated the human population of the World had dwindled to a hundredth of what it was before the Great Konquest.’

'So, how do you figure into this?' Thalassa suddenly asked.  He doesn’t look like a White SeeD, not dressed in all black.  ‘What was your role in this dystopian future?’

Gerra hesitated, exhaling with resignation.  He knew full well he could not lie to her.

'I am Ultimecia's Knight.'

Her eyes went wide but she held her tongue, waiting for him to elaborate.

'I have served as Ultimecia's Knight since my adolescence.  You must understand that becoming the Knight of the Empress is the highest honour one can have in my timeline.  I spent my childhood in hard labour, opting to be trained as a gladiator as opposed to being conscripted into military service.  Like I really had a choice, considering how my dominus used my father.  And the latter is almost pointless when, save for White SeeD and the Red Reaver, there is no opposition left to the Empress.  I came from nothing.  I was worth nothing,' he insisted.

'Who is the Red Reaver?' Thalassa wondered.

'Gilgamesh.'

'Oh,’ she said sadly. ‘He never does find a way back to his homeworld, then.'

'Before my voice had even begun to break,’ Gerra told her, ‘I was fighting to the death on the Sands.  I won a tournament to become Knight of the Empress five years later.'

'So, what changed?' Thalassa asked now.

'It started when I realised Ultimecia would never be satisfied.  With the Great Konquest, she had succeeded where her mother and grandsire had failed.  She ruled the World and was nigh on unstoppable.  Still, the Empress would often speak of finding ways to get even more power.  She would fantasise about finding the slumbering Griever to add to her magicite collection, and for two centuries she had a taskforce scouring every inch of the Planet to this end.  She would obsess over finding the Interdimensional Rift to conquer other realms, even following Hyne and challenging the Cloud of Darkness, and that same taskforce’s mission was to find a hypothetical Rift, too.’

Gerra paused.

'Ultimecia was also fixated on time travel.  She’d had two hundred and fifty years to observe human history; the Junction Machine Ellone, originally developed by Odine the First in the Old Empire, was her personally plaything.  Buried deep within her castle, only she was allowed to use it.  But the JME had its limits.  One of the Odine clan’s chief purposes was to find a way to send a whole being through time.  Ultimecia would speak of intervening in the Fall of Hyne so she could take His complete power for herself, or of multiplying His power by taking it from all the other Descendants at intervals throughout history.’  Then he laughed mirthlessly.  ‘She would even ramble on about compressing time, so that she could preside over a shapeless void as Creator from the birth of the universe.’

‘She did compress time!’ Thalassa blurted abruptlly.  ‘My father – one of the Children of Fate – stopped her!’

Gerra just stared at her as though she were mad.  ‘Wait, I beg your pardon?’

‘Hold on.’  She remembered her bag from the breakfast stand and knew the contents had long since gone cold, as had her coffee. With a sigh, she moved to put her food in the fridge.  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ Gerra said.  ‘I’m starving.  But, what was that about your father?’ he pressed.

She said she would order some food.  Suddenly elated about being able to honour her father and share some of his heroics on his nameday, she briefly scanned the menu, picked and ordered two hot dogs to be delivered to them.  Along with two bottles of Balamb’s most popular beer.  It would be her first alcoholic drink since Midwinter’s Day, and if Gerra was teetotal, she would have the other one later.

‘So, you were saying?’ Gerra asked impatiently.  ‘About the Children of Fate?’

She told the story of the Second Sorceress War, from Matron’s possession before the attack on Dollet all the way to the end, with Ultimecia’s defeat many generations into the future.  The hot dogs arrived when she was detailing the botched assassination of Matron at Deling City’s parade, and they were of Balamb Garden’s notable recipe, which was a variation of the bratwurst brought to the Albatross Archipelago by the displaced Centran clans – of which the Dinchts had been one.  Her father had been obsessed with those hot dogs, and for good reason.  As soon as Gerra finished, he said he could use another one.  Not to mention another beer.  Taking pity on him, she gave him back the change from the fifty-gil note she had trusted him with earlier.  She placed a call for another hot dog and two more bottles.

‘Historical accounts have been heavily tainted by Ultimecia by my time,’ Gerra said, with his mouth full.  ‘She has garnered knowledge that every historian could only dream of, using the JME.  Though I know the gist of the Second Sorceress War.  It’s notable that unlike the other two, it lasted only for a single campaign season, but it was no less bloody.  Although Sorceress Edea was defeated at the Battle of the Gardens, there were still a few skirmishes, such as Galbadia inducing a Lunar Cry over their old enemy, Esthar.  And during the height of the Lunar Cry, SeeD were hired to murder Sorceress Adel.’

Murder? Thalassa thought, thinking that it was an erroneous use of the term.  Is that what Ultimecia had everyone believe?

By the time she had finished the tale, Gerra’s green eyes just rested on the middle distance.  There were bags beneath them, and he looked as though he were fighting sleep.

‘I guess it’s nice to have a father you can be proud of,’ he said melancholily. ‘My own was a champion gladiator, but he was killed before I was born, as I said.  And as a new champion was crowned, the old one was swiftly forgotten, as my dominus put it.’

Gerra blinked a couple of times, as though to rouse himself.

'Apologies, Thalassa,’ he said. ‘I had almost forgotten why we even started talking about Zell Dincht.  Time Compression.’

He sat up in his seat. ‘Some time ago, a group of hunter gatherers appeared at the gates the Empire's capital, Vektor.  Except they were dressed like tribespeople from a time long before the Centran Republic, they had bronze weaponry, and they spoke in a completely incomprehensible dialect.  When the Vigiles challenged them, these nomads became hostile, and the Vigiles were forced to cut them down.  Not only that, but the IVth Legion was impeded when an ancient temple had materialised in the middle of a road; when their scouts tried to enter they were confronted by the old Centran hoplites, who adopted a phalanx at the gates.'

Thalassa’s mouth parted, then she whispered, ‘Time Compression.’

Gerra nodded.  'We had similar reports from all provinces of the Empire.  We feared a revolt, as the Empress herself had vanished without a trace.  Then, after several hours, everything went back to normal.  That temple in the middle of the road had simply disappeared, so Odine later ordered an excavation, and sure enough, the ruins were there.  It led Odine to one conclusion, that at some point in the future,  the Empress had achieved a compression of time, just as the one we served had aspired to do so.  And so, we decided to act.’

Thalassa was hanging on to his words.  She leaned forward in her chair.  ‘Go on,’ she urged.

'During that excavation, we found a marble archway,’ Gerra said.  ‘Or rather, a gateway,’ he emphasised. ‘It stood alone in a subterranean chamber, which Odine thought suspicious. And although it resembled the architecture of the ancient empire, there was evidence of it being powered by ceruleum, before the Calamity. Though even when Odine tried to reactivate it, he could not get to it to work. But it turned out he was missing an essential component, mental tendrils, having no experience with spellcasting or Eikon use.  I opened a portal to the past much by accident the first time, and even then we only had enough ceruleum to power it for a few seconds. And of course, Odine never informed the Empress. Realising what we possessed, we arranged to have it smuggled outside of Centra, to a place long abandoned, where over time he could gather enough ceruleum without arousing suspicion.’

Thalassa remembered something her father had told her.  Of a similarly mysterious gateway appearing outside of Ultimecia’s castle.  Curiosity had gotten the better of the coeurl, and Zell had blundered through it, finding himself upon Wilburn Heights at a time when it was still ruled by Dollet.  Thankfully, he had been able to return, and Squall had swiftly got their party back on track. She had thought that whole account absurd until now.

‘What, and Odine was just able to keep such a discovery from her?’ Thalassa said incredulously.

‘Yes.  Ultimecia had long grown disinterested with her Empire, and she very rarely ventured from her castle.  As she retained a Praetorian Guard. my role as her Knight was largely ceremonial, and I was a glorified lapdog.  The High Commander of the army, Leo, managed the Empire like a regent.  She never found out about the excavation, or if she did, she was not concerned with it.’

‘I see.’

Gerra remained silent for a few moments, his eyes back on the TV.

'I knew this was to be a one-way journey,' he stated, 'and Odine ensured the Timegate would be destroyed following my departure, so that no one could follow me through.’

Thalassa gasped. ‘So you’re stuck here?’

‘I wouldn’t put it like that,’ he said.  ‘If we really wanted to, we could excavate the Timegate here, and it would be far easier to get the ceruleum or aether it needs in this world of balance. But even if I could go back, would I really want to? I’m a free man now. I’m no longer under her control, for the first time in my life.’

He drained his last beer bottle with a long draught.

‘The Empress learned of our betrayal at the eleventh hour,’ he told her.  ‘She sent her High Commander and the Twelve to stop me.  No doubt this was because I destroyed the JME before I left the castle. Although that was critical. I mean, it would have been difficult for Ultimecia to discover which year I was travelling to, but we couldn't chance her finding out and trying to possess one of the Sorceresses opposed to her past self.’

Thalassa nodded. ‘Fair point,’ she said.

‘I had meant to land in Galbadia,’ Gerra clarified, ‘one year earlier. Except I was fighting off the High Commander, Leo, and my bond with the archway was fractured. I must have been thinking about FH because we put the Timegate within its ruins, and I dived through the arch as soon as I had an opening.  But Leo followed me through.’ Gerra inclined his head towards the TV again. ‘He’s the one that killed those soldiers last night.’

‘Where is he now?’ Thalassa asked.

Gerra shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

He scooped up his beer bottles and stood to place them in a nearby bin – the wrong bin, she observed. Recycling must not be a thing in the Age of Ultimecia.

‘I need to get some rest, Thalassa,’ he said tiredly.  ‘I don’t trust easily.  But seeing as you trusted me, I will extend you the same curtesy.  I’ll place my life and the fate of the future in the hands of you and your Eikon – I mean, your Guardian Force. Besides, I can imagine how much you hate the Empress. She killed your father, after all.’

That she did.

Thalassa remained leaning against the kitchen worktop. Everything this man from the future had said was running circles in her mind, making her head hurt. It was too much to process, and too surreal.

‘Just tell me one thing, first,’ Thalassa said, as Gerra sat down on the bed.  ‘How do you plan to turn the tide of the coming battle.’

 'The free GFs,' Gerra replied simply.

Thalassa immediately knew what he meant. After GF-related amnesia had been made public, the current generation of SeeDs were reluctant to spend long periods of time Junctioned.  Equally, GFs were not at SeeD’s beck and call, and some had grown tired of being used in the ‘petty squabbles’ between the Tools of Hyne.  While she had been junctioned with Carbuncle for a number of years, it had been for its own protection – it had been hounded by Esthari androids. 

Gerra was stripping to his underwear. His torso was scarred, hairy and well muscled. And he had a single tattoo on his left shoulder, but from the angle, Thalassa could not make it out.

He continued. 'Ultimecia didn't conquer them all until after Galbadia had fallen. Some were present in Galbadia, including Bahamut, but it wasn't enough. The Defender of Timber and the Azure Sorceress believed that being Descendants of Hyne was adequate, and they were wrong. There isn’t much time, but SeeD need to seek their aid again before the invasion.  Especially Eden, who was not conquered until last, and who was junctioned with the Defender of Timber during the Second Sorceress War.'

‘I understand,’ Thalassa said. ‘It shouldn't take long for SeeD to recruit the free GFs again. They're still mobile; they can do it a lot quicker than Esthar can, and they have broad knowledge of each GFs lair.’

‘Good,’ Gerra replied, as he swivelled and lay on top of the duvet, flat on his back. ‘Odine believed that once the Eikons are collectively made aware of the danger posed to them, they will rapidly stand with their old Summoners.’  Gerra turned his head to her. 'Send word to the Guardian of Trabia – to all the Children of Fate. If we can prevent the Guardian being enslaved by the Empress, it will also make a big difference in Galbadia.'

‘Got it.’

Only Squall, Rinoa and Quistis knew Selphie’s location, or so Thalassa had thought. SeeD now had their old communications intranet hidden deep within the dark web, so she could securely contact Squall and her own leader, Kurin. She was also in contact with Rhodry Blaen, a veteran SeeD residing in his native Trabia, who was almost as close to Selphie as Irvine was. Thalassa took out her phone, highlighting Rhodry’s number.

Gerra had closed his eyes.  Within no time at all, his breathing slowed, and he was soundly asleep.

Chapter Text

Thalassa flicked to the end of Combat King, which she had purchased at the market that morning.  She had already finished Weapons Monthly.  Having grown numb and restless, she decided to stand, beginning a series of stretches – or ‘sun salutations’ – taught to her by her fellow White SeeD, Ptolemy of the Seagill dynasty.  As she was halfway through the first, the sliding of her feet caused Gerra to wake suddenly, abruptly swivelling on the bed with his bared dagger in hand, apparently at full battle readiness.  He seemed to be in disequilibrium as he looked at Thalassa and her coiled, taut form,  but then recognition set in and he smiled.

‘Top o’ the mornin’ to ya,’ she said, in Balamb fashion.

The greeting seemed to equally confuse him, his smile changing to a questioning look before he realised her meaning.

‘Forgive me,’ he said.  ‘I’m unused to all these differing dialects.’  Of course he would be, Thalassa thought.  ‘Everyone speaks the same way in the future.’  Gerra yawned as he reached for his clothes, then added, ‘Aside from the Empress, White SeeDs and Gilgamesh, that is.’

‘You haven’t heard anything yet,’ Thalassa warned him, smirking as she moved from a standing stretch to a grounded one as Gerra dressed, then asked, ‘So Odine the Ninth didn’t sound anything like Odine the First?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gerra replied.  ‘He retained a peculiar dress sense, though.’

Thalassa had not actually met Odine I, only heard accounts from her father and the rest of the Children of Fate.  Odine II and the infantile Odine III had managed to escape west along with Laguna, however.  Kiros and Ward had not been so fortunate.

Now Gerra was reaching for his trenchcoat.  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.

‘A walk?’ she said incredulously, looking over her shoulder.  ‘Aren’t you worried about Leo?’

Gerra shook his head.  ‘I won’t hide from him.  And as much as it pains me to say, I need him to ambush me, so that you can eliminate him.  If he makes contact with Ultimecia and she does a mind contact, she will learn of the future, and that could be very dangerous.’

With that, he abruptly headed for the door, leaving her no choice but to abandon her salutations. A minute later, they were walking along the harbour front.  The temperature had warmed considerably, and it was a pleasant mid-afternoon.  The marina-facing bars and cafes were all open with many punters out front – mostly commercial fishermen – chain smoking, laughing loudly, flirting with waitresses, jeering any beggars that dared try their luck.

Thalassa gripped Gerra’s hand suddenly as a couple of Esthari soldiers rounded a corner, but they seemed more interested in the happenings of the harbour and only glanced at them briefly.  She noticed that Gerra’s hands were callused, much like her own.  She did not let go until the soldiers were far behind them.  They stopped in front of a bar near the end of the stretch, called Fin and Flounder.  It did not seem overly busy, and its interior was filled with wooden furniture and various TV screens currently tuned to Esthar24.

‘The prices aren’t too bad here,’ Thalassa commented, looking at a chalkboard outside.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Gerra said.

He led the way through the open doubles doors and begun striding boldly to the bar.  A young, female bartender stared up from her phone at them. Her hair was dyed blue, and her face was pasty and acne laden. When she spoke, it was without enthusiasm and with the local accent. '’Iya. Can I ‘elp?'

'Have you got tables out back?' Thalassa asked.

'Yeah.'

The bartender pointed in the general direction, and they were left to find it for themselves.  On the way, Gerra became fascinated by a cigarette machine.  Thalassa stood between him and the bartender as he tried to work it, though when she glanced nervously over her shoulder, the blue-haired bartender had gone back to scrolling on her phone.

'Here,' Thalassa said quietly, handing him a couple more fifty gil notes. 'Keep them. I get paid a salary, but I'm on the White SeeD Ship most of the time, so I don't even get chance to spend it.'

After quietly talking him through how to use the dispenser, they headed out back into a small, paved yard that was in full sun.  It was mostly empty save for another couple, and three middle-aged fishermen.  The fisherman all had faded tattoos and were behind a veil of cigarette smoke, their crude conversation and multiple empty glasses signifying they were on a session.  Thalassa also handed Gerra a windproof lighter as they sat, and he made a show of unwrapping the plastic covering and tearing off the paper inside the carton.  He fumbled one cigarette out and lit one, inhaling deeply as he put them in a pocket.  She wondered if tailor-mades were a thing of the past in his era.

Gerra then picked up a laminated menu and scanned it slowly.  Thalassa also figured many of the terms describing the food and drinks were alien to him, and he seemed a slow reader, although by the time the waitress came to take their order Gerra had become schooled enough in pub-grub. Thalassa went for the healthy option; grilled bass, salad, boiled rice, and orange juice.  Gerra went for battered cod and thick-cut chips, along with a dry cider. When the drinks arrived, Gerra seemed surprised that the cider was bubbly, and he made a rude noise after draining nearly a third of it in one draught, gaining disapproving looks from the couple nearby.

Thalassa asked, 'How does this place compare to the pubs in Vektor?'

Gerra frowned into the middle distance.  'We only have ale houses and beer halls, and many are underground.’

Thalassa grinned.  ‘Well, if you like this, you’ll love Balambi pubs.  Chilled, creamy ales. More rice wine, gin and whiskey bottles than you can count.  Mahogany furnishings.  Live musicians most nights.  Singing and dancing.’

Gerra shrugged.  ‘We have bards, and gleemen.’

Bards and gleemen? she thought.  With how much technology had progressed in the twenty years since the Great Interference alone, it baffled her as to how a global empire two centuries into the future was not more advanced.

Gerra then asked, 'So, how did you come to join White SeeD?'

'They took me in after my orphanage was destroyed,' Thalassa replied. 'I was actually the youngest person to ever pass their test, four years ago now.  Both of my parents died when Reina – when Ultimecia – took Balamb. I was evacuated before that, though, sent to an orphanage in Centra.  It's where my Pop lived when he was a boy, actually.'

'Of course, I know of your father,' Gerra told her. 'Try as she might, Ultimecia could never quell the story of the Armageddon Fist.  Any preserved copies of that manga series based on him are just as treasured as old Triple Triad cards.’

Thalassa smiled warmly at that, please that her father’s legend had never died, even centuries after his homeland had been reclaimed by the sea.

Happy nameday, Pop.

Gerra was enjoying the cider. In his own timeline, cider was as flat as Matoya's tit, stored in cartons and often too warm. After draining the glass, he belched again and flagged down the waitress for another. Lighting another cigarette, he asked, ‘Was your mother a SeeD, too?'

Thalassa nodded.  'Ma worked in the library, at Balamb Garden.  She kept working there after she was badged, and she and Pop got together straight after the last war. I was born two years after. Pop led the defense of Balamb City after the sea battle was lost, after Balamb Garden was destroyed. It was hard fought, but with most of the SeeDs gone and their GFs exhausted, they couldn't hold out against the Empire.'

Gerra remembered reading about the battle, and the way Thalassa recited it was almost identical to the accounts of the outlawed histories.  The Armageddon Fist had been known in battle for striking with the suddenness and devastation of a thunderbolt, and he had been deeply respected even among the indigenous Balambi clans.  Even after Balamb City was lost, Zell managed to rally the scattered armies at the foot of the Gaulg Mountains.  His final blitzkrieg routed the Ist and IInd Legions and even managed to get within striking distance of the Empress.  Zell bludgeoned his way through any Praetorians that stood in his path, as their Eikons had been depleted too.  Though in his last gasp, Ultimecia had been able to stop time around him, completely freezing him at the apex of a vaulted punch.

Thalassa’s voice was flat as she recounted the tale.  Gerra guessed her emotions were as hardened as her body.

'Reina summons antique weaponry in battle,’ she mentioned. ‘She ran him through with a sword while he hung helplessly, and his GF Leviathan was enslaved. Whereas Ma died earlier, defending junior class members at Garden. Her body was lost at sea, along with everyone else’s.'

The waitress arrived her with their food.  The cod had a light, golden batter and the chips were freshly cut, if not properly drained of oil. 

'You said your orphanage was destroyed?' Gerra prompted, attacking the fish with just his fork, the knife untouched.

'Yes,’ she replied bitterly.  ‘After I'd been there for about a year.  Naturally, Reina believed Matron to be raising White SeeDs, and she thought that she was still a Sorceress.’

Matron.  Gerra suppressed a shudder when he heard that name.  In his time, White SeeD – or ‘Edea’s Lokusts’, as the Empress called them – had survived for over two centuries after the Great Konquest, passing down their teachings from generation to generation.  It was understood that a broad Junction with the cactuars gave them their superior agility, but with only a couple of demi-Eikons, they could not hope to challenge Ultimecia.  They remained more of a persistent thorn in her side, intermittently marauding imperial vessels, small convoys or isolated military outposts as part of their initiation rituals, and they always cloaked their ship with old Esthari technology and disappeared beyond the horizon before a counterstroke could be assembled.  Moreover, they were devoted to a goddess they called ‘Matron’; in this timeline, Gerra knew, Sorceress Edea was still in living memory, but he didn’t think her legacy had been ascended to godhood, yet.

‘How Matron unknowingly transferred her powers to Rinoa was never adequately explained,’ Thalassa went on, ‘and there had never been a case of a Sorceress living on after giving up her powers.  Ultimecia probably thought that Matron split her power, like Adel and Rinoa did, but that wasn’t the case.’  She paused.  ‘The Esthari came from the sea one summer's night.  Matron had been junctioned with Alexander for most of her life, but outnumbered by Ultimecia and all her magicite holders, it wasn't enough.  Ultimecia killed her, along with Cid, and all of the children were taken into bondage.'

Gerra figured that an apology would be empty gesture, and it was rare he ever gave one.  Instead, he asked, 'How did you escape?'

'I snuck down to the beach that evening with Tyris – the one you saw me with earlier. We were pretty far down, duelling with wooden swords in the moonlight, and we saw the ships land.  I knew there was nothing we could do; we were just children.  But Tyris could hear the battle raging and refused to leave the others.'

Thalassa gave a faint smile.

'Tyris was really brave,’ she said, ‘and was big for her age. None of the boys would mess with her. When I tried to pull her back, she struck me, called me a “chicken-wuss” and ran to the orphanage.  I stayed on the beach, hiding behind some rocks until the sounds of the battle stopped. Alexander's light was blinding, but suddenly, it was gone for good. I kept watching as the boats were loaded with the children and departed east. I don't remember how long I remained there, but as dawn came, I walked back to the orphanage. I'll never forget the image of Matron and Cid's bodies, just left broken and bloodied to rot on the prairie.’

Gerra wondered how old she had been, and he tried to tick off the years in his head.  But his math, like his reading and writing, was not the best.

'Eventually, I crossed the prairie to the nearby forest, populated with moogles and chocobos. You said they're extinct in your time, but moogles are sentient and can communicate with humans. They knew Matron, and they sheltered me for a while, until we spotted a nomad caravan that used to sell supplies to the orphanage, who were enraged when they found out what happened. Their leader, Adelbert, made sure the remains of Matron and Cid were given a proper burial.’

Adelbert? Gerra mused. That was the name of the last King of Centra.  His great-grandson had also been called Adelbert, who had been notable for bending the knee to Ultimecia towards the end of the Great Konquest.  Leo was his heir.

'I travelled with Adelbert's people for over a year.  They taught me everything I needed to know about surviving out in the wild: making camp, hunting, fishing, crafting. Their elders told me many stories, everything they knew about their Lost Kingdom. I would spar with the older children every night; all I could think about was learning to fight, so I could rescue Tyris and the others from Esthar.’

It sounds like she had it as rough as I did, Gerra thought.

'It wasn't until later that I found out what really happens to foreign children taken by Esthar, to be used as hard labourers in their production facilities, or in the mines.  If they’re deemed too weak or too sickly, they are killed.  The most promising are eventually handpicked for military service, it’s literally survival of the fittest.  As far as I know, Tyris is the only other orphan from Edea’s House who survived to adulthood.  Also, the Consul was present at the attack on the orphanage,' Thalassa uttered the name with distaste.

Of course, Gerra knew about Agamemnon of the Zebalga clan. Agamemnon was the current High Commander – known shorthand as the ‘Consul’ – and had been nothing short of a serial child molester and a war criminal.  After surviving more than one encounter with Squall the Lionheart, he came to be known as the Liontamer, and he had eventually taken the credit for killing him.

‘I know of him,’ Gerra said. ‘His descendant, Vargas, served in the Praetorian Guard.’

'Around a year after Matron and Cid died,’ Thalassa continued, ‘we spotted the White SeeD Ship and signalled it. They already knew of the destruction of the orphanage, and they took me in.  I've been with them for over ten years now.'

They both looked at one of the red-faced fishermen, who had started cat-calling the waitress. Gerra had been keeping them in his peripheral vision; they had ogled Thalassa more than once, already.  They remained silent now, and Gerra smoked another cigarette. He had almost finished his third pint, whereas Thalassa's juice was almost untouched, diluted by the melted ice.  A few moments later, a middle-aged man – likely the landlord, called downstairs – approached the rude fishermen, told them they could no longer be served and to depart after finishing their drinks.  He hurried back inside.  Sensing trouble as he realised that he was going to have to break his seal, Gerra nodded slightly toward the men and whispered, 'Think you can handle them?'

Thalassa smirked, then said, 'You can take the girl out of Balamb.'

When he came back, all three fishermen were crassly posturing to Thalassa in front of their table. The same one who had cat-called the waitress was standing in front of Thalassa's chair, his lager-swilling gut bulging from under his faded t-shirt, and he had unsightly faded ink on his overly animated arms.  He was slurring something about how Thalassa should leave her boyfriend behind while they spirited her out to sea.

As soon as Thalassa saw Gerra step back into the yard, she leaned back and kicked the obnoxious man square in the groin. He doubled over, his scruffy beard ending up inches from her face. She rapidly twisted left with an elbow to his temple and was out of the chair as her courter crashed to the ground.  'Bitch!' the fisherman nearest to her grunted, stepping forward with a sloppy swing to break his glass over her head.  Thalassa caught the man's tattooed forearm on her own, in the same instant landing a crushing piston to his nose. He cried out in pain and crashed back into a table, his glass shattering on the ground as blood immediately began to pour over his mouth; Gerra wondered if her gloves were composed of something other than leather, as he knew was common among martial artists in this era.  The third man was rooted to the spot, shorter and more slightly built than the other two, clutching his glass tightly and his wide eyes swivelling from Thalassa to Gerra.

'I wouldn't advise it, mate,' Gerra said, touching Thalassa's arm and motioning her toward the door.

She calmly strode back into the bar, the landlord giving her a frightened look as she approached the bar on their way out. She dropped a twenty gil bill onto the bar and said, 'Sorry about that. We weren't here, okay?'

Stunned, he just nodded.

Back at the hotel, Gerra was watching his third film of the evening, this one a classic western set in rural Dollet, starring Flint Westwood.  He was mostly silent, moving to the balcony every hour or so to smoke.  He had told her live broadcasts did not exist in his time, that they had lots of live entertainment instead.  It was much the same for Thalassa since being evacuated from Balamb; there had not been much in the way of modern technology at Edea’s House, nor on vastness of sparsely populated Centra, nor on the White SeeD Ship.

She had changed her mind about room service. Not wanting to risk causing a ruckus again, they were currently waiting for a pizza from downstairs, something she promised Gerra he would really enjoy.  Thalassa was not worried about those rude fishermen, thinking it unlikely they would admit to any inquisitive Esthar soldiers about being beaten up by a single woman.  Unless they wanted a tariff-break for information about possible SeeDs, she thought.  The landlord might even tattle on us.

Once they had finished the pizza and the credits to the film were rolling, with an inset picture of the timeless Flint riding his dusty chocobo into the sunset, Thalassa took some cards from her pocket and asked, 'Do they still play Triple Triad in your time?'

'Of course!’ Gerra grinned broadly. ‘The rare cards are pretty sought after in the ruins of old cities!  I didn't bring my cards with me, though.'

She shuffled and split her deck, dealing two stacks of five onto the table.  Then she talked through White SeeD rules, which was an amalgamation of rules from all over the Planet.  He agreed to play on the condition that they played with his rules the next time, and she happily obliged, curious to know what rules people played by in the future.  He mentioned that some of her cards were exceedingly rare in the future, too, and could be traded for months’ worth of rations.  Alas, after losing five games straight – the Same and Same Plus rules seemed to wholly baffle him – he lost his enthusiasm.  As did the lack of wagers, she guessed, though he was not so stupid as to squander the gil she had gifted him.

‘Do you play Queen’s Blood?’ he asked.

‘Queen’s Blood?’ she repeated, the name leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

‘Tetra Master?’ he tried hopefully.

‘No,’ she answered.  ‘What’s that?’

He sighed.  ‘Never mind.’

As she stacked her deck and pocketed it, Thalassa said she was going to take a shower.  Under the lukewarm water, she took her time with rubbing the concealer from the left side of her face.  Not travelling with any spare clothes – she had left them on the trawler – she emerged from the bathroom in the hotel-issue bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel.  Gerra looked surprised at the tribal tattoo on the left side of her face, which she knew looked more subtle from the front.  He stared at it.

'When my dad was killed,’ she explained, ‘Reina had his severed head paraded around the entire Albatross, preserving it with her magic until every last oppressed citizen beheld it.  Then, she tossed it into the ocean.’  She let that sink in.  'This tattoo is as recognisable as our clan name throughout the Empire.'

Gerra nodded with understanding, then said, 'I like it.'

‘Thanks,’ she said earnestly.

She was laying silently on the top bunk and turned her head when Gerra came out of the shower, wearing just a towel.  For the first time, Thalassa got a good look at the tattoo on his left bicep. It was the image of a light-haired man wearing a bandana, but she could not make out the lettering underneath. As Gerra sat on his bunk, the towel ended up on the floor and Thalassa guessed he was intending to sleep naked this time.  'Sleep well,' was all he said as he climbed beneath the sheets, and he slowed his breathing.  He was asleep before she was.

The alarm on her phone woke them at first light. Thalassa suggested they pay the fee for the hotel breakfast, as the food would be of a better variety than on the trawler.  Gerra happily obliged.  With her hair back into pigtails and her facial tattoo once again concealed, they made their way downstairs.

After piling an ungodly amount of steaming buffet food on his plate, and between mouthfuls of sausages and hash browns, Gerra said, ‘I need to collect my gunblade, before we leave.’

Thalassa’s mouth parted.  ‘You wield a gunblade?’

Gerra swallowed his food.  ‘I do.’  After washing it down with black coffee, he lowered his voice and said, ‘In fact, it was forged before this time.’

Thalassa was intrigued, but it could have been any old gunblade.  After all, gunblades had exploded in popularity after the Second Sorceress War, not least at the three Gardens.

‘What’s it called?’ she asked.

Gerra looked about to answer, then caught himself.  Thalassa picked up on the evasiveness of his eye movements.

‘You name your weapons?’ he diverted.  ‘That’s odd.’

Thalassa shrugged, deciding not to press.  For now.

‘Of course,’ she replied, then said proudly, ‘Mine’s called Riptide.  It’s modelled on my Ma’s clan katana, which was lost at the Fall of Balamb.  I had it resemble it as much as possible, though the gun portion of it is a Nambu.’

‘You’re samurai, too!’ Gerra exclaimed.  ‘I’ve only ever met one before! Ujio of the Akechi clan – another Praetorian.  He was one of the last keepers of the katana disciplines.’  Then he asked.  ‘What was your mother called?’

‘She was Adira, of the Kotetsu clan.’

They gave themselves some time to wash down the food with coffee and orange juice, then checked out.  Gerra led the way down the alley next to the hotel.  ‘I think it was this way,’ he said, gesturing left with uncertainty.  She followed him through the network of alleyways behind the commercial street, stepping precariously around any of the rousing homeless and the stray cats.  ‘I recognise this one, I think,’ he said.  As they entered another alley, he stopped and scanned the walls, seeming to be looking for something.

Then Thalassa heard a grunt, and saw a large, dark shape descending toward him.  Gerra saw it in the nick of time and backed up, crashing into Thalassa as he did and sending her to the ground.  It was a huge man with crudely shorn hair and a resulting bloodied pate, and he had a horseshoe moustache marred with dirt.  He held dual, obsidian gunblades in either hand, directed toward Gerra. Leo! she realised.

Thalassa had instinctive broken her fall and had riveted back onto her feet in an instant.  In front of her, Gerra reached around and drew his dagger from within his trenchcoat.  He tried to get in close, but the assailant quickly brought his blades protective around him to parry.  Leo then struck Gerra’s head with the hilt of one gunblade, making him stagger against a crumbling wall, and immediately made to follow with a backhand.  It would have been a deathblow, but, shining with emerald, Thalassa hit Leo like a battering ram.  The man-mountain ended up on the filthy ground up several yards away, but he swiftly got back to his feet as Thalassa just had.

'You must be Leo,' she said, stepping around Gerra. She now resonated more intensely with the emerald-green aura of Carbuncle, and she held her curved tanto in a fighting crouch.

‘I am Leonidas,’ he growled in return, ‘of House Christophe.’

House Christophe?

Thalassa had been ready to pounce, to use her augmented speed and strength to plunge her tanto through his heart, but hearing the name of Centra’s former ruling House gave her pause.  The Uncrowned King and his consort had taken her in from the Lenown Plains, had treated her like their own. Their son and niece were both White SeeDs, and as close as siblings.  And this Leo, who served as Consul in the future, was their descendant? Even outmatched, Leo started toward Thalassa.  A Son of Almaj well and true, she thought.  She could have killed him, but instead, she extended her free hand toward him. There was a sharp flash of ruby light. Leo gasped and involuntarily dropped both his weapons, putting his hands to his eyes and staggering back.

'Let's go!' Gerra urged, grabbing her arm.  They bolted back the way they had come, not stopping until they were near the hotel.  Leo had not followed.  After they had caught their breath, Gerra said, 'Let's just get on the fucking boat.'

‘Don’t worry,’ she said.  ‘I’ll get you a new weapon as soon as we’re in Timber.’

Gerra said nothing, and she wondered how just sentimental his gunblade had been to him.

Thalassa led the way down the jetty, stopping at a dilapidated side-winder trawler called the Ross Torama.  A man with short brown hair and an untrimmed beard looked down at them as they reached port side, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He was around Gerra's own age.

'Lassa!' the trawlerman said cheerily. 'Who's the lucky fella?'

'Shut up, George,’ Thalassa said, rolling her eyes.  ‘He's a defector.'

George frowned.  'I thought you were here for intel?' he questioned uneasily.

'Need to know, George,' Thalassa replied simply, then asked, 'Are you okay to take him with us?'

He did not answer immediately.  'I guess so.’  He stubbed the thin cigarette butt into a standing ashtray, seemingly mindful of pollution.  ‘As long as he earns his keep,’ he added, then offered Gerra his hand as they walked onto the boat.  'George Peterson. I'm the skipper. Welcome aboard the Torama.'

'Gerra,' he returned, taking George's hand in a firm grip.

Gerra looked around.  The trawler was about forty yards long and eight yards wide, the once-black hull now faded to a dark grey.  The bridge and cabin were a rusty white. An elderly crewman amidships gave him a stare as Thalassa led him along the promenade deck to a hatch beyond the bridge. They passed the mess on their right and reached a cabin at the end of a passageway.

'Take the top bunk this time,' she instructed. 'My stuff's underneath the bottom.'

She knelt to pull out a compact backpack and spent some time going through her gear before speaking again, as Gerra climbed up the rigid frame and planted himself with his feet hanging over the edge.  Thalassa then checked Riptide was still hidden inside a different mattress, and she asked Gerra for his dagger, placing both his and hers inside along with it, just in case any imperial sailors boarded.

'We're gonna be on this trawler for several days,’ she explained.  ‘They're sailing west to fish between here and Timber, but they'll be dropping us somewhere near Cedar, on the Timbarian coast.’  Sliding the bag back beneath the berth, she caught his eyes and continued.  ‘Timber is occupied territory, but there's a SeeD named Damian working with the Forest Fox; he can help us get across the border to Galbadia.'

After leaving port, the vessel approached the sweeping Esthari patrols.  Thalassa explained that after the new naval production facility in FH had been constructed, there had been a shortage of workers for the trawlers. Spending weeks away from home, especially during the colder months, was naturally seen as less desirable employment among FH's younger generation. Therefore, hiring last minute deckhands was not uncommon.  Looking through a porthole, they could both see a disinterested Esthari sailor briefly glancing at George's manifest before waving him on.

'So, what's in this for George?’ Gerra asked. ‘Does he help many other SeeDs?'

'His grandfather was one of the Founding Fathers of FH,’ Thalassa explained. She paused. 'Reina believed that as the settlement's founders were predominantly from Mordred, FH should naturally be a part of the Empire. The Fathers were pacifists; Mayor Dobe would not agree to the annexation, and they had no military or self-defense force to oppose her.  They were all burnt at the pyre in the main square for refusing to swear fealty.  Their wives, too.  The FHers call Reina the Red Witch – under their breath, at least.’

Gerra gave no outward expression, and she surmised he already knew of the tale.

Thalassa continued. 'George told me that he met the Children of Fate after Balamb Garden crashed into FH. Apparently, Squall and Irvine were wandering around after the Galbadians left.  Squall went out of his way to speak to George, which was unlike him, urging him to take his fishing lessons more seriously, and to gain his grandfather's respect.’  Thalassa beamed.  ‘George said that Garden's music festival at the Sun Dish was one of his happiest childhood memories.  He's the leader of a small resistance cell here, and he always helps SeeDs when he can.'

As Gerra gazed out of the porthole, the number of ships gradually decreased as they moved into the open ocean.  Thalassa wondered if he was even listening to her.

'Thalassa,’ he said suddenly.  ‘I was just wondering.  With Leo, you,’ he hesitated, looking back at her, 'well, you hesitated.’

She sighed, looking away. ‘I know.  I’m sorry.’

‘Is this because House Christophe took you in?’

‘I guess so,’ she professed.  ‘I really am, sorry, Gerra.  I didn’t have much time to think about it.’

‘It’s okay,’ Gerra said.  ‘I couldn’t bring myself to kill him, either.  For all his motivations, Leo has more honour than I could ever hope to have.  We call him the Obsidian Harbinger, the Forestaller of Omega; at Vektor, he held off Omega Weapon single-handedly until Ultimecia arrived.  He’s the best swordsman in the Empire.  There was no questioning of me ending his life like that, even with what’s at stake.’  He looked away.  ‘That’s why I needed you to do it.’

‘Okay,’ she said.  ‘Well, if he does reach Esthar, I can always alert Tyris.  She’s a magicite holder, and she won’t give a damn about the honour of the thing.  I won’t be able to warn her until we get to Timber, though; the Meridian Ocean is a cellular dead zone.’  She looked back through the portal, to the disappearing Esthari ships.  'Anyway, I think it's safe to go back on deck. It's about time I introduced you to the rest of the crew.'