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Jan. 15th, 2002 02:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
petroniaIt works. FFX, spoilerish for mid-game, obviously fragmentary by reason of having to go to dinner with friends. I typed this directly into livejournal from a rough first draft done three hours ago in Internet Programming class (which the professor spent telling us what gopher was -__-): deal with it accordingly.
And the title doesn't refer to Tidus. Just to make that clear.
***
"You're supposed to use the doorbell."
Auron glanced around, and lowered his hand. The voice sounded tinny to him, distorted as if by echoes through some subterranean system. Sullen, young, unmistakably boy. The boy. There was no such child to be seen. The voice crackled from out a featureless grey box the size of his palm set into the jamb, and the curtains were drawn tight over the windows. It was early yet, and the waterfront was quiet. There was only the lapping of the waves against the embankment, the rainbowed hum of a nearby holo-ad projector (where the children of the city might gather later with their rollerskates and tanned bare shoulders and pounding music, once the mist had cleared and the sun a little higher in the sky). If he paid attention he could sense the sway of the deck beneath his feet.
Six months ago he might have marvelled at the waking dream that was this other Zanarkand, at its minute and unceasing wonders. But his search had lasted a long time.
"I'm sorry," he said to the box, leaning closer to it by instinct. And after a silence, "may I--?"
The crackling sound cut off, and a few moments later the door opened. Auron experienced a brusque sense of dislocation. He had expected to see some trace of Jecht's features in the face upturned to him; had braced himself for it. There was no such obvious mark. The child framed in the doorway was thin, small for what Auron knew to be his age - the disparity between their heights accentuated by the flight of five steps down from the entrance. Dirty blond hair fell into eyes of an astonishing summersea blue. They were narrowed at him, unfriendly, almost defiant. Auron remembered that he was - generally speaking - not good at dealing with children.
"What do you want?" the boy said. His gaze flickered to Auron's sword, propped against the balustrade behind him, and back up to his face.
"Are you Tidus?"
The boy considered. Auron realised belatedly that he had probably been told not to speak to strangers. "Yes," he said finally. "Who are you?"
So he was at the right door after all. "My name is Auron."
"Are you a reporter?"
The query startled a laugh out of him. "No. No, that I am not." He had by now some idea of what the boy meant; had seen Jecht's image thrown back at him still and moving from phosphor screens and the sides of skyreaching towers, arms raised, flash of white teeth frozen forever in post-goal triumph. Famous as he'd always claimed to be. It had turned out that very few people knew where he lived. "...I'm here to speak with your mother. Is she home?"
"She's asleep," said Tidus. Auron thought he would be asked his business again, but instead the boy stepped aside and allowed him entry. He had to duck in order not to bump into the molded top edge of the doorframe. The door snicked closed behind him.
[ snip a longish passage of settei *sighs* ]
His first thought was that Jecht had never said anything about a daughter. Then he looked again, and realised she was not - could not be - as young as she seemed. It was clear now that the boy's looks were distaff. It was the same dark blond hair braided girlishly about her ears, the same startling blue eyes gazing out from her laughing face. She was not in many of the pictures: the vast majority were snapshots and framed clippings of Jecht. (Younger, beardless, then bearded, sitting pooledge with his feet dangling into the blue expanse of chlorinated water, leaping up to make a shot, laughing behind a table crowded with empty bottles, looking uncomfortable in evening wear, a grin on his face all the same for the unseen photographer.) A few of Tidus also, usually with his parents. The boy aged from image to image, but the mother hardly did. She hung from Jecht's arm, on tiptoe and half off-balance, her hair falling against his shoulder. Auron thought she looked happy.
Zanarkand had no knowledge of Sin, Jecht had said. Auron had not been able to imagine such innocence.
And the title doesn't refer to Tidus. Just to make that clear.
***
"You're supposed to use the doorbell."
Auron glanced around, and lowered his hand. The voice sounded tinny to him, distorted as if by echoes through some subterranean system. Sullen, young, unmistakably boy. The boy. There was no such child to be seen. The voice crackled from out a featureless grey box the size of his palm set into the jamb, and the curtains were drawn tight over the windows. It was early yet, and the waterfront was quiet. There was only the lapping of the waves against the embankment, the rainbowed hum of a nearby holo-ad projector (where the children of the city might gather later with their rollerskates and tanned bare shoulders and pounding music, once the mist had cleared and the sun a little higher in the sky). If he paid attention he could sense the sway of the deck beneath his feet.
Six months ago he might have marvelled at the waking dream that was this other Zanarkand, at its minute and unceasing wonders. But his search had lasted a long time.
"I'm sorry," he said to the box, leaning closer to it by instinct. And after a silence, "may I--?"
The crackling sound cut off, and a few moments later the door opened. Auron experienced a brusque sense of dislocation. He had expected to see some trace of Jecht's features in the face upturned to him; had braced himself for it. There was no such obvious mark. The child framed in the doorway was thin, small for what Auron knew to be his age - the disparity between their heights accentuated by the flight of five steps down from the entrance. Dirty blond hair fell into eyes of an astonishing summersea blue. They were narrowed at him, unfriendly, almost defiant. Auron remembered that he was - generally speaking - not good at dealing with children.
"What do you want?" the boy said. His gaze flickered to Auron's sword, propped against the balustrade behind him, and back up to his face.
"Are you Tidus?"
The boy considered. Auron realised belatedly that he had probably been told not to speak to strangers. "Yes," he said finally. "Who are you?"
So he was at the right door after all. "My name is Auron."
"Are you a reporter?"
The query startled a laugh out of him. "No. No, that I am not." He had by now some idea of what the boy meant; had seen Jecht's image thrown back at him still and moving from phosphor screens and the sides of skyreaching towers, arms raised, flash of white teeth frozen forever in post-goal triumph. Famous as he'd always claimed to be. It had turned out that very few people knew where he lived. "...I'm here to speak with your mother. Is she home?"
"She's asleep," said Tidus. Auron thought he would be asked his business again, but instead the boy stepped aside and allowed him entry. He had to duck in order not to bump into the molded top edge of the doorframe. The door snicked closed behind him.
[ snip a longish passage of settei *sighs* ]
His first thought was that Jecht had never said anything about a daughter. Then he looked again, and realised she was not - could not be - as young as she seemed. It was clear now that the boy's looks were distaff. It was the same dark blond hair braided girlishly about her ears, the same startling blue eyes gazing out from her laughing face. She was not in many of the pictures: the vast majority were snapshots and framed clippings of Jecht. (Younger, beardless, then bearded, sitting pooledge with his feet dangling into the blue expanse of chlorinated water, leaping up to make a shot, laughing behind a table crowded with empty bottles, looking uncomfortable in evening wear, a grin on his face all the same for the unseen photographer.) A few of Tidus also, usually with his parents. The boy aged from image to image, but the mother hardly did. She hung from Jecht's arm, on tiptoe and half off-balance, her hair falling against his shoulder. Auron thought she looked happy.
Zanarkand had no knowledge of Sin, Jecht had said. Auron had not been able to imagine such innocence.
Wonderful ficcy!
Date: 2002-01-15 02:31 pm (UTC)-Lisette