Chapter 25: Present Perfect --------------------------- Within the month, Locke's entire life had fallen apart. He sat in the tavern in South Figaro, staring at the food and drink he'd ordered but not yet touched. Wanting nothing more than... To forget. To lose himself in the world, in his profession, in anything but his memories. And he could not. * * * * * Rachel followed him into the cave, her eyes shining with curiosity. Barely a week ago, she had agreed to marry him; he still could hardly believe it. And this was the last expedition before the wedding. The last one ever, if Rachel decided she no longer wanted to pursue an adventurer's life. He wouldn't stop treasure hunting for the world - but for Rachel, he would. She asked what they were looking for this time. He doubted that it mattered to her any more than to him; it was the search that they enjoyed most. Nevertheless, he beamed at her, answering, "Wait till you see...!" He started across the narrow bridge, built by some ancient people for a purpose he could not imagine, but his thoughts were on what lay ahead. Perhaps that was why he'd failed to notice the danger. "Locke!" Rachel's cry wrenched him back to reality. He felt the ancient bridge crumbling under his weight. But Rachel had been faster than he. He was shoved forward, out of danger, as the bridge collapsed, carrying Rachel with it. She had lived, at least; but she remembered very little. She remembered her parents, she remembered hazy details of her past life. She forgot about Locke entirely. Less than a month after the accident, Locke left Kohlingen with a bitter heart. The day was beautiful, the weather was perfect. It was to have been his wedding day. * * * * * Months passed. Locke pressed himself harder than he would have dared before. He searched for the treasures that rumor placed in the most inhospitable places, guarded by the most fearsome monsters. The others called him a fool for it, told him he couldn't possibly live long if he continued. His luck would run out, they said, and he would die. That was exactly what he wanted, then. But Locke hadn't died. Some stubborn impulse wouldn't allow him to give up, and his incredible luck held for six months. Locke began to acquire a reputation in certain circles. But always, he worked alone. Then, as he rested in Narshe after an expedition into the mountains nearby, the news came that changed his life a second time. Kohlingen had been attacked by the Empire. Many of the villagers had been imprisoned. Rachel was among them. He bought a chocobo with the money he'd found on his adventures. The merchant charged him five times what he otherwise would have paid, but he was in a hurry. He had heard the news in the morning; by early afternoon, he was riding toward Kohlingen. He travelled more quickly than ever before, but the journey was too long. Rachel was dead, they told him. He still remembered Merine's words: "At the end, her memory returned. Her last word was... Your name..." In his grief, he had taken her still-warm body to the one man he knew who might help. Justar. The crazy old herbalist might just have an answer. He remembered how well the man's potions had worked, in the cave. Maybe... "Barely in time, boy." The scratchy voice sounded like it hadn't been used in years. "There's still a spark of life in her. I can't cure her, but I can keep her from dying. If you're really sure you want that." Locke nodded. He would find the cure, someday. * * * * * "Locke Cole?" The voice was a welcome intrusion on his memories. He looked up to see a middle-aged man - perhaps 40 years old - dressed in silken robes. His brown hair flared wildly, and his eyes gleamed with an inner fire. Instinctively, he knew that this man was a leader. Strong-willed, wise, capable. A madman as well, perhaps, but glorious in his madness. "I hear you have reason to hate the Empire." Locke did not reply. The man continued, unshaken, "We've heard of your prowess. We've been looking for men like you to help us fight the Empire..." This time, Locke raised an eyebrow. "We?" The older man paused, as if weighing the benefits of explaining. "The Returners." Locke recognized the name, and it must have showed, for the man continued, "We've grown in strength lately, but many of our men still cannot travel without arousing suspicion. But you - you have a reason for being anywhere. Freedom to move..." "I'm sure there are many others you might ask. I'm no soldier, just a simple treasure hunter." "Others? There are some. But few have as much mobility as you do. There was one who had more... but the Empire has made him a rich man. We couldn't trust him." Despite himself, Locke was becoming interested. "So. I'm your 'perfect agent'?" He smiled at the absurd thought. The Returner, however, was completely serious. "You are very close to it. Not as experienced as we might have wished, but also... well, never mind. I suppose the important question is: Will you join us in our fight?" Locke nodded. "Just one question, if I may?" "Yes?" "Do you have a name?" The gloriously mad Returner smiled grimly. "Banon." Then he was gone, and Locke found that he was hungry after all. * * * * * A body thrashed in a cot on the Waverider. Occasionally, its contortions would pause as he muttered a string of syllables. The images spun through his head, faster, faster... The man relaxed into a deeper, more peaceful sleep, his fever broken, though there was none to watch the recovery.