Chapter 20: 1930 ---------------- Things were supposed to settle down, to slow down. They had failed in that. They had failed to stop the Empire in its ruthless takeover of towns and villages; first it had been Albrook, then Tzen, then Maranda, and when Maranda had fallen, the whole of the Southern Continent fell with it. But that had been the Southern Continent. No one cared what happened on the other side of the ocean. Peace reigned across the Northern cities and people there pretended. Places like Jidoor and Zozo had already found their own internal albeit uneasy peace, and they didn't want it disturbed with news of war. Faraway places like Kohlingen had found their peace wrapped around a blanket of isolation. Other places, Doma being the most notable among them, had found peace behind stone walls and a well-drilled army; they were prepared for the worst. And still other places, places like Figaro and her consort South Figaro, had found peace hastily scribbled upon an Imperial parchment. But peace was an illusion, a small lie dreamt up so children would sleep better. And war was the reality. And war did not flinch from the ocean's briny touch. And when war finally did reach the Northern cities, it was all but too late. They had failed to stop the Empire, and it was too late. Yet despite the relentless tide of blood washing ashore from the south, the myth of peace continued to flicker and sometimes even to shine forth. Such had been the case when Emperor Gestahl had so humbly begged for an end to the fighting. It had been a sham, a ruse. There was no peace. There never had been. The Emperor had had no intentions of curbing his ever-growing ambitions. And they had failed in not seeing through it. They had failed. And it seemed that their failures were destined to follow them up to the Floating Continent...up to the Floating Continent where they had been given one last chance to stop the Emperor's lust for power. But it had been useless from the start. They had gotten there too late. They could not contend with the magic that the Emperor had plundered. Nor could they contend with the immense power of the Goddesses. That was all in the past. Some of it Mog remembered first-hand, while parts of it he only remembered as stories told beside a midnight fire. Despite all their setbacks, they had eventually set things right again by vanquishing Kefka. At least that had been their hope. Things were supposed to settle down, slide back to normalcy. Flowers were supposed to bloom again, and people were supposed to return to their domestic lives. The last thing Mog had expected for all their efforts was more war, but that was what he saw. He felt old. He felt as though a hundred years had slipped by while he wasn't looking. He knew it wasn't true, but it felt like it nevertheless. And sitting across from Gau didn't help either. Gau who looked years older than when he last saw him. Gau who had grown up while he wasn't looking. Gau. Mog sighed. It wasn't all bad. It was just a cleaner, nicer smelling Gau. And things *were* settling down. The fighting in Jidoor had stopped, and though it had raged throughout the city, it had left untouched the inn which they now called homed. A calm had descended upon the city, and the night streets were still and quiet, interrupted only by the boisterous atmosphere from within. There was celebration in all the pubs and local watering holes. In truth, it was really getting too loud in the tavern for Mog's ears. He would soon find an excuse and quit to the solitude out on the edge of the city. He would invite Gau, but the little savage had been hanging about the likes of Setzer too long -- Gau was on an unholy winning streak, bankrupting card player after card player. Too bad he didn't have Setzer's fashion sense as well, Mog thought to himself. No matter. He would have to bow out after the next hand... just to have enough left over for a bottle of one of Jidoor's lesser known vintages. There was a hill overlooking the city, and if he was lucky, the moon would honor him with a visit tonight. Even a quarter visit would be nice just so long as the clouds didn't get in the way. The pot rose once more -- enough to balance anyone's losses should they win or wipe out any ill-gained fortune should they stumble. Everyone already had three cards exposed and one card face-down. One of the other players had two Kings showing, both Doman, another looked like a possible straight though it was really too early to tell, and Gau was already flaunting a pair of Sevens. Mog himself had collected a potpourri of a hand that was good for a few laughs; unfortunately, they weren't playing for laughs. Mog opened yet another card, giving the pair of Kings another Queen to play with. The holder of the royal quartet smiled. Mog had seen his type before -- the player who always expected to win, not because he was skilled or talented or even lucky, but simply because he fancied himself good-looking. Indeed, the man did have an exceptional profile...for a man. And his wardrobe -- falling somewhere between Setzer's elegance and Kefka's loquaciousness -- spoke well of him. Mog pegged him as an affluent Jidooran with time to waste and money to spend. The next card he dealt out was less favorable and maligned its player's face with disgust and resignation. A Wraith hailing from the Shadowlands. Hushed groans rose in self-defeat from the curious crowd -- it seemed everyone favored the lone girl with the sparkling green eyes. Nevertheless, the straight would never materialize. Mog could see desperation leaning across the girl's shoulders. He didn't know who she was but to call her a girl was really misleading. She had more curves on her than the Serpent Trench, and she wore an odd mix of armor which led him to think she might have been one of the many bounty hunters roaming the countryside. In any case, this beautiful Huntress didn't have enough chips left to play another round. So Mog turned over a third card, sending a Wild Chocobo over to join Gau's pair of Sevens. As the named implied, the Chocobo card was normally wild and often masqueraded as other cards. But not today. Today it was just a yellow bird drawn on starch-stiff cards. That gave Gau a pair of Sevens and maybe three of a kind if he had another hiding under his first draw. Mog stole one of those Sevens with his next card. It neither helped nor hurt his cause. It just made a useless hand just that much more so. Mog would definitely cash out now. Maybe he could convince Gau to stop for the night also. He wouldn't have to settle for anything cheap, and they could get roaring drunk and howl at the moon together. Maybe... The Jidooran, on the other hand, couldn't suppress a wide grin upon seeing Mog's Seven. He tauntingly shoved what was left of his chips into the center of the table and waited for Gau to take the bait. Gau did. He raised, and the Jidooran called. There was nothing for either the Huntress or Mog to do, so they meekly folded. Gau turned over his last remaining card: a Seven. Three Sevens! Only one Seven left, and Gau had had it all along! His three of a kind easily beat out the two pairs, but Gau didn't start celebrating yet. Instead he showed remarkable restraint and waited to see if the Jidooran could carry a full house. And Mog waited too. And as he waited, he could see the veins on the Jidooran's face bulge and contort as he reached to turn over his card. Maybe he was upset at having lost so many times. Maybe he was upset at loosing such a large hand. Maybe he was just upset. Mog couldn't understand. He was so certain the Jidooran had had a full house ready. Had he only been bluffing before? Why else would he wager so much? The answer struck Mog just as the Jidooran turned the card over... A Seven! The Jidooran snarled accusingly at Gau, but Gau only returned a blank stare. Mog was just as dumbfounded, and shock and bewilderment cascaded through the onlookers. Just about the only person not taken aback was the Huntress. She nonchalantly palmed up her own Seven then dropped it to the table. With six Sevens showing from one deck, there was only one way to settle things. The Jidooran brought a knife down onto the table hard, driving yet another crack into the aging oak. It was an expensive- looking knife with its curved blade and bejeweled hilt. Not meant for cutting, it was probably worth as much as all the gold swimming on the table. But the Jidooran wasn't adding it to the pot; rather he was carving back all his losses and then some. Gau leapt from his chair, looking as though he would climb over the table and bite throught the Jidooran's throat. Something angry flashed across his eyes, and an accompanying charge flickered and flowed over him, only to ground itself prematurely. Gau stood to his full height and glared back. And the girl, the Bounty Hunter, the Huntress who showed more skin than a newborn moogle... She sat back and watched the two boys facing off like a pair of chocobo rustlers. And though she would feign boredom, she would also undermine her self-styled detachment as she innocently reached behind her as though to disarm an annoying itch. Mog saw all this -- the girl across from him and Gau and the Jidooran on either side of him -- and he could only sigh inwardly. This was supposed to be a simple card game. A bit of fun. Some recreation. Things were supposed to settle down. The war was over. The war was over. Things were supposed to be like they were before. He was supposed to be able to visit old friends and reminisce about old times. He was supposed to be able to sleep in his own bed with a thick blanket and a soft pillow. He was supposed to be able to build snowmoogles, go sledding, and dig himself into a fluffy snowbank. He was supposed to be able to do a lot of things. Instead all his friends stank of blood when the day was over, and his bed was as soft as Terra's fireside cookies, and the only snow around was an ice cube rapidly melting into his drink. Mog sighed once more then blinked back to reality. Kupo! The fight had already started. The table before him lay toppled on its side, and although he looked, there was no trace of all the gold that had accumulated there before. All around him things were in an uproar as people who no longer had Imperial soldiers to struggle with found themselves attacking each other. But no one bothered to smite Mog. No one came near him with a weapon brandished or fists clenched. Maybe they were afraid of him, or maybe they just dismissed him as a stuffed toy left by some wayward child. So he just sat there like the stuffed toy he wasn't and watched the mayhem unfold like one of the Impresario's operas. He tried to pick Gau out from the crowd but couldn't. He tried to pick out the good guys from the bad guys, but it just didn't work that way. One man had jumped on top of the bar and was kicking anyone daring to approach him. He was also swinging a foil-type sword over his head at imaginery phantoms but was soon upended in his quest. The place seemed more packed than before as though people were joining in from off the streets. And the floor itself seemed to be growing more and more congested as well. Bodies lay shrewn about in a post-apocalyptic orgy, some trickling blood from minor wounds, some in theatrical poses, some dead and others convulsing. Then in a ritual that could only be described as befuddling, the Jidooran and the Huntress sifted out of the crowd and presented themselves before Mog's throne. They looked like a couple who had been invited to a party only to leave early because the gentleman had become too drunk to stand straight. The Jidooran was like that... slumped unconscious, one foot dragging behind and the other foot twisted at an obtuse angle. The huntress pulled them both closer to Mog, and it was then that Mog saw that she had the Jidooran's knife -- the one that hosted so many gems -- in her left hand. She hoisted the Jidooran by his hair so that his face stared right at Mog, then in a single defined movement, she ran the knife across his throat. Mog only swallowed nervously, wondering what performance they would draw out next, but he had swallowed too soon and wondered too early. The Huntress slid the gleaming knife into her belt, letting it soil her transluscent skirt. She layed the Jidooran down and brushed his hair back to admire the peacefulness in his face. She bent down to as though to kiss his quickly fading lips, but when she arose again, blood tinged the ends of her long tresses. Her fingers traced along the advancing pool of crimson, and when she looked up at Mog, she smiled so that Mog could only smile in return. She painted blood across her face, and her own blood rose up in an erotic blush. And when she touched it to her lips, she closed her eyes, then her tongue came out and drew itself back in. And when the blood would no longer satiate her appetite, she climbed back up to her feet and withdrew her newfound knife. She winked at Mog before she turned away and blazed her way back into the crowd. Mog could not guess the purpose of what he just saw. He thought to examine the Jidooran's body more closely or to follow the Huntress into the violent masses. These thoughts were unceremoniously driven away by a more immediate concern. Where had Gau gone? Was he still here fighting? Or had he grown bored of this little scuffle and wandered off elsewhere? Gau showed up driving his way through the stubborn crowd and in answer to Mog's unspoken questions. He trailed a Zephyr cape behind him, trading blows with anyone who dared confront him. But when he saw Mog still sitting there all alone in the middle of the room, he simply started shoving people to the side. And those who would not be shoved were rudely greeted by Iron Fists that began shimmering around Gau's hand. He belted just such a person along his armored belly, then scrambled over his victim, shouting out Mog's name. The words failed to carry, but the message was clear. Mog jumped right off his chair, just as the glint of steel whisked by. He landed with his back towards Gau, but even as he landed he jumped right back up onto the chair, then up higher still. The heel of his foot pounded into the bridge of someone's nose. He heard an audible snap. He did not know who he had just maligned. He did not know if his victim was a he or a she. He did not know a lot of things. And before he could find out, and before he could even land back upon his chair, Gau had raced by and snatched him midair. The cold sharp night air quickly diluted the stuffiness of the inn's tavern, and by the time Gau put Mog back down on the ground, the raucous had died down to a murmur in the distance. Neither of them spoke. Not about the mini-battle that had just erupted, not about the card game they had chanced, not about the late supper they had enjoyed before that, and not about anything that had happened since they had forever exorcised the magic from Kefka's soul. They just continued walking away from the inn towards the edge of the city, towards the ever-growing darkness...