Scene 10: Zeal Prison: Brain Wind & Black Bubbles
Blackness and flashes of some places and some faces...Mute sound and snippets of some voices and some very difficult choices...There was a slight sizzling hum in the air and the lingering smell of food; perhaps it was chicken.
It went on. It got better. It got worse again, much worse; there were terrible screams. Spilled blood coated everything from the walls and floor to the tips of fingers and the curves of the moon. It seemed as though everyone was dying again, so unstoppable, a rampage, a pure juggernaut force. The mind reeled in terror, but thankfully time and memory began to overcome...
What? Brain bubbles...?
There is trouble, right here and now...It was some voice from the recent past; some haunting, gruff, recognizable voice. That voice was a sliver from a farther past burrowing its way to his brain in through his ear.
What do you mean, ‘trouble’? There is always trouble, so what makes you think I should care this time? This one was his voice, although just then, in his memory, it sounded like everything else, drowned in water and a galaxy away. But even as he had said it, he knew something was wrong. There was some queer ring to the old man’s voice that he found unsettling.
This time, everyone is involved. I believe—
You can’t possibly mean everyone.
Everyone you’ve ever known and...
Must we stay here, Gil? The green-haired one had asked him. He remembered a man, no older than a boy really at the time, much like him, but that boy had been a coward without his sword. The man who knew him as Gil had an undying courage that lay just beneath the surface, waiting to break out at any moment, for just the right cause. He had said he defeated a version of Gil (Magus...maou) atop Denadoro years ago and Gil had no doubt that that man very well could have defeated him. Surely I could help against these mysterious fiends.
Yes, you must stay. Gil had replied. This was not intended for us all. It may be that it is not intended for me, but I must take this chance. I do not plan on confronting them, not if I can help it...
Are you worried about...about us? It was the voice of the girl he had met first upon his new journey—really just the continuing of the journey, the next chapter, the final chapter?—through space & time; the younger of the two special girls who he shared company in those strange days of Magic & madness and darkness & hope after he had left Zeal again-although it was no longer Zeal really. Just thirteen and so hardened from her search, her own desperate quest, and yet she still held on to that last shred of her purity like a life-preserver. Gil would have expected tears from a younger girl—even one her age—at such a departure, but there was nothing but the stone-faced quality of one used to taking the harder, longer road in those eyes of Marcy’s, and he expected no less. Was he proud of her? If asked, he could not have said either way. He was not ashamed of her he probably would have said.
I worry of many things Marcy, but I have no doubt that if you went with me, you would die fighting...to the last. This was true in his mind and it would have been true if she had accompanied him. That was who she was; he had seen it before in Fiona’s Cathedral against the Wolfs and again in the lost forest with that horrid creature, NioFio. There was no denying the pure, uninhibited rage he had seen there in those big, blue innocent’s eyes; he was far too personally familiar with it to mistake it for anything else. It was a kind of self-determined survival instinct that they shared. And it was so strange—heartbreaking—to see that sharp, concentrated look change into utter despair. He saw it in his mind’s eye. If she went with him, he would see that look, that change of looks, at the very last.
I’d give my sword and my life to find the answers I seek, to unlock the hidden door in my dreams. That was the other girl, the one who looked so like Lucca and yet was so unlike her. In many ways she was exactly the Lucca he had first met, alongside her friend Crono. She was human, Fire Magic surged within her, and she was sharp as a stick. In many other ways though, she was nothing like the Lucca Ashtear he knew. She was a lonesome pessimist, was hateful of science, her hair was mostly dyed black and she was an artist and a dreamer. She was as haunted by her dreams—fiery red things where various objects glowed under the light of a thousand dying suns and one man loomed over it, universe of suns and all, and he was known as maou—as Gil was haunted by the Wind. We will come with you, Gil.
I would have you find the key to your hidden door, Elle. He had spoken to her. But you know, well as I, that this is not a part of that. Have you dreamed of any of this?
No, but...She stopped. She could not think of an excuse. No part of her dreams told her any of this would happen, not a hint, nothing. It was an uncontrolled deviation that was unforeseen, unplanned for, and unexpected.
If I am right, this may lead me to my own door. I cannot give up this chance any more than you can by giving up the ability to find yours by coming with me. He saw her fall as well, she was as stubborn as Marcy, and she would die as she had lived: angry and forlorn. It had been hard to push those thought images away because they strengthened his resolve to go it without them. Part of him knew it was wrong, he was supposed to be with these girls, he knew that from the start, but the prize proved too tempting. I will see...
I’m going with you. The would-be magician’s voice rang, although only the one he used to know was would-be really; the woman he found recently was a sorceress true, a real female conjurer, temptress and seductress, the mage equivalent of a succubus.
Flea, you cannot. Gil had told her. He knew what it would possibly mean to himself if he decided to go, but to bring one of the others? It would be your end.
You cannot know that. Flea had said, she studied his face, and Gil had thought he very well could know it. These people were dangerous, in a realm of classification far beyond dangerous. Their blatant disregard for the life which they were interrupting and manipulating was just one of the glaring red lights that lit up in Gil’s mind. The main light, the light which all the others dwindled around enveloped like little yellow suns circling the axis of a great red giant, was the worried, concerned note he heard in the old man’s voice, that slight falter that indicated fear. If he took one of the others, it would surely mean their death. It was as clear as the sharpness in the Wind. And the Wind does not matter to me. I stand with my back to the Wind. I will not allow you to...
Conversations were cut off mid-sentence and emotions rebounded as they danced atop the layer of froth in his mind. The scatterbrain recollection of leaving his troupe went away in the pop of the last brain bubble. Memory resurfaced and thought kicked into overdrive. Gil awakened, but—as he had trained himself for many years—did not open his eyes. The rest of the sensory information flooded him in an instant. He was sprawled on a cold smooth surface of floor, his face planted directly into a wall that seemed to crackle with energy, and his right leg was completely numb. In some vast background, he could hear the faint murmurings of people.
He opened his eyes unto a familiar, and yet ultimately discouraging, sight. The wall of energy was just that, a wall of energy (he had seen such things before, in the future of Vita, for instance), and there were thankfully no shackles. There was also no way for him to get out.
He got up, dusted himself of unseen dirt and got the lay of the land. He was in a single dull, cobalt-colored cell box and the only light came from a square panel in the ceiling that glowed more than it shined, giving an eerie, iridescent characteristic to everything inside. There was a toilet—or at least something that resembled a toilet—in one corner and a bunk bolted to the side of the wall opposite. No window to show the outside world—whatever it may be. He noted that he had everything he had come in with: sickles, potions, talismans, etc. Even his clothes were the same: tanned leather armor, the blue wrap of cloth around his midsection, his plum-colored pants, and his worn-in boots and gloves.
Underestimating me? He thought, but it didn’t seem quite right. Surely he had had enemies underestimate him in the past: Ozzie, Cyrus & the stupid frog, the robots of Vita, the android Grobyc & his sister the good Doctor Luccia. But this was different on a very fundamental level; they had beaten him utterly and completely. It had been only one spell—that horrible Brain Bubble—that knocked them both unconscious. His Amulet could not protect against it. They are overestimating themselves. He thought, but put it aside almost immediately. They were not overestimating anything, they simply knew. Gil posed no real threat to them, weapons or no. These people have power I could not begin to fathom. And he hated them for it.
There was a cell directly across from his, but it was empty. To the left of this he could see his companion, slumped out similarly to how he was, in another dingy cell. He sprang forward and pounded the field of light, “Flea...Flea...!” He tried calling her name for a while to try and get her attention, but it seemed as though the spell was working its wonders on her as well. He saw her arm twitch minutely and he could just faintly see the quick movement going on under her eyelids. The pins & needles receded from his leg and he looked down and found the source of the chicken-smell mashed under one of his boots.
He felt over the wall of energy and found a singular point about two feet wide and maybe two inches thick that offered no resistance. It was where the guards or sentries or officials or whoever the hell was in charge of the prisoners well being, handed (or in this case, dropped) them food on worn metal or plastic trays.
Gil studied the empty cell across from him, knowing that it was a mirror of his own squalid surroundings. There were no buttons, no switches or locks, and no control panel or numeric pad either. Was there some central control area or were the walls magically created? He knew none of the answers.
Strange thoughts entered Flea’s head as well: the dark man she had fallen in love with, the long years of torturous study, that terrible war, her man’s unfortunate death, and his pseudo-return in the form of Gil. But aside from these thoughts, encircling them, covering them, suffocating them, was something her man gave her, something she learned from him, that followed her from him and Gil—flowed from both of the men. The Black Wind blotted out her thoughts and memories.
Then some other sound began to work its way through as the last brain bubble in her head popped. It was an odd sound, perhaps a word, that seemed like it should be familiar, but all she could think of was bees and trees and knees. The Wind subsided, though did not fade completely.
“Flea...!” She heard a voice shout to her. That was her name, she realized. That voice was familiar too, but it wasn’t her voice. It wasn’t even the voice of the person she thought it was, although it was an easy mistake to make. A few seconds seemed to stretch out into the infinity as a conscience awareness of time came back to her. Flea’s memory and thought patterns reset themselves in a dismal, sluggish manner. Had she taken the brunt of the Magical assault? It had felt like it to her, but the actual sequence of events was mostly a gray haze that dashed in and out of focus quick and unsteadily like a home movie or bad steady-cam photography.
She awoke in a cobalt little cubical identical to Gil’s. Her arms lay up above her head and her legs were spread behind her. She propped herself on one hand, testing her coordination and balance at the same time. Everything seemed in proper working order. She also noted that none of her possessions were taken; she had all of her potions, charms, powders, etc. What kind of prison is this? She thought.
Then her eyes looked up to the wall which served to separate her from any true hope of escape. A wall of eerie light that could not be penetrated, save for a small slot just big enough to pass a tray of food through. She put a gloved hand to the wall and found no give whatsoever. She did note, however, that she too had mashed her ration of chicken scrap underneath her boot.
Gil finally gave in and sat cross-legged before the energy wall, eyes closed in a state of meditation and hands hooked together. His brow constricted as he thought deeply about their current situation and the events leading up to the capture. It was ridiculous and dangerous and reckless. It was, in essence, exactly what the old man and the others—excepting the girls of course, they seemed to understand his reasoning most—had told him it would be when they had left the End of Time: stupid.
They had shadowed the stealthy men
(Nanashi)
who had been carrying a girl from Giant’s Claw. They carried sheathed knives and were dressed in jet black—more accurately, they were consumed in it. Before they had time to consider the possibilities, the dark men, plus one, came to a dead end and they entered the portal that opened there. Gil and Flea had scrambled after them and had made it into the portal themselves mere seconds before it winked out of existence.
Upon entrance into the new world, they were seized on both sides and spell-struck by Brain Bubble. They had been ready for them. Perhaps their shadowing of the men hadn’t gone unseen or maybe their manipulation of temporal transports was so advanced that they had ample time to set up a defense before they had arrived. Or maybe...Gil thought. Maybe they were just considerably well-prepared.
Then he opened his eyes and saw that Flea was awake, with a questioning, somber look on her face. He nodded in agreement with the tone of her expression.
Opportunity for escape was not given. Escape had not been planned. The two of them would not escape their imprisonment in that strange and threatening—and yet to Gil, somehow familiar—dungeon. So they were forced to sit and wait and reflect on what brought them there and what would eventually happen to them. Part of Flea saw escape; it was some deep part, her mind’s eye. But she did not know what the cost would be. She could not, for the Wind obstructed such precise observations. The Black Wind was fundamental to all matters of freedom and control, fate and choice...life and death.
