Jecht will be a hero, even within Sin.
There were no real heroes there, though. He was the closest thing to one in Zanarkand, maybe. But heroes were made from strife. From /opportunity/. And Zanarkand was too placid for heroes. But here in Spira, there were real heroes. Place was practically a hero-factory, what with all the magic and swashbuckling and death and monsters. And if this wasn't one helluva opportunity, well he wasn't sure what else it was gonna take.
This was one thing, he figured, that he could really do well. See, he had a different perspective on it all. He wasn't from Spira. He hadn't grown up cowering under this half-baked Yevon dude. He made up his own mind. He could shake things up. He could change things.
Told you I'd think of something, Auron.
He just needed to hold out a little longer. It was breaking him down, sneaky and slow-like, sea-salt on an old metal pier or closet moths on a blitzball jersey. He closed his eyes when it took over and thought about how all this destruction was really okay in the long run. The boy needed to hate him. He needed to piss the kid off real good. He knew he was doing the right thing, even if he couldn't really get a grip on himself. Ammunition, nothing but ammunition. But he could still hear the shrieking and the roaring and cracking and booming. He saw family homes busted like ceramic piggy banks, their contents spilled across beaches like loose change. He saw a stony hand clutching Braska's staff, sinking through the sea, sending up silver bubble ribbons. Braska's legacy was worth more than a dusty statue. Jecht'd see to that.
Don't fuck this up, man. We're on borrowed time. Ten years ought to be long enough.
When they told him he was just a dream it only made him stronger. Dreams are the only things that really ever change anything, after all. That's what his wife always said and was probably the truest thing he'd ever heard. He was gonna close this book, him and the boy. They'd fade away heroes. Legends.
You're late, Auron.