Categories > Games > Final Fantasy X-2 > Phoenix Down
I woke up in a strange bed curled under a familiar warm red coat, and for a few crushing moments I felt so much like myself that it took sitting up before I remembered everything and realized I wasn't in my bed and was not sleeping under my tented roof back in New Home. Yes, I had actually died falling off the Farplane platform. Whoops, my bad. I looked around the dark bedroom I had been sleeping in. The door was cracked open, a sliver of light falling on the faded carpet, and a square of blue curtain glowed softly as it blocked a window. I could hear the clink of glass and metal from beyond the door, the familiar sounds of someone cooking, and the scent of bacon on the air. There was also an underlying scent of warm honey, like from unlit candles I'd keep on my bedside table for all the times Pops blew the fuses and the power went out. I had a flashlight, of course, but I'd always liked the candles better. They just seemed, well, /safer/, if that makes sense, which I know totally doesn't, but I don't care. There was a soft knock at the door and it shifted open, letting more light in.
"Are you up?" Auron asked from behind the door. I pushed aside the coat I had been bundled into and stood, stretching, feeling all my bones pop and shift, an internal symphony of grossness. I guess that's what falling a gazillibillon feet into the world of the dead does to you, makes you sound like a sack of knucklebones rattling around.
"Yup," I answered and he swung the door open, the light from behind him making me squint in a rather unattractive fashion, I was sure. He held a mug of something steaming in one hand, for him for for me, I didn't know.
"You fainted," he said unnecessarily. I stared at him for a moment and he had the grace to look a little sheepish, which for Auron, is a big stretch. I mean, that guy practically has the words I'm Capable and Never Put a Foot Wrong stamped on his forehead. Maybe being dead had made the Master of Monotone loosen up a bit.
"Thanks for that Captain Obvious," I muttered and walked up to him, snatching the mug out of his hand. "Mine," I said and drank what had been his tea. His eyebrow twitched and he looked about ready to give out one of those long-suffering sighs before I put a finger to his lips (this was pretty gutsy on my part, considering the man has, um, touching-issues). "Nuh uh," I said. "You're dead and not allowed to be long-suffering anymore." I pushed past him into his kitchen. Books were piled everywhere, along with discarded swords. His Masamune was propped against one wall, almost carelessly, the blade a faded gray of unpolished metal. It looked sad.
"Do you want something to eat?" He moved to the small stove, the bacon still crackling merrily in the frying pan. My stomach answered noisily and I sat down on a stool by the counter, watching him fork the pork onto a plate for me.
"So," I chirped, "when do I get my own ha-ha-you're-dead-here's-a-house house?" I grinned at him, chomping nosily on bacon, enjoying as the thick flavour of that unholy marriage of fat-and-salt exploded in my mouth. I think maybe my eyes rolled up into the back of my head, 'cause in case you haven't noticed, I enjoy my food. Pops even calls, um, well, called me /meddma bekmad/, which means I am (was) his little piglet. But in a cute way, not roll-in-the-mud-yeah-right-so-not-a-clean-animal way.
I looked back up at Auron where he was settling down on a stool with his own breakfast, eating quietly in that, y'know, warrior way, knife and fork sliding through the eggs in an almost mechanical fashion. Auron's always been like a well-oiled machine, worn a little around the edges, but all beautifully put together. You could really just sit there and watch him for ages, watching him move, nothing wasted, just gliding from one action smoothly into the next. He put down his fork and sipped on his mug of tea-spiked-with-sake (yeah, I totally knew of his nasty little early-morning habit from the Pilgrimage, so maybe the cup I'd snatched earlier had really been for me) before speaking;
"You don't," he said, letting that oh-so-explanatory pearl of wisdom drop before going back to eating, working his way steadily around his plate in a clockwise manner. Heck, that man even eats methodically. That's gotta be illegal somewhere in Spira. I twitched. We weren't in Spira. And I was dead. Right-o.
"And why not? I died fair and square," I said with what had to be an adorable frown, "I want a house. Y'know, with palm fronds and a big ol' orange tree out back and a handsome boy called Pedro to clean out my swimming pool, and with bedsheets that never get dirty and floors that never need sweeping and-" I stopped talking. Auron was looking at me as if I was crazy, and, okay, yeah maybe I am a little crazy, but not enough to warrant expressions of mild-mannered dismay or nothing. And then it was my turn to stare because he actually laughed, a rich dark-chocolate-stirred-into-vanilla-cream chuckle, rising right out of his gut, his shoulders even getting into the action by shaking a little.
Just shaking a /little/, though, this was Auron after all. I grunted and flipped him the same rude gesture that I had right after I'd died, and a small part of me hoped that it wasn't against the rules up here in the Farplanes to flip the bird, and that you didn't like, faint or something every time you did as a punishment. I held my breath. Nope, no fainting. I went back to eating as Sir Snickers chortled into his browned toast. At least he can cook even if he has a weird sense of humour, I thought, but a small part of me was laughing too, dead but alive, sitting in his little worn kitchen in a corner of the Farplanes, eating bacon that tasted like heaven, the scent of his tea-and-sake itching at my nose. It was just ten kinds of surreal.
"You're contesting your death, so you don't get a house," Auron said, putting his empty dishes in the sink, putting to rest my faint hope that we'd have some super cool Farplanes way of doing dishes. So far the score is Spira 218,213,123,12, Farplanes 1. And that one is only from having Auron around again, even if he can be a grumpy old man. He took my plate from me as I finished and started washing the dishes, hands running over the porcelain until they squeaked from being so clean. I sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. "So, we're going to go speak with the Tribunal and ask them what they think, and then you can figure out if you want a house or if you want to make that climb back to Spira." I blinked. This whole house metaphor was getting bantered around a little too much for my comfort.
"I thought you said I wouldn't succeed," I said, wondering slightly if he was ill. But that was silly, you couldn't get sick in the Farplanes, it was far too, um, magical and special for that, right? Eternal rest from sniffles and sneezes and stuff.
"I said that no one had ever done it before, but like you pointed out, no one has ever fallen into the Farplanes before, and..." he hesitated before meeting my eyes, his own warm and brown for a moment, "I didn't think we'd defeat Sin without Yuna dying, either. Even I, Sir Tight-ass, know that I'm not always right." I spat out my tea as he called himself the nickname Tidus and I had dreamed up one day on the Pilgrimage when Auron had been especially hard on us, the youngest of the merry crew. The corner of his mouth quirked up as I coughed. I pounded my fist into my chest, hacking the moisture out of my throat that had gone down all wrong and tried to glare at him effectively at the same time. Either my luck was out that day, or the Farplanes weren't all that magical, because he really didn't look like his shorts were on fire like I'd been wishing.
"So, um, we go talk to this Tribunal, and I look all cute and you look gruff and they let me go back?" This sounded a little too simple, but then, who knows? It was the Farplane, and things should have been simpler. Auron sipped his tea again, clearly savouring the sake he had tipped into it.
"Something like that," he said and then motioned to me to get off my stool. "We go. Now." And with that, we went. Okay, so maybe I tripped over his stool and sent half the stack of newly cleaned dishes smashing into the floor and had to spend an hour picking fragments of sharp porcelain out of the carpet first but, yeah, eventually, we went.
"Are you up?" Auron asked from behind the door. I pushed aside the coat I had been bundled into and stood, stretching, feeling all my bones pop and shift, an internal symphony of grossness. I guess that's what falling a gazillibillon feet into the world of the dead does to you, makes you sound like a sack of knucklebones rattling around.
"Yup," I answered and he swung the door open, the light from behind him making me squint in a rather unattractive fashion, I was sure. He held a mug of something steaming in one hand, for him for for me, I didn't know.
"You fainted," he said unnecessarily. I stared at him for a moment and he had the grace to look a little sheepish, which for Auron, is a big stretch. I mean, that guy practically has the words I'm Capable and Never Put a Foot Wrong stamped on his forehead. Maybe being dead had made the Master of Monotone loosen up a bit.
"Thanks for that Captain Obvious," I muttered and walked up to him, snatching the mug out of his hand. "Mine," I said and drank what had been his tea. His eyebrow twitched and he looked about ready to give out one of those long-suffering sighs before I put a finger to his lips (this was pretty gutsy on my part, considering the man has, um, touching-issues). "Nuh uh," I said. "You're dead and not allowed to be long-suffering anymore." I pushed past him into his kitchen. Books were piled everywhere, along with discarded swords. His Masamune was propped against one wall, almost carelessly, the blade a faded gray of unpolished metal. It looked sad.
"Do you want something to eat?" He moved to the small stove, the bacon still crackling merrily in the frying pan. My stomach answered noisily and I sat down on a stool by the counter, watching him fork the pork onto a plate for me.
"So," I chirped, "when do I get my own ha-ha-you're-dead-here's-a-house house?" I grinned at him, chomping nosily on bacon, enjoying as the thick flavour of that unholy marriage of fat-and-salt exploded in my mouth. I think maybe my eyes rolled up into the back of my head, 'cause in case you haven't noticed, I enjoy my food. Pops even calls, um, well, called me /meddma bekmad/, which means I am (was) his little piglet. But in a cute way, not roll-in-the-mud-yeah-right-so-not-a-clean-animal way.
I looked back up at Auron where he was settling down on a stool with his own breakfast, eating quietly in that, y'know, warrior way, knife and fork sliding through the eggs in an almost mechanical fashion. Auron's always been like a well-oiled machine, worn a little around the edges, but all beautifully put together. You could really just sit there and watch him for ages, watching him move, nothing wasted, just gliding from one action smoothly into the next. He put down his fork and sipped on his mug of tea-spiked-with-sake (yeah, I totally knew of his nasty little early-morning habit from the Pilgrimage, so maybe the cup I'd snatched earlier had really been for me) before speaking;
"You don't," he said, letting that oh-so-explanatory pearl of wisdom drop before going back to eating, working his way steadily around his plate in a clockwise manner. Heck, that man even eats methodically. That's gotta be illegal somewhere in Spira. I twitched. We weren't in Spira. And I was dead. Right-o.
"And why not? I died fair and square," I said with what had to be an adorable frown, "I want a house. Y'know, with palm fronds and a big ol' orange tree out back and a handsome boy called Pedro to clean out my swimming pool, and with bedsheets that never get dirty and floors that never need sweeping and-" I stopped talking. Auron was looking at me as if I was crazy, and, okay, yeah maybe I am a little crazy, but not enough to warrant expressions of mild-mannered dismay or nothing. And then it was my turn to stare because he actually laughed, a rich dark-chocolate-stirred-into-vanilla-cream chuckle, rising right out of his gut, his shoulders even getting into the action by shaking a little.
Just shaking a /little/, though, this was Auron after all. I grunted and flipped him the same rude gesture that I had right after I'd died, and a small part of me hoped that it wasn't against the rules up here in the Farplanes to flip the bird, and that you didn't like, faint or something every time you did as a punishment. I held my breath. Nope, no fainting. I went back to eating as Sir Snickers chortled into his browned toast. At least he can cook even if he has a weird sense of humour, I thought, but a small part of me was laughing too, dead but alive, sitting in his little worn kitchen in a corner of the Farplanes, eating bacon that tasted like heaven, the scent of his tea-and-sake itching at my nose. It was just ten kinds of surreal.
"You're contesting your death, so you don't get a house," Auron said, putting his empty dishes in the sink, putting to rest my faint hope that we'd have some super cool Farplanes way of doing dishes. So far the score is Spira 218,213,123,12, Farplanes 1. And that one is only from having Auron around again, even if he can be a grumpy old man. He took my plate from me as I finished and started washing the dishes, hands running over the porcelain until they squeaked from being so clean. I sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. "So, we're going to go speak with the Tribunal and ask them what they think, and then you can figure out if you want a house or if you want to make that climb back to Spira." I blinked. This whole house metaphor was getting bantered around a little too much for my comfort.
"I thought you said I wouldn't succeed," I said, wondering slightly if he was ill. But that was silly, you couldn't get sick in the Farplanes, it was far too, um, magical and special for that, right? Eternal rest from sniffles and sneezes and stuff.
"I said that no one had ever done it before, but like you pointed out, no one has ever fallen into the Farplanes before, and..." he hesitated before meeting my eyes, his own warm and brown for a moment, "I didn't think we'd defeat Sin without Yuna dying, either. Even I, Sir Tight-ass, know that I'm not always right." I spat out my tea as he called himself the nickname Tidus and I had dreamed up one day on the Pilgrimage when Auron had been especially hard on us, the youngest of the merry crew. The corner of his mouth quirked up as I coughed. I pounded my fist into my chest, hacking the moisture out of my throat that had gone down all wrong and tried to glare at him effectively at the same time. Either my luck was out that day, or the Farplanes weren't all that magical, because he really didn't look like his shorts were on fire like I'd been wishing.
"So, um, we go talk to this Tribunal, and I look all cute and you look gruff and they let me go back?" This sounded a little too simple, but then, who knows? It was the Farplane, and things should have been simpler. Auron sipped his tea again, clearly savouring the sake he had tipped into it.
"Something like that," he said and then motioned to me to get off my stool. "We go. Now." And with that, we went. Okay, so maybe I tripped over his stool and sent half the stack of newly cleaned dishes smashing into the floor and had to spend an hour picking fragments of sharp porcelain out of the carpet first but, yeah, eventually, we went.
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