You’ll cry. You’re gonna cry. You always cry. See? You’re cryin’.

Warmth on his face… moisture… the boy’s tears. His lips were parched, dry, cracking—his body on the verge of disintegrating into its pure energies of life…

I hate you, Dad.

Save it for later.

Right… we’ve got a job to do, don’t we?

Heh… he knew his job. He’d become a young man—skinny, but strong where it counted. If only the “old man” had been there… to watch, to help, to be a father.

Good. That’s right. You are my son, after all.

You know… for the first time, I’m glad… to have you as my father.

His voice was dim. The dying man could only hear it as echoes—he couldn’t even see the boy anymore. His vision faded. He grunted, willing himself to laugh once more. He’d laugh. He’d laugh, and punch something, or knock some heads, and his friends would take care of the goddamn Public Relations… and things would be just fine.

The girl knew what to do. She had a good heart, even if she couldn’t see her own strength. She needed to grow a bit more of a backbone—and she’d be just like her own dad.

They all knew what to do…

…and it was over.

His pain ebbed, the throbbing ceased, all sensation fell mute. He couldn’t feel his arms, his legs, or any part of his considerably larger self outside… he floated through the air, overwhelmed by a pulsating light, a glow that he couldn’t see, for he had no eyes—nor see, for he had no body. He just knew.

I was there… at the end…

Soaring up, and up, through the limitless sky, his being burst out of whatever reality he was chained to by the flesh… he was free.

And then, he felt heavy. Something grabbed him, something started pulling him back down—this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Find me.

Not his voice, not the boy’s voice… something else.

And the spirit plummeted, falling faster and faster, moving impossibly fast through impossibly long distances over an impossibly long eternity…

…sand. There was sand here. Not the soft, soothing sand of the beaches of Spira… no, this was harsh, grating sand that blew over his face, stinging his skin, getting caught in his beard…

He lay on the ground, his chest moving up and down as he realized he was breathing. He was alive, unfortunately, because something had brought him here.

... the problem being, he had no idea where, exactly, “here” was.

His lips were cracked, dry, and now caked with sand. He could sit up if he wanted to—if he really wanted to. Just a few more minutes to gather his strength, and then he’d find out just where he was. And he’d punch something, or crack some heads, and even though Auron and Braska weren’t there, he’d be just fine.

Yep. He’d be fantastic.

Juuuust peachy.

“Hell, I need a drink.”