[Final Fantasy VI] Tribute
Pairing: Setzer/Daryl
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers
Notes: Written for the October 2008 round of IJ areyougame.
Summary: This is his tribute to her.
Word Count: 300
Beta: None
The air inside the Falcon's engine compartment was hot, close, and smelled of grease. Setzer squirmed a little farther under the engine and stretched his arm as far as he could. He just managed to grip the bolt with his pliers and give it a last twist.
The ship was finished.
He lay on the cool metal plates, staring up at the many individual pieces of the Falcon's engine, and sighed.
He had thought that when he finished reassembling her airship, he would feel at peace. It was the promise he had held out to himself through the long months of repairs, what he used to get himself out of bed in the morning.
But the final pieces of the engine he'd salvaged showed signs of tampering - tool marks he knew she wouldn't have left, traces of substances that had no place in an engine. Daryl had been daring in the air, but she took care of her ship on the ground.
He wondered if someone sabotaged her, killed her out of jealousy, or simply wanted her dead for whatever reason.
He worked his way out of the engine compartment and meticulously stored the tools in the cabinets Daryl had provided. He checked to ensure that he'd left nothing behind.
The stairs leading up from the Falcon's resting place were narrow and steep. He climbed them for the last time very slowly.
He paused next to the casket, and rested his hand on the purple velvet draped over the empty wooden box. "I fixed her," he said out loud. "She'll be waiting."
The Blackjack was waiting outside for him. He didn't know where Daryl was, but he intended to see as much of the world as he could. It would be a fitting tribute.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers
Notes: Written for the October 2008 round of IJ areyougame.
Summary: This is his tribute to her.
Word Count: 300
Beta: None
The air inside the Falcon's engine compartment was hot, close, and smelled of grease. Setzer squirmed a little farther under the engine and stretched his arm as far as he could. He just managed to grip the bolt with his pliers and give it a last twist.
The ship was finished.
He lay on the cool metal plates, staring up at the many individual pieces of the Falcon's engine, and sighed.
He had thought that when he finished reassembling her airship, he would feel at peace. It was the promise he had held out to himself through the long months of repairs, what he used to get himself out of bed in the morning.
But the final pieces of the engine he'd salvaged showed signs of tampering - tool marks he knew she wouldn't have left, traces of substances that had no place in an engine. Daryl had been daring in the air, but she took care of her ship on the ground.
He wondered if someone sabotaged her, killed her out of jealousy, or simply wanted her dead for whatever reason.
He worked his way out of the engine compartment and meticulously stored the tools in the cabinets Daryl had provided. He checked to ensure that he'd left nothing behind.
The stairs leading up from the Falcon's resting place were narrow and steep. He climbed them for the last time very slowly.
He paused next to the casket, and rested his hand on the purple velvet draped over the empty wooden box. "I fixed her," he said out loud. "She'll be waiting."
The Blackjack was waiting outside for him. He didn't know where Daryl was, but he intended to see as much of the world as he could. It would be a fitting tribute.