Chapter Text
Paladin(Dark Knight+White Mage) (Final Fantasy IV)
200 CP
The Franks weaved tales of one who would save the world. A warrior-king born twice, once in the embrace of darkness and reborn into a holy warrior of the people, his body fired by man's cruelty and mind quenched by love.
That is not you, my child, for there is no holy pilgrimage for you to embark on, no holy spirit to guide you, no buxom flower in silken sheets to comfort you, and no blessed blade in hand to smite down your inner evils. Cursed to live in a perpetual war within. One side of you craves naught but destruction, to allow the madness to take hold and to lay existence to waste, to nourish itself on the death of its victims. The other yearns to protect the weak, wanting nothing more than to shield their woes with a shield of light and a comforting embrace, even at the cost of its own extinguishment.
Should the weak, those in need of protection, ever be in mortal peril, the world will acquiesce to the desire of goodness inside you and will allow you to Cover them with your own mortality, even if it should be physically impossible to do so.
Be cautioned, child-of-what-could-have-been, for even when you bathe in the light, you will always cast a shadow.
-Grants ability to take a fatal blow for Ally in eyesight
-Increases growth of Endurance and Vitality
George Alexander Roosevelt III
George Alexander Roosevelt III was sentenced in Texas State court less than a week ago, on May 8th, 2006.
It didn't truly sink in for him until now, walking down the halls, just how unsettling prison is.
It was not the brutalistic grey walls trapping you in on all sides, the small rays of light poking through metal bars to the outside world, feeling like a cruel taunt. Nor was it the rough and tumble hooligans all calling at you like a piece of meat going to market. Even saying he's a new Ferguson Unit State Prison resident feels more normal than odd.
The dressing down from the warden wasn't unsettling. The older man had yelled at him till he'd gone red in the face about how much of a disappointment George was to the noble line of the Bull Moose himself. However, the threat that the warden was counting down the days till George inevitably got into an altercation that would result in his emasculation and then death was concerning.
George jumps as a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit slams up against the bars, his bald head and tattooed face not implying any kindness on the snarling man's face. Spittle flies from the hooligan's mouth as he roars, the tiny drops spraying upon George's face as if he had gotten too close to one of his family's many fountains. "Hey pig! Where's mister fancypants gonna be staying?" The man uncouthly licks his lips, and George desperately wishes he could scrub the sight from his mind. "'Cause I've been looking for a new bitch!" Laughter from the prison follows shortly after.
Metal screams as the guard strikes one of the dark iron bars that makes up the vagabond's jail door, the sound rattling George to the very marrow in his bones.
Slowly, the guard looks over—the man so much of a giant that if it were the olden days of George's great-grandpapa, the man would have been declared a non-human and burned at the stake— and growls at the inmate. The sunglasses on his face glinted in the light just right to blind George in the most inconvenient ways. Yet the bald man isn't intimidated in the slightest, gripping the bar's containing him even tighter and growling back at the near seven-foot tall guard.
No, the unsettling part of prison is the bevy of almost inhuman guards. Something was wrong with nearly all of them; just looking at some made the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. The guard's inhuman unibrow furrows, and his voice is deep and gravelly as he whispers, "Two-forty." All the jeers and laughter disappear like a magician's trick.
Where there was once a confident hooligan, there is now a terrified, empty shell of a man, with a shake in his frame and eyes so open it looks like he had just come upon a vagrant camping in one of his many parks… or whatever shocks the less fortunate.
The rest of the walk is done in silence, and a deep knot of anxiety ties itself in George's stomach from how the rest of the inmates are now looking at him. Pity and despair on their faces, the occasional one tentatively reaching their hand out, and George cannot help but feel as if he is being escorted to death row.
"I-is there something I should know about my new neighbour?" Walking into a now-stopped guard, George cannot help but feel that he has just stepped into a stone wall.
The guard opens the door with the speed of a glacier. Turning to look at him, George cannot help but notice the gleeful look on his face. "What would you say to a dead man walking to his grave?"
Then he's shoved into a room no larger than his house's shoe closet, and the bar door is shut behind him.
George thinks he can hear a Spanish prayer for mercy from somewhere in the prison as the guard walks away.
There's only one other occupant in the room.
Sitting on the top bunk is not the terror he believed he would find in here. George had been expecting a man who looked like he'd belong to the Klan or at least someone far more urban. But lounging on the top bunk, reading a book with a spine so frayed it must have been read a hundred times, is someone George could most definitely see himself as an acquaintance.
George can feel the knot in his stomach slacken at the calm look in the man's eyes, the appraising look, not one of wanton lust but of careful contemplation. And what makes George know he can trust the man is the accoutrement upon his lip: a perfectly manicured dark moustache.
No, insulting a man with a moustache like that was not how his Nana raised him. There was only one way for two men with glorious moustaches to interact; as friends! Or if movies were to be believed, then the two of them were destined to become rogue cops, surly detectives who don't follow the rules, detectives, or even cowboys patrolling the wild west for cruel gunmen with bounties on their heads.
And even though it was not in the classic Roosevelt style like his or the Handlebar that his father favoured, it was still a respectable Chevron accompanied by a healthy stubble on his chin. It was thick enough that he could picture the woman who practically raised him, comparing him to that one television cowboy she so appreciated.
"G—"
His voice has a Southern accent with an odd twist. "Lift your pant legs." The fellow moustache-aficionado cuts him off, but his voice has no rudeness, just a simple request.
So he does so.
And the man nods.
"I assure you, my new friend, I have no weapons on my person." A friendly chuckle rumbles from him. "Our rather large-handed friends at the front desk ensured that."
His roommate snorts. "Wasn't looking for a weapon."
"I see!" There's a quirk on the man's brow, and George nods. "Is there anything else I can do to make our future companionship more comfortable for you?" If George's father could see him now, his willingness to make himself subservient to another would have given the poor man an ulcer the size of Rhode Island. But the old man did not have nearly as much knowledge about these so-called prison rules as George's staff had given him.
A new prisoner could find the scariest man in here and engage him in a rousing row of fisticuffs, or he could join a gang. And while numbers are great, George didn't have any inclination to go bald, nor did he have any Hispanic blood running through his veins. That means he must go with what his Nana had told him was the nuclear choice; be the bitch of the scariest man in the prison.
This choice may very well backfire, but George would rather ride side saddle for a few years than be a nazi. But a man with a moustache like that would evidently never be attracted to any person not of the fairest gender.
Snapping the book shut and laying it on his bed, George's new prison daddy- the term his Nana told him to use for the more physically inclined in the cellmate partnership. He looks at the guard walking away with an intense eye. "When you look at that guard, what do you see?"
"To be perfectly honest." George very smoothly turns to look out the door and, seeing no guard, turns back with a smile, "A fellow desperately in need of a new personal hygiene routine… As well as a new dentist. I think the unseen horrors of gingivitis are something he's already well aware of." Stepping forward, he asks, "I have been informed that there is a certain procedure for bunks. And I have no issue taking the lower bunk if it pleases you."
The strange man blows air out of his nose. "You don't have to be so formal, you know. This may be prison, but I'm not gonna be a dick to ya." As George places his toiletries on the bed, his bunkmate tells him, "By the way, I didn't mean what you thought of the guard. I meant what you saw when you looked at him."
"I—" George pauses in the making of his bed. Then stands up. "There was something most odd about him." There's an intense gleam in his bunkmate's eyes. "I- and I do not want to sound mad when I say this, but the crease of his brow implied the existence of only one eye upon his face."
It's almost invisible how slight it is, but there is a curl to his bunkmate's lips. "You and I will get along just fine."
"I certainly hope so." George holds his hand out, and his bunkmate slowly looks down at it with a raised brow. "I am George. George Alexander Roosevelt the Third." There's an awkward beat of silence. "This is most definitely the worst angle for a gentlemanly handshake."
Pulling himself off the side of the bed, he lands in a crouch, his ear-length, black, curly hair bobbing atop his head. As the man stands, George realizes he may have slightly underestimated his size. The man is almost a head taller than him, nearly twice his size in muscle, that's poorly hidden by the orange jumpsuit. He has to look up to meet his eyes, and he desperately hopes the man does not intend to make him a prison wife.
And then the man meets him in a handshake. For a man of such stature, his handshake feels gentle yet firm—calloused upon his palms, yet a softness that would indicate the proper use of moisturizer.
"I'm Smith, but the boys here call me Grannykiller."
"Pardon?"
"Don't get the guard's attention, and you'll be fine, rich boy." He climbs back onto his bunk and takes a seat. "Oh, and if you're called in for a surprise inspection, start praying to your living God."
--
The awkwardness between George and Smith had yet to go away. It didn't go away during the yard when George's new friend showed him how to properly press benches. It most certainly did not go away when the man was teaching him how to do laundry duty. And it still has yet to go away… a whole week later.
George thought the most awkward sleepover he had ever had was when he wet the bed and was too ashamed to tell his Nana. Now he knows it to be the knowledge that the only thing between you and a man known for perhaps roughhousing a kind old lady to the grave is a thin prison mattress covered in horrific stains. That fear, combined with the constant feeling of guards who have inhuman characteristics constantly watching him like hawks, makes George feel like he's a single act from losing what little sanity he has left.
Shuffling the gruel on his plate around the plate, George's stomach pleading for something better, such as the sweet, tangy smell of barbecue that's wafting through the windows, the need in him to ask how Smith acquired his sobriquet continues to gnaw away at him. While, yes, it would bring momentary satisfaction, the almost certain anger it would incite in his only possible source of protection in this prison would be most foolish.
Especially before shower time.
"You know," said his source of curiosity, punching through his thoughts. "I'm honestly impressed you haven't asked yet."
George falsely coughs. "About?" The man raises a brow, and George slumps. "I did not wish to provoke your ire."
Smith chuckles. "You wouldn't have." Placing his spoon on the tray, he looks at one of the guards over George's shoulder, and George is beginning to hate the constant feeling of their eyes on him. "In fact, I'd go so far as to say it'd be a relief to share with someone who might understand."
"Understand what?"
"Before you got here, have you ever had the feeling you get from the guards?"
"I do not believe so." George coughs into his hand at the surprised look on his compatriot's face. "My family did not believe in allowing me to… mingle with the less fortunate. This is my first time being in public in my life."
"Prison?"
"Correct."
"How?"
"Well, my family is fairly well-off—"
Smith waves him off. "I can understand your parents were rich and protective. You've got the surname of a goddamn president."
"Two, actually."
There's an unamused look on his cellmate's face. "I mean, how in the world did you end up in prison if you were that isolated?"
"Ah, I was conducting a research project my family believed was an ill-advised venture." Steepling his hands, George leans forward and whispers, "Do you have any interest in children?"
A thunderous expression crosses Smith's face, and George can feel his heart hammer. "If you did what I'm thinking you did to get in here, there exists no God that will not be able to put you back together after what I do to you."
"I was looking into the circumstances as to how and why some missing children appeared to be all but forgotten by their caretakers. And that, for some reason, they were never reported to be missing in the first place? In fact, if I hadn't checked school records and various forums, I would have never known that they existed in the first place."
"Oh."
"Yes? I don't know what you think I did—" Realization hits George, and he rapidly shakes his head. "Good heavens, no! I made the mistake of attempting to contact the single father of a young lady I believed might be a possible target of the phenomenon.
His shoulders slumped. "He took me to court because he felt that my calls and parcels were a danger to himself, and his attorney was particularly vicious. Assigned the blame for several other children going missing on my shoulders as well… They were also not very receptive to a plea deal, nor monetary donations." Leaning forward, he conspiratorially whispers, "But I believe I was targeted because I was onto something. Do you wish to know the most common factors between each case?"
"I am no longer feeling murderous, so, yes."
"They all came from broken homes."
"Not shocking." Smith subtly waves a hand at the other men around them. "How many folks in here do you think were missing a dad growing up?"
You Think Our Rage... a Weakness? (Final Fantasy IV)
600 CP
My child, long has humanity suffered. Born within the throes of the birth of chaos, then chained to the will of the Divine, for ages your ancestors were forced to serve the will of those with the Divine Right to Rule. None knew this better than those trapped within The City of Light.
The lesson they learned —one you must know well —is that Hunger sets humanity free from its bondage.
Cursed to sup upon naught but the dirt in the ground, all as the divinely chosen fattened with the fruits of their labour. The common man could take it no longer, taking to the streets with desperation in their hearts to speak against the death of liberty and that of humanity's free will.
Their pleas went unheeded.
Desperation turned to fury as the lords and ladies ignored their pleas. Even still, they begged, they pleaded. In response, the mortal lords and ladies called for assistance from the lords and ladies of the heavens themselves.
An emissary rode down upon the light of creation itself, a being of a dozen wings and a dozen eyes, and it told them, "Fear not the hunger and pain of today. For the adulation you shall receive in the afterlife shall recompense you a hundred times over."
In response, the peasants attacked. Hundreds of them died, but even as the streets of the city filled with burnt corpses, not a single peasant fled. No, they only felt the rage within blaze with the power of a hundred suns, felt the flickers of hope for a future within their hands. Felt that if they ever fled, all that would come down in response was a yoke as heavy as the heavens upon the backs of their children.
The emmisary fell at the cost of thousands of malnourished plebeians. Its wings were torn off in a gruesome display and devoured by those whose rebellion it had failed to quell. Its eyes were crushed to paste and fed to the starving babes. The sinew used as the base for a hundred stews. Hundreds filled their bellies upon its holy being. Unfathomable power that should have torn them asunder, lining their bowels, failed to break the unending will of Man.
For no force is greater than that of the desperation of a human with nothing to lose.
-Doubles all parameters when desperate.