sentinelofterra-blog

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐     It was the first time he’d heard Kuja’s voice, and the thought was a surreal one. In that moment, Kuja ceased being an idea that Garland had built into him. Kuja began being a person. A very real person, with breath and a voice and flickering blue eyes struggling to focus on the ceiling.

     It was a tragic kind of beauty.

     “You are in the Black Mage Village,” the Sentinel stated. He had yet to get a coordinate map of Gaia to update his system--Black Mage village was a very recent place, but its existence only served to remind the Sentinel of how out-of-date his knowledge was. Twenty years had past while he slept. He was still processing that fact.

     Inwardly, he braced for whatever Kuja’s reaction to this would be. He had reason to doubt the genome had ever been told about the Sentinel; Garland was secretive and manipulative, and the less any of them knew, the more power he had. Kuja had turned against their creator. Of course Garland would keep the protector secret from the very genome that could use him. 

     It was a strange thought, though. Garland had kept him a secret. So was he real? Who was he, to tell Kuja what he’d been made for? What was he chasing, by doing this?

     The Sentinel was nothing but a series of blank lines, of calculations and sharp irises sitting against the wall in the shack watching Kuja with a clinical accuracy. He sat and made his calculations, and made them again. Checked himself at every step. And he still had no idea how to proceed in this sort of situation. Garland had never prepared him for a scenario like this one.

     The Sentinel, which had been little more than a computer for the majority of his life, had to do something new. He had to learn.

     So he made an educated guess as what to say.

     “You are safe here. I have secured the location.”

 || ||        Everything ached.

    His body. His magic. Probably his mind too, though he could not think straight enough to be sure of it.

    The fog inside his head was only just beginning to clear. Kuja became aware that he was laying on something not quite hard nor soft.

    His eyes made a fluttering attempt to open.    The crystal. Trance. Delirium. Death. Iifa. The insult of having his final chance at peace torn from him by his successor, as though the whelp hadn’t already taken everything else away.     He made an attempt to jolt upright, only to immediately regret it as pain scorched across his skull, leaving him unable to stop the trembling whimper which slipped the wrong way up his throat.     Pathetic, Kuja.         Useless to this world.     One hand clutched to his temple, and it was tempting to claw beneath the skin and puncture his his throbbing pulse, to let it seep free. Physical pain was not something he was used to feeling…. But at least the wetness gathering at his lashes helped his eyes slowly adjust to the dim light of the lamp nearby.

    Awareness crept in.     He noted that whatever he had been laying upon was softer than he’d first thought. He noted that his hair was in a dreadful state. That his tail was exposed, flicking, flexing, tapping at the soft-ish thing he sat upon. His lips were chapped. His magic waned. He wanted to wring Zidane’s neck. He wanted tea. Perhaps whatever that was lingering beside him would fetch tea…     …Beside him?     Yes, he noted another presence. One that was not quite a presence.     The silence did little to enlighten the fallen angel much further.

    “…This …Is not the tree,” he said.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

[sentinelofterra-blog]

[sentinelofterra-blog]

[sentinelofterra-blog]

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐     ooc;;

     Housekeeping! The theme is kind of a mess right now, pls forgive.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

[[ @xkuja ]]

█▐     Thirty seven hours. Twenty two minutes. Eighteen seconds.

    Around them, Gaia continued on. Life flourished and breathed its way forward, as life tended to do. It had been just over three days since Kuja fell at the Iifa, and very little in the world had changed to show for it.

    During his very short stay on this planet, the Sentinel had learned some vital facts about it. One of them, and the most notable (in his opinion), was that here was a planet so full of things that the vast majority barely noticed when a cataclysmic battle for the fate of the core occurred. It seemed a bit foolish. This village of fabrications had barely known what was happening, and not a single one seemed aware of the intricacies of Gaia’s crystal, and how at risk it had been. The Sentinel knew because he had interviewed them. Most of them had looked at the genome oddly and politely excused themselves without an explanation.

    It had been to pass time, on some level. Hovering over his charge while he recovered wouldn’t do much good. And he could only patrol the perimeter so many times before the task became redundant. The village was a mostly peaceful one; the fabrications didn’t seem interested in coming for the genome recovering in this hut. And the Sentinel was very little use without something to defend against.

    So he waited. He'd sutured the wounds, given what healing magic he had at his disposal to Kuja. What was left was a test of patience.

    And in that time, the Sentinel thought. A dangerous thing, really. Thinking led to wondering what he was doing, why he was here. The others had gone to find a place for themselves in this new world, but not him. He'd been built with a purpose, and he did not so easily forget, as the others did. His purpose was hardwired.

    His purpose was the genome laying inside this hut, unconscious and recovering from what should have killed him. The Sentinel had almost lost his purpose without even ever meeting him. Was he happy about that? Sad? What was the correct reaction to have?

    He watched Kuja's chest move with each inhale, silent and immobile.

    No reaction was the correct one, he supposed.  Garland had not created him to understand this wimsy Gaia had sparked in the other genomes. No emotion was...safer, for him. He was not built for it. He wasn't created to have the capacity to house a Terran soul, after all. Who knew what indulging this new freedom would do.

    Yes, this would be enough. This was where he needed to be. He would wait for Kuja to awaken, then...

     ...he wasn’t sure what came after that. But his purpose was to ensure Kuja stayed alive. So that was what he would do.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐     ooc;;

     whatisthis      ismarkibackonsen      ...maybe.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐     “Good Evening, Quina.                             Is that ring new? It is very pretty.”

It seems like the chef is spacing out while she fiddles with her newly acquired engagement ring, 

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐      He thinks humans in love are cute. He’s been people-watching from the cafe all day, and this strange ritual seemed so superfluous at first. But now, after several hours of observation, he has decided that it is archaic yet adorable.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐     “Well hello. Would you like to join me?” He is sitting at a table with coffee and tiny cookies. They are very good cookies. 

he’s watching you.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐      Sentinel drops Jack’s hand and draws himself up to his full height. Smiles.

          “My apologies, although I am pleased to hear that losing arms has not been a significant loss in your life.”           “Perhaps, though, you could use some practice at cleaning kitchens.            Are you some kind of nobility, that you are not accustomed to this work? You are dressed very finely.”

❝…❞

❝Uh… It wasn’t much of a loss. Anyways—

         …This is really weird.❞

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐      “I suppose two hands is something of a disadvantage, although evolutionarily viable, clearly. You speak as though this is a new condition, however, and I believe the correct emotional response to this is sympathy.”

         Sentinel takes Jack’s hand in both of his, frowns, and bows respectfully. “I am sorry for your loss, sir.”

(high pitched) ❝hEY FUCK YOU MAN I DO GREAT WITH JUST TWO HANDS❞

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐      “Jack seems inefficient, and my calculations indicate an additional set of hands will resolve this issue much more quickly. I will assist. You needn’t trouble yourself, Quina.”

“Probably, but Quina had to do this last month because of Sebastian romping around while Quina cleaning out oven. And Quina honestly appreciates Jacks help.”

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐     “Do you think he needs assistance?”

It easier to sweep soot away while soot dry.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐     “Also irrelevant. I will protect you until I am no longer able to. Whether this is a futile endeavor or not has no effect on my actions. I have not investigated your condition, and as such I cannot provide my chances of resolution. To admit defeat at this juncture is short-sighted.”

     He would bandage him again, of course. There was an untiring determination in the flat blue eyes that watched Kuja.

     “Removing your bandages is illogical. I believe you are delusional.”

“  ITS a matter of black or white, he says, ignorant and foolish. Behold then, this unsightly shade of grey! There is no cure for what I have, and therefore no manner in which to protect me…  This poison called mortality will eat away at me from the inside no matter your intentions. Your words… Your very existence… They’re an eyesore.  “

There is strength enough in him to tear his bandages asunder. Tattered fragments hang limp in his silver hair, soon to fall and join those already resting in his lap. He’ll not let his dignity suffer further through wearing an incarnation of failure.

[sentinelofterra-blog]

█▐ The Sentinel regarded Kuja, then regarded the chamber in which they stood. He could sense the Terran core, and thus concluded they were safe in Bran-Bal. There was nothing worth marking as a threat in the immediate vicinity. He was not sure of the relevance of the question, but Kuja had asked it.

     So he would respond as best he was able.

     There was something to be said for a machine rapidly learning how to mimic life. The Sentinel was primarily code, more similar to Garland’s build, albeit in Genome-form, than Kuja’s. His thoughts were regimented, stuck inside the narrow aisles of what his programming dictated. He was a soul bound into the regimented shape and sharpness of a constructed weapon.

     And he was content this way. Because he would protect Kuja. Very little else mattered.

     “I will die for you. Without question,” he said unwaveringly. “My only directive that will run against this is if remaining alive will better allow me to defend you. You are vastly more important.”

     There was an unsaid ‘more important than me,’ at the end of that statement. The Sentinel was a shield for Garland’s perfect weapon. There was nothing inside the Sentinel that recognized itself as being a thing, really. He existed to facilitate Kuja’s mission.

     It made everything quite simple, really.

Kuja’s expression remained unchanged, even during the explanation. But his inner response came in two distinct stages: offense—then delight.

Offense first, because why in the world would he be assigned some other being to protect him? He was, after all, an invincible being of chaos and destruction—there was no need for him to be coddled. The mere thought of being condescended in such a way caused what little emotional capacity he owned to twinge with displeasure.

But then, just as quickly, his mood swung in a different direction, and he understood that there was no need for him to be offended. Instead of viewing this creature as some sort of bodyguard, perhaps he was better viewed as a tool, to be used to Kuja’s liking. That sort of notion appealed to him far more than the previous, and so it would be the one he would settle upon.

“Then it appears your programming has been implemented successfully,” Garland’s pronounced, though his robotic tone reflected no satisfaction—seemed incapable of doing so, as Kuja had observed. “It seems there is no further need for my presence.”

And, just as silently as he had approached Kuja, he departed. Off to do—whatever it was that the mechanical man did when he was not looming over Kuja’s shoulder.

Leaving Kuja with his new “right hand.”

A very slight shift in the Genome’s face as he continued regarding “Sentinel”—the slight raise of an eyebrow—and, at last, he spoke:

“If that is so, will you die for me?”