The Call of Duty

The door opened. She stepped through. The door closed. For some reason, that always seemed to impress her. Probably because everywhere else on Port Forward was far less operational. On any given day, or so a very drunk IT technician had told her, the port had no less than 100 new complaints popping up. Computers on the fritz, doors with hydraulics that needed replacing. A landing pad that had its sensors go on the wonk. The list was endless. IT Man had posited that it was a curse on account of the station's terrible pun. She wasn't sure what the pun was, but it must have been terrible enough to summon a few space demon.

There had been one period, described to her over three shots of whiskey, where all the stations technicians had dedicated themselves to clearing the list. Every hour of overtime they could manage was pulled, and at least some were kept off the books to get the job done. When the Herculean task was finished, everyone had the first full night of sleep they had had in years.

Then they woke up to the oxygen producers struggling to work.

Yet still, against all odds, Section Chief Alejandra's door always worked. Without fail. And today was no exception.

Most authority holding figures that Angua had met always tried to look busy when a subordinate was due to walk in the door. An illusion to paint them in a positive light, she presumed. You never want to see the boss lazing around knowing full well that you have a laundry list of tasks to oversee. Alejandra was pulling no such con. Her hands were folded on her desk from the moment Angua stepped through the door, only parting to motion to one of the two chairs that sat at the front of the desk for visitors.

"Please take a seat, miss Case," she said, her voice warm and professional.

Angua did as instructed, taking the chair. It was of a decent quality. Not quite as good as the one being sat in by the Section Chief, but just good enough that a visitor wasn't going to complain during their short time in the office.

Opening a drawer, Alejandra produced a tablet, and slid it across the desk. Angua took it, and slid through its various screens, reading over the already open documents. Having skimmed most of the relevant information, Angua let the tablet fall into her lap, and stared at her boss.

"Stanton?" Angua asked, as a casual bit of conversation. It was clearly written on the document. She knew full well what the assignment was.

"Stanton," Alejandra replied, knowing full well all she could add was in the request, "Rather active region these days. Plenty of smuggling, among other things. I'm sure you'll have an easy time blending in."

"When do I leave?"

Alejandra would have been taken aback at the response by anyone else. Most Advocacy enforcers, despite the station's technical problems, liked the posting. Port Forward was a decently quiet spot at the edge of its system. Angua liked to leave though. Perhaps, Alejandra had mused, because it was nice to come back somewhere quiet.

"Two days, we're still setting up your lodging and means of transportation."

"So I don't get to bring my Titan this time?"

"It will arrive a few weeks later, after you've 'worked' enough to 'earn' it. We don't want it shipping in with you."

"Makes sense," Angua said, tucking the tablet under her arm, "Points of contact already establish?"

"They are."

"No further questions, ma'am," Angua said, standing.

"Then you are free to go."

With nod, Angua turned, and made her way out of the office. The door opened. She stepped through. The door closed. She wondered how on the fritz things were in Stanton.

Prompt 20: Soul

A toy chest. That was Agatha's first impression of the box of baubles that the merchant and set on the table, and happily pushed her way. As she prodded and poked through its contents, that thought remained. It reminded her of a toy chest, though it lacked a few things to complete the memory. She recalled a few deflated rubber balls she had kicked around her family's yard. A few dolls. Shiny stones that she had recovered from Lakeland. This chest only contained the latter.

Contrary to those rocks she had collected as a child, these stones appeared to be hand crafted, rather than simply pulled from the earth. They could have been organized out by shape and marking, if the merchant had bothered to take the time. He hadn't though, and so they sat in a mixed mess. She presumed it was so that she would have a harder time producing two of the same kind, and noted how inconsistent their designs were in comparison.

There was a reason she had spent the day before researching soul crystals. It was a topic she hadn't truly breached until she had come across it in conversation at the arcanist's guild. Those teachings tended to branch off, she had been told, into two unique disciplines. Practitioners of either discipline would have been disgusted looking in the box.

Both the stones meant for a scholar or a summoner were crude in their craft. It didn't matter which she pulled out, they were all imperfect in their design, and branded with a poor rendition of each discipline's emblem. Worst of all, she felt no resonance with either of them. There was no soul in these crystals, either in the spirit of craft, or the spirit of an individual.

She paused her digging, looking up to consider the merchant. He had retained his confident manner, hands resting in his lap. The bead of sweat on his brow betrayed him. Every moment she looked further into the box worried him. She presumed that he had grown used to fools prodding his wears and buying whatever struck their fancy. By the time they could return demand a refund, he would have skipped town. She resumed shifting through the box's content. It hadn't escaped her mind that this would be a possibility. If it took a few tries to find a proper soul crystal, she would endure. No matter how long it to-

A chill ran down her spine as her hand ran one of the crystals near the bottom of the box. Her fingers curled tight around the stone, and the frost dug in even deeper. Her eyes darted about the room, trying to spot the person she was now certain was observing her. She stared at the merchant, and swore he was about to panic. The shadow behind him agreed.

Ripping her hand from the box, stone still clutched in a dead man's grip. She forced it out of her hand and onto the table, behind the box. The merchant tried to look around the box, to see what it was she had retrieved, before she glared at him. He shot back into his chair immediately. Agatha rubbed her hand. It felt as though if she were to look at her palm, the stone would have left a burning scar, but she knew that wasn't the case.

It sat innocently enough on the table. A jagged piece of an obsidian looking ore, emblemized with a dark red sword. She palmed it again, immediately shuffling it from the table to her pocket, hand burning the entire way.

"Price," she said, looking back to the merchant.

"Pardon?"

"The price for one," she repeated, watching him starting to stammer, "Give me the price for one, you damned fool."

He gulped, murmuring, "A thousand gil."

She stood, flinging her prepared payment on the table, and left the merchant. Her pocket burned. Even walking down the docks of Limsa Lominsa made her fingers curl from the pain. Every now and then she stopped with a shudder, and was forced to look over her shoulders to make sure she wasn't being followed. By the time she returned to her room at the inn, she felt forced to bury the crystal in a drawer, just to keep her distance.

Yet in her dreams, it seemed to call.

Prompt 19: Where the Heart is

There was a number of words that could describe Winttrach Ahldbharwyn's abode. Simple. Spartan. Undecorated. Rather ill-suited to guests.

Such was the way it had always been, and such was the way she had been raised. A few adornments for the walls, including flags of those she felt comfortable flying. A small sitting area next to her orchestration, which she sparingly bought new recordings for. A comfortable kitchen area to cook in, and a similarly comfortable area to sit in. The hallway beyond the sitting and eating half of the house split the remaining space down the middle, into two rooms.

One was an office, with a desk jammed into a corner so tightly that were she wearing armor, Winttrach often had to clamber over it just to squeeze into her rather comfortable chair. This, and her bed, were the only pieces of furniture she had allowed herself to truly splurge on. The office's walls were covered in bookshelves and maps, further shrinking the room to the point where it seemed far too small for its roegadyn resident.

The bedroom was similar. The bed was sizable enough for her, but as the room was small enough as it was, it took up a fair amount of space. Which left barely enough room for her dresser, and chest for her armor to rest in.

The view from the window in the hallway was similarly bland. It was a lovely view, so long as your definition of 'lovely' would befit a long, empty gorge, of which nothing of note could be said. It wasn't even pocked with any foliage.

All was as Winttrach wanted it. There was no need to load the place down with luxury, as she was constantly on the road. She had what she needed for when she was home. And so home it was.

Prompt 18: Panglossian

 Optimism was a difficult thing to manage. Even on her best days, those where she had little more than a care in the world, Frieda was bound to be visited by at least one dour though, if not more. Life was full of such disappointments.

If she managed to keep her focus away for long enough, things were perfectly fine. She was traveling Eorzea, and lands beyond soon enough hopefully, and making a living through song. Eccentric and exciting people had been met, and beautiful locales had been witnessed. What more could she want?

Quite a bit, she had found out. Those things she had neglected while still living with her parents back in Gridania. Such as the fact that, at the end of every day there were so many things to be paid for. A room at the local in, which in some places felt rather outrageously priced. She needed food to fill her belly, lest she starve, which again could fetch an inane amount of gil.

On worse days it was much harder to ignore. Those days when she encountered a woeful individual, those souls who were worth speaking too just for the chance that their stories would make an excellent ballad. Those nights when she had to stretch her gil as far as she could.

But on the whole, Frieda Morrow felt happy. Most of the time.

Prompt 17: Fade

 Fading away into the shadows was far more difficult than romanticized writings have ever implied. It was this thought that filled Perne's head as she sprinted down the empty stalls of Hawker's Alley, constantly shifting under desks, and behind unsold merchandise.

In any book she had bothered reading, whether it be a story of Limsa's own rogues or the far eastern shinobi, the author always seemed to presume that there was some mystical aspect to it that allowed one to simply drop from sight in the blink of an eye. Perhaps that was the case for the shinobi, Perne had never closely associated with any, but for her, it was a much greater task. It also helped that in every one of those stories the guards had a gourd for a brain.

"Turn the place over," she heard one of her pursuers say, followed by the group picking through the stalls at the end of the market.

She started to crawl to a neighboring stall, the sound of shifting boxes and boots drawing ever closer. Quietly cursing to herself, she half considered dropping the loot this entire chase was over. A small box, containing a ring. Important to the client, but dead weight to her. For a moment she wondered if they would give up if they found the box and not her.

"Can't wait to wring that elezen's bloody neck, got me out on the docks at this hour," another pursuer grunted. There was a shared sound of agreement.

Guess not.

One of them was at the stall directly next to her. The end of the alley was close, and she had ran out of stalls. With another curse, uttered only to herself, she sprung out from under her current hiding place, and bolted for the end of the alley. She plotted out a path back to the guild, but none of her estimated routes felt safe enough to dedicate to. Especially after an arrow went flying by her head, fired by an individual who was far too tired to do this the clean way anymore. That narrowed her options down immediately.

Swerving straight to the edge of the plaza she had emerged out into, she took a running leap out over the edge, arcing herself down into the water. A few more arrows followed after, but no one left above her seemed willing to take the plunge themselves.

Much like one of those stories, she mused, she was allowed to swim away without much more resistance. What those authors always failed to note, she realized, was walking back with the prize not looking impressive, but as a dripping mess.

Prompt 16: Lucubration

 The lalafell looked up from the page presented to him, and to the elezen sat in front of his desks. He took a sip from the glass of water on his desk, organized a few of the other papers he needed to sort through, and prepared to take his quill and ink to the page the elezen had presented.

Frieda smiled nervously, feathered hat clutched tightly in her hands, "Well?"

The lalafell looked up again, and gave a half-hearted service smile, "I believe we will be parting ways, miss Morrow. We'll pay you for your time," he trailed off scribbling a few things on the page, "And perhaps we can work together in the future."

Frieda's heart dropped, her hat drifting from her hands and into her lap.

"Oh." She gulped, trying to find the words to follow up, "Was something wrong?"

The man adjusted his glasses, and tried to sound as polite as possible. It was clearly a trained method of speaking, one that had been practiced for years, "We're running a business here, miss Morrow. It's entirely possible that your piece here is a wonderful bit of poetry. But we're looking for something catchy. A jingle that gets people spending gil here. If it were closer to Starlight, then we'd want more sentimental, so perhaps we'll consider you closer to then."

"B-but," she said, her stuttering ceasing as the man slid his writing across the desk.

"Take this to my secretary. He'll make sure you get paid for your time. Good day, miss Morrow."

Prompt 15: Ache

Spoilers for Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers setting and lore.

Never in her life had she believed it would be possible to miss Norvrandt of all places. She had spent a not inconsequential amount of time attempting to flee from it. And where she still there today she would have nothing but contempt for its blighted landscapes and sorrowful people.

And yet, staring out across Limsa Lominsa's endless view of the ocean, she couldn't help but feel a longing. The sight itself was beautiful, there was no question about it. Eorzea's full moon serving as the centerpiece for a dark blue canvas, full of stars. The water rippled gently as boats maneuvered in and out of the ever busy port, their lanterns reflecting off of the water, giving the harbor the appearance of a colony of fireflies going to work.

There was something about the scene that she hated. Something about it that made her heart cry out for home. But she couldn't put her finger on it. The ships of Eulmore had never moved around as such, with a sense of purpose. In fact she couldn't recall if she had ever seen the ships of Eulmore leave the dock. Likely because she couldn't think of another destination for them to shore up. Perhaps Lakeland.

It most certainly was not the night sky or the ever watching moon. She had never witnessed such until coming to Eorzea, except in illustrations. It had occurred to her earlier that it was a pang she had felt everywhere. In Ul'dah, in Gridania. Every street she walked had struck at her differently, but all in the same spot.

All of it felt so unfair. For all their troubles, the denizens of Eorzea had managed to avoid the worst possible outcome. Their streets were in one piece. Their people able to go about with their lives,  unfettered by the ever encroaching end times. Of no fault of their own, she presumed. No one here would have been able to bring about such a catastrophe if they tried.

So called 'calamities' had apparently plagued Eorzea for some time, but they had survived. Almost like roaches, she mused, before feeling as though the comparison was too cruel. She wanted to hate them, and yet she felt it was undeserved. They had not caused her people's woes, but to watch them mill about their lives felt cruel. It felt fake.

Were she to describe the scene to someone back home they might have hailed it as a grand tale from the past, or a silly dreamscape. To think that the fleeting wants of a flooded world would be to see the water active again. She could only hope that her hand would soon be on the spout.