Final Fantasy VI, Edgar Roni Figaro/Setzer Gabiani, elbow grease (1/2)
“So this is the heart of the castle,” Setzer strolled into the engine room of Figaro’s basement.
Edgar, king of the castle and the engine’s designer, looked up from his repair work to greet Setzer with a grin and a nod.
“What brings you to Figaro?” Edgar wiped his greasy hands on a rag tied to his tool-belt. Edgar looked more mechanic than monarch in his denim overalls and white, sleeveless undershirt. His clothes were stained with grease, oil, sweat, and some unidentifiable yellow gunk. His long blond hair was tied back with ribbon, yet tendrils of hair hung over his brow in greasy strings.
“I was bored,” Setzer began to shrug his coat off his shoulders. It was warm in the engine room, although the ventilation fans were turning. “Your chancellor told me you were doing maintenance work on the castle’s engine, and I wanted to see it for myself.” As he spoke, Setzer scanned the engine room with interest. “Impressive machinery.”
“Thanks,” Edgar replied. “Sorry I can’t be a better host right now. I did some quick fixes to the engine right after that tentacle monster got to it, just enough to get us back above ground. But now I see that thing really cocked things up There’s entire parts I still have to replace, wires I still have to re-thread. It’ll be a couple of days before I can get this into its proper condition.”
Setzer nodded, then without a word, turned around and left the engine room.
Edgar was taken aback by Setzer’s sudden, silent exit. The mechanic-king suddenly felt a sharp twinge of guilt. He didn’t mean to brush off a good friend, or make Setzer feel unwanted. Edgar took a sad sigh and resumed his work.
Minutes later, to Edgar’s surprise and relief, Setzer returned, looking a bit different than normal. The gambler took off all his rings and his coat, and was wearing just a grey, button-down shirt, black pants, and a tool-belt slung around Setzer’s narrow hips. He brought with him his own iron-cast toolbox.
“What?” Setzer noted Edgar’s surprised expression. “You didn’t think I do engine work on the Falcon in my good clothes, did you?”
“I wasn’t there when you were doing emergency repairs after our crash near Miranda,” Edgar grinned.
“Yes, well, oil doesn’t wash out of silk,” Setzer set his box down on the catwalk. “Found that out the hard way. Not that I couldn’t afford a new shirt or anything.”
“Are you here to offer your assistance, Mr. Gabbiani?” Edgar asked.
“Unless you want to take a break for a quick game of Hearts?” Setzer waved a wrench.
“Maybe later,” Edgar smiled. The king described to Setzer what work the engine needed, and Setzer got to work right away.
It was easy to forget that, under his flamboyant dress sense and devil-may-care attitude, Setzer was also a master mechanic. Edgar admired his work on the Blackjack, amazed at how anything that big could lift off the ground, never mind fly. Edgar appreciated the help, but he appreciated the company more. Sabin was good for lifting things, but his constant inquiry of “Are we done yet?” got on Edgar’s nerves quickly, and Sabin would find himself exiled from the room. Setzer, on the other hand, worked diligently, and followed Edgar’s instructions to the letter. The same hands that dealt a mean hand of poker and tossed some deadly darts were just as nimble with a wrench and screwdriver.
In the midst of repairs, Edgar found himself watching Setzer work. Setzer wore his sleeves rolled up almost to his shoulders, and he didn’t seem to mind the blotchs of oil on his elbows. Edgar looked at Setzer’s arms–long and thin, but with just a hint of muscular definition. They were lined with purplish scars, some older than others. Those scars seemed to extend to Setzer’s chest–the gambler’s shirt was open just enough to see cris-crossing lines across Setzer’s sternum. An occasional bead of sweat would roll from the hallow of Setzer’s throat down his chest...