32. Otherworld (1/2)

"wait." auron checked maroda's hand reaching for a glowing panel illuminating the dark end of the tunnel. "touch that and we may not catch him."

maroda tapped his spear against the elevator doors. "huh? he went in here, didn't he?"

"it's a lift. once you press that button, we won't know where pacce got off."

"what else can we do, sir, force the doors open and jump?" elma said. "could be a long drop."

"vegnagun's gotta be at the very bottom, right?" maroda said, trying to reach around him.

"not necessarily," isaaru said behind them, pained. "the via purifico, where i fought lady yuna, is said to be the uttermost dungeon. yet who knows if that is truly the bottom? in yevon, something always lies beneath."

"like vegnagun, maybe?" his

other said. "come on, we're wasting time!"

"the hymn of the fayth," auron said. "start singing."

maroda gaped. "you've gotta be joking!"

"ah. yes, of course." isaaru inhaled deeply and eased into the soothing refrain with a priest's gentle drone. "ieyui nobomenu..."

elma joined him, wavering in and out of key.

"don't stop," auron said, hand hovering over the panel until they had cycled around to a new verse. pressing it, he started counting. two verses. three. five. just where was vegnagun docked, under the harbor? seven and a half—

"keep going," he commanded as the doors slid open. "get in." again he waited for the start of a verse before activating the elevator controls.

maroda's sullen tenor joined theirs as the room began to descend. the hymn sounded oddly ordinary in close quarters, meant as it was for soaring domes and monumental halls. nor was elma much of a singer. nonetheless, the shared mantra seemed to steady them, and that was all to the good. will, not just weapons, would be needed in the coming battle.

auron freed his left arm from his sleeve and adjusted his sword-grip. another sound was booming up the elevator's shaft, rising to meet them: an alien, jangling music churned out by some kind of machina. it sounded like zanarkand stadium's halftime show with a drunk at the keyboard. no, two drunks. the pyreflies in his veins stirred in response, an unsettling itch within his flesh that he had to resist clawing. lost your way, a fallen knight... they whispered, latching onto the music's insistent rhythm.

not now, he told them.

"renmiri yojuyogo..."

seven and a half. auron pressed the emergency override. the car squealed to an a

upt halt. the doors opened. a wave of sound

oke over them. he leapt, hit the

idge a few feet below, and launched into a dead run.

what in spira was that racket? auron had never entered the farplane, but he knew with a wrench he was hearing its heartbeat. pyreflies surged in his ears, buzzing in time to the acoustic barrage. the behemoth loomed on the

idge's far side, a monster with tusks and teeth and gigantic legs clawing the void and wings, gods, why did the big ones always have wings? roving blue spotlights sent out feelers. one of the figures perched in its cockpit was shouting, his words overwhelmed by the musical torrent. below, nooj stood under vegnagun's jaws, tottering, furious,

andishing his false leg like a club. his target was out of reach, but as auron approached, he took aim for a throw. (no better plan than to do or to die.)