Just Focus (FFXIII)

1) The Purge

The train rattles along its suspended tracks, each thrum rumbling through my body like the guttural growl of a feral dog. The massive, loose cloth of my Purge robe covers every inch of me, likely so the PSICOM agents on board don't have to see our faces as they send us off to our graves. Pulse... It's a death sentence. To clear Cocoon of all Pulse influence, the government decided to ship everyone that was in Bodhum away. Something about cleaning the populace. Personally, I don't buy it.

Speed picks up as we continue around a corner, the train car dim and lit only with the dull blue glow emitting from specific portions of our robes, patterns like barcodes. Pulse... Will I survive? Will all that "wasted time" training with my brother even come into effect before I'm ripped to pieces? Pulse has always been painted as a vicious land of vicious beasts and vicious people for as long as I've been alive.

I'm broken from my thoughts as the train rocks to the side, trembling. There's a loud shatter from the front and I clutch my hands together, lifting my head to search the room. The other passengers look just as anxious. The door to the car slides open and a PSICOM guard leaves in a rush. Taking a deep breath, I try to pull against the restraints pinning me to my seat. Nothing gives. Suddenly, a sharp burst of electricity shocks the belt on my stomach, releases the magnetic hold on my sleeves, and the restraints fly free. The others in the car cheer, scrambling to their feet.

Before I can follow suit, the train screeches to a halt. Gritting my teeth, I cling to the seats tightly as my shoulder slams into the train wall. I can feel that we're airborne, tumbling, falling, crashing, but I can't do anything about it. Dazed, I let go once the train finally skids to a stop and stumble across the smooth floor. Someone lays on the ground to my right; I turn away from the puddle of warm, dark blood that flows onto the floor around them. Pushing through the crowd of strangers, I peer out of the torn side of the train.

The city above is distinctly emerald in color, connected by tangled railways and illuminated dim lights. It's a military base of sorts. But why would we be here? More security? Gunfire erupts outside and several roads collapse altogether in a series of fiery explosions. My heart pounds in my chest and my hands tremble as I clutch the side of the train. A resistance...

"C'mon, get out!" a gruff voice calls. A tall, bulky man stands in an open doorway, resting a gun on his bulky his shoulder. His bright orange hair is the first detail to catch my attention. His enormous muscles are the second. "We're holding down the fort out there!"

With mixed murmurs and fearful gazes, people dressed for the Purge filter out of the demolished train one by one. Outside, some even shed their robes. I stay enveloped in mine, nodding my thanks to the big man when he takes my hand and helps me down. Uneasy, I peer over the edge of the road we stand on, watching the people below fire guns and tumble to their deaths. It's nice to be saved from Pulse, but this fight already bears far too many casualties. A voice blasts out over the chaos through an intercom system.

"On behalf of Cocoon's citizens, I would like to thank our brave Pulse pioneers and express our best wishes for a successful relocation. Your noble and selfless sacrifice ensures the continued safety and peace of our society. Were it not for this remarkable gesture, every resident of Cocoon, your family, your friends, your neighbors... would be exposed to the dangers of the world below. By choosing to leave Cocoon and participating in this migration—"

A tall man in a tawny trench coat stops the sickening broadcast with a single stomp of his boot, his pale eyes sharp and snide as he overlooks the lot of us. He and a blue-haired boy converse as I turn back to scan over the wary crowd. Countless aircrafts fly overhead, ready to rain destruction on our heads if the need should come. The man heads toward where I stand with the rest of this anxious crowd, a cluster of disciples in tow.