Zell Dincht

He’s trying his absolute best to follow along but Triple Triad is a game he’s vowed to never play again. It’s just too much to remember, especially with all the little details of the element attributes and ranks of each and every monster represented on the cards and how those affect the outcome–not to mention the random rule. It’s just gone over his head. That, and he was tired of spending hard-earned gil on expensive cards only to lose them immediately.Still, he tries to understand, looking up at the screen intently whilst attempting to keep any remainder of a grasp he has on his attention span strong out of respect for his comrade and her undying love for what he feels is a waste of time.

Ah, what’s the saying?  History is written by the victors?  Or it ought to be  —  left to them, it’d be a more accurate version of events; honest, if nothing else.  As for this?  This textbook ( if it could even be referred to as an educational text; it read more like fiction ) couldn’t be further from the truth, it’s author had clearly tried hard to obscure ( no, try again  —  bury ) truth with conjecture, speculation, lies.

Propaganda?  A powerful word.  Also the right one.

“It’s certainly something,” she sighs, scanning the pages quickly then flipping forward a few, “I don’t know that propaganda’s strong enough.”  Wrong.  All of it a perfectly skewed, carefully worded, account with one foot firmly rooted in fantasy  —  as one who stood witness to the very worst of it, it’s enough to make her blood boil.  “Bullshit’s another word for it,” never usually one to curse, she’ll make the exception in the face of such outright Galbadian lies, “Kids are never going to learn what really happened if this is what the’re being taught.  Where did you find this?”  It’s then a horrifying thought creeps in, “Not from one of our students, I’d hope?”

(  @meteorbarret  )

He has no time to be surprised with her choice of vocabulary. While it isn’t often he hears such strong vulgarity come from her, it’s just too fitting in this case to bring notice to it. Instead, he nods, appreciative yet disgusted in the validation. He’s had enough. Shutting the book with a loud snap, Zell tenses further, trying to control his urge to heave it across the room or to tear the pages out. He sets it down beside him and turns his nose up at it. What an insult to everything they’ve done. “No. It’s not from here. One of the kids I used to babysit in Balamb Town asked me to help him with an essay and I just—who is running the public school there? They need to be thrown in jail! No, shipped off to the D-District Prison and buried underground!”

Independent Zell Dincht from Final Fantasy VIII.