#1 silly lil war criminal defender

Another long day of patrolling in the middle of the desert, the sun scorching  your skin beneath layer after layer of fabric. You loathed this job. You couldn't even rely on your colleagues, ever since that fateful day, that clown had gone mad…

The sun bore down like molten metal, turning every breath into hot, dry sandpaper in your throat. Sweat trickled down your spine only to be absorbed instantly by the layers of suffocating fabric and armour. Every step felt heavier than the last, the heat stealing your strength little by little.

The wind was no relief, only a blistering gust that scraped against your cheeks and left your lips chapped. The dunes shimmered in the distance, burning your eyes until the horizon blurred into a dizzy haze.

"Well then! It is settled!"

Out here, stranded in the endless desert, you could hear his voice carrying for miles, skipping over the dunes like a mockingbird’s call. And it was getting closer. Far too quickly.

You sighed, your boot kicking a small spray of sand, as you wished, thought it was a futile wish, that he wouldn’t blow the entire desert to dust out of boredom. The hours bled together under the sun’s unblinking gaze, and you had long since lost track of whatever mission the clown was meant to be on.

Madder each day that passed. Like a ticking time bomb ready to go off at any moment.

His attention, you despised it. There hasn't been a day since then without feeling an eerie sense of always being watched. You found yourself checking  over your shoulder more often than you breathed. For some reason, he liked this-no, he fed on it, the irritation, the discomfort, the way people flinched whenever they mentioned his name. And you were no exception.

He had just yelled at one of the soldiers.

"Ahem...There's SAND on my boots!"

He had complained, frustration lacing his tone, as gritty grains clung stubbornly to the polished leather of his colourful boots. Curiosity got the better of you, wondering how much of the makeup didn’t melt under the intense heat.

The heat was making you hallucinate in that desert. Unbeknownst to you, your footing faltered, and you slipped ,crashing face fist into the sand. The scorching grains seared against your skin, prompting you to straighten up immediately. This was a swift ticket to the nearest infirmary tent.

How on earth had you managed to fall? You could have sworn you heard a giggle echoing in the distance before your vision faded to complete darkness.

A  nihilistic psychopath, that's a term you kept repeating inside your mind whenever he showed up, even when he locked eyes with yours, it seemed like they were boring right into your soul.

Before all of this, you were just a small, lively performer who cared deeply for the stage. It was your home, your safe place. The air before the curtain rose felt electric, heart pounding with excitement as the lights would highlight your costume in the best way, leaving only the music and your own movements. Every trick, every bow, every flourish felt like a conversation between you and the public. And when they clapped, it was like the whole world said yes. Yes, to you.

It took you years to perfect your acts, juggling glass spheres that reflected the stage's vibrant lights, balancing on a wire as thin as a guitar string, twisting red ribbons of silk through the air as if you were shaping them into real objects. You didn’t just perform, but you created little moments of wonder for everyone who went to see you and the company. And you adored it. The stage would always adore you back.

As you absentmindedly touched your shoulder, where once ribbons adorned your costume, you could still remember your attire... colourful fabrics that made you look like a walking embodiment of joy. Your overused shoes, broken in just enough to mold perfectly to your feet, never made a sound when you landed from a leap. You carried the scent of perfumed greasepaint and rosin, mingling with the faint metallic tang of stage lights heating in their casings.

So, when the letter came, stamped with the Kingdom’s seal, ordering you to report for military assignment, it felt like someone had mistaken you for someone else.

It had to be.

Someone had to be behind this.

It HAD to be.

They took you away from your safe place, forcing you  to navigate in a place full of uncoordinated chaos and violence.

You weren’t made for the desert. You weren’t build to march in armour under a sun that scorches the very earth itself.

Inside the damp tent, your headache persisted, pounding like a relentless drumbeat. Holding your temples in your palms, you desperately tried to relieve the rising pain, but nothing worked. Instead, every attempt seemed to amplify your discomfort. Squinting your eyes, you tried to block out the world around you, but again, it was to no avail. The ache intensified, and you felt like you might pass out again, merging with an uncomfortable sensation on the side of your head.

Until you realised it wasn’t just your headache.

Something…? someone…? was poking the side of your head. That tap-tap-tap of a long nail was poking you just enough to scratch your skin.

"You got some sand on your bedsheets"

That awful, singsong voice rang out, cutting through the tent’s muffled quiet, which prompted you to bend your head low, in a futile attempt to ignore it,  only to have your nose pinched, followed by a loud

"GOT YOUR NOSE"

The pinch was hard enough to make you tear up. Yelping in surprise, you got tangled in your bedsheets, falling miserably from the side of the infirmary bed. Irritated, you scrambled from the ground to see who it was.

"Ohh, that's almost such a good one as the destruction of that village "That manic of a jester cracked with glee while floating just above the ground, a surreal grin plastered across his cakey face. He clutched his belly as he dried imaginary tears from his eyes.

"Don't you agree? MHHH?" He prompted, his eyes sparkling with more than mischief. Yet, the moment you opened your mouth to respond, he swiftly pressed a finger to his lips, silencing you dramatically.

"Of course, YOU. DO. "

The fervour in his voice rose as he relished the utter chaos of his own absurdity.

You genuinely tried to remain calm, but little by little, his attitude began to get under your skin. Needless to say, you knew better than to play his games. What happened that fateful day, you were there too, you SAW it, you WITNESSED it… when they performed that magic on the jester. You were but a bystander, caught in an unsettling, twisted performance. At that moment, all you could do was to hide and stay quiet, hoping not to become the target of his malice.

The jester tilted his head in a slow, birdlike motion, narrowing his eyes in mock curiosity as he observed your form lying on the floor, the blankets serving as your only form of shield.

“What’s wrooong, little soldier? Did I startle you? Ohhh… how RUDE of ME.”

His looks were even more uncanny even up close, the make-up on his mouth exaggerated his grin, making it appear unnaturally wide. Without warning, he leaned in close, far too close, until you could smell that toxic greasepaint mixed with something faintly metallic, like rust left too long in the sun. The pungent odour was revolting and you struggled to keep from gagging. His finger returned to drum rhythmically against your temple.

“I was just passing by, minding my own business…like usual” He continued, a note of sarcasm in his voice

You almost laughed at the absurdity of his act, both you and he knew he wasn’t merely strolling by, but the weight of his gaze held you silent.

“…when I thought… OH how lonely you must be in here. Poor, poooorrr little toy, all tangled in sheets that smell like chemicals. So… defenseless.”

His tone was sugar over broken glass.

The tent flap shifted in the wind, and for a brief second, the light outside flickered, casting sharp shadows that contorted his painted face. While his grin didn’t change, those unnatural eyes of his seemed to burn brighter, as if he were holding something just behind them, something he concealed yet wanted to reveal at the same time.

“Mhhh… maybe I should keep you company tonight,” he purred, plopping on an invisible chair, the words engraving in your skull.

“Or not”

Your wishes, however, were not fulfilled…It seemed that destiny had other plans for you. From the very beginning, you became his priority to nag. There wasn’t a day when you weren’t his favourite, despite the destruction and chaos that surrounded you. You weren’t naïve. Each day was unpredictable. Each night, you felt watched.

One day could be just childish, throwing tantrums over the silliest things, while the next could feel like the worst day of your life. It seemed like there was no escape. It all felt as if you were being observed day and night, 24 hours a day, non-stop.

Were you hallucinating?

Was all this only a giant cosmic joke?

One night, you stayed awake, fixating on a spot in the dark and asking questions, but receiving no responses.

“Hello?”

You thought you heard something outside the window. Shivering, you remembered tugging the covers up to your shoulders. It was exhaustion from spending all day in the sun, in the desert, no less. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears as you curled up under the covers…

everyone knows that bedsheets kept ugly monsters away.

Maybe it was just exhaustion after all, or maybe the giggle you thought you heard was real.

Pain woke you.

Your jaw locked.

Your feet weren’t touching the ground

Something bit into your wrists, it hurts, you feel them burning.

You woke up to find yourself dangling, unable to control your movements.

You barely managed to tilt your head, despite the harsh pull of your limbs towards the source of a giggle

“Oho! That’s better! Look at them smile for you!”

 Facing you endless mannequins sat on plush chairs, they didn’t move, but you could feel something,  breath, on the back of your neck.

“Oh, don’t be shy. They love a good performance. Especially when the toy is… so very new. They always did, didn’t they? ”

His voice bent and twisted, every syllable lilting like a lullaby sung just a little too slow.

You tried to speak, to tell him to stop, to let you go, but the moment your lips parted, invisible strings at your wrists wrenched upward so hard your shoulders burned.

“Ah-ah-ah! No talking during the dance!”

Kefka continued to pull the strings from a high balcony, forcing you to “dance” for an audience of grotesque mannequins with glossy glass eyes, seemingly observing your every slight movement. Each mannequin was dressed in peculiar clothing, resembling people you could have sworn you saw while you were outside.

If you were to hesitate, the strings would tighten painfully, and his voice would sweetly coo, like a harpist caressing their instrument.

“Daaance, little toy,” he crooned, his voice syrupy and cruel.

“For our guests.”