Untitled
Disclaimer: No, I don't own or claim to own FFVII. Blah blah blah. Get a life.
Chapter One
The last thing she remembered was arguing with that stupid whore she was forced by her mother to call her brother. It had been an old fight: the epic clash of metalhead and gamer, of young and old, and most essentially of She Who Was Endowed With Laptop and He Who Was Not. The last thing she remembered was winning the latest battle in the war with the physical advantage of being seventeen and he thirteen, declaring, as she slammed the door, that she didn't give a fuck about Crush Bandicrap, and that she hated—
Don't say that, was the last thing she remembered him saying. Every time somebody says that, there's a video game character somewhere who falls down dead.
Like they were in fuckin' Peter Pan or something. Well, Wendy was stupid. A fairy was right in front of her when she tried saying that there were no such thing as fairies...
A sigh made itself heard over the cover of scrubby weeds blowing in the wind. The lanky frame of a Caucasian teenager hauled itself slowly to its feet, only swaying for a moment due to a slight dark gray clouding that obscured her vision (otherwise known as head rush). Looking around with dark brown eyes, Lain scraped the sole of one beaten-up green converse against the fairly smooth asphalt of the road she had woken up lying next to, looking down the long highway in each direction. No signs, people, or vehicles popped up anywhere. Neither did any promising turns along the way. As far as she could see in either direction there was just baking road, a heat haze gathering over the pavement in what she judged to be the late-morning/early afternoon sun, with scrubby yellowish hills on either side.
The only thing vaguely resembling a dwelling or sign of human life besides the wide road itself was, now that she noticed it, was a very small shack type thing not far up the road. With any luck it would contain food, water, and people. Then hopefully she could get some answers as to what the crap had happened. The prospect of water was looking decidedly nicer than it had even five minutes ago (especially given the young woman was not a fan of the beverage) because in her favorite jeans roled up to their way-too-ripped knees, a black wifebeater and her leather trench coat, Lain was getting far too hot for her liking.
After peeling off the garment resentfully, she crossed the distance between herself and the shack quickly. It had no windows, and was build sloppily with questionable wood and far too many nails. Lain knocked three times, waited for some response, knocked again, shouted, "Hello?" After knocking one more time, she gave up and turned the door handle. It was unlocked, but the door wouldn't move. Turning the door handle with her stronger hand, Lain then shoved the thing with her shoulder. It popped open stiffly, swinging open with a high surplus of creaking and groaning. It then proceeded to fall off.
Lain quickly ascertained that there was no one inside and looked around. If anybody lived here, they had clearly not been here for some time. Cobwebs covered the corners, surely with some spiders along with them. A thick coat of dust lay over everything, only now disturbed by a new installation of ventilation, courtesy of Lain herself. She rubbed her nose as a preemptive strike against the sneeze she knew was coming. Along one wall were nailed a series of mostly bare shelves. The only things upon them were a few cans of soup, a couple powerbars, and a couple stacks of very large cases of bottled water. On the bottom shelf too many had been placed there, thus causing that shelf in particular to fall away from the wall.
What the fuck kind of water junkie lives here? she thought as she grudgingly pulled one from its plastic encasing after clearing away cobwebs carelessly with one hand. Granted, she contemplated, not much of the water had been drunk.
After sending several spiders running for the hills (and smashing a few as well) Lain brushed off all remaining webs from the futon-style sleeping pad laid on the floor with her foot before sitting down heavily, tucking a horrendously pink piece of shoulder-length hair behind one ear irritably, reminding Lain of the miscalculation that had caused it. It had taken strong willpower not to walk around in a turban after the dye that was supposed to—and always had, until recently—turn her hair from its dull light brown color to a dark, blood red. Anyway it had come out an especially ugly pink—a color that not only did Lain hate but which was not flattering to her at all.
Gulping down about half of the small water bottle, Lain estimated how long the small amount of food on the shelves would last her. If she only ate about one or two meals a day, then this amount would hold her for about five or six days, if power bars counted as whole meals. But she would really want to find some other food by the end of those six days.
In that case what made most sense was to bring all the food and water she could with her and start walking now. Lain had no idea even what continent she was on by this point; she couldn't make the vaguest estimate as to when she would find something. With her luck she'd go the wrong way.
Deciding that even her trench coat's enormous pockets couldn't fit three large cans of soup, the slightly hungry teenager picked one up, clearing away dust with her thumb and looking for an expiration date. She assured herself that she wasn't about to eat something that had been meant to be eaten ten years prior before prying open the can with the small tab that came with it. Glad that it was the kind that was already cooked, just needed heating, Lain gulped down the cold chicken noodle soup then set aside the can, feeling full if not very satisfied.
Scratching a new bite on her calf (no doubt from some spider with revenge on its mind) with chipped black nails, the seventeen-year-old waited for the cold soup in her stomach to digest for a while. Sitting on the futon with her back against the wall, brown eyes dulled by heat stared senselessly off into space, Lain's only movements those to either sip water or wipe away droplets of sweat gathering on her upper lip or forehead. Other than that she was still in the simmering heat.
Some time later, (maybe an hour or so?), when Lain was finally considering dragging herself out into the sun and away from her sort-of shelter, a harsh, revving sound reached her ears. The crashing machine noise of...an engine. A motorcyle engine. There was a motorcycle somewhere down the road, coming this way.
Heat lethargy forgotten, Lain sprung to her feet, heading for the door. She was almost worried that the motorcycle would pass by before she got outside, but surprisingly, before she was even visible to the outside world, it had stopped completely. Lain's steps faltered, then stopped quite as entirely as the motorcycle outside. She listened, and heard the sounds of clinking zippers, normal, then heavy footfalls and the creak of leather boots. In a singular movement, Lain reached into her back pocket for her pocket knife and fell backward, landing on the futon again, leaning as she had been against the wall, waiting for anything.
When a blonde man not more than a few inches taller than her walked inside, Lain intended on coming off as cool and unconcerned, which, granted, she could have been, even with the man all spiky-haired and clad in an enormous shoulder guard. But with the even bigger-ass sword carried pretty much casually in a leather holder on his back, Lain did a pretty big double take. It wasn't like she'd never seen a sword before, but damn.
Compensating for something? Lain thought automatically, then mentally bitch-slapped herself for being a pervert. The man noticed her right away, and seemed to almost shift into some kind of funky stance before deciding she wasn't a threat for the moment. Or something along those lines. It wasn't as though his thoughts were exactly written out on his face. The man's expression was very guarded, actually. Lain didn't say anything; she just sat there lethargically, watching him and waiting for the man (hereby referred to as Blondie) to speak. After all, what was she supposed to say? "Hi there, this your shack? It's very nice. I hope you don't mind that I ate some of your nasty-ass cold soup. I'll be on my way. Oh wait, are there any, you know, towns around here? No? Well, shucks." Whoop dee doo.
"What are you doing here?" Blondie finally said, still watching her with that I'm-not-giving-away-what-I'm-thinking look. She felt his eyes twitch over her hair once, and mentally cursed hair dye forever. Blondie didn't have a right to look down on her yet.
"I think they call it squatting," Lain said, taking a sip from a water bottle and dragging herself to her feet. Well, maybe now he does. "I didn't think anyone lived here; I'll clear off."
"I don't live here."
"So why stop?" Lain crossed to the door and looked out. "Nice bike you got there. You don't look like you're lacking a house..."
"I'm not.
"Then...?"
"I built this."
"... What the crap for?"
"A pit stop. You don't see any others around here, do you? Besides, I'm asking the questions. This isn't the type of place people just walk around. What happened, did someone leave you by the side of the road or something?" Blondie looked as though he could see why someone would. Well, thanks for the good thoughts, Blondie.
"No." He didn't look like he believed her. "I dunno, I was just like talking to my little brother and then shit went black and I woke up up the highway from here." Realizing how that sounded, Lain rolled her eyes and said, "Not like he did anything to me or anything. Gawd, I'd pound that little ho to a pulp if he tried slipping something in my food or whatever. He just wanted my laptop." Blondie didn't look very expressionless anymore. Now he was just looking at her with a very "yeah, sure," look on his face.
"Fine then, I got gangraped and dumped off a truck. I grew up in a brothel and finally couldn't bear the tragic life of a crackwhore any longer. Believe whatever you want. Can I have some food for the walk to wherever now?" The look on Blondie's face made Lain want to burst out laughing, and she decided that he wasn't as imperturbable as he first appeared.
"It's pretty far in either direction to even a truck stop," Blondie said.
"How far?" Lain asked.
"About twenty miles east, fifty west."
"Fuck. What'd you build a pit stop in the middle of nowhere for?" she said exasperatedly.
"... Because it's the middle of nowhere."
"Okay, so do you feel like giving me a ride to the closest truck stop?"
"Not really. I run a delivery service and I have to get that," he pointed to the large crate strapped to the end of his huge-ass bike, "somewhere by the end of the day. If there's no one you can call, you can come with me to do that, then I can give you a ride back to Edge."
"What's Edge?" Lain asked blankly. She'd never heard of anywhere called Edge before. And it wasn't like it could be some exotic city with an English name like that.
"You don't know where Edge is?" Blondie said incredulously.
"...Noooo..."
"Some people call it neo-Midgar?" Blondie offered. Lain shook her head again.
"What's Midgar?" she asked blankly.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Where're you from?"
"Seattle. Washington...? USA?" Blondie didn't show any signs of recognition. That's...really weird. Where the fuck am I? Lain was starting to get the beginnings of a slight headache, and gulped down some more water, wiping her forehead. Who didn't know where the U.S. was? It was the country that was the biggest pain in the ass in the world!
"How you don't know anything about Midgar I don't know, but if you're that sheltered I'm not letting you wander off on your own," Blondie said with a mixture of adultish responsibility tone and slight disdain. It irritated Lain significantly, but she didn't feel like arguing right now. If being the sheltered kid in Blondie's eyes got her a ride to some city and the use of a phone, that was fine with her for now. Like a very skilled, smooth person, Lain had a pocket knife (now returned to her pocket) but no phone or money.
"Hokay," she said. "So...we should probably get going. Delivery boy and all? Hey, that reminds me," Lain hooked a thumb into her belt loop and rubbed her spider bite with one shoe. "What's your name? I mean, unless you prefer Blondie."
Blondie looked somewhat offended, and paused a moment before saying, "Cloud." Lain nodded, walking out of the shack before Blon—Cloud could, and tossing over her shoulder, "My name's Lain."
As it happened, Cloud's motorcycle was even more...interesting than at first glance. With the press of a small button, wings on the sides flicked out, offering a place for him to put his sword...along with about five or six others. It was too much, she had to ask.
"Okay, dude, what the hell is up with all the swords? And where'd you get the sword bike from, anyway?" Cloud looked at her like it was a strange question to ask.
"The sword's for, well, anything I need it for, and I modified the bike to fit them." Lain decided that as long as Cloud didn't decide that one of the things he needed a sword for was for lopping off her limbs, it wasn't really her problem. Lain fit easily between Cloud and whatever was in the crate. Cloud didn't have a helmet for himself, let alone her, which brought up both his coolness factor in Lain's eyes and his stupidity. He was one dead dumbass if he crashed, that was for sure. And how he was supposed to even drive the thing was starting to be beyond Lain, for once actually on the vehicle, it seemed even bigger.
Really really compensating for something? Lain had to wonder again.
Cloud waited until Lain had her arms clasped around his stomach (ooh, muscular... too bad he's a blondie) before kicking the bike into gear and revving the engine for a second, then speeding off.
Once they were really going, Lain was leaning her head back and grinning widely, but it felt awkward with all the air rushing by at a million miles an hour so she just faced forward and enjoyed the ride. Lain had been on motorcycles before, so she knew basically how most of it worked (vaguely) and she knew that you really weren't meant to be able to go this fast. Every time a tiny bump in the road came up, Lain felt a thrill of adrenaline that made her sure she was about to fly off to her very pumped death. After about ten thrilling minutes, though, Lain was starting to wish that Cloud had been able to scrounge up at least an extra pair of goggles for her.
Lain blinked furiously but eventually accepted defeat and closed her eyes just as they finally rounded their first corner after what felt like fifteen, twenty minutes (which meant it must have been miles and miles and miles with how fast they were going.) Annoyed that she'd missed it, Lain pouted into the collar of her flying trench coat.
By the time they stopped, Lain had lost track of time, though it felt like hours. They were near a coast line now, and the smell of sea water was strong in her nose. It'd been a while since Lain had been to any kind of ocean. In Seattle the closest body of water was the Puget sound. The house that Cloud had stopped next to was large, like a big beach house. Lain hopped off the bike first, looking up at the house, wondering what these people had needed delivered.
"What time is it, anyway?" Lain asked Cloud as he dismounted his motorcyle. The sun had moved across the sky to a certain degree, but it was still baking hot and they had traveled so she couldn't tell exactly how much. Cloud replied by tossing her a black flipphone. Inspecting it told Lain that it was about four o'clock.
Cloud was just unstrapping the crate when a few men came out of the house and into the driveway.
"Arh you the deliv'ry boy?" one said in a thick accent that Lain most easily matched as British. Cloud nodded with a low affirmative grunt.
"'Oo's she?" the same man asked, indicating Lain. She didn't say anything, deciding that however Cloud wanted to handle it was his business.
"She's the new guy," Cloud said simply, "works with me." Lain nodded to affirm this, silently commending him on the thought. She'd been thinking something along the lines of distant family member or somesuch, but work partner was better now that she thought about it; partners meant that Cloud would have her back, but there wasn't extra attachment beyond that. Good message to send.
"I can see why she'd have nothin' betta to do...where'd ya find that one?" said another man.
"Fuck you," Lain said irritably, deciding that someone who looked like that man shouldn't be saying anything about anybody. He looked something like the offspring of a fat pug and somebody who'd been infused with crystal meth as a child.
"Anyway," said Cloud, looking as though he rather agreed with the man but not having the patience—Lain knew she saw Cloud glance at her disgusting hair again, she was sure of it—"here's your package, delivered on time as promised. The agreement was five-hundred gil."
Gil? Lain thought. What kind of currency is that? The term didn't seem foreign to the men at all, though, for the one in front (hereby referred to as Retard Number One) didn't question the currency. However, his arms folded in front of him, face molding into the businessman's perfect expression of impassiveness.
"I don't know about that, actually," Retard Number One said, shaking his head now. "I think the agreement was five-'undred gil, delivered by three-fifty-five 'ere with no questions asked." Retard Number One looked to his righthand man who had made the comment about Lain's appearance (hereby referred to as Retard Number Two), who glanced at a watch.
"...and now it's four oh eight now. Tut tut, Ah think that right there deserves a dock in pay, that's how we do it. Yeah."
"The agreement was four o'clock. I may have cut it fine, but I want my money. We've spent about eight minutes talking." Cloud was sparing these men nothing. Lain got the feeling that this wasn't the first time people had tried to find reasons not to pay him. She started to wonder whether these men knew that he had some hefty-ass swords in his bike.
"...and anyway, not that the rules're as strict as they used to be back in the old Midgar days, but this stuff we're carryin' is a bit sensi'ive in nature, if you undehstand my drift. We trusted you, but now you've gone an' involved 'er, an' she's not even the gehl from the phone, I can tell, an' it's all a bit more complicated."
Lain almost instinctively folded her arms into a more defensive pose, eyes hardening and mouth forming a fine line. She resisted the urge to say anything, though, as it was Cloud's problem. Cloud was having none of Retard Number One or Two's stupidity, though, which comforted Lain somewhat.
"What you hire transport for isn't my business. I don't know or care. But there was nothing in our agreement about who I'm allowed to have along," here he glanced at Lain, "or you being able to change the time. I want every one of that five hundred gil." Retard Number One drew a pouch of what sounded like coins from his coat, hefting it in his hand.
"Now, why don't you just pass along that parcel," he said, "and we'll talk about this."
Cloud stared intimidatingly at Retard Number One, vibrant blue eyes boring into muddy brown ones rather similar to Lain's. Finally, he said stonily, "there's nothing to talk about," and tossed the crate effortlessly toward one of the larger men standing behind Retard Number One, who caught it with apparent difficulty that seemed inconsistent with the ease with which Cloud had moved the crate through space.
"Five hundred gil," Cloud repeated, his voice equally impassive. RNO tossed the pouch into the air just above his hand, caught it again, and repeated the action. Then, without so much as a warning expression or gesture, RNO drew a pistol...and shot Cloud.
Wait. No. Lain's brain tried to process what she had just seen. RNO should have shot Cloud, tried to shoot Cloud, shot at Cloud, but completely failed to shoot Cloud. In a motion that was barely slow enough for Lain's vision to percept, Cloud's hand had whisked out, slammed the button that jacked open the sword-holders, yanked one out smoothly, and shielded himself from the bullet with the blade of his sword, which bounced off with a metallic clink that pierced the echo of gunfire.
Lain was in awe as she watched, dumbstruck, Cloud crossing the distance between himself and Retard Number One within miliseconds, shoving him back with the flat side of the wide blade of his sword, snatching the half-tossed bag of "gil" out of the air with a practiced snatching motion that looked distinctly unlike Cloud, which made Lain think he must have learned it from someone else. As Cloud repelled more bullets coming his way, Lain at least had the sense to dive behind Cloud's bike as she noticed a gun being aimed her way. Cloud came back into view, revving the engine with one hand while fending off bullets with the other, then performing both tasks with one hand in order to lift Lain off the ground with his left, and by the time he had placed her behind him, they were gone.
"That's what the swords are for," he shouted over the roar of the motorcycle's engine.
"How the fuck did you do that?" Lain bellowed back, still in disbelief. "No one can do all that...it's impossible! People's bodies don't move that fricking fast!"
"Mine does," Cloud answered, not bothering to explain any further. Lain fast came to the conclusion that she was traveling around with some kind of stunt man battle freak, and immediately resolved not to get on his bad side. Cloud hadn't actually hurt any of the assorted Retards, but that didn't leave her in any doubt that he could have seriously sliced their shit to pieces if he'd felt like it.
"Where now?" she yelled to Cloud.
"Edge."