The Watcher

By JessicaJ

Prologue:

Cloud and the notorious members of Avalanche have saved the world from the threat of the super-being Sephiroth, and the corrupt corporation, ShinRa. All is not well though- meteor left behind a broken city, a city that struggles still to find its footing in the aftermath. The super company has fallen, and in a world without energy the failing economy leaves thousands starving, struggling to survive in a broken world, trying to define themselves, trying to regain their breath after resurfacing.

One woman among millions is doing just that, unaware that her life is going to change very soon.

Destiny deals a new hand, smiling at the tangled web of crossed paths soon to commence playing for her amusement.

1. Security Wanted

Midgar; What a putrid, godforsaken city. Yet here I was, haunting the streets looking every bit like any other inhabitant infesting its pavements. Dressed in various shades of grey, stinking of pollution, alcohol, or sometimes vomit, they all wore an expression that said one thing: There was no hope, here.

Millions of pairs of eyes bore a dull gleam, a vacancy that stared back at me from each visage. Midgar was consuming everyone here, slowly, but surely, through drink, drugs, sex or gambling. All could be found here, in the slums, for a price.

My boots thudded on uneven paving stones, the occasional step punctuated with a crunch from broken glass underfoot. The streets were littered with the stuff, glinting in the harsh glare of the streetlights and neon signs. I mused that it was the urban, post-apocalyptic equivalent of flowers, these days.

I rounded the corner onto yet another street, a busier hub than most, aware of people yelling, calling to one another. Some voices sounded angry and aggressive, others somewhat jubilant, resonating from within a bar or another such establishment that thrived in these parts.

I didn't even want to think about the brothels.

My purpose here in Midgar was not necessarily as unpleasant as previous visits I had made over the years. In my younger years, I never really ventured here for pleasure. It was all 'business'. Unpleasant business that that. In a way, today, many years on, was no different; I was looking for work. Not necessarily because I needed money. Money had never mattered to me. I saw it as a means to achieve an end. I wanted work because I wanted a break from dwelling in the past, something to occupy my hands and busy my mind.

I passed like a ghost, through steaming alleys and bustling streets, along eerily deserted roads and past corners dogged by armed gangs of youths. None gave me any trouble. Perhaps I looked intimidating enough to warrant them giving me the benefit of the doubt; and as I passed a window and caught sight of myself, I couldn't blame them.

In my pocket, the paper ad crinkled in my fist, thrust in there to keep warm.

The flyer had caught my attention, crisp and white, new, pinned to the advertisement board in the grubby, dimly-lit lobby of my hotel.

'Security Guard wanted – 7th Heaven Bar, New Sector 7. Enquire within, experience essential'

It was brief, to the point, and adorned in plain, clean text. The only adornment was an ink drawing of the establishments logo.

New Sector 7 – I raised a brow at that. New would imply that there had been some sort of relief effort since most if not all of Sector 7 had been destroyed when the Plate fell a few years ago. New would imply a clean-up operation, construction, investment even.

What I found told a different story entirely. It mainly spoke to the resilience that some people of Midgar had that a new settlement had risen out of the ashes and began life anew, if not in imperfection and poverty.

The 7th Heaven establishment wasn't quite what I had been expecting it to be; my first impression was good—not many owners of bars around these parts kept the outside clean for a start. It was presentable, and would blend in well in many thriving towns on the continent. Lacking the normal garish adornments of a neon sign and flashing lights, it appeared well-tended and even tasteful, with a simple black glossy sign noting its name to passers-by. Even the bars on the ground floor windows seemed neat and unmenacing.

I considered it carefully from the pavement. For Sector 7, it appeared 7th Heaven made enough money to pay for itself. Though a place making a lot of money wasn't necessarily a good sign; it only raised questions in the end as to where the money really came from, and whose pockets it was lining.

Taking one final appraisal, I made up my mind and crossed to the door, a heavy metal enforced affair, before slipping inside.

Dismissing the inevitable stares, I swept my gaze across the bar from the doorway. The comfortable babble of chatter soon resumed, and I allowed it to flood my senses and swallow me for the moment.

The bar's interior continued the theme of its exterior- clean, tidy, and homely. The lighting was warm and ambient, the layout was scattered yet with an orderly feel to the chaos. Mis-matched chairs (although of purposeful selection), scrubbed wooden topped tables, and some booth seating around the periphery beneath the windows. The floors were clean, bearing the usual wear and tear that years of footfall would bring.

There were two barmaids that I could see working behind the gleaming countertop of the bar, weaving around one another to reach bottles or glasses to serve their orders.

I wondered if barmaids were really all they were. Pretty girls were a vice in a city built on vices. One possible explanation for the visible success of such a place, were that indeed the case, would be their offering of certain other services to the establishment's clientele.

The flyer in my pocket crinkling again as I moved, reminding me of my purpose. Brothel or otherwise, I was looking for work. I knew the nature of the beast, with Midgar. I shouldn't bite the hand that feeds.

"What can I get you?" The younger of the two barmaids addressed me, interrupting my thought process. She was resting on one elbow atop the bar, chewing gum incessantly as she waited for my response. "I said what can I get you, sir?" She repeated herself, barely giving me enough time to consider her offer. In her defence, I had not exactly made eye contact, instead choosing to examine the shelves behind her. It was a well stocked bar in any case.

"I'm not here to drink." I say, resting my palms lightly on the bar top. She cocks a brow, eyebrow piercing catching the light.

She couldn't have been much older than twenty, barely out of her teens, long red hair bobbing in its ponytail as she turned her head to respond. "Well this is a bar. If you ain't gunna drink, then feel free to take a seat. But if it gets busy, I'll have to ask you to leave in favour of a paying customer. Boss won't appreciate loiterers."

The second barmaid, a blonde girl who was currently filling the fridges with bottles of beer scrambled to her feet, glanced staring at me curiously.

I profile them in my mind; an old habit that I never quite shook. They were unlikely to be prostitutes, I reasoned. Their clothing was altogether decent; They both wore what appeared to be the bar's uniform, a white t-shirt with a logo of a black heart with '7th' written through it in silver stitching, along with either denim shorts, or a fitted knee-length skirt.

From the redhead's dialect, I decide that she isn't, or perhaps had not always been a city girl. Her swagger and attitude appear somewhat learned. Their parents were probably all dead, a reason to drive grief-stricken youngsters looking for success to the city. A place where they would never find it for sure- instead swallowed up by the hell-hole of empty promises, filth and greed. Just like the rest of us.

"I'm here about the job." I tell her after a moment, aware that at my words the blond girl scrutinises me further. The redhead ceases chewing her gum for a moment, moving it around in her mouth as she considers me.

"TIFA?!" She yells suddenly, angling her head behind her, never taking her hazel eyes away from my face. I cringe inwardly, aware that several of the patrons have also returned their attention to me. In the sudden lull, I pick out the sound of a chair scraping back, footsteps, and then a door opening to the left of the bar, down a small side corridor which also lead to the washrooms.

"What's up, Natasha?" From my vantage point, I could not see the owner of the voice, another woman. 'Tifa's 7th Heaven' had been in my mind at least, some sort of high-end brothel. I was quite surprised now that I was here to find that it indeed was not. In fact, it appeared to be quite a respectable business, from what I had seen so far. None of the patrons were drunk yet, at the reasonable time of 1900 hours.

"There's some guy here about the security job you sent flyers out for." The girl named Natasha answered over her shoulder. The blonde's curiosity seemed insatiable, and I resisted the urge to glare at her, instead focussing my attentions on the whiskey bottles lined up on the top shelf. Again, I appreciated the fine selection.

"Right, ah… get the man a drink, and send him through. It's on the house." The door was pulled partially shut, the owner of the voice retreating into what must be her office. The redhead named Natasha grins at me, her disposition somewhat warmer.

"What'll you have?"

"Coffee. Black… If it's not too much trouble." Natasha raises her perfectly plucked brows again.

"Sure, if you don't mind waiting. An' it's from the kitchen upstairs, mind."

"That will suffice, thank you." I give a rigid nod, stepping around the bar towards the door that she is now ushering me towards. Steeling myself, I tap upon the doorframe politely, even though the door is stood partially ajar, and wait.

The bar's owner doesn't glance up right away at my knock at her door, though she calls "come in!" whilst frowning down at some document ledgers on her desk. Only when I have closed the door behind me softly and crossed to stand at the chair before her desk does she raise her eyes, the end of a biro tip between her teeth.

She lets the pen fall away, eyes widening slightly as she took in my appearance. I allow this to take place without it ruffling me. It wasn't like I hadn't gotten used to the looks over the years, and her appraisal was certainly the least offensive kind. Silent, and simply processing the pale, dark tangle of limbs, hair and dark clothing.

Remembering herself with a little visible shudder, she stands, hand outstretched. "Ah, welcome to 7th heaven, please take a seat." Her small palm is warm in my un-gloved hand, though her fingers are strong and her grip firm. "I'm Tifa, I own this place. I'm hear you are here about the post for security I advertised?" At my curt nod, she smiles.

She invites me to sit in the old, yet comfortable easy chair set across from her desk. She allows me to remain in silence, content to examine her potential employee. "So you're name is…?"

"…Vincent." I reply, fighting to overcome the natural caution I had drilled into me about revealing any aspect of my identity to anyone I didn't know or trust. Old habits die hard.

She lets the silence pass for a few moments, returning my gaze, unwavering. "I have had many other applicants who would dwarf you," she says. "Why should I choose you?"

I say nothing for a moment, fingers splayed neatly on my knees. Why indeed?

I consider briefly what he reaction might be if I told her I was easily the most dangerous person in the whole of Midgar right now, and that she would be a fool to hire me. I imagine being chased from the city with pitchforks and flaming torches, and almost chuckle.

Looking behind the desk where she sits, he studies the pin board where she pins up pictures of dangerous men she does not allow within her bar.

Deciding that some level of honesty would be required to paint myself as a credible candidate, I take a breath before I speak. "I was… trained to kill people. Amongst other things, but never mind those. They're not relevant for this discussion. I practiced my art well, and for years. It's now time to make amends, somehow."

She tilts her head slightly to one side, pen suspended above her notepad, motionless. Clearly not the answer she was expecting. "You're not from Midgar are you?"

"No. And your accent tells me you're not either."

Something briefly passes across her expression and although she is quick to reassemble it, I can't miss reading her pain.

"Why would you come here to work, of all places?"

Because I am drawn to darkness and fear and death and misery like a moth to a flame. Where the sins of my past are matched by the sins of Midgar's present. Because it's the only place that I truly deserve.

"Why else does anyone come here." I say instead, my throat suddenly tight and my tongue thick.

"Because they have no other choice." She glances down at her notepad with a sigh, shoulders heavy.

"Because I have to do something." I blurt it out before I can help myself, frowning at my looseness of tongue.

"About what?" She gets to her feet and walks around her desk to perch on the edge of it, arms folded across her chest. She wore the same t-shirt as the other girls, underneath a chequered shirt.

"I need to do something. Anything."

Now she was totally lost. "Do you need money? Because there are easier ways to get money here, and faster. Certainly more than I will be paying you."

"I… I need a job, I don't care about the money. I just want something to occupy my time. Somewhere I am needed. Is that a good enough reason for you, or should I take my services elsewhere?"

We stare at each other for a while, the sounds from the bar permeating the thin walls. We hear Natasha's voice, male laughter, and the chink of glassware. She runs her tongue over her lip, before capturing it between her teeth. "I pay 200 a night, and if there is any trouble that you can diffuse, you might get a bonus. It's 5 nights a week. Do you agree to these terms?" I give a curt nod. "Be here this time tomorrow, Vincent."

I nod again, this time somewhat more respectfully, though I don't find the strength to say thank you. I stand to leave, reaching the door just as Natasha got to it, his requested cup of coffee in her hand.

"Aw man, you ain't even going to drink this?!" She exclaimed to my retreating back, turning to Tifa after getting no response with a bemused expression on her face.

I purposefully block out the conversation between them I hear clearly thanks to mako-enhanced hearing, and retreat from the bar with hurried steps.

Until tomorrow.

-0-

"What a strange man!" Natasha remarks to Tifa with a shrug and a flick of her ponytail. "Hey, you drink black coffee, right? You may as well have this." Natasha sets down the untouched mug of black coffee before turning to return to the bar, leaving Tifa alone with her thoughts.

Tifa sighs, walking back around her desk to resume her seat.

There was something odd about Vincent alright, but she'd had a feeling about him from the moment he had opened his mouth. Quiet, though she could tell he had a chip on his shoulder, or perhaps even several. That came as not much of a surprise though—this was the slums after all.

She stretched luxuriously in her chair, and chuckled to herself at a sudden thought. She sure loved a project, anyone here would say, but by Gaia Vincent was a project alright.

Trained to Kill? He said it with no trace of irony or for that matter any trace of anything. He wasn't trying to impress her. He wasn't even trying to scare her. He was just being honest.

Well, whatever it was, she was damn intrigued by it all, and if her curious nature on top of Natasha's inability to intercept the pathway between her thoughts and her mouth didn't drive him away, she mind just get to know more, in time.