By Virtue Fall
Prologue: What Is Past Is Prologue or (In Wretched Midgar, We Lay Our Scene)
The streets of Midgar were always dirty, this was a commonly known fact of life.
No matter how much the architecture and urban landscape changed, it still remained sullied. From the spire that rose from the centre to the sectors nestled around it, each part of the metropolis was as tainted as the desolate settlements spread around it.
However, whether one lived in the city proper or in the outskirts of Edge where Sectors 3 and 4 used to be made little made difference as to the degree of pollution one was exposed to. It was merely a question of which type of filth soiled either the neat concrete pavement or the barren, trodden paths.
An old man coughed as he watched from his spot on an empty crate. He looked to be around sixty-five, ancient for someone residing in Edge and he looked as though he fit right in with the dirty surfaces in the desolate city wasteland. He might once have been handsome but the unruly hair that had been flaxen blond in his youth had long since lost all colour and now clung to his marred face in shaggy, grey strands. Even his eyes lacked vibrancy and the once cobalt orbs had turned the colour of rain, dull and sad. In the slums where he spent his days it was never truly sunny. Too thick was the nebula that hovered over the city of metal and concrete that huddled up against Midgar's towering structure. It was dark and filthy in Edge and while sunny and ventilated, Midgar was dirty too. Looming high up above Edge, in the city, arrogance littered the streets and haughty ignorance was worn on empty hearted people like designer perfume. Up there, the stain pretended to be anything but dirty while under the rebuilt metropolis, the filth, didn't even try to deny it's uncleanliness. Honesty in wretchedness he supposed. He had lived up there once, it seemed like a lifetime ago. It was, really, for many didn't live to be half his age. It pained him to bear witness to the lives of children being lost to the very air they breathed and the dust that forever permeated everything and anything in the ruined outskirts. And even more it hurt to know how a century ago, when his grandfather had fought for the freedom of the people, the life of the planet and the end of corruption, it had been for all but naught. The new age after the Calamity's progeny had been defeated at last had held such promise. But it seemed that Midgar was a place beyond hope, forever bending to the will of those in power.
Meteorfall. Geostigma. Sephiroth. ShinRa. Those were threats of the past, thanks to people who too, were gone from the world. No champion could stand the test of time and finally, fifty years ago, the last of the revered heroes passed into the lifestream to join the planet they had saved. But alas, the peace and prosperity they had risked their lives for had been been of short duration. The old man coughed again and pulled out a pipe from his torn and shredded coat which he propped between his teeth fully aware that his last bit of tobacco had been smoked long ago. Power, he had decided, was the strongest test of character. It corrupted ambition, poisoned intent and blinded eyes that had held visions of utopia. Even those who aimed for righteousness succumbed to power eventually. His grandfather had taught him this simple truth, using his own life's story as a shining example. So many of the people he had encountered in his youth had been paragons of integrity and eventually fallen. Power, in whatever form and for whatever purpose, was a catalyst for insanity, a mad scramble for power. Even the greatest could fall prey to the parasite, even if they were purely human and not the hosts of an evil alien calamity. A dangerous mistress, power, he thought and gazed upward where his ageing eyes could barely make out tiny electric lights in the city beyond the haze. A good man, his grandfather, made wise by a hard life from which he had never truly recovered. And now, the Strife family name would die with his grandchild, a miserable old man with nothing and nobody to remember him or his lineage, despite the statue erected next to the Meteorfall Monument in the honour of the terrorists turned heroes in the mostly neglected central square.
This was how it would forever be, he sighed. Upon creation followed growth and hope only to be succeeded by corruption, decay and finally to be destroyed. And with each new cycle, the ones that came before were forgotten. It seemed that it could not be helped.
Nearby a young man hurried by, whispering into his PHS, veiled threats that would surely cost him dearly if they had been uttered within earshot of anyone but Old Strife. Threats aimed at ReGEN, the mutated remains of the World Regenesis Organisation, the post-ShinRa government that was now every bit as toxic to the city as the cooperation they had displaced and then replaced. Reeve Tuesti's vision had been genuine and it had been welcome. But over time, it seemed the visionary lost his visions to half-hearted attempts to replace the energy they had lost when the mako reactors had been shut and exploiting the Lifestream had become illegal. While not nearly as militant as ShinRa at it's peak, ReGEN was frighteningly effective at achieving the goals agreed upon in the monolithic tower in Sector 0. At first, the WRO had been revered by all as a force for good, acting in the name of planet and humanity. They had worked to cure the trauma left behind by Geostigma, the memory of meteor and the fatigue provoked by warlike circumstances that had made the people weary and hungry for order and safety. And at first, it had worked. Plans had been made for the reconstruction of Midgar's city proper while the slums were cleared out and Edge was to be integrated in the whole. Train lines were rebuilt, the highways reworked and with the promise of new energy for all, the future had been so bright. And then, slowly, bit by bit, the bright promise turned less and less promising. First, of course, he remembered, the scientific institute funded by what had now become known as ReGEN had discovered an alternative to mako energy. Relieved that the planet was no longer to be drained for energy, the new reactors in which atoms were spliced for power, were received with euphoria. Every home was granted a years free use of the new energy provided by the government, to see for themselves, the miracle which had been created.
And with the new energy, the death of principle had been imminent. The reactors had been built underground and surrounding the now prospering city. No one but it's creators had known just how much havoc this particle power could possibly wreak and they had remained silent for profit and glory's sake. Eco-friendly energy at customer-friendly prices, the advertisements had declared, lying through the teeth of too happy actors and too bright colours. Energy harvested from the splicing of cells in large reactors buried underground. No longer would large cooperations drain the planet of its lifeblood and choke it to death. Instead, he thought bitterly, the government was poisoning it, corroding it slowly. It was the leaking of the by-products that was now killing the planet and more directly, the people who lived above the reactors. Poisonous particles hid in the all-encapsulating dust and turned the very air into miasma. Those who didn't die of malnutrition in what soon became dark, decrepit slums, were either killed or died of consumption. And there was no escape from Edge. The Enforcers – ReGEN's police department – made sure of that in an effort to contain the corruption. Not that they were as brutal or militant as the ShinRa infantry had been to begin with, but they were damned effective at keeping people where they belonged. And for citizens of Edge, well, that was in the city outside the city, where they had once been proud to reside.
When pillaging groups of outlaws had begun terrorising the poorer settlements, many had sought safety underneath the WPO's watchful eye and all had been disappointed. And thus, the cycle continued, the endless repetition once again apparent. Slowly, the houses built to shelter the returning people becan to decay for lack of funding as Midgar distanced itself once again from the lower dwellings. Energy became expensive as work became scarce in Edge, and soon bare necessities were hard to come by as most trade between Midgar and Edge had ceased. No one from the not quite as glorious metropolis was willing to risk health and life to trade with the ever more desperate people outside the well-ventilated and elevated safety zone. The factories shut their doors and the entrepreneurs retreated to clean air and conservative thoughts. And there, without much effort, the slums were reborn as though they had never left. Ensconced by Midgar and yet separated by concrete walls and armed men who were allegedly there to keep the peace. To serve and protect - not the common people but the wealthy and powerful from the wretched and starving.
The old Strife gazed up at a flickering street lamp, glaring angrily above his head. Life was no longer a privilege for most but a burden to endure. Faith abandoned, hope extinguished, all struggled for survival. Leaving wasn't an option either as most cities had adopted the same energy and many had been laid waste to by civil unrest. And to travel, Gil was required as was protection from the myriad of monsters waiting beyond the relative safety of civilisation. It truly was a deadlock. One it would take a miracle to break.
A flash of silver caught the old man's eye and pulled him from his bitter thoughts. Anything bright was rare in Edge as even the blondest of heads were usually covered in a thick layer of dust and dulled from lack of sun. Gazing up to catch another look at that vibrant hue, all colour drained from his wrinkled face and dull blue eyes as they, for a fraction of a second, caught a glimpse of a shade long since wiped from the city. From a stark pale face gleamed bright green eyes, terrifying in their intensity and otherworldly glow. Old Strife felt his heartbeat pick up and pound painfully against his ribcage as he struggled to breathe. Terror took hold of his old stiff limbs when finally he recognised the nightmare given human form, looming in the haze. When the glow grew nearer he stammered in disbelief and terror, taking in the long silver tresses that crowned the familiar stranger's head, framing angelic and impassive features and fell starkly against black leather and silver buckles. Soundlessly and faster than lightning the gleaming glow was but inches from his face and he struggled to keep his consciousness from failing him. Eyes wide open and shaking uncontrollably he faced he nightmare as it impassively reached for his collar. His grandfather had been braver when faced with this deceptively serene face and the power dwelling in the phantoms every cell. For a phantom it had to be, his old mind finally losing touch with reality. The pain from his chest spread to every limb as it felt as though his blood was being ripped from his veins. Too terrified to comprehend the meaning behind the words the phantasm of terror uttered, he finally collapsed, the darkness of the world replaced by soothing, welcoming black. And yet even in death, that silky, dark voice echoed inside his mind.
"Good to see you Strife."
A/N.: Chapter 1: Star-crossed and Honour-bound (or Well-known Strangers) will be online tomorrow.