Well, after my computer problems ended and I got out of the hospital, I decided to maybe go a different route… at least for now! I'm using a different text editing programme, so I guess we'll see how that turns out in regards to being able to upload here.

Right on. Well, reviews make me write more. Typically. So if you read through, and feel like you'd enjoy seeing more… drop a quick one (or an epic tale of your own, whatever works).

I swear we'll get more into the plot as we go. I've got ideas. Keep in mind this'll get pretty M-rated later on, and we're looking at an AU here - haven't seen too many of those for the genre yet, so I decided to break the proverbial seal and jump on in.

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. The characters, etc, are all copyright to their respective creators. I'm merely borrowing for this fanfic.

Prologue: Drinking Games

Serah.

Her fingers gripped the short glass between them, vision blurring for more reasons than one as the hardened woman tipped it between her lips. It burnt like acid on the way down, but she was numb to it by now. Every night for the past seventeen days, she'd spent like this. Contemplating how fragile life truly was, and if that was the sort of thing she wanted to take into her own hands. End it all, nobody'd be around to care.

Not anymore.

The only thing that was stopping her, beyond the tactless lout who'd inevitably come to drag her out of the bar and off to some bed or another, was her own damn pride. Or at least, what was left of it. After that spectacle she'd made of herself by not going to her own sister's funeral… well, there wasn't much pride left.

Drink again if you feel like an idiot.

She couldn't be fooled into going to some goddamn empty casket funeral. You couldn't have told her for anything that you were worth that Serah was gone, not without a body. The irony was that she did believe it. She probably bought into it more than her sister's fiancé (ex-fiancé?).

He'd cried that day. He had. She had just stared. There was no body. It wasn't real, not without a body.

"Lightning - "

"Get off of me." A hand on her shoulder, ghosting there through a tough, leather glove. She heard the biker sigh, the hand retreating somewhere behind her, where he stood. Just like he had the past sixteen nights.

"It's getting old, Lightning," he muttered, pulling up the stool beside her. In spite of herself, the strawberry blonde cast him a sideways glance, drinking in his appearance like it was the poison in her left hand. Blonde, unruly hair he'd hastily put a black cap on top of. All his clothing ripped, dirty, too large even though his frame was rather substantial. Bright blue eyes. Nothing like her, even in the way that he looked.

Drink again if you just can't get a fucking break.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there. Have the past, what, fifteen hangovers taught you nothing?" His hand on hers, applying a gentle, sympathetic pressure.

Drink again if your entire fucking life's turned into this pity fest.

"Lightning," he tried again, the pressure on her hand increasing slightly. "Come on. I'll take you home."

Throw your shot glass against the bar after you polish it off, and order another one if the last person in the world is your only company. Not just in the small, dank pub you've found tonight, but in life.

The young woman sneered, hastily standing up from the bar stool and grabbing her coat before a wave of dizziness hit her square in the face. He was there, hands under her arms as she collapsed, sighing as she fought back. "I told you to get off of me."

"Yeah, and you're in such a position to be making threats. I mean it, I'm taking you home. You can come peacefully, and stumble your way beside me, or you can come kicking and screaming over my shoulder. Up to you, but I am not letting you sleep in another bar."

"Fuck off, Snow."

Order another drink if the bartender's giving you that same, pitying look that they do. They being everyone who's ever known you.

The bartender refused with a shake of her head, declaring she felt Lightning had had enough. It was hard not to catch the thankful look Snow shot the woman, dragging his fiancé's sister away in spite of the struggle she put up. "I'll walk myself," was her last declaration, throwing his hands off of her in disgust and storming out into the night, coat dragging slightly on the ground beside her.

Find a new bar the next night if the current one's gotten too stuffy… rinse, lather, repeat.

God, what was her life anymore?

"Lightning!"

Why put up with this bullshit?

"Hey, wait up!"

She should've ended it.

"Lightning Farron, I swear to Eden…"

Hey, there was still plenty of time. The night was young. She was just drunk enough.

"Lightning!"

Screw it.