Wanted: Dead or Alive

Disclaimer: Not mine. The story is inspired by the Bon Jovi song.

Author's Note: It's short. Every time I tried to add to make it longer, it just didn't want to work for me. And it's darker than most of my stories, but I think it works well. It's a prequil to the first chapter. This was incredibly difficult to write, hope it works! I think I fudged the timeline just a tiny bit to make it work – hopefully it's not too unbelievable.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

…And times when you're alone all you do is think…

It's cold. The bone chilling kind of cold that continues to permeate through the body even after going inside. The kind that isn't necessarily caused by the weather, though the weather certainly adds to the numbness he's feeling. Normally he hates the cold, he'd much rather be on a warm beach somewhere surrounded by half-naked women. Today, however, the cold is fitting.

He raises his eye from his worn shoes, its current focal point. It stings, but he'd never admit that he's fighting back tears. And if he did admit it, he'd say they were caused by the sheer exhaustion he's feeling. Slowly, as if any movement would kill him, he takes in his surroundings. There's a fog, thick and unending pouring in from the northeast. Where he is, he couldn't say exactly – the fog outside is nothing compared to the one settling in his brain. He leans back against the cliff as he looks around. The land is grey, but he has a feeling that the fog is responsible for most of the greyness. It's grassy, but not the thick, meadow grass he expected. His brain slowly begins to process where he is – and he's pretty sure he made it to the Calm Lands. He secretly thinks the name is ironic and wants to laugh, but laughing evades him. He wants to snort in disgust, but he doesn't. Instead he slowly takes a long drag from the cigarette he holds limply between his two fingers. The burning end glows red against the grey landscape, though it offers no protection from the cold. The land itself is nice enough, its quiet – he likes that. He hasn't had enough quiet lately. It's just what the land represents that he hates. A burial ground for summoners – people that die trying to protect the world.

He takes another drag as he lets that last thought mull around his head for awhile. That's what these lands are – a graveyard for innocent people those Yevon assholes offer up as sacrifice. And now he's found his way here, using this place as a safe haven from those who want to kill him.

It's early. He's not sure how early it is exactly, but he knows it's too early for him to think coherently. The sun is beginning to rise from behind him, shining through the fog in dim rays. But from where he's sitting, the shadows consume him still. He's exhausted and can hardly remember the last time he stopped. It must be three days since he began running, but he cannot afford to stop and sleep. He tries to understand what happened three days ago – he needs to make sense of it. But there is no making sense of madness. All he knows is that he must keep running – otherwise they'll kill him just like they killed the others. He must be as crazy as they are for running closer to Bevelle. But he was taught long ago that sometimes the best place to hide is under someone's nose.

He still doubts that all his thoughts are his alone, as it's been a long time since he could clear his head. There is something about that place that scares him. But men like him don't scare – so he takes another drag off his cigarette. Frowning, he casts aside the butt and watches as it burns out in the grey-green grass. A long moment passes before he pulls out another cigarette and lights it, his lighter casting shadows across the cliff behind him. One day he vows to go back and discover what is in that – place. He just hopes that day is slow in coming. He exhales and watches as the smoke mingles in the fog that is slowly burning off. The world is a little less grey with every passing moment but from his place shadows still consume him. Every drag from his cigarette reminds him he is a failure. He left Home to prove himself to the world, and all he has managed to prove is his own inabilities.

He is about to get up and continue on his way when he sees someone on the horizon. Squinting to see who it is he crouches into the shadows in case it is someone pursuing him. His hand rests lightly on his gun, ready for a fight at any moment. He may be a failure, but he will not go down easily. The figure comes closer and he can tell that it is actually a group of people – a summoner pilgrimage. There are seven of them, but the sun casts them all in silhouette. He relaxes, though he is sick with disgust. Here is another sacrifice for the people of his world – and further proof that he is a failure. Hadn't he set out to stop Sin without the use of a summoner?

One of the figures is speaking. And though he cannot make out the words, he can tell they are having a conversation. Suddenly the smaller figure in the front turns and yells to one of the other figures. He can hear her words clearly; they stab through him like hot knives.

"Still, Pops didn't have to blow up Home! There could have been another way! But no – he has those guns and he's gonna fire them at something!"

He sinks back into his shadows. So Home is destroyed? He wants to yell out, to hit something. But what good would it do? The cigarette falls from his fingers where it smolders in the grass. And she's a guardian now? He left Home to protect her – to keep her as far from this as possible. And now she's gone and gotten in the middle of it all.

He hates life sometimes. Four days ago he was a hero, ready to save the world. Today he's hiding in the shadows, a wanted man. And he realizes as he watches the pilgrimage cross the plains that they're all pawns in a game much bigger than any of them can ever comprehend.