This is inspired by Final Fantasy: Dissidia or Dissidia: Final Fantasy (matter on your coast). I have seen all the art and read various things about it and seen probably most of the videos, and now own the game (Bundle Pack with the silver PSP!) but this still isn't really a Dissidia fanfic. This is an Alternate Universe, but it is a little more complicated then that. I was walking down a hall to my classes and hit with this idea: "I wonder how Dissidia would be if it were more like an action movie." On that day in class, our teacher was sick so we went to the computer classroom to work on various on-line math modules. This plot idea became stuck in my head and now I understand the term "plot bunny": It is when a plot idea bounces around in your head rather vividly. I began this in the computer class and finished the first couple of pages at home.
Already I shall give you a bit of humor on my part: Out of the ten heroes featured in the main rooster, Squall has to be my least favorite. Yet most of the story is and will be told from his Point of View. I think it fits. I would love to hear some feedback on this story, especially this story since this is the first time I've wrote something like this. So yes, for this one, I request reviews.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dissidia or any other Final Fantasy game and I am not making any money off this story.
Author's notes: Read this knowing this is nothing of a heroic fantasy: It will be rather violent in some parts and cynical. It is more like taking the character in Dissidia as well as characters in various other Final Fantasy characters, put them to our modern world, and give them a bit of an action and sarcastic flare.
The curtains on the little window above the sink are pink and have flora prints on them. They are faded and outdated. There is nothing on the windowsill except a half-melted white candle and two unripe tomatoes. Below them are a sink where dishes are beings soaked, filling the sink half-full. A few plates are sticking up from the water; everything else has a layer of sods. The kitchen looks to be small, maybe over seven feet by ten feet with yellow cabinets and a fridge - an apartment kitchen.
In the background, loud noises are heard: Loud shouts and punches and crashes in the main room. There are even some sounds of large, bladed weapons crashing around, and something made of glass breaking. Suddenly, two men, one big and stout, and another thin and tall, charge to the sink with a man in their grip. The opposite men both wear blue over-coats and equally blue beanie hats. Once upon a time, the clothes were more proper, but the leaner man's hat was crooked on his head, with a long gash running the length of his left arm. The big-boy's hat was fine, but it was clear to see that the front of his jacket was more or less pieces, displaying a sweaty undershirt.
All that can be seen from the third man is a head of short-cut brunet hair, and a white shirt before they slam his head under the water. They hold it under for a few moments, the captive man struggling against the grips, before they pull his head back up. His hair is wet as his mouth quickly opens to struggle for breath.
---
If you're wondering, that's my head stuck in the sink. At least it's my own sink this time.
---
The head went back down under water for a few moments longer as the struggle continued. They pulled his head back up. "A'ight Squall, where's it?" The smaller man said, his voice a little on the tangy side with a little lagging in proper speech. There was an open cut on his fat cheek, bruised and swollen, promising pain for a couple of days.
"Where the hell is what?" The younger man coughed out, though his voice remained rather flat even as he struggled for his breaths.
"You know what it'is," The taller man sternly answered, with a voice that seemed to imply a high and mighty attitude, and a face that froze forever, as if he was sniffing a bad smell. His words, like his demeanor, were perfect in pronunciation, though he probably felt pain with each spoken word, as his lip was torn and red with a cut.
"Whatever it is, I can assure you, it is not in the sink." Squall did regret those words coming out of his mouth, but they came to mind quickly, so he spoke them. He received a nice face full of water.
Another few dunks later, they pulled him back up. The taller man pulled Squall up to full height and branded a pistol with a long shaft out. It was pointed directly at his face, specifically tapping against his cheek. The dining room came into view, showing a small table with four matching chairs and various folded chairs over-shooting another window. "We ain't asking yah again," The small man threatened, flanking around his other side to keep Squall in place, "Where is it?!" There was much anger in tubby's voice.
"You have the wrong man," Squall said, still recovering with lungs half-filled with water.
"Don't think the dye job will fool us. LeBlanc wants it back," The tall man informed him.
"Dye job?" Out of instinct, Squall looked up at the top of his head, trying to inspect his hair color, even though he knew it was not any other color. "Who is La Blanc?"
"Don't play dumb!" The smaller man grumbled, jabbing him in the side. Squall barred his teeth, but hardly felt it over the burning in his air passages.
"You're Squall Leonheart, you have blond hair, with a scar running from your left to your right down the bridge of your nose. You wield a gun blade." He motioned with his gun to the weapon stuck into a chair leading from the small dining room to the start of the living room.
"Blond hair…dammit to hell." Squall took a deep breath and said. "My scar runs from my right to my left, not my left to my right."
The smaller man looked him over. "No, that's left to right."
The taller man, on the other hand, paused a bit. He tried to look, but it was hard from his angle. "Check from his left, you dolt."
The smaller man held up both his palms, with both hands making an "L" shape as he looked at them. He looked at Squall with a grin before his partner corrected him, "It'is opposite from his point of view." So the fat man switched his hands and let out an 'o' sound. With the adrenaline slowing down in his blood stream, Squall did not find that piece of metal in his face so frightening.
"Er…Logos…" The fat man said, looking at the tall man, whom Squall could think of as Logos now, "He doesn't look like the picture…"
"Yes…" Squall noticed that Logos had quite a nasally voice. Though the man never removed his gun from his face, Logos used his free hand to pull out a small photo. He held the photo up in front of his nose, almost as if he was looking at Squall with one eye, and the square with the other. He let out a confirmation noise. "Alright, it's not him." He put the gun away, and instead flipped the picture over.
Squall was thinking about the various ways he could kill them. It would not be too hard: The fat guy would require a knee to the gut, and he was pretty sure a nose-breaking punch would distract the tall fellow for a second. Enough time to grab that long barrel, shoot the glutton, and push the twig in the sink for good measure. Then he saw the picture and realized whom he needed to be pissed at.
"Oh fucker." Squall mumbles, recognizing the familiar slicked back blond hair and a mirrored scar of his own.
"I take it you know this gentleman?" Logos asked him, sounding not at all surprised.
"Yah," Squall mumbled, frowning at the dampness on his shirt. It was a bit uncomfortable. He did not wish to venture about the food scraps he spotted on it. "His name is Seifer Almasy. He's a jack-off who hates me and gave my name because he planned to screw your boss over from the start." And Squall really hated the ass right now.
"The boss figured as much. Who is named Squall?" Logos then looked over at Squall, as if really seeing him there, "Oh. Right. Sorry."
Squall glared at him for a moment, before saying, "Get the gun out of my face. Now."
"Oh," Logos pulled the gun away. "Right." He put the long pistol back in the holster. "Sorry." He seemed to brush his hand and frowned more, as if he spotted a speck of dust.
The room was silent for a moment, the two men looking at the lone man. Finally, Squall took a deep breath and said, "Can you leave, please." He pronounced each word carefully and slowly to make sure they understood.
"Oh. Right." The tall man turned around, before pausing at the doorway and looking at the mess in the kitchen. "Sorry about that." He continued the path out of the home, a slight limp in his step.
The fat man, on the other hand, had been looking almost bashful at the incident. It took a while for Squall to realize that the man was mumbling, "Um…um…um..." Over and over again.
From out in the hall, Logos shouted quietly, "Ormi, lets go before the neighbors call the cops."
"Errrr! Yah!" Ormi, though Squall still thought of him as the fat man, finally followed his companion out to the hall. But to the Squall's dismay, he turned back to face him yet again. "Er…if yah evah need a favor, just give LeBlanc a ring! We don't normally get into mix-ups like this. Makes us look bad. Well…eh…" He flipped his flipper and walked out, shutting the door behind him. It then fell off its hinges.
Squall noticed the few holes in his wall near a giant shield. The broken couch, the broken lamp, the scratches in his carpet from various blade cuts. Oh, and a gunshot in his stereo. He let out a sigh. Squall put his sword to the side and started rinsing his dishes.
---
Squall: Every story has a beginning. This one starts in a middle for a lot of us, but I guess it's the beginning of us as a group. Let's start with the introductions.
---
A young man starts doing push-ups. The room surrounding him is messy and cluttered. Various discs and cases are piled up around the room. There are a few clothes scattered on the floor. The walls are white and the ceiling is wood boarding. Lining the walls are various fantasy, sci-fi, and one "Thriller" poster. Natural light pours in from an open window. Even though he is young, his hair is an ash color, more belonging to an older man, and hangs just past his shoulders with little ridges and ringlets here and there. He stops his push-ups and walks carefully through the cluttered room over to a bar hanging on the wall, most likely used to hold up clothing. He starts with chin-ups, counting out each time his chin touches the top. The coloring in his skin is average and healthy looking for the Caucasian male; like bee's wax or the color of afternoon ale. Right above the foreshaft are various replicas of shields, swords, and even a chain vest. Most noticeable about this young fellow are his vivid blue eyes, shining like electric ice.
After jumping down from the bar, he reached for a sword; it was sharp to perfection, straight, except for slight spikes in the blade near the hilt. The hilt itself was curved and golden, with a red jewel encrusted right above it. The grip was over a hand's length and ended with a slight curve, some beads, and red tassels at the end. He picked up a shield. It was shaped like the typical shield and shaded with light blue and dark blue with gold trimming. He smirked and stood up straight. He practiced with a few thrusts and a few blocks. He started to get into it. He even plopped onto the bed and looked to defend from the air. Suddenly, a knock on his door.
"Honey, your father's grilling. You want steaks or hot dogs?" An older woman's voice asked from beyond the door.
The son stood up and called out quickly, "Um…I'll have a steak. Actually, can I have one of each?" He looked around, wondering if he needed to explain the weapons yet again.
"Sure. It will be done in a half hour." Steps walked away.
The man looked down at his arms (both limbs and weapons), shrugged, and started swinging yet again. His phone rings, with the display message of "Leonheart" on it.
---
Squall: The first one up's name is…well, I might know his name, but he wouldn't like me sharing it. I guess I'd have to kill you if you asked or something. For both our sakes, let's call him "The Warrior." Compared to the rest of us, he grew up in a normal home with a normal family and all around normal ideas. The thing about The Warrior is he is actually one of those people who wants to do good and save the world. A modern day knight if you will. He has no formal training besides CPR Training, but he self-taught himself to use anything that is long enough to be a weapon. I think he watched too many action cartoons. However, he supplied us when we needed things, so he can be whatever he wants to be.
---
The scene changes to a forest. It is not dark and creepy, but rather bright and cheerful. Not romantic, but peaceful. Someone walks through the brush. A man slowly steps over a small sproutling. He wears a helmet and something like a ski mask to hide his face; it has a band of red on it. He also wears baggy cameo pants, except for a thick protector over his chest. Not another sound is heard.
Over to the side of him, another similarly dressed man approached. They made various hand signals. Another man appeared, and all three looked around suspiciously. They all carried some sort of strange gun. They looked to be out for a hunt.
Suddenly, one of the men spotted another helmet peaking out from behind some hedges, with a green poncho and a similar gun sticking up as if leaning against a shoulder. Unlike their helmets, this one had a band that was colored blue. They crept even slower now. Then suddenly, they charged around the hedges, letting out a volley of shots. Red paint spattered on the hidden form.
It became clear to see that the thing they had fired at was nothing more then a helmet, a rain poncho, and a metal pipe.
The three men could only looked at each other in confusion before a phone ring went off behind them. They started turning, but with one, two, three shots; each man was plastered with a glob of paint in each helmet. Standing behind them was another figure dressed in similar attire. He pulled off the face mask.
Cropped-gray hair is held under a scarf wrapped around the head, only sticking out through side and back openings. The hair stands out bright against the benign skin and brown eyes. The eyes are serious, but his face is young. "I believe dat's which'alled a'fake-out." His voice does not hold any mocking, but hangs light in the air. There is an accent to it - something sounding very fast and slick, but clearly English.
The three men took off their helmets and masks. Their looks varied from thin, to average, to fat, and all generally looked to be just skimming middle age. One looked at his helmet and frowned. "I thought we were paying you to teach us how to be good in combat."
" I'am." He waved his false weapon to the false display of a man. "Dat could've easily been fife men hor a'torrent hor a'bomb."
One of the other men made a comment, "But you compromised your own defense by removing your helmet."
"True, but hat de moment, I believed duh risk o' taking outree opponents was well worths it." He waved a finger about as he continued to speak, "Naaaaver do it unless yore positive de stunt twill work." He answered, walking down the woods to make for his equipment.
"Um…" The third man asked, looking at the winner's belt. "Aren't you going to answer that?"
"Answer wha'?" The younger man asked, grabbing the covering.
"Your phone."
"Phone..- oh!" He grabbed the cell on his belt, as if noticing it were there for the first time. He laughed slightly, "This 'de thirst time I had one of these. I was wonderin' wha wa'making dat noy." He picked it up and looked at it carefully, making sure he did not accidentally hang up. It appeared to be a wonder to him. The three men he was accompanied by all looked with various disappointment and disinterest. They grumbled and started to converse with each other. "Hello…yah…I know…"
---
Squall: This next haunting fellow is Firion. He hales from Ireland. He was raised during the violence going on between the Protestants and Catholics and England and Ireland and whoever else has a beef with whomever else. North Ireland is a perfect example of why politics and religion are blamed for starting all the wrong things in the world. Firion can kill as well as anyone, but his specialty is with precise sniper rifles as well as diverse skill with a number of weapons. He's a rather… (?) type of fellow, but once he gets started on something, he doesn't quit. He's devoted like that. Or anal like that.
---
" Mmhmm…mmmhmmm…mmmmmhmmm…" A young boy mumbled in a head set. He looked to be barely a teenager; his peach skin was still laced with traces of baby-fat on the cheeks. His blond hair was short and airy and shot up away from his face and head. He looked bored, sitting and typing on a computer in front of him. His eyes are a perfect green color: No blue lining them, no brown spotting them - just green. "Like I said, it wouldn't be a problem for me to go." He typed some more. "Yah, just finalizing something…mmhmm…mmhmm…Yah, I'm listening to you…Yah, I understand I'm underage. I know that…I think you have a problem with it…No, I am gonna come-" Something beeped. "Hold on, I got another call." He pressed a button on his wrist, "Hello, Jade's Ku-Pow Chicken…this is his assistant. May I ask who's calling…Alright, one second." He reached to the side and picked up up a small device. He held it up to his mouth. "Why yes Ms. Luca, I am working on your order right as we speak." The voice that came out was lower and spoke slower. It was clear to see that he spoke a little faster than the person replying. "…Yes…yes…oh, I don't see why you need any of these. You're one of the most honest people I work with…oh, well, they can't hold that against you. If they malfunction, that's just an accident…No, I can relate, ma'am. I had this one-".
Another boy poked his head into the room. He had short, brown hair. The boy on the head set looked up. "Hold on a moment, ma'am." He pressed another button and pulled the device away from his mouth. "What?" The blond child asked.
"Nina wants you to take out the trash, and she said if you don't hurry, she'll revoke your Internet privileges." The other child said softly.
"But I paid for the Internet." He called out with a whine in his voice.
"She said it will build character." The smaller boy shrugged and walked away. Head-set boy huffed, but he slid off his headphones and walked out of the room.
---
Squall: Next we have Luenth. But we don't call him Luenth. He goes by his "player name," Onion Knight, or Onion Kid. It's much easier to just call him Kid, with a capital 'K.' Don't ask me why he wants to be called these names, or where he got them from; he just does. He's the youngest, the baby of this little group. He's in foster care, but him and about a dozen other kids live in the same house, so he's never missed. Though don't think him as weak, or that he doesn't know what he's doing: The kids the kind of kid that hangs out with full-grown men. He isn't what I call a computer expert, or even a hard-core hacker, but if you want a new identity - or someone else's - he'll get it for you.
---
The sun started setting behind a large lake. There were not many people around, except for a few tennis players, joggers, and a mother pushing a stroller. At a pay phone, a rather tall man half leaned against the booth, speaking away. Under the pure light emanating from the booth, his nearly pale white skin and even whiter hair looked almost deathly. However, his face was healthy, his clothes were neat, he was broad in shoulders, and had a healthy amount of muscle on his limbs. All in all, he was a stunningly attractive man with his hair cascading down his back. Though most noticeably was that his lips were not pale, but rather dark in color, holding a flat look as he spoke.
"I can make tomorrow. No problem." His words were all in English, but they were heavily laced with a north European accent. "No, I don't need phone. I know where to meet…I don't need phone. Everyone else has phone…Everyone!" He paused his speech. "You have phone, right?" His words were loud, but they held no annoyance. Just as if stating facts. "I'll make it tomorrow…Bye." He hung up the phone, picked up a bag that had been sitting to the side, and walked out of the booth.
There was an empty bench right in front of the lake. It held a peaceful placidness, except for some geese floating on the surface, causing ripples on the glassy water. The sunset blended over his skin in various reds and oranges and just a flash of blue creeping up against the back of his head. He opened the bag and started tossing out their contents. It happened to be bread crust.
The man watched them feed with a satisfactory smile on his face.
---
Squall: Cecil is probably one of the greatest human beings I've ever met. Don't be confused by his paleness: He's not sick or an albino, just of Scandinavian descent. Though it wouldn't surprise me if he announced that he's a descendant of some Viking or an original Dane. He certainly can fight like one, yet he also can work like a medic in the middle of combat. He grew up during the fall of the Soviet Union. His story goes as the typical redeption: In order to atone for his his for past deed, he traveled to some place in France, found God or his Father or an Alien or something and now tries to repent for his sins. In the process, he declared himself a Paladin. I couldn't understand the rest of it, but still, great guy considering he destoried several religious official once upon a time. Oh, and he burned a village to the ground. Hencing the reptention.
---
In another place, another man hung up a cell phone.
His shoulders were bare as he looked himself over in a mirror. It was hard to gauge the age. Many things made him look youthful: Large, brown eyes; equally brown hair, cut in a very short shag style that was trimmed right above the ears with equal length bangs around, except for a little rat-tail running down his neck; a pointed chin without much strength, and unmarred skin on his face. He gazed in the mirror for a moment before his shoulders shifted. He reached to the side of him and started dabbing something on his face. It darkened his skin. He especially coated the shade coloring under his eyes. He then took a pen and started to darken his eye brows. With the same pen, he started to accentuate little wrinkles around his eyes, lips, nose, and his forehead. He took a small vial of liquid and dabbled into the dark cracks. He grabbed something else to his left side - a wig. It was salt and pepper, and about the same length as the rest of his hair except it was in a curtained style. With the wig set, he took a small container and rubbed a little bit of its contents onto his lips. It made them look paler. He picked up a small box from his left, touched something inside it, then pressed it to his cheek as if inserting a contact lens. A small mole appeared. He picked up a different box, pinched something out of it, and plopped it against his nose. It was a piece of putty-like material that bent slightly and with the work of both his hands, formed a new, larger nose. He reached to his side again, applying more of the darkening make-up to have the flesh tones match the rest of his complex. He bent down, away from in front of the mirror. Various jiggles and rustling clothing were heard - even a loud thud. His head and shoulders popped back up and he started to button up his shirt; white, simple, yet dressy. He fixed his collar, stepped back, and looked himself over.
His face was no longer the only thing in view. His whole body was shown in front of the dresser, as well as all the boxes and cosmetics displayed on the counter. He looked to be dressed as some sort of waiter, except there was a slight bump in his back. It showed that he must have been in a rather large van. It also showed his slightly short stature. He gazed himself over with a satisfactory grin, then frowned. "Oh yah!"
He reached for two small containers. From one he pulled out a moist towelette. With clean fingers, he discarded the wipe and reached for the other one, which held contacts. He slipped the disks in his eyes. A close up again from his point of view: His eyes were changed from mossy brown to one gray eye and one light-blue eye. He grinned, then stepped away from the mirror, slipping something into his back pocket before jumping out into the dark streets.
The scene changed to a large dinner party. There were many guest dressed in many fine things. He appeared, apparently serving drinks. He walked over to a woman sporting a colorful head piece, dark skin, darker hair, and a chest that could very well have satellites revolving around it. She smiled at him and grabbed for a drink. "Took you long enough. You looked at least twenty years older."
"I try, Ms. Lani. Will this work well for what you want?"
"Perfect!" The woman patted his back padding for a moment, before taking a drink and speaking. "Any questions before I go over everything?"
"Yes…I have a…thing tomorrow night, and it's been planned for a long while. Am I going to be needed?"
"You have a thing?" She frowned, more at the wording. "If this is a business issue, I don't think dualing jobs is going to be a good idea."
"Oh, oh, oh no! No no no no. It's a personal thing. Just me and a couple of fellas hanging out. Nothing big." He paused, watching and waiting.
"Oh, then yah. Your services will not be needed tomorrow." She remarked, and then grabbed a drink. "Now here is what our client wants…"
---
Squall: Then there's Bartz. Bartz isn't one of the scariest men you'll ever me. I think it's impossible to associate fear with him. Then again, you might not be afraid, because you won't remember him. Bartz is the finest actor in the world. Coincidently, he is also the finest con-artist in the world. I don't know where's he from officially, but he's been around everywhere. He can be anything you need him to be. The only problem that can be bad for Bartz is…He's only five foot five inches. Barely. Yeah, I know. I laughed for about an hour after he told me, too. But, as I told him, it works to his advantage: A six-foot man can't pretend to be a five foot five man while a five foot five man can pretend to be a six-foot tall man. Coincidently, he also has excellent balance.
---
Two cops jogged through a small alleyway. Trash cans and boxes littered the front. They opened a door to the front of an apartment building. There were some people situated on the fire escape, looking down, and some looking out windows, calling out to the police. The leading cop spoke into a small radio clipped to his chest while the other officer behind him followed.
"Okay, 10-23. Arrived at the Scene. Suspects are reported to be on the fourth floor." The first policeman replied.
The second confronted an older man standing at the bottom of the building. "You the landlord?" He asked.
"Y-yes sir." He was only dressed in an undershirt and a pair of shorts. "They started about a half hour ago. The eleven o'clock news was on at the time and me and my wife heard pounding noises. And, like, screaming." They headed inside.
An older lady appeared out of a first floor apartment. "What's going on?" She asked.
"Hon, just get back in the house. The cops are here!" It was easy to assume that the woman was Mrs. Landlord. The three men walked by and headed up the stairs. "Neighbors in the surrounding floors reported some loud noises," A female dispatch voice said over the radio.
"No noises right now." The lead cop commented. Some people started to peek out. They policemen made it to the second floor.
"Is there a bomb threat?" One tenant asked, seeing the landlord and the cops.
"No-no, no bomb threat." The man commented, then looked at the cops a little scared. "I don't think."
"Who does the apartment belong to?" The second cop asked, ignoring the comment about a bomb.
"Um…um…a young woman. She's moving out soon. She, ah, said she wanted to live closer to where she was working." The landlord recalled details as they made their way to the second set of stairs. "She lives by herself. Very polite and never late with the rent."
"Okay, has there been trouble lately with her or anyone else in the building?" The cop asked as they started to climb their way up to the second set of stairs.
"No, no no! No one. She doesn't have any visitors!" A reply was quickly made from the owner.
"Alright people, go back in your apartments. There is nothing to see here." The lead cop remarked to a family of four standing outside right near the top of the steps.
"Wow, real cops!" One of the little boys called happily, while both children stared. The mother quickly grabbed the boys and ushered them back in while the father looked at the three men.
"What is going on?" The father asked.
The land lord slowed down and replied rashly, "Just a small disturbance. Head back inside." It was hard to tell if the family did, because the trio of men continued to climb.
"Someone reported seeing several young men follow the woman in the building." The dispatcher commented over the radio.
The lead cop lifted the radio to his mouth. "We are on the third floor, approaching the forth." He turned back to look at the land lord. "Sir, what is her apartment number?"
"Um…" He lost it for a moment. "Number 4-7."
More people on this floor were standing in the hallway. Most stayed in their doorways, except a young man who peeked. "Hey, are we gonna be on Cops?" It was apparent he was not a clever man.
"Sir, get back-" Suddenly a loud thud was heard above them, as if someone or something fell hard. Both cops pulled out their weapons. "Dispatch, a possible 10-10 still continuing. Sounds heard from above." They rushed down the hallway to get to the bottom of the stairs leading one more flight up.
"Oh god…" The landlord mumbled breathlessly as he followed the two.
"Do you need an ambulance sent?" The dispatcher questioned over the radio.
"Keep it 10-6, house. For all we know, this is a prank." The lead cop called into the radio as they made it to the top of the steps.
On this floor, 4-1 and 4-3 were closed, but 4-2's door was open, though nobody came to the doorway. 4-4 and 4-6 were both chatting with each other, but stopped when the officers walked by. The occupant from 4-5 looked to the room next to his. "Fuck, I don't know what's going on in there, but there's a damn crack in my wall! I ain't paying for the damage. I didn't break the wall."
"Its fine, it's fine…just.." The head of the building would have continued, but he waved it off, more worried about the lone occupant and how her room may very well look.
They all made it to the doorway and the lead officer knocked on it. "Ma'am, this is the police." He stated in a loud and clear tone. "There were some disturbances reported as coming from from your apartment." There was no sound or movement. He turned to the landlord and said quietly. "Get the key."
"Okay, um let me get the key." His side started to jingle as he fumbled for the metal.
"If there are any problems, please give a sign. If you cannot come to the door, knock on something." He put his ear to the door. No sound still. He knocked on the door again, harder this time. The door opened slightly, indicating the lock on the door had been tampered with. Both officers looked at each other and nodded, drawing their weapons at the ready. The lead officer went in first, glancing around the area.
"Clear!" He called back as he entered the room. The second officer followed in, silently indicating with a flat palm for the building owner to stay outside. They both glanced around, combing the rooms. It was hard to see anyone as there were many boxes scattered around, like mini towers. The first officer turned down to a hallway on the right while the second one took the left.
He stumbled upon a small kitchen. In the kitchen, a woman was washing her hands in the sink. Bright, blonde hair was held messily up in a high pony-tail, muddled curls spilling everywhere. She wore a sleeveless top with pajama bottoms with little socks keeping her feet warm.
"Ma'am?" He kept his gun to the side, figuring this was the renter. And even if she was not, she hardly posed any kind of threat.
She turned around, revealing a pretty face, large eyes of a light shade of blue, and rosy lips. It was also apparent that she was listening to music; a cord left from her ears to a small device around her waist. She pressed a button, then smiled. "I'm sorry, is there a problem, sir? I know the landlord was worried about all these boxes around and asked if I needed help moving them. Though I never though he'd call the police." Her voice was light and airy.
"Um. No ma'am. We just had a call-"
Before he could finish, his partner called him. "You might want to come in here."
"Hold on." He called back, then turned back to the woman. "Are you okay? There were reports of a scuffle."
"Oh…that." She said, almost shyly. She wiped her hands on a towel to the side. "Yes. I was about to call. I have to report a crime. Some young men broke in. Though don't worry, please; I stopped them."
"You stopped them?" He was going to ask more- "Come in here now!" -but his partner yet again called out. "Excuse me for a moment."
She smiled sweetly, then nodded, standing up on her tiptoes to grab something from the cabinet.
The second officer walked to the other room. "What seems to…be…" Then he stared. On the bed were quite a set of roguish men; their ages varied from late teens to late twenties. They looked to be part of a gang, indicating to the colorful scarves wrapped around their heads or arms.
They all happened to be tied in various ways in the room: One hung from a ceiling lamp, though his legs stayed limp on the bed; two were tied together in something that looked like a straight line; and one was hog-tied on the floor. Apparently, this little piggy was the one that made the loud noise.
The dispatcher on the radio broke the silence. "Officers, report situation, over."
The second officer stared at his partner, with no words to describe. The first officer reached for the radio and replied, "10-40...maybe. Um…we're assessing the situation, over."
The little lady of the home walked into the door way, carrying a tray with some mugs, a canister, and a tea pot. "Would either of you like coffee or tea? I wasn't too sure of your preference, so I got both ready."
---
Squall: Ahhh…Terra. Terra is the only female among our group. I don't consider her hot, sexy, or spicy. But she's good. I've heard people call her a goddess before. In the better of men she inspires the need to protect. She doesn't try to be one of the boys; she just wants to be treated fair. Don't be thrown off by her porcelain face; she has killed and she has killed many. Another of us who has a few heads to accoutn for. She has a few hidden tricks up her sleeve, like some flamethrowers, and she can drive a lot of strange vehicles, including buildings. I'd say what makes her rather unique Is that under certain battle conditions, she can became mystic war incarnated. Watch for the red eyes.
---
"Can I use your shower?" These were the words Squall heard the next morning after his place was broken in to. He blinked and looked up. An average sized man stood before him. Dressed in dark slacks and a dark turtle neck, it made him appear a little thinner than he was. Lean cords of muscle line down his arm, again, making him look a little on the thin side. His eyes were simply blue, but his most interesting feature was his short, yellow, impossibly spiky hair that shot up and around, never down. His expression was flat.
"What?" Squall may have heard what he said, but at this time, his brain was still gaining consciousness. It didn't quite understand what was asked.
"The shower. I need one." The flat reply came back.
A mumble came from Squall as he sat up in his bed. "What time is it?"
"Nearly ten in the morning." He said, looking at the clearly visible digital clock that Squall seemed to ignore for a moment to stare at the blank wall.
Squall looked at the half opened window and the light streaming through, the birds chirping, and people walking. "Damn. Already?"
"Can I use your shower?" The question was asked again.
"Mmmm…knock yourself out." Squall waved an arm up before he sank back under his covers. With permission, the other man left.
Squall crawled out of bed some time later, hearing his shower run. His eyes turned to the digital clock and saw it showed brightly 10: 22 A.M. He got out of bed and put on a shirt, then left his room. He ignored all the broken things still littering his apartment and instead went to the partially broken kitchen. He sleepily pulled open the fridge and looked around. He rubbed an eye and yawned while pulling a juice carton down. He reached above the fridge and pulled down some bread and made his way to his toaster. The shower went off, and while Squall looked bored and sleepy as the bread was burnt, someone slipped out of the bathroom, and into the living room. They paused in there and looked a bit.
"Hey Squall."
"Yes?" Said man mumbled back.
"There's a hole in your stereo."
"Yes, yes there is." He reached inside the cabinet to grab a cup.
"And your couch looks to be in three pieces."
"That's also correct." Squall opened his juice and started to pour it.
"Your lamp cord, which isn't connect to a lamp, is also sparking a little."
"That's very interesting."
"Your window also has a crack in it."
"That one I didn't notice." Squall closed the carton and started for the fridge.
"I think bugs are getting through."
"Is there a point to these questions?" He called out as his head was in the fridge, setting the carton back in its proper place.
"Just commenting. Though…does this mean the stereo isn't working?"
"I didn't try it."
"…Okay."
Squall walked back to his burnt breakfast. The canary-haired fellow came into the kitchen. Squall's toast popped out and he grabbed it. The fellow reached into the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk. Squall took some butter from the side and buttered his toast, grabbed a paper-towel, carried all of his food and drink, and sat down. The other man grabbed a cereal box from above and grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. He came back to the table and sat perpendicular to Squall and poured the cereal first, then the milk before eating, leaving the gallon to his side. Both quietly ate their breakfast.
Only once was the silence broken when the fellow asked, "What time was it again?"
"Five." Squall replied disinterested and flipping the page.
The man only gave a shallow nod and continued to eat. Finally, the man who came in got up and dumped the remaining milk in his bowl down the sink. By then, Squall finished his bread and juice and was now reading the paper without distractions. The blond man picked up the milk jug and cereal box. He put the box on top of the fridge and put the milk back in the fridge.
"Later." The other replied as he headed out the door.
Squall made a sound. It might have been a "bye". It might have been a "whatever".
---
Squall: This is Cloud. Cloud is…well, Cloud. A quiet man. The closest thing he has to an address is his cell number. He stays around in various places, including my place as of late due to what all of us are going to be doing. I don't mind him so much; he keeps clean and keeps hushed. People say were a lot a like. Some thinks we are best friends. Or gay lovers. I think we just hang out because we don't like you other people. Cloud grew up in a small town as the son of a widower. He joined the military and has boot-camp knowledge as well as other non-boot camp training. The particular weapon that Cloud favors is a Buster Sword. If you don't know what a Buster Sword is, I can describe it. It's a board sword I'd say about eight inches wide and the blade is around four feet long. It's heavy. This thing could take down a horse. But the bitch of it is I've seen him use it with only his left hand. He's right handed. It leads me to believe that Cloud is quite possibly the strongest man on earth. Or a circus freak. Or maybe both.
---
Squall: Then there's me.
---
In a big, empty room - could have been an auditorium, could have been a gymnasium - but in this big, empty room was Squall, sitting in a formal outfit on a chair. It was a black over-coat with a thick black belt, black pants, and black dress boots. It also had gold trimming along the front seams and gold and red cuffs. He was grinning a bitter smile. He pointed to a stick on his chest. He read what it said:
'Hello, my name is Squall'.
---
Squall: I consider myself a pretty normal guy. I'm not really anything special like my cohorts I've mentioned so far. People say I have emotional problems, but everyone says that about everyone else. I would say I take things in and accept them. People say I can't express emotions correctly. Could be true. I've heard it's also a sign of being a sociopath, but…I do feel guilt, so I guess I'm not one of those. I would be what you would call a mercenary. I work for the betterment of society, though. I'm a private person with formal training and I like to keep my business to myself. Like I said, I am nothing special. But what I've realized over the years is that the people I come to meet with are usually very special. And I always get screwed over because of it.
----
Out of his apartment stepped Squall, clad in his usual pair of pants and jacket. He carried a duffel bag and slung it over his body. He stepped out from his building and started to walk down the street.
Judging by the sunlight, it was late afternoon. Cars were going down the street; kids were peddling their bikes or skating down the road. He walked to the corner and came to a laundromat.
He walked in, and light music played in the background. An old man stood behind the counter, getting a woman's dry-cleaning together. A pudgy woman with a pony-tail worked on a jacket. A young college student worked on his own laundry and a mother with a small child and baby worked on folding some clothes. The baby was sleeping in a carrier and the little boy was helping his mom with the rest of the clothing.
Squall took an empty counter right next to the small family and started to pull his clothing out of the gym bag and onto the counter, sorting his colors, his whites, and his leathers. The boy looked into the bag and saw the gunblade resting inside, stopping from watching his mommy to instead watch the weapon. Squall took a small bag from his pocket and jingled it. He first went to the counter and paid for a few 50 cent boxes of detergent. He then grabbed his colors and whites and walked over to the regular washing machines and started to put his laundry in separate machines. In the small bag he pulled out quarters to feed the machines. The boy looked between Squall and the gunblade in his bag.
Squall then came back to the counter, grabbed his leathers, reached into his bag, and pulled a bottle of some sort and carried the various pieces of skinned garments. He set the rest of the clothing in a large, spinning machine and squirted some of the contents of the bottled into the detergent opening. He fed the machine coins and walked back to his counter. The man set the bottle down on the counter and dug through his bag. The boy could see it was a bottle of shampoo.
The brunet grabbed the bottle and noticed the kid looking at him. The boy turned away and tapped his mother. Squall already looked away, zipped his bag up, and carried it out. The mother turned her head over and told her son to not to stare at other people.
He now walked through the town. Mothers and baby-sitters walked strollers and children down to the park. Couples were skipping hand-in-hand. And old man sat on a bench. Squall entered a small café. There was a small line in front of it with the local bookshop crew, and on-break office workers, standing and waiting for their expensive lattes and fresh bagels. He stood in line, and asked for a soda and a sandwich. He paid for it and walked out.
Outside, he ate his sandwich with the sandwich palmed in one hand. He simply watched everything around him as he continued his path. It was slightly cloudy, but nothing that would indicate bad weather. A few power walkers sped down the side-walk.
With the meal finished, he brushed off some crumbs, and headed into a hardware store with his drink in his hand.
He beeped coming in and stopped walking, but the greeter, an elderly gentleman, just waved him along. He continued on into the store.
Eventually he came to an isle with plaster and dry wall. He picked up some spackle. He then looked around.
He looked at some of the doors for sale, opening them and shutting them. He also knelt down to get a closer look at the locks, sipping on his beverage when he stood up.
He grabbed a cart and had his bag, his spackle, and another door thrown in it. He walked by a few more isles, and then stopped to gaze at some windows. He paused and looked them over. He admired them while sipping on his drink
A roll of duct tape was thrown into the cart, then a can of paint
His purchases were rung up and he headed out the door.
He then beeped. He took a look back at the elderly greeter, but saw it was a dunce-looking teen. He was chewing gum. Squall took a deep breath and knew what was going to happen. "I paid for it all."
The kid looked him over, neither interested nor disinterested. "Try again."
Squall did, but got the same results. The kid looked him over, and then noticed the bag. "We don't carry those here. Is it your's?"
"Yes."
"Why did you bring it in the store?"
"Because I don't have a car."
The worker bee looked at his cart. "How were you going to get the door home?"
"I was going to carry it."
"A door?"
"Yes"
He kept a steady beat with his mouth. It seemed redundant. "What's in the bag?"
"My laundry."
The kid looked the bag over. "Can I check the bag?"
"No."
"Why not?" The kid did not move. He did not even look curious.
"I like my laundry…private. It has private things in it."
"You got anything in there that might be beeping."
"No." Squall's expression did not change at all in the conversation, like the employee, but his was stock.
"What do you think is beeping?"
Squall paused on then and looked down himself. "My jacket?"
"Okay." The employee held out his hand. Squall sighed and pulled off his jacket, and begrudgingly handed it off, clearly not pleased that the chewer had it. He pushed his cart through the door.
No beeps.
He let out an annoyed, held breath. He then about faced and went to get his jacket. The man still looked more or less bored. "Thank you for shopping. We look forward to serving you in the future for all you home repair needs."
Squall just slipped his jacket back on and got the hell out of there.
The door was tucked under his arm and dragged on the ground. The paper guarding the bottom made a distinct friction sound. The bag with the hardware stores on it was gripped in his hand keeping the board in place. His right arm was used to slug his weapon bag around his shoulder, and his right hand still had the drink gripped in it. He was getting down to the bottom and it started to make a draining sound.
Everyone gave him a glance, but merely at the quirkiness of the door under his shoulder. A few people stared, almost finding the situation funny. A couple of teenagers took a picture on their phones.
Squall walked by an alley. Screams could be heard. He looked down, straw in his mouth.
A boy, probably fifteen at the very most, hid a girl a few years older than him behind him. They had similar school uniforms and similar ginger looks, so it would be easy to assume them siblings. Blocking their path were four unsavory-looking men, and they closed in with weapons, steps, and equally deadly comments to the school girl. Squall paused and looked, finishing his drink. The children suddenly made a break for it and raced down around the corner, the men following. One of the men called out something that sounded like, "Dead End."
He set his door against the building, putting his goods to the side, grabbed the bag and opened it, and grabbed the sword. He marched down the alleyway and stalked around the corner.
Silence came as soon as he was out of sight.
Then one of the men appeared around the corner, forcefully; he was thrown out of no where. Smacks and clangs and flesh hitting against a brick wall echoed around and behind the buildings. Metal scratching against concrete and other metal scraping sounds continued. A gun explosion soon came. Then a pause. Then several gun blasts, followed by several slashes and grunts. One of the men tried to crawl away down the ally, but before he could get away, something grabbed his foot and dragged him back. Several more hits were heard, and then both kids ran around the corner to the entrance. Both children stopped at the end, hearing more violent sounds.
Then another bout of silence
Squall then appeared, gunblade resting on his shoulders. Though he looked to be in one piece, he now had a bloody lip, a scratch running down his shirt, and a hole in his pants. He stopped in front of the kids. He held out the knife used earlier as a threat from one of them. "Here, learn how to use this." The boy gingerly grabbed and held it by the blade; the handle is covered in blood. Squall pulled out a gun from his pocket. "You probably want to get rid of this." He handed it to the girl. Without any other words, he walked down the alley entrance. He knelt down in front of his bag, reached inside, grabbed a cloth, and wiped the blade clean. He set the weapon and the rag inside the bag, zipped it up, gathered his purchases, grabbed the door, and went on his way.
Back in the laundromat, he kept the door outside and walked to the counter where he was previously. He dropped his bag again. The mother and boy were gone. He went to his washers and moved his cloth clothing by hand to dryers instead of by one of the wheeled baskets. He walked over to his leathers and pulled them out. He then hung them on the available coat line and started to wipe them down.
---
It was a dark room that glowed with dark, orange light. They hung overhead and cast down on the area, making all the shadows darker. The carpet, of what was around, was once a red color with a green design on it that faded to something of a light maroon with green splotches. In the center of this dark room was a table. A long table. A table quite appropriate for a feast. Around the table were many bodies. Ten, to be precise. What was on the table was anything but a feast. For good measure, there were a few food items scattered around, mostly beverages, but someone's carton of take-out was set on top of some fabric and a bag of something greasy clung to the edges right at the edge. Also on the table were quite a many photographs, fabrics, and surprisingly, electronic devices.
The only feast on the table was death. Not specifically death, but a lot of pretty and shiny things that caused or prevented death. Bullets, guns, swords, knives, darts, blunt instruments of pain, a spear or two, potions, tinctures, tonics, padding, some fabrics, feathers, some chains of various metal and various lengths of rope, and other unknown items.
At one end of the table sat the Warrior. He appeared to be in some sort of medicated state; eyes were closed and he sat in his chair in a lotus position. However, an eye opened every now and then to look at someone else or something else.
Cecil and Firion were both to his left. Firion was busy stripping a gun down to metal pieces, then putting them back together like a 3D puzzle piece. Cecil watched, a flat expression on his face, but amusement in his eyes.
Next to them Squall was nursing a drink in his hand and appeared to be looking over some papers. He sat at the end of the table.
On the other side of said table, the "Kid" of the group sat and chatted happily to Terra, who, at something amusing he said, ruffled his spiking hair.
Next to those two, Bartz and Cloud were talking. Well, Bartz was talking. He moved his arms around in various gestures to Cloud as he spoke. Cloud, on the other hand, just nodded his head every now and then while polishing his large sword.
Finally, coming full circle around the counter, two other men seemed to be arm wrestling. It was clear to see who the winner would be: The one on the left was built thick and athletic with a natural tann burnt-on even more so with daily exposure to the sun and short-dirty blond hair with a competative cheerfulness on his fact. He wore an orange tank-top and loose shorts. The other man next to him was built smaller, a lot smaller, with skin a lot lighter, hair a lot lighter and with determined concentration, but mischief in his eyes. He had a sleeveless vest on with a charming ascot poking out from his chest.
---
Squall: Aw hell, I forgot two people. These two fellows are both cheerful guys and probably give our somewhat dull group a brighter light. The smaller one is Zidane. This man has committed every single crime in the book that can be committed without causing physical or mental harm to another human being. To sum it up, he's a thief. A damned good thief. A lot of governments are looking for him. I know Interpol would especially love to get a hand on him. He's quick, he's acrobatic, and great with those two daggers hanging around his belt. He's a bit of a romantic, but I blame that on the fact that he was raised by performers. The whole life style is…romantic.
---
Three hours before…
---
There was a dark warehouse. It looked to house large crates. There were cameras spotted all around. There were also two guards stationed near the front, looking at either some screens or the portable TV to the side.
Near the roof, a shadow flew by a window. Something small slipped through a barely open window. It fell on the ground silently, just beyond the reaches of the camera. Whomever he, she, or it was carefully slipped in between boxes to boxes. It vaulted and crawled through crate-made paths. It finally paused.
The moment it paused, it revealed itself to be Zidane. Instead of the bright colors he wore at the gathering, he wore a black vest with a long sleeve black undershirt with skin-tight black pants. Though his boots were metal plated and gray, and a familiar ascot hung around his neck. Also, a bandana was tired around his face with little eye holes.
He smirked, skimmed over the landscape of boxes. He hummed to himself, as if counting or reading each box. Then he paused as he spotted a green box. Zidane smirked and then ducked between some more boxes, swinging around from ledge to ledge in quick movements, like Tarzan going through the jungle. He climbed up a pole in record time. He then hung koala-style and took a deep breath. First he freed his hands and hung upside, retiring a piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it. He grabbed a small camera from a black bag tied to his back and took a picture right under the camera (no flash). A picture spat out. He turned to look at the guards in the front. It seemed some "lady of the night" or two popped in and were smooching the guards. All the better for him.
His body flipped around and now he appeared to be floating in the air. Zidane's hands were freed to grab at the camera, and his feet were now perpendicular to the pole he had them wrapped around before. He unplugged the camera for a moment, slid a stick right above the camera, then placed the photo there. He plugged the camera back in and still saw the men were distracted. He fell and quickly rolled.
From his side he pulled out two large, colorful daggers. He clipped the box for a moment, then slowly dug the weapons into the side of the crate. He felt around between the grains and the small openings for a few moments. Zidane then pulled out something that could be described as a compact crow bar. He slid it under a nail on the plank, pulling out one nail at a time. He did it for five planks. Using a box on the side, he did it for the same at the top nails that he could not reach before. He caught each one that fell. He set each piece of wood to the side, then dipped inside the box. He pulled out a large, red stone. It was about the size of a fist and shined lightly in the dim light.
Zidane slid the gem in his pocket with a smirk, and then climbed back up the pole to the camera, looking quickly at the entrance and stared The guards and the women were gone. He tilted his head and observed for a moment, then went wide-eyed The wind whispered around before he quickly unhooked his arms and let his body bend in half back-wards. Right where his midsection laid was now a knife. He tumbled down, spinning in the air as a few more knives were imbedded in the wood above and around him.
He hid behind a large crate on top of another crate, knives drawn out in mid-air. "Shit." He mumbled.
Something jumped up on the large box above him. He looked up and stared at the face of a pretty, blonde Mithra with tribal pigtails. "Hi there." She greeted. Then she jumped after him. He already jumped back, holding a dagger in front of him. The Mithra stayed at her spot, in a perfect pounce position, tail swishing back and forth lazily.
He quietly cursed under his breath. Those women were Mithras. Mithras do not come in the early evening to see hour-by-hour warehouse guards unless they are applying for the position for themselves.
Or they plan to steal something.
The female from before jumped down. She wore thick shorts and merely a wrap as a top, with two twin belt garters around her thighs. She may not have looked too dangerous, but that was the deception of the entire gender. Metal planted knee-high boots and elbow-high gloves she wore also gave away that this cat was fighter. Oh, and the various pieces of leather strapped around her outfit. Thick leather that would be perfect for blocking sharp things.
It was a lucky thing he held his other dagger behind him because he raised it up as another cat made a break for his back. He knocked his rear opponent away and did several volleys back. He made sure to keep in the shadows and kept his back away from either female. There were camer-oh, never mind. He smelled ozone and smoke. Zidane only spared a glance over at the station. Yep, it was smoking.
But then his eyes went back to his two opponents. He got a look at the second girl. Dark pageboy hair under a beret with a feather sticking out. Unlike her partner, her whole upper-body was wrapped in a leather jerkin. Though it had no sleeves, shoulder guards went down past the shoulders and a pair of high-brown leather gloves went past the elbow, almost too hard to tell where the shirt began and the hand coverings ended. Her covered torso more than made up for her lack of anything around her legs. It appeared the only thing she wore under her jacket was a leotard. Oh, and the garter on the left leg. It held a lot of little deadly sharp objects that could kill.
"So, um…ladies. What seems to be the problem?
Then a knife was at his throat, "Oh, you want to help? What a gentleman." He didn't even hear her sneak up. "Cha, grrrrrrab whatever he got."
Zidane had to think about this; was it worth it?
This was the key question. Was what he was trying to steal worth anything? Zidane prided himself in his skills, but he did know how to cut his losses. So he really thought about it. Was what he had in his vest worth trying to incapacitate these three? Was the large stone in his grasp something that valuable in his life? Was the gem potentially worth him possibly killing these lovelies? In retrospect, no, it was not. He was doing this as a favor for a friend and if he lost it, that said friend would not try to kill him or betray him because of it. However, the thing that made him hesitate to defend the item was the fact that the cute blonde was more or less groping his chest. He grinned. Yep, not that important.
The leather-bound thief as known as Cha pulled out the red rock. "Bopa, hold him." The one behind him suddenly pulled her weapon away and flung him at the other one, the brunette. She pulled out a spike-something instead of a knife and held it at his neck. He was turned around and got a view of the Mithra who was undoubtedly the leader.
A redhead with a high ponytail. Her shirt…it might have been a robe once, or a baggy sweatshirt, but it had been altered into something else. There was a red hood on the back, but not pulled up, and sleeves that ended right above the shoulder, with matching red fingerless gloves. The front of the robe was open, revealing a low cut red shirt and ample cleavage. Under a tied leather belt was robe ending that worked more as tassets, and clearly showed that if she had anything under the number, it was very skimpy. She wore leg guards with an almost harlequin pattern above the knee, belts right under her ankles, and leg guards around her legs. Surprisingly, she wore sandals on her feet. How…unconventional.
The blonde-haired cat showed the stone to her boss, which the lead thief grabbed with care, hips just slightly cocked to the side and one arm holding the other. She looked at the stone and a vicious smile appeared on her face, "Cha?" She asked.
"Yesssss?" The girl said eagerly.
She held the prize up to the girl and said ever-so-calmly, "Does thisssss look like a bunch of Eksirrrrrr Berrrrrrrries to you?"
Cha opened her mouth, then actually looked at the stolen-twice over item. "No."
The leader tossed the stone up in the air before catching it when it came down. "Then why is thisssss in my hand?"
It seemed Cha was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.
The leader turned to look Zidane. "What do I have in my hand?"
Zidane could keep the knowledge, but what was the point? He could already assume that they had something specific they wanted. He would not stop them from doing that. Moreover, she did not look at the crystal with any interest. "That's the Nepto's Eyes."
"I see. Why do you want it?" She asked in a bored tone, but he saw the curious-nature in her eyes.
He smiled a little, "Friend wanted it."
"Why?" She asked in the same seemly bored tone.
"To put it back in Nepto's eye socket." Zidane was all smiles now. A simple, truthful answer was not quite everything.
The leader of the little troupe looked him up and down. Then she smiled. "You arrrrrren't getting much for thissssss, are you?"
Zidane shook his head.
The Mithra then waved her hand. "Let him go. He's doing chump work." The one called Bopa let him go. The red head looked him up and down. "What's a name?"
The small fellow did a surprisingly reespectful bow for the circumstance. "Zidane, at your service."
Bopa Greso replied behind him. "Oh. Tribal of Tantalus."
The lead huffed with humor, "Oh, monkey-boy." Cha next to her giggled, but then the ruby Mithra turned to her subordinate with a twisted smile, "Cha, why are therrrrrrre no Eksirrrrrr Berrrrrrrries in my hand?" The girl quickly ran away and headed over to one of the other areas full of boxes.
Zidane put his hands behind his back. "Well, um…what does the 'Cat Burglar' want with Eskir Berries?"
The lead Mithra grinned. "Oh good at figuring that out. I might have taken offense if you said my name. And that's our business."
Zidane waved his arms a bit and laughed nervously. "Well, yah, that sounds good to me."
Cha came back with a small bottle in hand. She grinned and held it out proudly. Nanaa looked at the bottle, then back at the red stone in hand. She tossed the stone back to Zidane. "Well…have fun or…whatever." She turned to her cohorts. "Alright, let's go."
Cha Lebagta and Bopa Greso both nodded to their head woman and followed her out the front exit. Zidane watched them go and almost decided to follow them.
Almost.
Then he smiled and went out the way he came in. He came back and grabbed the false photo he fixed early. Oh, and took those well-placed knives, just in case.
---
Squall: And last, but certainly not least, is Tidus. Yes, that Tidus. The Tidus all over the sports magazines and cereal boxes, and possibly various commercials for laundry whites. Tidus, the famed Blitzball player. I've never been interested in sports, but I do respect an athlete's commitment for training. Do not let the pretty boy looks fool you; I can say for certain that Tidus is in peak physical condition and can hold his own with the typical thug. Unlike the rest of us (besides our banker), he hasn't been tainted by more tainting people, but you'd be surprised at how many places and people a famous person knows of that are wiling to hide certain things and certain people for them. I do find it funny what you can hide under everyone's nose.
---
One hour before…
---
In a large hotel suite, a huge party was happening. Men and women were speaking and dancing, many intoxicated, and many wearing less and less clothing than what they'd arrived in.. There was a lot of cheering.
A familiar bit of dark yellow hair strutted through the celebration. He smiled and greeted fellow teammates and other associates. His watch suddenly went off. Tidus looked at it and then looked at a clock, then looked at his watch again. "Ah!" He started to swim his way through the mesh of people to a smaller room. It had a rather large bed, possibly able to fit three Blitzball players comfortably. He slid out a bag from under the bed with a suspicious large and round lump forming a dome in the cloth, and just a hint of something blue and sharp sticking out. He grabbed a bottle of water lying on the desk. Tidus picked the bag and beverage up, took a deep breath, and headed out.
Then he ran into two girls standing into the doorway. Not literally, but they seemed to be blocking his path.
"Ummm…" Tidus smiled innocently. "Can I help you two?" He really had to be going.
They smiled at him charmingly. "Hi Tidus." They said in unison.
Tidus waved, but realized his hands were full. He put the bag down, not too gently. It shook a little and something snapped inside it. He looked down at it with concern, but shrugged it off and tossed the bottle on top of it. The sportsman rubbed his hands together and asked, "Ah, you want an autograph? I have a little time." He looked them over and frowned, wondering what they wanted.
"Oh no." One said, and then looked at the other.
The other looked back, "No autographs."
"Are you two Press? Because if it's an interview you want, um…" He looked down at his watch. "I don't have the time for that. I really have to be going." He started to walk out, but one of the two shut the door with her foot. Then they both gave him identical, playful smiles and he knew he might be in deep trouble.
"Interview…well…" One started.
"…we will be keeping you." The other finished.
Tidus quietly mumbled, "Oh boy." He quickly grabbed his bag, ignoring the water bottle that toppled over onto the floor and smiled nervously, but politely stated, "Well, ladies, um, maybe some other time we can get to know each other over dinner or something." His legs hit the back of the bed. He had to sit down and use his free hand to brace himself in a sitting position. Not a good thing, to be on the bed right now. He again smiled nervously. How would he appease these two without actually appeasing them as they wished him to? They were not stopping. He tapped his fingers nervously. Then he looked around the room for any type of help. The bed he was on did not help.
Since he was back in a corner, he did the only thing a creature in his position would do; he listened to his fleeing instincts. Tidus sprung up quickly, but was quickly knocked back down. The sirens were on him. Wow, for such a skinny lady, the one who just pushed him down had quite a strong upper-body strength. The other one got on the bed. Nevertheless, he was able to escape from them…for a moment. He could only scoot backwards, and looked around for a route of exit.
"Um…you see, I have this really important appointment…and all those that are waiting for me will be a little peeved if I'm not there on time." He hit the headboard. His panic increased. "They-they are all really tough people. I mean, they juggle fire and knives!" Oh, those were hands on his chest! He kept a tight hold on his bag as the rest of him froze up. He really needed to get them away from him. He suddenly blurted out, "Okay, the thing is…I have a girlfriend. She's a sweetheart. Very religious, too. And she has this cute little smile and different colored eyes. I'm committed to her and we are in LOVE!" He shouted that last part because someone's hands were where he did not want them to be. He used his free hand to push it away. "Did I say girlfriend?! I meant fiancée! We're getting married in the spring!"
The door suddenly opened and a bronze man with orange hair in the shape of fire appeared. "Yo, Tidus!"
"Oh thank you." Tidus quietly whispered, thanking whomever above. The girls also stopped the pawing. He made his escape ungracefully off the bed, keeping a strong hold on his bag.
"What are you doin', man?" The player at the doorway waved his arms about. "You tell me to remind you of your obligation, in case you forget. And here you are, foolin' around. I thought you stopped with that funny business now. She's a good girl, yah?"
Tidus simply smiled and skipped to the door, "I love you, dude!"
He gave his fellow player a hug, including swinging the bag. It hit against the other player's back and caused the thick man to let out a breathless cough and look at the blond man with confusion. "Wha's wrong with ja?"
"You are right!" He replied with a wide smile. "I do have to go!" He turned back to the ladies on the bed, both looking rather disheveled and peeved. "If you are looking for some fun, my friend here," He used his free hand to wrap his arm around the other man's shoulder to not only push him to the side so he could escape out the door quickly, but to also indicate who his fun-loving friend was, "is available." Tidus then about faced. "Gotta go!" He waved and ran away.
The player left behind rubbed his head, unsure of what just happened. He glanced at the two girls. They were talking with one another in low whispers. Finally, they looked him up and down. Then both shrugged and put on the temptress smiles again.
Dark eyes opened wide, "My girl…she plays with dah voodoo!" Then he closed the door with a rush.
---
Tidus easily pushed down Zidane's arm, cheering after his victory. Zidane, though a little peeved at losing, still grinned after the defeat. "I kind of figured I wasn't gonna win. You eat iron instead of pump it?"
Tidus just laughed. He found the joke quite funny - enough to make him hit the table with a loud thud and shake some of the items at his end. Some happened to be the weapons Zidane grabbed earlier. "Hey, where'd you get the knives?" Tidus asked, indicating to the three blades on the desk.
"Funny story about that. Oh, that reminds me…" The smaller man reached into his vest and pulled out a red rock. "Hey Kid!" Green eyes turned up. "Got you a present!" He tossed the rock over the table.
The youngster caught it and grinned. "Thanks!"
"Just remember, you owe me!" The professional thief replied.
---
Squall: Now, you are probably wondering: What are these ten people doing with various firearms and blades and other choice equipment all around the table?
That is a good question. Here's an answer:
Each of us has met at least one other person here. We all are different, but in the core of us, we are all like the heroes in legends and fiction: We all have the noblest of intentions, and wish to make the world safe. Most of us have killed, most of us can wield weapons better then we can write, and most of us aren't glad about how or why we needed to learn it. But at the end of the day, we try to be a better person for it.
In our lives, there is still someone or something in our past that we cannot shake off. Our worries lie in them. So we are going to take care of the problem as the good protectors did with the bad leader.
We are going to take all of our sharp, shiny tools and put as many holes in them until they drop dead in a vat of their own blood. And add a few more holes. Just to be sure.
The only thing I apologize for is the WoL's personality. I thought about making it traditional, but as I started to think about it, it did not work out in my head so well. So I thought about another way the character may be interpreted. I hypothesize that while playing the original Final Fantasy, the WoL would be similar to their average player. I molded it a little, and I made him more of a nice guy who really wants to help save the world, just might not know how to. Sorry if it is different than what he should be. But for this story's sake, this is what he shall be. But don't worry; the knightness of his shall appear. It's how I deal with Cosmos, too.