Okay, so this is my first ever fanfic I've opened to the public. A lot of hard effort has gone into what was originally just another "OC going through the main story with the rest of the cast" tale. In the end, it's become a far larger beast. The main character is my OC, but the whole FFXIII cast will appear during this story, if not in this chapter. I always would love to hear some of your thoughts, and any constructive criticism would also be very much appreciated. Enjoy!
Chapter 1:
Look from the top of Phoenix Heights the centrepiece of a market metropolis, and you'd be stunned at the sunlight streaming between the towers of mirrored glass. The scene made for a spectacular sunrise as daylight started to swathe the city. These first shafts of light bore down through my apartment window and peeked through the blinds into my ill-kept bachelor's pad. I felt the warm sun on my skin. My arm tensed, my hand weighing a ton as it began to wander up towards my scarred face. I peeled my eyelids open. I closed them again immediately.
There was an indistinct murmuring from the oaken-panelled wall, so I listened and, a few moments later, I knew it as a human voice. Carefully, my other hand moved to my bedside table and slipped into the trigger of the pistol. Rolling and falling to the ground, I primed my gun. My eyes scanned the room, peering along the sight, searching for tell-tale silhouettes. A world, slightly out-of-focus, resolved itself. The television, switched on and humming quietly, was a witness to my paranoia. The glass of water from two nights ago, a mute observer of late nights and tiring days. The kitchen area was clean as it was seldom used, a monument to the demands of police work.
I stopped, sighed, and turned off the TV, as I focused on the present, on something real. The pistol in my hand, having been fired very few times outside the firing range, quite easily summarised my life. It had PSICOM's slogan on the side, the Sanctum's loyal contingent that specialised in discretion and efficiency, and served as an excellent side-arm for when the lead starts to fly. The rigours of the job demanded a combat knife secreted and sheathed over Kevlar armour. For crowd control, two gas grenades - non-lethal if you don't mind. Last came the manadrive; my port in a storm for healing. I clamped it around my wrist, wincing slightly as it whirred away, sending tiny sparks along my skin.
The truth behind Palumpolum was far different from the beautiful aura of its mirrors and glass. The city was struggling to adapt and grow to fit into the world, made painfully obvious by the worried faces that flooded the streets in the morning rush. People acted as though they were afraid of something terrible and all-knowing. I made my way through the back-streets in amongst the office workers, subconsciously noticing the social hierarchy. The uniforms gave way to the suits, who in turn gave way to the Sanctum. The rain had started to bleed through my armour.
I noticed a pair of GC grunts making their way through the crowds. I sighed. PSICOM had split from the 'regular' police force and after a few lapses of judgement; it seemed the populace was far more wary of a hired gun of the Sanctum. The Guardian Corps had filled the streets with an affable 'police-for-the-people' image. PSICOM, with its expansive munitions vault and government ties, was seen more as something to fear, rather than rely upon.
"Hey Mike, might as well start using your codename."
I turned around to see my superior leering at me, pips glistening in the rain, her pout aggressive yet her green eyes calculating, harder than agates or emeralds.
"Nabaat." I spat back.
"I see you took a few hits to your frontal lobe... is that your natural cheerfulness I'm picking up?"
Her face betrayed a hint of a smile.
I wiped my fingers through my hair. Flakes of dried blood clung to my wet fingers. An injury from my last 'mission.'
"The healing will take care of that. Be sure not to worry. I only spent the last few days getting shot at," I retorted.
"You spent the last few days getting important objectives done. Hopefully I can get you to 'do your job' a lot more often."
"I hope not. Our 'job' is to ensure that people don't end up working for Pulse. I don't see how throwing me into a fire fight achieves any of that, and we can't afford to lose face any more. You know what the media's like."
"Sorry? I asked for your opinion? I think you're hired to hunt terrorists, and not to question my orders, so get over to the physician when we get back to base. Get him to look over that head wound of yours."
Having been passed fit by the physician, I took the opportunity to speak to the Quartermaster before heading back to duty. He was the armourer and hadn't seen active service since re-enlistment. While we talked his eyes told the tale of a man who had kept his nerve during the worst, his scarred flesh told me he'd suffered it.
I explained: "I couldn't really say. My parents died when I was young. That's different."
"I lost my loved ones and you grew up without your parents. Which requires more courage? You'll be reassigned so you'll need different gear now. I'm going to give you some lock picks as standard. I suspect you're the one most in need of it now. Protocol also states I must give you the choice of ammunition or explosives." He'd never mentioned things in terms of protocol before
"Samnos... why does PSICOM have such a store of munitions?"
"Don't ask me. In my day, peacekeepers were citizens first and soldiers second."
"I'm getting the impression that PSICOM is focused more on military operations rather than law enforcement," I responded, pushing a little.
"The focus has shifted lately, I agree."
"Some of my superiors seem only satisfied if I execute everyone in order to achieve mission objectives. The standing order appears to be 'shoot to kill.'"
"Direct intervention is always part of the game. In my day we were just more civilised about it."
"'Civilised.' That's the word. I guess I was expecting more class from the world's leading anti-terrorist corporation."
"We just have to strike a balance. Why don't I throw in a couple of extra clips in with those picks? I trust you'll be able to judge when one or the other is appropriate for achieving mission objectives."
"Many of our bosses would scold you for doing that." I remarked pocketing the clips for later.
"If you want to change something, you're going to make enemies. Lots of them."
"Lieutenant Nabaat, I don't see the problem. Surely the plan couldn't have gone smoother?"
Jihl Nabaat bowed her head to her superior, her platinum hair briefly concealing the fear in her eyes. He was right; the plan couldn't have gone smoother. She had followed her instructions with characteristic efficiency.
"He ought to have suffered enough at the hands of the fal'Cie to have no doubts, but Mark still shows autonomy. He's avoided all subjects of propaganda, even taken to forming an advance against our methods."
"Well you had better find a way of uniting him with us, otherwise the entire plan is ruined."
Nabaat shook her head in acknowledgement and turned to leave. Mark had artfully nudged himself into a tiny pigeon hole of being barely too valuable to be made redundant, but also barely too chaotic to be entrusted with more important operations. And as she couldn't help feel all she had managed to do was inflame the situation. But with her career dependant on the success of this mission, she couldn't stop.
As Nabaat left the room silently, her superior spoke out again: "I think it's time to bring the plan forward, my friend. There someone Mark simply has to meet."
It was reaching dusk, and I was getting more and more tired. The day had been uneventful, and the tedium of duty was dragging on. I felt a fool, standing on a tourist beach with more firepower than a platoon. My battle-rifle was nearly as long as I was. I squirmed slightly as the tourists glared at this over-armed 'policeman.' Either scared, or angry, or a mixture of the two. Ever since we'd split from the GC, and the financial situation had got worse, all the gossip concerned PSICOM and how they weren't doing things for the people. How the word spreads in times of crisis. I thought back to the conversation with Samnos. If PSICOM didn't have such a massive armoury, the revolt might have started already.
I had spent the majority of the afternoon toying with my manadrive. The little device fascinated me, it's secrets remaining highly classified. It lay open in front of me like a disassembled clock. It was all cogs and screws and electronics intermingled with hydraulic actuators. With regards to magic, we really had very little to go on. The stuff of myth and legend, manifest in very few people. Indeed, those seemingly blessed with magical capabilities were linked to the cursed fal'Cie.
I enjoyed tinkering with the thing, flirting with its mechanics, trying to find out how it worked. The gadget had revolutionised policing, transforming officers into magic-wielding enforcers, deserving the utmost respect. Indeed, crime across Cocoon had fallen ever since manadrives had been introduced, and it was soon only extremists who dared challenge the might of the Sanctum. Of course, it was the Sanctum itself that held the monopoly on both the manufacture, and distribution of the manadrives.
I started to reassemble the small device, carefully putting the cogs back into place, when I spotted at the beach café – now closed – a shadowy figure appeared to be waiting to be served. Strange. I watched the figure as the night time darkness began to engulf the beachhead. Then a sharp prick to my throat. I could already feel an alien substance flushing through my bloodstream. I scanned desperately, my vision tunnelling, looking for the source of the dart, but to no avail. Now the floor was rising to greet me. My visor cracked with the fall as I slumped to the ground.
