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It's Not a Cape
part one
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Cid Highwind, pilot and engineer extraordinaire, cursed loudly.
Not that that was anything to marvel over. Seeing as how it was the natural way of things.
The man was a walking smoke stack; one that was opinionated- negatively towards most things- and wasn't concerned with the fact he made it obvious.
Say what you mean and mean what you say. It was a common phrase he used.
Well, actually, he'd said it more often like 'Say what you ?$#! mean and mean what you $#! say!' But it got the point across.
He'd lost track of his last pack of Marlboro.
Being practical, Cid was a man that did the necessary to ensure things were correct. The minimum necessary- but whatever got the job done right? Keeners and overachievers tended to annoy him.
Hence Shera. And he reasoned that his energy was precious, as was his time. One never knew when a giant meteor might fall from the sky threatening to kill everyone...again. So he elected for optimum time efficiency. No point in spending time doing useless things, or that which he hated.
There was no point in doing a lot of things for Cid.
But not smoking wasn't one of them. (He could practically feel the lung cancer already .)
He considered that one of many things which were incorrect. The pilot knew that there was a lot $#! wrong with the world. But hell if anyone had any control over it. Most things- meteors and alien remnants aside- were just meant to be. These things Cid could deal with. And while many things were incorrect, there was one taboo. It was heinous and abhorrent and just plain wrong.
In the Land of Cid where Correct was law cigarette packets refilled themselves, metal boot studs left no scuff marks, and teen ninjas didn't have emetic breakdowns. Ever.
Unfortunately for Cid, he had very little land, and even there things didn't always run the way they should have. Because in comparison to the rest of the continent he lived on, or the planet he'd seen with his own eyes, his lot back in Rocket Town was larger than most, but tiny in comparison to the rest of the globe.
Was it so much to ask; for a few things to work in his favor? A pack of cigs here or there, a cup or two of hot $#! tea ever so often, a rocket to the moon?
God was stingy were Cid was concerned.
The poor captain was hard done by, obviously.
The fact that the sixth packet of Marlboro's he'd found was disappointingly empty testified to his assumption.
God fucking hated him.
Fact.
Because he was the practical sort, Cid always kept a plethora of smokes around. Running out would never be a problem. He was that kinda guy. Apparently.
To the others however, he was just good at keeping an organized mess, and was too lazy to venture out and restock his supply of nicotine.
But remember, practical.
Not unorganized.
And time efficient.
Not lazy.
The reason for this being -Cid claimed- was that walking was a waste of his time. Why walk through town for a pack of smokes when you could stockpile at home? Or in the pilots case, litter every drawer, box, and pocket aboard his ship with the death sticks. It wasn't something he did consciously. No, the pilot had a habit of opening a new box, inhaling half in one sitting and forgetting the remainder where they lay.
He never left the ash sprinkled around or flattened butts strewn about. At least, not any more.
It had at one time been a bit of a problem and a discomfort to most everyone on the ship. The majority of those aboard- friends and crew alike- tried valiantly to mind themselves in regards to Highwinds smoking habits. He didn't take kindly to those who looked down their noses at Marlboro.
Don't $#! complain about my $#! smokes goddammit! They smell like $#! roses compared to you damn lot!
And once it was apparent that the Marlboro's did indeed come first in line for Cid's love and affection, most were wise not the question him about it.
But then Yuffie wasn't most people, nor was she wise by any stretch of meaning.
It had been unfortunate for her that her designated retching perch on that particular day had been under the engine belt. The pilot was doing his customary check of the valves and oil and whatnot from the belt above. Being the good responsible pilot that he was, he flicked his half gone stick offside, where it just so happened to slip through the grates and land on the exposed neck of the hunched and ill ninja below.
The screaming match that followed brought those within earshot running. So naturally the entire ships occupants arrived on scene.
The poor pilot was constantly vindicating his Marlboro's.
It wasn't until he'd almost charred the two rare chocobo's which resided on the ship, that he considered curbing his enthusiasm for his death sticks.
Cloud assured him -very strongly in fact- that it was in his best interests.
Whatever that meant.
Now Cid wasn't sure if the aggravated anti-hero was referring to his health as far as smoking went, but the kid had a big sword, so he thought he'd let this one slide.
Cloud's anger was understandable really, he'd come to think later. The straw had burned rather quickly.
And those 'giant chickens' as he liked to all them, had funded their cause with the race winnings...
O.K, so the overall situation was understandably a close shave.
Whether for the chocobo's or himself... was debatable.
Currently the pilot found himself in need of nicotine, sporting an increasingly bad mood and not a whiff of a cigarette could be found. There were plenty of empty cartons, yes no shortage of those. But they were all lacking that which made them worthwhile. The actual cigarette.
What was it about things lacking worth that wasted his while?
Right. He didn't bother with them.
But then there was the problem that having no cigarettes was in fact incorrect.
Plain wrong. And against his code of conduct.
Cid Highwind found himself in a bit of a Catch Twenty-two.
The dilemma of having no smokes demanded immediate rectification, seeing as how it was almost a crime. But it would seem as though something unusual had happened. Cid couldn't remember anything of the sort happening in the past- he would have remembered. Horribly enough, it looked as though the cigarettes were gone.
All of them. Finished.
The prospect of having to land and trudge through town was daunting.
So instead Cid began his search a new.
There had to be at least one pack lying around somewhere, right?
He'd find it and be saved until the morning. Upon which they'd be landing at their destination and going to town regardless. But that was almost twelve hours away.
He'd made strong quitting attempts that were shorter. No way in hell he'd last that long.
He could already feel his lungs loosen like broken pressure pumps. There was no resistance with the inhale and exhale. He was breathing clear air and if felt like crap.
Cid already missed the familiar drag in his lungs, accompanied by the customary rattle that followed. This whole 'clean air' shtick really didn't sit well with him.
Swiping his forearm across the table, he knocked half a dozen empty cartons to the floor of his cabin before slamming the drawers shut and hauling ass out into the hallway, the door clanged and slammed loudly in his wake.
Fin part one
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Note: I love Cid. Just thought you might want to know. This is essentially about Cid and Vincent; my Nanaki drabbles got large so those will be separate. All the characters will make appearances though.
Just a question out of curiosity, did any of you notice Cid's habitual run made a comeback in Advent Children? I must have seen it about 15 times before I noticed him do it. After he makes his entrance by saving Tifa and Denzel he hikes his knee's up and prances off to fight Bahamut-Sin. It brought back fond memories of FFVII.
Plus I laughed out loud, which was embarrassing because I was alone. br>
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