Burakkubokkusu.: Chapter I
AN: And here I am again, back on square one with five chapters of experience under my belt and five chapters to redo. Thank you everyone who gave me past support and I apologize if this isn't much better. Oh, and this was originally Bokkusu no Pandora, under my other name. Anyway…
"Beware lest you lose substance by grasping at the shadow." .:Aesop:.
I fingered lightly the ebony designs on the outside of the black box without looking. There was no need to see that which was already etched on my heart and in my mind, those snaking trails along the outside of the box I'd already memorized. The gold paint lining the lid still lingered in chipped patches along the edges, revealing the black dark as licorice beneath. The little thing fit nicely in the palm of my hand, big enough to contain a large marble or bird's egg, yet not so big as to fit one of those chocolate truffles I'd eaten once before in my younger years. But who knew what was in it?
My mother gave me the box when I was just a small girl, mere minutes before Death had stolen her from my father and I, and she told me never to open it. Not until I had fallen in love, and I was sure. At the time I had been barely into my teens, and I recalled nodding ferociously at her last request, not realizing what I had promised. Something deeper than even she knew, I think.
Then I met Cloud Strife.
Well, it really wasn't as romantic as all that. We knew each other; we were neighbors after all, and not strangers who bumped on the street, nonetheless, we met. Oh, yes, I fell into love. I fell into a deep, gaping pit of it, wide enough to swallow me whole and it did, but it was glorious. God, it was wonderful. But, still I left the box unopened. In a way, I viewed it as a kind of Pandora's box—a black box—, with some evils within, just scratching at the insides for me to open it by mistake. And I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure if Cloud was The One.
And he wasn't.
He left, and the box remained unopened. He ran away from everything. Life's troubles. It's hardships. It's glories. Me. Was I truly that terrible? Still tracing the patterns, tears stung my eyes, and I finally moved to put the box away, but paused. Evil spirits seemed to building an outer coating on the container. I could barely take the retched thing out of its safe place without crying. I feel so guilty when it comes to Cloud. I was the one who drove him away. Yet curiosity tore away at my insides just to see. One peek.
But that would kill me inside. At least what remained.
Just put the damn thing away, the sensible part of my mind said and I obeyed. That part always spoke up when I got particularly emotional. It was that small voice that restrained me from opening the brass latch and seeing for myself what my mother had kept so faithfully for me.
"Tifa?" Mollie, my friend and coworker for Seventh Heaven, my bar, tapped lightly on the plywood door that separated my room from the rest of that bar. "I'm going home. You okay?"
"Yeah!" I strained to keep my voice level. "I'm fine." I stood and straitened my appearance without consulting a mirror. I knew what waited there—definitely not the lovely appearance I wished. There wasn't much of an audience to entertain on the floor, but the bar's familiars who could barely make me out through the effects of alcohol, much less care about my face. Many learned when first entering the door that you didn't flirt with the hostess (or the other waitress), comment on her body, or refer to her in vulgar terms without consequences. I enforced that they knew I owned a bar not a whorehouse. I demanded utmost respect—they weren't there to demand service of me. They were served out of the goodness of my heart.
Sniffing once more, I pulled on my apron and slipped out of my room for the late shift.
--
I'd always believed in spirits. Evil ones. Like the Demon God, or the Grim Reaper. Just omnipotent beings that held my life in their hands and twisted it to suit their liking as if I were a marionette on strings. Whenever bad things started happening, I would do wise to expect worse.
That's why I should've recognized something was amiss the night he came. Just by the little acts of bad luck that occurred. Like the bad weather in the slums of Sector Seven. I hated the cold with a prolific passion, and, of course, I lived in the Sector that allowed the most bad weather under the plate, meaning freezing winters (even with snow that, at times, found ways to slip beneath the pillar) and roasting summers with nearly no spring or autumn in between before it became winter again. Like the city itself, the weather seemed to loop around and back around on itself with no apparent end. I missed Nibelheim dearly, and its climate. Ironically, that place would never be home for me again.
Late morning I slipped out to run some errands before helping Mollie with the afternoon shift, and so I bundled up sufficiently for the trip. If you happened to pass me in the slums you might think a pile of clothes or and Eskimo was meandering about in the city of Midgar, but most everyone seemed to be dressed to match. I was warm, what else mattered?
The misfortune continued beyond the bad weather to slipping on ice in the street and the Sector 7 shop being completely out of the alcohol I needed. Cursing under my breath, I made and extra to Sector 6, and then to Sector 5 where they also hadn't the bottle I required. Refusing to further my search under the plate, I took the late morning train to upper Midgar, the land of aristocratic snots and wealth. Surprisingly, the air carried a hint of warmth in the upper streets, and I removed the large portion of clothing, which merely created another thing to carry.
Finally at a liqueur store on a high-to-do street near Shin-Ra headquarters, I was able to purchase a couple bottles of the alcohol at a much cheaper price than in the slums, although the money spent on the train to and from the plate would far outweigh any Gil saved. Of course, the mishaps didn't stop with ice and beverages. When I exited with my arms full and the wind catching wildly at my long hair, I managed to attract the attention of a man. Not him, but a powerful character in the mad scheme of things that followed.
"Hey, Sweetheart." That silky tone seemed reserved for men in his business, which dwindled among prostitution, abused substances, and all those other wicked things Shin-Ra declined to stand against and let run rampant. These men prospered with deceitful ways, while I was forced to live in the slums with honesty. The twisted economy drew my hatred toward the Shin-Ra back into a blazing fire, making me glad I was a partner in the anti-Shin-Ra organization, AVALANCHE. Unfortunately, that organization was on hold at the time for a small place called Corel. I could live with that, having my own bar to worry with.
"Can I help you?" Even though I contained a fierce anger, my will trembled weakly. He smiled openly.
"Why, yes," he replied, "yes, you can. I was wondering at the quality of the alcohol you bought. Always on the look for new flavors, I am." It was a pathetic pick-up line, if you would call it one.
"I hate it, but you are more than welcome to buy it." I smiled closemouthed. "Wish I could be more help." I attempted to slip off into the crowd toward the train, yet I knew I wouldn't arrive at the bar before Mollie came to open up. I also knew escape wasn't so easy.
"What do you do?" He pushed even further, catching my arm and causing my discarded garments to fall free. "Oops." Sighing, I gathered them up again, feeling his approving gaze on me as the hair on small of my neck to rose.
"I'm really sorry," I said again, coming up, "but I really have to go—"
"I hope I'm not acting out of line here, ma'am, but you're truly beautiful," the man interrupted. I scoffed. These words had long since lost their glamour, and he must have been blind to say such honeyed words.
"Thank you. Bye." I walked away, feeling the Demon Lord was warning me of something more he had planned of that meeting. However, I soon forgot it as life resumed seemingly in fast forward. Days were never long enough, and I continuously exhausted myself attempting to keep up. Soon, I knew, the stress would prove to be too much, and an emotional breakdown would ensue. It'd happened before—nothing new—but now was the time to suck it up. Like always.
Once more, I worked the late night shift in the smoky room that smelled very strongly of alcohol; no matter how many cleanings it had endured. The bar was nearly empty, as it usually was on Monday nights. Only the frequent customers were still there. Some I knew personally. Other's preferred to binge and not worry about acquaintances. I didn't mind. It was easier for me to serve drinks without getting into conversations.
Experience over the years transformed me into a pretty good waitress, so, at this late at night, I could keep the clients still up happy with refills, and get a good amount of cleaning done. Dusting shelves, mopping floors, washing tables, organizing the stock and making a list of what needed to be replenished. This time of almost complete solitude was just the recipe for me to unwind after the day.
While I ran a dirtying rag over the counter, the bell above the door shook out a monotonous tune, announcing the entrance of a new client. I looked up, and my feminine intuition kicked into high gear the moment I saw the man. Or at least his clothes and posture. He walked tall and straight, wearing a full black suit—complete with red tie and glossy shoes, and an overcoat. His stride was that of authority.
"Can I help you?" I asked, with my usual plastered smile that hurt the corners of my mouth. He didn't sit. He wasn't there for a drink, and a tinge of fear grew in my breast.
"Yes, actually, you can. Here." He nodded his head of short cropped hair. His voice was husky, and a gloved hand produced a manila folder from within the folds of his coat. I reached out, against my better instincts, and took it from his outstretched hand. I began to open it, but he caught my wrist.
"I'd highly advise against that." His tone told me he wasn't joking, and his voice was low, barely above a whisper. "You tell anyone you have it in your possession, and, I promise, you won't live to repeat the mistake. There will be a man coming in here about midnight. Give it to him, and then forget this ever happened. Simple really. If you don't-"
"I'm dead." I finished, rolling my eyes. Who was he? "I understand." I didn't need to see his face to feel the piercing stare he was giving me. Then, without another word, he turned and left the way he came, and I remained behind with another Pandora's Box in a different form.
If only I understood how luck ill favored me.
--
He arrived, as promised, at twelve o'clock sharp. Haunting dark eyes stared out from his handsome face beneath a scarlet headband-like diadem, eyes that almost seemed a wine red. Cloud had often told me that eyes were the windows into a person's soul, but this man… either had no soul or had some icy barrier set up around it. I could see no emotion in his gaze.
But he saw mine.
"Where is it?" He spoke plainly, and clearly as the bar had emptied out an hour before. His voice was strong and chilling, but also…I fumbled for the folder under the counter of the bar, my fingers trembling. He frightened me down to my very core.
"Here." I said, more courageously than I felt.
Of course, what happened next was what happened next. How could the Demon God let this chance of torturing my soul even further pass by? He just couldn't.
A single sheet of white paper slipped out and fell onto the counter, directly in front of me. What was I supposed to do? Pretend as though it hadn't? No. My eyes watched it, as though mesmerized by its pure intentions, until it pasted itself before me. And I saw a name. Barret Wallace.
All that man had to do was to look at my face to know. He didn't even have to see my little eye-windows to figure it out.
And he hit me.
It wasn't hard, but it did sting. My body was almost numb anyways. Without thinking, without even considering what my sagacious voice had to say, I clutched the man by his shirt and brought my face close to his. I put two and two together. I knew he was an assassin. I knew why he had Barret's name.
"You can't!" I shrieked into his face. His ruby eyes were steely, and I wondered if dark feelings were all they showed. "You can't kill him!"
He hit me again, and dragged me out from behind the counter. I was crying, and trying to hold the tears back at the same time. Bring our faces even closer together, he hissed, "You have broken top security restriction. I have to follow the regulations."
In a quite graceful manner, he withdrew a revolver from its holster, and I noticed for the first time the non-human quality about him. An entrancing golden claw—or was it a gauntlet?—replaced the area where his left hand and forearm should have been, and I realized with a deadening dread that this man was not human. He was going to murder me in my own bar with no sympathy because he was a…
"Monster!" I screamed, attempting to push away from him. He was too strong, but my comment seemed to have hit a nerve. Placing the barrel of the gun dangerously close to my temple, he spoke softly.
"You will never say that again." His tone was chillingly final.
If I had been about fifteen feet away from him, almost at the door, with his gun in my hands, and my own fists raised in preparation to fight, I might have responded with, "Make me" or some other immature comment, but, being things as they were, I kept my mouth shut.
"Who is this 'Barret' to you?" He asked, still speaking low as though warning me.
"He's my friend." I gritted my teeth. He had a bit of my hair in his strong grip of my front. "Please, don't kill him. He has a daughter."
I seriously doubted that meant anything to this man. He was getting paid for blood.
His gaze lingered on my face, probably on the swelling his right hand had left, before dropping lower. I wanted to spit into his eyes for looking at me as though I was object, but the revolver's tip was driving into my head, keeping my saliva to myself. His claret orbs reached my own once again.
"I'm supposed to kill you." He said evenly. "Can you fight?" I wasn't sure where this conversation was going. Was he implying that he would take me with him? Or did he want me to duel him before he shot my brains out for a little entertainment? I couldn't bring myself to lie however, so I nodded my head.
"Excellent." He exhaled, and his balmy breath rolled over my face. At least he had some warmth to him. "Get what you need. I think you will serve as a fine hostage."
Hostage. Great.
No way.
The second he released me, I swung my leg up, catching his claw and bruising my toe severely, but the firearm rolled away across the floor. We both dove for it, and I reached it first, only before his own hand clutched my wrist and the golden arm pulled it from my fingers. His body crushed my own, and I gasped for air, trying to free my bosom. Dragging me up again by my hair, he brought our faces close again, and, after tucking the gun away, gripped me even tighter.
I didn't know what the hell I was thinking, endeavoring to take on an assassin. I swear, some maniac had taken over my body, and now the real Tifa was back to pay the price.
"I offered to let you get whatever is precious to you." His nose was almost touching mine. I hadn't been this close to a man since…Cloud. Wait. This was no man. In one fluid motion he threw me away from him. I hit the countertop, freshly cleaned and still damp, with a dangerous force, my head cracking against it as I slid across and into the shelves of colorful bottles behind. They rained down, shattering on the floor, leaving a wonderful mess for me to fall into. He had me by the head once again; God, he was quick. "If this is your reaction then I assume there is nothing?"
"N-no." My voice broke. "I just need one thing."
Still gripping me by my hair, he led me back to my room. How he knew it was mine? I'm not sure, but it was the only door in the bar besides the entrance. "Get it." He ordered shoving me in. Once he left me free, I went to the secret place that my box was hidden, and pulled it out, completely aware of his eyes on my back. A small bag hung on my bedside, and I stuck it in there, before shouldering it.
"I'm ready." I stood tall, knowing good posture hid a great many emotions.
But cursed eyes. Eyes are the betrayer. And this man seemed to be a reader. I didn't even know his name.
After he organized his papers and put them away, we left, locking the bar up. I didn't even leave a note, and he didn't prompt me to. At least Mollie might figure out I had been kidnapped.
Kidnapped? That little voice spoke up. You're walking out the door with this stranger. He's not forcing you to do anything. Admit it. You want to get away.
The biting cold and the prospect of a black miniskirt and an equally small white shirt with no coat was enough to shut it up.
"Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief is yet mine."
-Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols