Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the Final Fantasy series are reserved bySquare Enix.

So this is an idea I've had since waaay back in 2008. It took me a while but I finally decided why not I'll write it.

That Said I'd like to quickly point out that even as this is written in 1st person POV, Rio is not an OC. She is a civilian that Vincent saved in the first chapter of the game Dirge of Cerberus. I'd also like to point out that you shouldn't have to play the game to know whats going on. I'll explain events when needed.

So...Lets see where this 4 year old venture leads us shall we?


Chapter I

Circa 2018,

Postdating the return of Sephiroth and the Deepground Invasion of Kalm Village.

"The first time I met him it was in my dreams…"


Eight o'clock rolls around quiet fast, when one is immersed in work. Turning in my apron, tray, and time stamp, I slip into my jacket, flashing a smile in the direction of my boss as I pass the bar.

"See you, Monday!" I call, swinging open the heavy wooden door. I shiver as the chilly fall air hits my face.

As I step out, the owner's gravelly voice follows after me, "Take care, Rio!" I laugh and promise to do so as I set off for home with a cheery wave over my shoulder.

The red and pink hued sky caught my attention and I pause a moment to take in its beauty. Quickly the warm from the bar faded from my skin as the cold bite of the outdoor temperature dropped. A drafty wind blew through, throwing my hair in my face. Shivering I tuck my scarf over the lower portion of my face, hunch my shoulders up, and make a mental note to bring gloves next time as I shove my hands into my pockets.

The streets are always quiet this late in the evening. I tuck my hands snugly in pockets, admiring the white puffy clouds my breath creates in the air. Glancing around me is a habit, taking in the familiar road in an automatic check for pedestrian traffic. Most people are already home by such an hour, eating their dinner or shooing children in to their baths. I relish the silence and the feeling of having my beloved hometown to myself as I walk towards my neighborhood. It was now early fall, and the leaves had just begun changing color. They merrily littered the ground in bold red gold and green- crunching cheerfully under my flat heeled boots with every other step.

Crunch Crunch Crunch. Each step echoes hauntingly and my heart sinks from the lonely atmosphere as I pass by the towns only inn. Its windows were glowing, and even from the street I can hear muffled laughter from inside. Its sign swung on its bracket above the door creaking loudly. So cheerful. So warm. Yet why do I see a different place? The windows are broken, the door is missing and the cheerful little sign lies in the road smeared with mud. I blink frantically my breath hitching and the vision corrects itself. My pale face is reflected in the pristine window. Wide brown eyes are reflected on the glass. I turn away from those eyes not wanting to look at that pale sad reflection. The letters on the sign were newly painted, but I remembered when they had been faded lost in the dirt. I would always remember.

Ducking my chin further into my scarf I force my frozen feet to move towards home. Ah yes. This town, Kalm, is my home.

The village of Kalm is a seaside town, in the Midgar area, located not far from the city of Midgar that it was named for; well, what's left of that city. Actually, from some points in the village you can see the distant, shadowed outline of the ruins. I'd never been to Midgar before it'd gotten destroyed because at the time of Meteor Fall, I was just nine years old. But my father used to tell me stories about going there when he was a young tradesman; about how it'd been a great, yet terrible city. All attempts to rebuild the once great city had all ended in disaster, and thus people stopped going there except to reminisce. Instead the surviving inhabitants banded together to build another city, off the outskirts of the ruins that they appropriately christened, Edge. Some, though very few, relocated here, to Kalm.

I blow out a gusty sigh, entranced by the shapes my breath form and dance in the wind. I've lived here all my life, and it's a relatively peaceful place. Everyone pretty much knows each other, even if only by passing acquaintance, and if not, we are quick to become acquainted with newcomers. It's a close knit little village, though seeing as it's quickly growing in size, I'm not sure how much longer "little village" will be a fitting descriptor. Over the years the small rural village had begun expanding, becoming more of a town. The sleepy, peaceful atmosphere remained the same as ever, though.

The thing I enjoy most about this place is that no matter how big Kalm may get, it still retained the feeling of a quaintness; With its cottage-esque buildings, each different from the one next to it. Much like the streets I now walked on. The cobblestoned paths of Kalm are not straight; they follow the movement of the hills they'd been built on at their own whimsy. Some narrow, others wide, all with a unique charm.

However, the farther away from the business district I venture, the more my good spirits waver. Though we've recovered greatly from the massacre on the outside, Kalm remained deeply scared on the inside. In this town, the "inside" would be its residential neighborhoods. Pausing at a street corner to look both ways, I make sure to coast is clear before crossing. I concentrate on the ground as I walk, making sure to watch my step so that I didn't trip or stumble into any potholes.

Even now so many years later there are roads spotted with blackened craters. Though construction workers had filled in most of the trouble spots with dirt to prevent people from falling in and getting injured, the surrounding cobblestone remained scorched beyond recognition.

A grim monument to an evil, more terrible time.

Houses remain to be finished, sitting sadly in the setting sun, looking downtrodden with their broken, boarded up windows. Walking slower I run my eyes over the injured buildings with a heavy heart. Some are missing sections of their walls; others have been abandoned completely by owners unwilling to move back. Those are the ones it hurt to look at. Those would be the last to be repaired.

Since my childhood I've always seen this town as a living being. An eccentric, yet regal lady, whom had personality to spare…I didn't like seeing her so battered, so broken and lonely.

Yes…Here on the inside the scars of war remain.

I turn down a backstreet, trying to keep my eyes averted from the beggars that are dotted with children as I quickened my pace. Sadly, even with my eyes on the ground I know what I would have seen if I were to look. So many had suffered, male and female, but it was the children that cut deep. Most were orphans; some were crippled, or had jus been abandoned. In those faces I saw my younger self. So lost and confused- lonely, heartbroken. At least though, I'd had my mother. So I turn my eyes away, force my heart to harden, and my legs to keep moving. I was not able to help them.

They weren't completely without hope. Most would later seek refuge at the church; where they'd find food and warm beds. It was one of the reasons I no longer went there. Seeing it broke my heart too much; reminding me of the days when my own mother had lead me up the chapel steps to get food in harder times.

The quiet town is recovering though it is a slow, painful process that eight years had done little to fix.

Eight years…Had so much time already passed? It seemed like just yesterday that I was eleven years old excited to go to the annual founding festival with my parents. It was during that festival that the attack had happened. I remember laughing, and chatting with my parents as fireworks colored the sky; a parade had weaved through the streets with colorful floats. Strands of wire crowded together along the narrow streets sported cheerfully glowing lanterns, and plenty of games to try your luck at. The smell of frying food, sweets and gun powder from fire crackers filled the air along with the sound of merriment.

Everything had been so beautiful. As I look towards the red horizon I think back on how quickly the dream had become a nightmare. That red color had dyed the cobbles red.

An explosion near the front gates had rent the night shocking the masses. Everyone had stood dumbfounded as the giant ploom of smoke rose and red fire bloomed where fireworks had been moments before. Writhing and evil looking as it climbed towards the vast sky.

Soon after, helicopters had swarmed through the gloom and soldiers descended. The civilian's confusion as soldiers hit the ground and my own fear as these strange men with guns rushed the main square. No…Those men weren't human. They'd been monsters.

They'd opened fire on any, and everyone. I remember my parents telling me to run, dragging me along behind them. People fell like flies around us, as they too tried to escape. Dodging around the unfortunate that had been hit, we ran.

Men and women, both young and old, Children- some younger than I, lay in pools of their own blood. Friends, neighbors, siblings, parents, co-workers, and strangers alike. Whether rich or poor, good or bad; all had died as equals, spread on the cobbled streets of Kalm that night.

The newscast later identified the gunmen as the radical group: Deepground.

Mercilessly they hunted civilians down, in a senseless genocide, like animals!

Purging the impure.

It's not long after that initial moment that my memories begin to blur.

I shudder and hug my jacket closer against my body with shaking fingers, as if to protect myself from the little memories I haven't repressed. Even after hours upon hours of therapy, I still have nightmares of that night, to this day.

The doctors had explained that due to an extreme amount of stress, my brain had gone into shock and blocked off the worst of the events in an attempt to protect itself. Partial Amnesia they called it. Other than that, to both the medical staff and WRO officer's surprise, I came out of the experience unscathed, though I was filthy and had scrapes on my knees.

What I do remember comes in bursts of color and sound; images of fire and the bang of explosions. The screams, though, echo the most vividly in my dreams- Pleas for mercy from the dying and afraid. All are just sensations. I have no concrete memory of what happened beyond the initial attack. The rest I heard about later on the news.

I don't mind not remembering. I see it in the dirty faces of the children, and the defeated visages of the elderly. Besides, having been here for the aftermath had been more than enough.

My memory "restarts" after I'd regained consciousness. I'd sleeping for two solid days in a building that smelt of blood, antiseptic, and burnt flesh.

Apparently during the attack, the original medical clinic had been razed to the ground, so in an effort to still assist those injured, the World Regenesis Organization dispatched a medical team to set up a make-shaft medical facility in an old abandoned warehouse, instead.

As for those who managed to escape, or were saved by the W.R.O officers... Too few were those numbers.

Even though I wasn't injured, they kept me there for several days for "observation".

"Just in case" they said with smiles that didn't reach their weary eyes. Later looking back on the event I figured out it was because they weren't sure whether or not my parents were still alive. I realized the distinction even back them and couldn't blame them for keeping silent. How does one explain that to a traumatized little girl?

After two days of being confined to strict bed rest- that I found utterly ridiculous because I was FINE, thank you- they finally located my parents. My mother was transferred from a different facility across town. When the nurse led me by the hand down rows of cots- the feeling of my heart dropping to the floor, as I spotted my mother, is something I doubt I could ever forget. Amnesia or no.

My mother lay there, still as death and unconscious, with a plastic mask over her mouth to provide oxygen to her lungs. Her face was covered in scratches, and her body was swathed in pristine white bandages. I was assured that she was fine, except for a burn or two and a few minor lacerations that were really just a grazes. I'd sat at her beside solemnly, too shaken to even cry, her icy hand clutched in my smaller, shaking ones.

A few days more days passed before it occurred to my shocked mind, that they'd found my "parents" but I had yet to see my papa.

I already knew, after seeing the remorseful, haunted look in the officer's eyes when I worked up the courage to ask where my father was, what the answer would be.

"He died from fatal injuries," the officer informed me gently, a shadow falling over his features. The man didn't elaborate and I was too afraid of the answer to ask. My world was shattering but still I was unable to cry.

My mother was in a coma for a year before she finally regained consciousness.

Though some might have waited to break the news, I knew no amount of waiting would soften the blow. And so I didn't wait to inform her of my father's death, knowing that the news would hit her harder if delayed until later. With a trembling voice I'd told her simply. "Daddies gone."

The color had drained from her face and she'd immediately gathered me close.

As I had lain in her arms and felt her heart beat under my cheek, I finally felt like I was home. I was safe for the first time since it had all begun. I let a years worth of bottled up pain and fear flow forth to soak her shirt. She'd cried with me, rocking me gently in her arms.

After that she recovered physically but never fully mentally. She faced me with a smile, but everyday I could see the light fade a little more from her eyes. I'm convinced my mother went through the motions of life, only for my sake. She worked hard to support the two of us, and once I was old enough to get a job I worked with her. My mother passed away just two years ago, at the age of forty-four, six days before my twentieth birthday. The Doctors couldn't explain what had caused it. Secretly, I knew the cause was heartbreak.

I didn't blame her for leaving me, and the experience had only made me stronger. Sometimes, though…the loneliness ate at my soul. An aching pain that throbs like a festering wound in your chest. Feeling alone, even when one is surrounded by crowds of people. Some days it hurt more than others. Sometimes it doesn't hurt at all.

Though my mother had left quiet a bit of Gil saved up for me, I haven't touched a single shilling of it. Instead I'd hoarded it away just in case, and lived off what I made as a waitress at a local pub. She'd also left me our small house. Like so many others I hadn't been able to take living amongst the memories. Luckily it had remained one of the few undamaged and so I'd sold it easily, adding the profit to my savings fund. I don't regret the decision. A family from Edge had moved here and bought it. They had two bright eyed little boys that would enjoy it more than me.

In last couple of years, people had begun to travel again. Tourists were slowly bringing the sad, sleepy town of Kalm back to life, visit by visit.

Reaching the turn off to my apartment, I quicken my steps, eager to get home and rest my aching feet. I'm just as eager to be inside when the storm clouds hovering on the horizon reach me. I really have no desire to end up soaked through to the bone. Jogging up the stone steps, I dig in my pockets and purse for my keys as I clear each landing. I'd just pounded up the last flight, when the first ominous rumbled of thunder sounded. I thank God for my luck, as I shove the key in first the lock, then the dead bolt.

Swinging the door shut with a relieved sigh that I'd beat the rain, I toe off my boots and relock the door behind me.

After a brief moment of contemplation I put on the chain for good measure. I don't necessarily live in a bad neighborhood, but why tempt fate? I drop my keys in the pretty little glass bowl, on the in-table that I keep for this purpose. With tired features, I turn to face my apartment. It's more of a loft really, than an apartment.

One large sunny room dyed a pink-ish orange color by the setting sun streaming in through the windows. It gives my scarred and worn wooden flooring, with its threadbare area rugs, an almost polished gleam. A faded blue couch and yellow arm chair stood center stage. Both had seen their fair share of abuse, and were comfier than sin. A low coffee table, littered with junk, sat between the couch and the old television crammed against the wall. The kitchenette, sectioned off to my immediate right by a long counter space, took up about a fourth of the space I called home. The bedroom, every dinky inch of it, was at the back of the place, the only bathroom located adjacent to it through an adjoining door.

It might not be much too some people's standards, but to me it's sanctuary.

Shedding my coat, and scarf, I hang them on the hook by the in-table. Leaving the lights off, I bypass the kitchen and living area, in favor of my bedroom. This room is almost always dark, since I always leave the curtains drawn. I usually only come in here to sleep after all. My footsteps fall silently across the only carpeted floor in the house.

Exhausted I throw my arching self backwards across the mattress and sigh happily as I land with a bounce and creak. The cheerful yellow and pink checkered comforter I'd had since I was a baby, smelled of home and sunflowers. Rolling onto my stomach, I stretch one arm across the cotton expanse, to grab hold of something soft and plush.

I bury my face in the fabric of my favorite pillow and exhale deeply, letting all the tension in my body drain away with the action. Ever since I'd gotten it, it has served faithfully as a security blanket of sorts. Sure, it might sound odd for a twenty something year old woman to have a security pillow, but I never let it out of my sight when I go to sleep. It helps me sleep through the worst of my nightmares.

There's a story behind this bundle of soft fabric.

I'd bought it, shortly after I'd turned fourteen. Back then, my mom had dragged me to a fabric store for more thread and I'd spotted it on a shelf. I knew the moment I saw it that I had to have it. I'd had an almost desperate need to hold it tightly, fill my chest and proceeded to beg my mom to buy it. There was nothing special about it really. It was just an average little plush pillow with a red covering.

I think it was more the color than the actual pillow that stole my heart. The Crimson shade of red, since the events eight years ago, has a calming effect over me. One would think after my traumatic experience as a child that I'd associate the color automatically with blood and be adverse to it. However, it was just the opposite. Neither my mother nor the therapists I'd seen had ever been able to figure out my attachment to the color…Though I had a sneaking suspicion I had never voiced out loud, afraid they'd think I was hallucinating.

You see after they put me on medication for night terrors, an angel had begun to appear.

Silly I know, but it's true. It started several weeks after being discharged from the clinic with my mom. Every night I began having dreams that woke me up, screaming and in tears. I would shake uncontrollably, and in general I was inconsolable. My mother often tried to get me to talk to her about them, but half the time I was either too scared to speak or didn't remember what happened long enough to explain. I eventually reached the point where I'd hurt myself in small ways to stay awake, to scared of what transpired in my hellish nightmares that I couldn't remember. My mother dragged me to see a specialist after that.

Basically the doctors told me that because of my amnesia, while my brain is in the REM cycle of sleep my suppressed memories are resurfacing in the form of fragmented dreams. To which my brain, struggling to protect its self again, would force my body into wakefulness, with a rush of adrenaline: Thus the clutching sensation of fear, shortness of breath, and trembling. Naturally once conscious, my memories would recede and I'd forget what transpired while I was asleep.

I thought the guy sounded like a quack and was basically telling me what in layman's terms is referred to as 'bad dreams', but to appease my mother I'd obediently taken the medicine he prescribed. After that I stopped waking up screaming, but I still had the dreams… sometimes I'd remember pieces of them, but the events changed every time, some just subtly, while others where completely different. All except one scene; that one is always the same.

In this scene I'm saved by an angel in red.

Even I realize how ridiculous this sounds. To play the devils advocate, let's say an angel did by chance, just happen to drop by and save me, why would they be wearing crimson clothing? I wasn't even sure if my angel had actually been there or if it'd been my mind trying to conjure up a 'hero figure' to make the nightmares less scary when I was younger.

None-the-less, the color became a comfort.

Rolling to my side on the wide bed, I curl into my self still clutching my pillow, gently petting the fabric with heavy fingers. I let my eyes drift shut and lay listening to thunder rumble in the distance, drawing ever nearer.

The coo-coo clock on my bedroom wall ticked in time with each breathe I took. My heartbeat slowed and I began to feel drowsy; dozing in and out of consciousness, trying to work up the will to get out of bed, grab a shower and eat before turning in for the night. It was so warm and comfortable though. Just a few minutes wouldn't hurt right? I'd take a cat nap, and then I would get up and go about the rest of my night. Just a few minutes….

I drop into darkness, lost to dreams, and completely unaware of how much my life will once again change in a few short hours.


TBC...


Edit 2013: Okay! So I said I was going to edit a few things in this chapter but...other than a total deletion and rewriting I figure I'm just going to see where this goes and make small changes. It just needs a little polish here and there.

So there you have chapter one! Hope you all enjoyed it so far and arent too confused!

If you see any mistakes, please feel free to point them out for me. After all I am only one human and can't catch everyone, no matter how many times I comb the writing.

Any questions or opinions can be reviewed and I'll be sure to answer them if I can.

Till next time!

Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )