Final Fantasy VIII : Diana's Tears
Chapter One
Trabia was probably the worst city on earth. Its walls were blackened with soot and grime and its architecture ranged from the cramped and convoluted to the formally functional, with no beauty hidden in between. Its air tasted acrid and, even from the expensive apartments of the Upper Reaches, you could still see traces of the thick smog that choked the deepest districts.
"But it was better up there, even so," a greying middle-aged man, dressed in clothes that were perhaps more stains and tears than actual fabric, was telling a group of similar men around a makeshift fire of burning refuse, "I mean, you could live your life up there without a single worry and enjoy it too."
The other men nodded and muttered a few garbled affirmatives, all the time staring at the fire as if it was all they had in the world left to live for. The speaker watched them, but refused to be drawn to the flame himself. Instead, his eyes flickered towards the darkness beyond their camp and the pinpoints of light that marked another deserted street in the billowing smog. He was always watching, always alert. It made the others uncomfortable sometimes, but they knew they were betting with him, than without. He had experience, and times were hard, even for the Trabia slums.
"No gangs up there, are there?" asked one particularly old member of their group. He'd lost most of the hair on the top of his head, but wore a skullcap made out of old newspaper to conceal it, and keep him warm.
"They'd never make it that high," the speaker - the watcher - replied, "and besides, TrabiaTec's security services actually patrol the Upper Reaches. They're safe from almost anything up there. Almost anything." He looked lost for a moment and the other men caught it and found themselves unable to return to their fireside vigil until that strange gaze had past. They all knew that Ilya had lost something before he fell from the heavens, though no one had dared to ask what.
"Tell us again about the music, Ilya." The one who spoke this time was only a few years older than Ilya himself, although he looked a lot older still. He was also half deaf. Rumour had it that he had once been a musician in the mid-level jazz clubs, but he would never speak about his own past. Few of them ever did.
"There are concert halls – huge concert halls filled with people every night and they play operas and musicals, symphonies and concertos. Music from all over the world gets played in those venues, but my favourite was always the grand operas. There's one that used to be on quite often; Ultimecia: The Fall. They had a double chorus and a full orchestra and the stage would be filled with colour and sound. It was unforgettable, every time.
"I heard about that one," another of the men chipped in, "heard it was all a load of hogwash, not a bit of real history in it! Time travelling SeeDs and upstart Sorceresses – who'd believe any of that?"
"Well, it is only an opera," Ilya replied, "you have to take it as you find it."
"I just don't get the point in spending all that time with something that never really hap- what was that? Did anyone else hear that?"
Everyone jerked their heads around to try and see where the noise had come from. It had sounded like a shout echoing down the street.
"It's probably just another kid who's had a little too much to drink again."
"Quiet," Ilya's tone made it a command, "I'm listening."
The shout came again, louder this time, closer by.
"Someone's calling for help," Ilya said, then turned away from the fire and began to rummage through his bag. The others watched with fear for a second and then someone rushed over with a container of water and started dousing the fire.
"Quick!"
"They'll see us!"
"Hide!"
Ilya ignored all the scurrying and panic behind him and focused on the task at hand. He was looking for one thing in particular and he found it quickly, without fuss, at the bottom of his bag, beneath some woollen clothes for cooler nights, all padded up in a blanket. He withdrew it carefully, aware of the silence building around him as his companions left him and then stepped out onto the smog-blighted street.
The cries for help, coming from a boy, by the sound of them, were not alone now. There was a low, throbbing bass line filling the air, the revving of engines and the skidding of tires. Ilya stood in the middle of the street, held out his most treasured possession so that the dim street lights reflected off its flawless surface, then he waited.
It wasn't long before the boy ran out of the smoggy background towards Ilya.
"Help! Help me!" He called, visibly our of breath and clearly fearing for his life. He couldn't have been much older than fifteen and Ilya knew that he had reason enough to fear.
"Stand aside," he said calmly, "you can take cover in that alleyway if you like, or you can stay here and fight. The latter might be a little easier for me, but the choice is yours."
The boy stared up at him for a moment, then shook his head and ran off into the darkness of the alley. Ilya could just hear him muttering "Crazy old man" under what breath he had left. He smiled at that, then let his gaze focus on a point in the poisonous air, beyond which lay the source of the engine noises.
Then the vapours parted and three figures rode out on powered up motorcycles laughing and shouting as they went. It was just as Ilya had suspected, a small gang of Clowns, no doubt amped up on Avalanche, the latest stimulant of choice, looking to have a little fun with a stray. What they weren't expecting – what they wouldn't be able to handle – was some opposition.
He flicked his right arm so that the blade in his hand vibrated noisily, then he tilted it and drew in his arm a little, ready to strike.
The lead Clown was tearing down upon him, his painted, pierced and pox-ridden features twisting into a evil grin. Ilya stared calmly into his crazed, bloodshot eyes, letting every detail etch itself into his memory, then he sidestepped quickly and, as the bike began to pass, sent his blade along it's length, severing rubber, pipes, fuel-lines and limbs until the machine and it's rider were little more than a burning comet of foul-smelling debris skittering down the street into the darkness.
The other two bikes swerved past him, skidding to a halt not far from the wreckage of their companion, then revved their engines as they turned to face Ilya. One of them drew a makeshift knife of glass and bandage material, the other pulled out a high-powered pistol and started firing.
Ilya ducked and rolled across the street, taking shelter at the corner of the alleyway. Further into the darkness he could see the frightened eyes of the boy, staring at him intensely. He tightened his grip on the sword, held the blade upright and waited for the next opportunity.
The barrage of pistol shots ended and Ilya could see the Clown who had fired them discard the pistol before revving his engine once more. The one with the knife was already driving up the street, looking out towards the alley, ready to throw his crude weapon. Just before he was in the right line of sight, Ilya dash out onto the street once more, rolling as the knife was loosed, then throwing his own weapon so that it caught the rear tire of the bike. There was a loud hiss as the air went out of it, then the Clown lost control and the bike ploughed into a support strut, becoming a tiny super nova.
The last remaining Clown didn't look so pleased anymore, but the drug pumping through his system eliminated the flight option from his list of instincts and so he put his foot to the pedal and drove straight at Ilya with all the speed he could muster. He started weaving, ever so slightly; just enough to show his opponent that side-stepping wasn't going to cut it this time, but Ilya just smiled, held his sword out and ran.
The distance between them closed rapidly and Ilya felt his heart pounding faster than it had in years. He knew he needed precise timing to get this right and that, if he messed it up, he would be roadkill in an instant. He closed his eyes, felt the breeze past his stubbled cheek and then leapt.
The roar of the motorcycle engine filled his senses. He twisted the blade around and down beneath him, felt it catch against flesh, bone, leather and metal and then he pulled the trigger.
Ilya was thrown further than his leap would have taken him. He hadn't been expecting the force of the explosion when his shot hit the leaking fuel from the motorcycle. He opened his eyes, saw white spots all over his vision and then turned to see the Clown on fire, screaming on the ground as blood poured out of him in a fatal flow. All around him his bike lay in pieces, spread across the street like just so much scrap.
Then Ilya felt the sharp pain in his shoulder for the first time and saw the six inch shard of metal sticking out of it. He was bleeding pretty badly, but nothing fatal. He gripped the shard with his other hand and pulled, fighting against the pain as the metal slid out of his flesh. He stood up, carrying his sword in his good hand and made his way over to the alleyway where the boy was waiting.
"Holy shit, that was some fighting," the boy began before noticing the wound in Ilya's shoulder, "Oh, Forces! Are you alright?"
"Nothing time won't heal," Ilya replied as he leant against a wall and slid down to his knees.
"Is that a real GunBlade?"
Ilya nodded.
"I'd heard of them, but I never thought I'd actually see one! Where did you learn to fight like that? I want to learn!"
"I taught myself. I used to design these things, but if you want to learn, you should head to GARDEN."
The boy laughed, "Yeah, right, like I'm ever going to get out of this place!"
"Why not? All it takes is a little walking and then you're at the edge of the Ice Fields and can go anywhere you want."
"It's the Ice Fields part that tends to stop me."
"Ah, it's not that cold. With a few supplies anyone can make it to GARDEN in a day or two."
"You have to be kidding."
"No, I'm not. I've done it before," he smiled, "I could take you if you like."
"And you think I'm just going to wander off with some man old enough to be my dad? No thanks. Besides, haven't you got something better to do?"
"Not really."
The sound of engines filled the air once more.
"Looks like your friends weren't the only ones. I don't think I'm in a fit state to fight them anymore, but if you want to take me up on my offer, I know a quiet way out of here."
The boy stared out at the street and then back at Ilya with tired, frightened eyes, then he nodded.
"Good," he held out his hand, "the names Ilya, by the way, what's your's?"
"People call me Nate."
"Well, help me up, Nate, then we can see about getting out of his Forces-forsaken city!"