Xibalba, Chapter One

"Getting the worm"

Dawn broke. Which meant another morning had arrived. Morning marked the beginning of another day. Another day in a world full of broken lives and shattered dreams. Quality of life was abysmal. Food and water were few and far between. Bathing was a luxury. Privacy was just a word, a forgotten concept, unless one belonged to a priveleged few.

Long before the alarm clock went off, Cloud Strife was wide awake, but rather rise and disturb the others, he lay in the gloom and awaited first light. Silencing his clock before it could make any appreciable noise, he threw the cover back and set his feet on the bare sandstone floor. This room of the Shildra Inn had several other beds, all of which were occupied. It formerly housed just two beds and a long couch, but that was long before circumstances beyond the owner's control necessitated and fostered the growth. Another room was also excavated, and a half a dozen or so beds housed there as well, along with a communal restroom. At this early hour he was fairly certain no one was using it, so he gathered up yesterday's clothes, fresh socks from a dwindling stock (which reminded him, he needed to wash his socks), and his boots and headed to the aforementioned restroom.

If there's anything to be thankful for in this fucked-up world, it's clean, dry socks, he thought as he pulled them on. The feeling brought back a memory of his army training. While on the way to a war games exercise, his drill instructor had spoken the following: "We will be performing this exercise in a jungle, ladies, a jungle. Hot, damp, sticky, no two ways about it. So I say this—any time you stop moving for any significant period of time, whether it be to eat, sleep or shit, change your socks. It's imperative that you do this, for both hygienic and morale reasons. You don't know what kind of shit you'll be slogging through. Who knows what the hell kinda exotic and possibly incurable diseases you could pick up through your feet? If you fall ill, you will be a useless soldier, only good for taking point and the first hits. Plus, a man with damp socks is not a happy man. Have you ever known any man who is content to wear moist socks? I can tell you in all my experiences, I have not met such a man, and if one did exist, he was more than likely fucking loony. In conclusion, change your goddamn socks." The speech would stick in his mind until the day of his death, and it was why he always carried at least half a dozen pairs of clean socks at all times. He was in danger of exhausting his supply, though; being located in a desert, this town could not procure sufficient water to provide adequate laundering facilities. If he wanted anything washed, he would literally have to purchase a washboard and tub and use elbow grease and his own water, so rather than waste time, energy and valuable water, he would buy some more socks when the local clothier opened for the day, wait until he reached the next town outside of this desert known as Cosmo Canyon, and wash them there.

Then he laughed at himself for his laziness as he put his shirt on. It must have been one of those days when he was feeling particularly slothful, if he was willing to simply purchase new socks rather than properly cleanse them.

He slipped his pants on and pulled his feet into his well-worn but well-kept black work boots. This pair was his marching boots, thick-soled, steel-toed and weighted to strengthen the legs. He also owned a pair of boots that were extremely lightweight and allowed him to tread very quietly, which he used on his missions of infiltration; few and far between these days. Not that he really needed to work; he had amassed quite a substantial amount of money in his largest endeavor: saving the world from Sephiroth and Meteor. Who would've known that becoming quite wealthy was a side-effect of traveling all over the Planet killing monsters? Nearly every metropolis, city, town, village and hamlet had a trading post for monster hides, teeth, bones, and the various humours that could be distilled from their flesh, and the owners generally paid a tidy sum for a monster carcass. The rarer, the better, they always said, and many of the creatures from up north and in the far west were considered quite rare.

He buttoned up his pants and cinched his belt, attaching his materia pouch and checking that it was of the proper weight. He found it of the proper mass, which meant none of the orbs had been stolen in the night, but it was not always so. A few days ago, he had awoken to a rustling, then a soft clacking, very near his bed. A young boy, not more than eleven or twelve years, was helping himself to his materia. After soundly beating him about the head and threatening to summon the authorities, the boy swore never to steal again. Oddly enough, he left wearing a slight smile, the grin of the guilty getting away with it, and it wasn't until much later Cloud found his money clip conspicuously thinner than it had been when he had retired the previous night. Angry at first, he really had to give it to the boy for succeeding in his theft after all.

A glance in the mirror confirmed that which he had been suspecting for some time: stress was aging him prematurely. Hints of crow's feet and forehead creases glared back at him, and it wouldn't be long until he found a gray hair or three. Not surprising, really, considering that since the Meteor-Holy bout four years ago there had been a sharp increase in the overall monster population caused by the excess magical radiation. Some people had been affected as well, mostly those near the impact site in the now-defunct town of Kalm on the eastern continent. It was unthinkable that all those people, including the daughter of one of his former teammates, had been transformed by the fallout into hideous beasts, driven mad by their own bodies and the sheer agony of their forms.

After the initial shockwave had dissipated, the group known as Avalanche had piloted their craft, the Highwind, to the town and discovered the awful truth, and with a heavy heart they were forced to kill the townspeople in defense after being swarmed by them. When all lay still, they began damage assessment, and Barret Wallace, leader of the old Avalanche, found the body of his beloved daughter Marlene, felled by a bullet fired from his own gun. Never had any of them heard so mournful a cry. No amount of consolation and kind words could bring him out of the near-autism he slid into, and some days later, he was found with a bullet fired from his own gun lodged into his head.

During the melee, Cloud fought hard and long, as did all the others, but it would be in vain for Tiffany Lockheart, "Tifa" to her friends. Just as the tide of battle turned in Avalanche's favor, a mob of a dozen demonized townsfolk converged upon her, and though Cloud pushed, shoved, cut his way through the surging masses, he would not get to her in time to save her from being thrown to the ground, trampled, and savagely beaten. His fury welled up and exploded, and none could stand before him, as his body and sword became a blur, slashing, cutting, cleaving his way to her. As Barret sobbed in remorse a small distance away, Cloud Strife, valiant leader and hero to the world, one of the greatest swordsmen who ever lived, second only to the great Sephiroth, held Tifa in his arms as she breathed her final.

"I love you, Cloud," was the last she said before she passed.

Since then, he had considered taking Barret's way out many times, more than could be counted, but helping protect people from monsters had given him new purpose, and he fought every battle for her, to atone for failing her when she needed him the most. But day by day, though he fought with the resolution and righteousness of the just, he found less reasons to get out of bed and face the day. The world was dying, slowly, bit by bit, taken beyond the brink by the parasitic practices of ShinRa Electric Power Company, Inc. and the outpouring of Lifestream by the Planet to stop Meteor. How ironic that, though both ShinRa and the Meteor had been stopped and the Planet saved, that the very actions that saved the Planet would be its eventual downfall. The Planet no longer had enough of the Lifestream left to sustain itself, though many people had entered it on that day. Forests died in regions of plentiful rainfall. Once green, the vast plains of the central continent browned. Tillable land yielded less and less each harvest. Even after his defeat, the wrath of Sephiroth was felt to this very day, more than four years later.

Properly attired, Cloud returned to his bunk and retrieved his armor Mystile and his sword. The same armor which had defended him in his trek down into the depths of the Planet in the Northern Crater, the same sword which had destroyed the creatures who once were human in Kalm, the same sword which...

...had failed to protect Aeris.

...had failed to protect Marlene.

...had failed to protect Tifa.

He heard those voices every time he looked at the sword, every time he struck down a monster, every time he was warded by the armor, without fail.

He was plagued by vivid nightmares, creative in their variety, in which those scenarios played themselves out again and again, with different circumstances, but the same eventual outcome. The most haunting was the one in which he saved them all, only to have Sephiroth somehow return in their most unguarded moment, and no matter how often he placed himself between his old nemesis and those he had sworn fealty to, Sephiroth always seemed to be able to get around him and slaughter the women, while he stood powerless. The killing complete, Cloud fell to his knees while the former general laughed, laughed, laughed the mirthless laugh of the victorious, it was coming from everywhere, ear-splitting, deafening, he couldn't block it out though he covered his head, and then the Masamune struck at him, and he awoke, a scream caught in his throat, sweat filming his body.

His comrades had told him there was no way he, or any of them, could have gotten to her faster, but it didn't make him any happier. He eventually drifted away from them, wandering the world, taking on dangerous missions just for the hell of it, not caring whether he lived or died. The only being which kept him going was his chocobo, Renault, who stood by him faithfully, in feast and famine, good times and bad, when there was plenty of greens to be had or when there were none. Strange that a bird could give him purpose...

As of late he had been chasing a man named Enali. Apparently he was of some import in a group called the Cult of Xibalba, who were purported to be "sworn to the resurection of The Great One." Of course, these days, such fringe cults were common, small in number and generally harmless. Several recent assaults in various cities had been attributed to members of Xibalba, and he had come to Cosmo to seek the wisdom of the elders and the Protector, Nanaki, known affectionately as Red. He had scheduled a meeting with Red this morning, set for just after sunrise, which is why he arose before the dawn.

He quietly left the room and headed downstairs and out into the city square, where people were just coming out to begin the day. He was unimpeded as he climbed to the top of the city where Bugenhagen's observatory stood and Red resided. As he lifted himself from the last rung of the ladder, he looked over the city, which had grown considerably in the time following Meteor. He took a deep breath of the cool predawn air and entered the observatory, and was halted by Red standing at the door.

"Good morning," Cloud greeted the lion-like beast.

Red did not return the salutation. Instead he said, "Come. There is much to discuss." He turned and strode quickly to his office.

Cloud raised an eyebrow. Odd, he thought, but followed him.


"On a cosmic scale, the life of a human flashes by in the blink of an eye, too short to be measured by the cycles of galaxies. Humans, being the only species on their planet aware of their own mortality, sought any means possible to delay the inevitable, or even reverse death. Such is the basis for the Cult of Xibalba."

So went the opening of the new member literature Cloud held. It was a little unnerving, he had to admit, but it sounded like the drunken ramblings of another harmless madman trying to get enough of a following to acquire a tax exemption status.

"What does this mean?" Cloud asked.

"It does not appear to be much of anything on the surface," Red replied. "The man named Enali definitely plays a very active role in the organization. It would appear he is the leader, or head priest or some such nonsense. A deeper investigation into this cult revealed a disturbing truth, namely the identity of their 'Great One.' "

Red hesitated, and Cloud interpreted that as an unbelief in his own words, which was unsettling. The talking cat-like animal was not one to mince words, and any delay in the delivery of information was cause for concern. He waited for Red to finish in his own time, though.

"I must warn you," Red continued, "that this is no mere fringe group worshipping a chicken god in their backyard or something of the sort. They are highly organized with strong central leadership and a rather impressive list of sponsors, all of whom contribute heavily to the research they are conducting."

"What sort of research are we talking about?"

"By combining the latest technological advancements with magical science through the use of materia, they are attempting to create a portal into time. This of course has many applications, not the least of which is military, and can literally change the course of history, past, present and future."

Cloud frowned. This was disturbing indeed, to think a time travel project was being funded in this day and age. "They call their project 'Xibalba,' " Red continued, "which, when roughly translated from old Cetran, is 'the gates of hell.' A portal into the time stream would certainly look like a gate into hell, so the name is apt."

"What's the current status of their project?"

"I can't be certain, as they keep their records closely guarded, but from what I've been able to gather they seem very close to a breakthrough."

"What kind of people would fund such a project, run by a cult?"

"I don't have any names of persons or organizations, but I do know they are very prominent in world events. To the sponsors, the cult members' beliefs mean nothing, only the end result."

"And who is their 'Great One'?"

Red lowered his head and stared at the floor for several seconds. "His name is Sephiroth."

Cloud sank into a chair. "You've got to be kidding me."

Red looked up. "I wish I were. Their core ideology seems to be that Sephiroth was actually a boon, not a bane, to the Planet, and that we, Avalanche, stood in his path to greatness and world unity."

"Disgusting," Cloud spat out. "What idiots."

"I am inclined to agree. But it does not change the fact that they are worshipping him and are working on this time portal with the ultimate goal of bringing Sephiroth into the present from the past, which will have unimaginable effects on the timeline as we know it."

"And what about the 'sponsors'?"

"More than likely, their goals are to alter the course of history to something more favorable to them. Perhaps a military takeover at kep points in social history, or an economical change, such as purchasing stock in ShinRa at their inception, then selling just before their downfall and reaping a huge sum of money."

"Standard dictator fare," Cloud said, nodding. "I'm a little more concerned about this Sephiroth business. Who knows what he'd do if he were brought here. I don't know if we could defeat him again."

"Nor do I," Red agreed, "and that is the most disturbing of all."

They went over a few more points, including the last known location of Enali and the Xibalba headquarters, which was, of course, classified information, but the extent of Red's network was surprising. Cloud was amazed he had come up with so much information in such a short time.

While they discussed, a quirky little notion entered the back of Cloud's mind. What if...? No, there's no way. But if they really do finish this...

Tifa...

They talked for some time more, and by the time they came up for air it was nearly midmorning, and the city below was bustling with activity. An unpleasant sensation in his gut reminded Cloud of a rather insistent biological imperative.

"I think we should break and get something to eat," he suggested.

"An excellent idea," Red concurred. "Let us retire to the Shildra."

They exited the observatory, and the whole way down into the city proper he pondered the possibilities of this Xibalba portal.

And he thought of her.


Cosmo, as a whole, had grown considerably in the time since Meteor, and as with all large cities, there are times when the abilities of the police force to maintain order are outstripped by the sheer number of inhabitants going about their daily routines. So there was little surprise in the fact that a fair-sized group of people had gathered around a barker and a muscle-bound man.

"Step on up, anybody!" the barker shouted above the clamoring. "Go toe to toe with this foe for one minute or more, you'll be in the dough! Ten thousand gil to the man—or woman—who can best Orlan here! Five hundred gil to try!"

Cloud approached the rabble as a rather burly man stepped forward. "I am Falhar, and I accept your challenge!" he yelled, and the crowd cheered as he handed the requisite money to the barker, who quickly pocketed it.

Something of a sneer flashed across Orlan's face as Falhar came at him, snarling, ready to grapple. Orlan dropped into a traditional wrestler's stance and, as Falhar reached out to strike, his fist shot out and connected squarely with Falhar's forehead. His head snapped back, and he fell like a sack of potatoes.

Cloud raised an eyebrow.

Several people came forward to collect the crumpled form of Falhar, and the barker laughed. "Attaboy! Keep 'em comin'! Any other takers?"

Thrice more rough-looking men, and one lithe woman, chose to tangle with Orlan, and all were soundly beaten about the head and did not leave under their own power.

Cloud frowned. This could get ugly, he thought, and there aren't any police around. I should put a stop to this.

He rudely shoved through the crowd and confronted the barker and his side of beef. "I'll give a go," he announced, and was met with an insulting glare by the barker.

"Go home kid," he said. "We wouldn't want your mommy to be worried. 'Sides, no weapons."

Oh, that. Cloud shrugged and removed his sword from his back and placed it on the ground. "How about now?" he asked.

The barker snorted. "Your funeral. Orlan, flatten him."

Orlan popped his knuckles loudly and swaggered toward Cloud, who took up a decidedly military stance, providing no openings. Orlan threw a right which came a bit faster than he anticipated, but was easily side-stepped. The follow-up left was equally swift, but no more difficult to avoid. A roundhouse came next, which Cloud blocked, though it knocked him off-balance for an instant. Orlan pounced on the opportunity, and delivered a crushing headbutt. Stars flashed before Cloud's eyes, and he stepped back, clutching his face. A knee somehow found its way to his chin, and down he went.

The crowd was silent, and Orlan howled with laughter. "Scrawny boy," he bellowed, "that is what you get." He turned his back to the crowd, and as such did not see Cloud rise. Only when someone shouted "get the son of a bitch" did he turn back—too late—to see a boot cave his stomach in. He immediately doubled over, nearly retching, and a hard uppercut met his nose, shattering the cartilage and causing a vessel to burst, blood showering out of his nostrils. A second fist followed quickly, this one to the temple, and Orlan went limp and tumbled to the ground, face down in a widening pool of his own blood.

Cloud rubbed at his sore forehead and looked over at the barker. "Ten thousand gil to the one who can best Orlan," he said. "When can I expect to be paid?"

A cheer went up through the crowd, and a slack-jawed barker stammered and yammered in a vain attempt to come back. Then a look of pure disgust found its way to his face, and he reached into his vest, withdrew a wad of bills, and threw it at him. "I hope you die," he spat, and bent down to inspect his prize fighter.

Cloud retrieved his sword and the money and said to no one in particular, "Get him to a fuckin' hospital." He made his way thorough the crowd, but this time they parted and allowed him to pass.


According to Red, the most recent base of operations for Xibalba was located a bit north of Cosmo, in Nibelheim. Of all places, he thought, Nibelheim. The crazies just can't stay away. The people hired by ShinRa chose to remain there even after the company was demolished and they were no longer receiving checks. It had grown on them, they said, and they didn't have a home to return to, since much of Midgar now lay in ruin. Since then, several people and organizations had taken up residence in the old ShinRa mansion, but not many stayed, with the rumors of hauntings and strange noises coming from the sealed basement. Xibalba, however, cared not for the scared rantings of local townsfolk, and chose it as a viable headquarters, since it was definitely off the beaten path, the closest commercial centers being the Cosmo desert and Rocket Town over the Nibel mountain range; even trade between those two cities was not done over land anymore, but by sea, the mountains being too dangerous for chocobo-drawn caravans. Not much reason for Nibelheim to still be around, but still the people stayed.

After drinking a potion to calm the throbbing of his head, Cloud headed to the chocobo stable to get Renault. He fed the bird a large head of curiel greens, which elicited a mighty wark, and led it to the city gate, where he mounted and spurred the bird westward, to lower ground, and out of the desert. It would take some time, probably a couple of days, to reach Nibelheim, and the more he dallied, the less likely it was he would find Enali.


High above, in the observatory, Red watched as Cloud set out on his trek, and shook his head slowly. There was very little likelihood that, if he found the Cult, he would be able to dismantle it on his own. He summoned Elder Shin and bade him contact the remaining members of Avalanche, to tell them they were needed forthwith at Cosmo. He only hoped they would arrive in time to render assistance to Cloud, before he got into something he very well may not come out of alive.