The temple's sputtering torches shed lurid light on the high priest's grim face as he bent to slit the sacrifice's throat. The sleek white stag writhed on the gem-encrusted black alter, its slender legs thrashing as its life drained out in a scarlet stream. Its grey eyes closed, and its head drooped. Empress Jenova contemplated the many such boring rituals she had been forced to endure over the years, hoping this one would be more interesting. Usually the rites culminated in a sing-song ritual about the might of the empire and its prosperous future.
The priest glanced at his audience of nobility before he sliced open the stag's belly with a deft motion. Red and blue entrails spilt out, and he thrust his hands into the bloody mess and spread it on the sacrificial slab, bending closer to study the offal. Several minutes passed before he straightened, vermillion eyes glittering with triumph.
"He has come. He has been born on Gaia." He raised his hands, the wide sleeves of his crimson and gold robe sliding back to reveal withered arms, and shouted, "He must die! His destiny must not be fulfilled! He must not stop the Great One. He is our savior! He comes soon, to aid us in our fight against those who would destroy us!"
Jenova stepped forward as he lowered his arms. "What does he look like?"
The priest swallowed nervously. "He is the Golden Child, Empress. Something about him must be gold. His hair, eyes, or skin perhaps..."
"So you don't know. How will we find one miserable boy on this Gaia? We don't even know where the planet is!" Her voice rose.
The priest met her gaze, his scaly crest rising a little, indicating irritation. "I know not. I have done my duty and given warning of the coming danger. You'll find a way, Empress. That's why you were born as our ruler at this time of danger. You've been chosen to stop him, and you will."
Jenova scoffed and smiled. "Yes, I'll find him, and he'll die. Your ranting cannot stop the wheels of destiny, but I can. All you can do is fondle the guts of dead animals and prophesize, but I'll ensure we rule the galaxy," she leant closer, her long silver hair veiling the menacing magenta glow of her catlike eyes, "You had better be right. If he's not on that wretched planet, it will be your blood on this alter next. Be quite sure before you send me on a fool's errand."
The priest licked his lips, revealing a glimpse of pointed teeth. "I am certain, Empress."
Jenova cast her gaze over the bevy of loyal subjects gathered within the temple's blood-red walls adorned with gold inlaid carvings of grotesque gods and demigods. The torches' green-shot flames fluttered and dipped, sending monstrous shadows across strained faces. Thick, oily smoke gathered in the roof's grimy carvings, adding to the planet's already foul, ammonia-sulphur atmosphere.
"Then we will find this Gaia, and kill the Golden Child," she proclaimed.
Cloud woke with a start, as one who sleeps lightly does. Sitting up, he rubbed his face and glanced around, then yawned, squinting at the red, bloated sun on the horizon. Thick, sooty clouds almost obscured it, dimming its glory to a weak gleam beyond the polluted atmosphere. The distant muttering and shuffling of hundreds of human beings and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies and excrement wafted to him on the chill morning breeze.
Throwing off his ragged blanket, he stood up and stretched, ridding himself of the kinks acquired from sleeping curled up. He scanned the area, on the lookout for roving ShinRa patrols. Ruined buildings huddled in groups, surrounded by the rubble of those ShinRa's troops had blasted through in the days of the rebellion had destroyed. Only the hardiest weeds struggled to grow in the debris, their yellow leaves blotched with brown. Most of the remaining trees were dead, but a few bore sickly, withered foliage. Rusted and burnt-out cars clogged fragmented streets and cluttered curbs.
Cloud's gaze drifted to the feeding station housed in an ugly building at the edge of the shantytown. Hundreds of thin, filthy people stood around it in a never-ending fight for survival. Their only ambition was to reach the food dispenser and push their battered tin plate under it to receive a meager helping of sludge-like food. Then the crowd pushed them to the back, sometimes stealing their share along the way. More often, they gulped it down, growling at the would-be thieves. They would then find a warm hollow or deserted building to sleep in, curled up in the ragged blankets that they carried. Those who failed to reach the front often enough grew too weak to ever make it, and died where they stood.
Once a day, a meat wagon came to collect the dead and deliver the next food supply. ShinRa troops, using mag rods, cleared a path and dragged out the dead and dying and loaded them onto refrigerated trucks where they were hauled off to ShinRa's Science Department for gods only know what sort of abominable act. Some bodies remained to add to the stench, however. The people at the feeding stations made meals of the fallen. They had little choice. All the animals, wild and domestic, had long since been slaughtered to feed the starving millions, or eradicated by pollution or deforestation; the rest had been judged expendable and wiped out.
Cloud took whatever he could from whoever was vulnerable, mainly the despots' stores. The despots, remnants of the political and social elite, had retained their power and prosperity by taking control of the massive food stores ShinRa had hoarded over the decades.
Cloud was too proud to work for the despots. Those who did were virtually slaves, paid only in food and shelter. They served as constabularies and store guards, but for more unpleasant jobs, the despots had real slaves.
A fallen tree's roots formed the dry hollow in which he slept. Cloud had dug it deeper and filled it with dead bracken and leaves. The canopy of roots had protected him from most of the stinging, acidic dew that fell each morning.
Cloud looked around at the sound of footsteps, relaxing when he recognized his companion's familiar figure approach. The young boy of ten brushed some dirt from his fawn shirt and oversized brown leather jacket. Like his ragged suede pants—that only stayed up on his narrow waist with the help of tied twine laced through the belt loops—they had been scavenged from abandoned shops. Leather afforded protection from injury and rain, making it a material of choice, although difficult to find. Cloud's black leather trousers bore the scars of many violent encounters, as did the suede jacket he wore over a grey, sleeveless sweater. Their pseudo combat boots would last for years, unless the pollution ate through them.
Cloud was an unusual sixteen year old in a world where most were malnourished and weakened. Exercise and hunger had honed his lean, lithe physique, but his endurance and strength allowed him to stave off malnutrition. The soft angles of his porcelain face, piercing blue eyes and untamed hair the color of the sun's golden rays added to his angelic features.
"I'm hungry," Denzel announced.
"You're always hungry."
"That's because you don't feed me enough," the boy smirked.
Cloud simpered. "You eat more than I do."
"You're always hungry too," he shot back.
Cloud pulled a face and shrugged. Hunger was the driving force of their struggle for survival in a world gone mad. They had grown up in it, and knew its dangers well, which was perhaps the reason they had succeeded where so many had failed. They were the remnant of the last generation to survive, old enough to fend for themselves when they had been orphaned, but young enough to adapt.
"Come on. Let's go," he said.
Cloud led him down the hill past the sludge-eaters, secure in his advantage of youth and comparative health. The people watched them pass with envious eyes, some finding the energy to throw a few stones in their direction, all of which fell short. Cloud set the pace at a steady lope across the expanse of desolate, ruined suburbs towards the city.
Denzel hated the city, but they had to go into it for food. They always left as soon as they had supplies for a few days. They paused on the crest of a hill, but when Cloud started down it, Denzel stayed behind, forcing him to stop and look back.
"Couldn't we raid the country store again?" the young boy asked.
"We raided that last week. It'll be crawling with guards."
"I have a bad feeling today."
"It'll be alright. Come on."
Denzel glared at the distant cluster of shining towers that sprouted from the tumbled ruins of lesser buildings, crushed in the rebellion or fallen foul of pollution later. The decaying buildings formed a complex concrete jungle whose dangers included collapsing walls and crumbling sewers. Broken glass and twisted, rusted reinforcing litter the streets, where bands of hostile vagrants roamed, preying on anything that could not defend itself or run. Packs of giant rats infested the sewers in an army of disease-riddled vermin, providing food for the vagabonds, who counted themselves better than the sludge-eaters. The boy caught a glimpse of himself in a piece of broken glass as he passed, looking away quickly.
The harsh life and lack of food had taken its toll, giving him a gaunt, elfin look. His ocean-blue eyes burnt with hunger, and soot smudged his creamy skin. His mess of chestnut hair was more than a little grubby. His youth and stamina a target for depots. Cloud was a target as well. Despots had a licentious eye for the rare blue-eyed, golden-haired boy.
Only the despots' towers, which their slaves maintained with cannibalized parts from unused skyscrapers, remained intact. They clustered at the city center, known as The Mecca. A leaden grey sky hung above it like a dirty shroud, and black smoke belched from the reactors that provided electricity to the towers, fueling the filth. To Denzel, who'd take back the barren and dead countryside any day over this, the glittering buildings represented all that was evil in this world.
"We've been lucky until now, but one day our luck's going to run out."
Cloud turned and sighed at the boy's lack of optimism. "Do you want to starve? We have no choice. Come on, let's get this over with."
At the city's outskirts, they grew more cautious, dodging from building to building to avoid the patrols that were meant to keep the scavengers out. Dawdling guards outside a red-brick building gave away the site of a food store. The ruined top floors sprouted twisted girders, and rotting planks covered the windows. Crouched behind a crumbling wall, they watched the bored guards pace up and down with measured strides.
"That's the place," Cloud whispered. "Only two guards, and they're bored stiff. That place hasn't been raided for a while. It's perfect."
Years of fleeing store guards had given Cloud an unusual turn of speed. He could out-sprint the fastest guard, creating an effective diversion while Denzel stole food. The guards, knowing their boss would reward them for catching him, always vied for the prize. He had to keep them interested long enough for Denzel to do his part, then escape. Afterwards, he would meet him outside the city. Denzel patted his shoulder, and Cloud rose to his feet and strolled towards the store.
The guards shouted and drew their guns, and Cloud sprinted down the street, the men in pursuit. He ran across a junction and into the road beyond, his panting pursuers flagging after just three blocks. Slowing, he faked a limp to encourage them, and their yells of triumph rewarded him. Their occasional wild shots didn't faze him, since he knew they wanted him alive and preferably unharmed. They probably hoped to frighten him into stopping, if he thought they would shoot him if he continued to flee. He loped on for another block before crossing a vacant lot into the next street. By the time the guards walked back to the store, Denzel would be long gone. He entered a more rundown area inhabited by a few thin, dirty people so scared they even hid from each other.
The guards followed, shouting in frustration, and he glanced back as he rounded the corner. Something slammed into his stomach, and he rebounded and sprawled. Gasping, he struggled to rise, staring at the sleek, black car that blocked his path. The door opened with a faint wheeze, and a gush of conditioned coolness washed over him, scented with an exotic fragrance. A despot stepped out, his black robe covering all but his face. Cloud scrambled to his knees, shaking his head to clear the spots from his eyes, broken glass slicing into his hands. He climbed to his feet and backed away just before the robed man came close enough to grab him.
The man raised a hand. "Wait! Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you," Cloud retreated, and the man followed, his hand extended in a parody of friendship, his tone soothing. "It's okay. I only want to help you. You're hurt."
Cloud knew a despot would never help him. His beady brown eyes, set close together in a thin face with a bony nose and a rat-trap mouth, roved over him in a way that made his skin crawl.
Spinning on his heel, he raced down the street, hoping to put a good distance between himself and the despot before he gave chase. He cursed, then the car's soft whine was in pursuit, catching up fast. Cloud couldn't outrun the car, and there was nowhere to hide. He dodged burnt-out car wrecks and avoided warped joists and rubble. The shock of his fall had sapped his strength; his lungs labored and his legs grew weaker with every stride. The despot followed, waiting for him to tire while he called his men.
A doorway ahead yawned dark and forbidding, but he ran through it and stopped. The despot would not dare to follow him into such a dangerous area, even though he was armed, since it was a perfect place for an ambush.
Cloud listened for the car, gasping in the damp, musty gloom. The despot could wait all day, and would send his men in after him when they arrived. Walking further in, he stumbled over garbage, startling a few rats. The building reeked of decay, and pollution ate away at its crumbling walls. Icy fingers of fear marched up and down his spine, but he forced himself to go on. An oblong of light beckoned ahead, and he quickened his pace.
The door led into an empty lot surrounded by apartment blocks, some of which had partially collapsed, filling the area with broken bricks, convoluted steel and glass. Sprinting across it, he entered the building on the far side and rested in the rank darkness, contemplating the dangers that still faced him. To reach the meeting place, he would have to run the gauntlet of hazards with which this ruined world was rife. At least he knew what they were, and how to avoid them.
Approaching the next doorway, he scanned the street, a manhole cover flew off with a clang and a ragged figure wriggled out and sprinted for a doorway. Seconds later, three more scruffy men emerged and surveyed the street before setting off down the alley. The group had been cooking rat and vanished, leaving their fire.
Cloud waited for the men to return. They had to be scavengers or desperate drifters banded together to hunt others. After several minutes, the tramps re-emerged and fought over who would eat the rat. Still, he waited, all his senses on alert. A movement at the end of the street caught his eye, as four police cars pulled in and moved toward him. The vagrants retreated into the building behind them.
The despot must have ordered the police to patrol this block in search of him. He found a room with a single dirty window and settled down to wait, piling damp cardboard boxes into a makeshift seat. Periodically he rose to peer out of the door, but the police still patrolled. His stomach rumbled, and he thought of Denzel, by now enjoying a meal, and smiled. Anything that Cloud could do to give a little bit of happiness and contentment to the boy, if only for a little while, was worth it.
Hours had passed and the street was almost deserted, only the tramps were back at their fire, haggling over another rat. After waiting several more minutes to see if anyone else appeared, Cloud left the doorway and trotted down the refuse-strewn street, his eyes darting into the dark alleys and doorways.
The hoboes paused to regard him with glinting eyes, and he tried to act as confident as an armed ShinRa infantryman. His ploy seemed to work, for they returned to fighting over the rat as he hurried away. He stayed away from buildings, which often harbored drifters and scavengers lying in ambush. Heading toward the suburbs, he kept his pace to a steady jog that ate up the distance. As he approached the outskirts, the ruins of the office blocks gave way to demolished houses. Far fewer human vermin hid here. Most congregated around the city center, where rats were more numerous, since the rats lived on the food in the despots' stores. He stayed in the middle of a road, trusting his ability to run more than the possibility of hiding from a threat, which could get him cornered. He looked up in alarm as a shadow suddenly fell on him, then stopped in amazement.
A giant, blood-red craft hovered about twenty meters above him, light shining from portals along its edge. More lights flickered across its underside in random patterns, and it hung there if on invisible strings. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, sending chills down his spine. For a moment surprise kept him frozen, then he edged towards the side of the road, where the houses safety beckoned. Vagabonds emerged from the houses to point, shout and stare, but Cloud backed closer to the derelict buildings, his eyes fixed on the ship.
The sudden urge to run overwhelmed him, and he turned and sprinted for the nearest house. As he ran through the doorway, crimson fire erupted outside. The explosion blew him off his feet, and he threw out his hands to break his fall. Glass imploded from the few intact windows, whizzing past him in a shower of razor-sharp shards. His jacket protected him from most of it, but a few splinters stabbed the back of his legs. He hit the ground with a muffled oomph, raising a cloud of white dust. Lights danced in his eyes as he inhaled the dust, coughing.
The explosion's rumble died away, leaving his ears ringing, and he raised his head and shook splinters from his hair, glancing back. The craft descended, and the vagrants had prudently vanished. Climbing to his feet, Cloud staggered deeper into the house, his mind whirling with stunned confusion. The dwelling offered doubtful protection, its walls mottled with mold and peeling paint, the ceiling sagging under the weight of wet rot from the upper floor.
His leg wounds burned as he limped through another door, entering a smaller room. Broken furniture, smashed crockery and shredded papers littered the filthy, rotten carpet. Excrement and graffiti smeared the walls, and ripped curtains hung in shreds around empty windows. Cloud flattened himself to the wall when a shadow passed the window, then flung himself down as explosions ripped through the house. Red fire blazed in a brilliant barrage outside. The bolts threw up clods of earth, and the walls cracked.
Bricks and mortar would not hold up against the fiery fusillade for long. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he crawled towards another door. The house shook and rattled as what could only be lasers pounded it, chunks of brick and cement flying into the rooms smashing on the floor. An outer wall fell with a grating rumble, and dust and wood chips, mixed with cement fragments, rained down from the upper story. The deafening explosions were almost constant, and the house was collapsing around him.
Crawling through the door, he entered a hallway. A flight of stairs led to an upper floor ablaze with laser fire, the roof cinders. Smoke billowed downwards, and ash and burning wood fell from above. The thickening haze almost obscured a door under the stairs. Quickening his crawl, he reached it and turned the handle, praying it was unlocked. It swung open, catching him off balance, and he fell into pitch darkness. His hand hit steps and his momentum sent him rolling down them, scraping his already cut-up palms and banging his head. Cloud reached the bottom bruised and winded, and lay gasping for a minute before crawling deeper into the darkness.
Above, the house's destruction continued. The earth shook as laser bolts pounded the building to rubble. The explosions all but drowned out the roar of flames and the bangs and crashes as walls collapsed, bricks falling with dry, grating thuds. The tinkle of smashing glass mingled with the creak of tortured wood. The house groaned and roared as it was destroyed. Reaching a wall, Cloud sat with his back pressed to it and stared up at the stream of light at the top of the stairs.
Flames licked at the wooden frame. Soon they would travel down the stairs and fill the room with smoke. Cloud covered his face, coughing as the fumes thickened, sweating beading his face and trickling inside his clothing.
A tremendous crash made him jump as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, hit by a falling beam or wall, and he was plunged into blackness. The door's violent closure snuffed out the flames that licked at its frame, sealing him off from the burning house until the fire ate through the door.
Silence clamped down, broken only by the inferno's crackle. Burning wood made little mewling sounds, and the occasional crash as a burning timber collapsed, or the chime of glass shattering in the heat, made him start.
Why would an alien ship try to kill an insignificant human? There was no doubt in Cloud's mind that he had been the target. The bums would have been far easier to kill. He wiped sweat off his face with grimy hands, realizing, from the sting of his palms, that they were raw. Would these hostile aliens leave, or would they wait for the destruction to die down and search the rubble for his corpse? Had it been sport, choosing a target and trying to kill it for fun? Plenty of UFO's had been seen since mankind's downfall, observing, and perhaps recording Gaia's demise. They had kept their distance, however, never making contact in spite of humanity's attempts to communicate with them.
Smoke stung his windpipe and made his eyes water. The door at the top of the stairs creaked, its outer surface on fire. Cloud forced himself to wait in the suffocating darkness, fighting a strong urge to search for light and air. The aliens might think he was dead, or they could be waiting outside to make sure, and if he revealed himself now, they would hunt him down again.
Rats ran about, their claws scratching on the concrete floor. One ran over his leg, and he shuddered, jerking away. Their squeaking held a note of panic, so they must be trapped too, he surmised. The wall he was leaning against was damp and coated with slimy mold, which soaked into his jacket, chilling his back. Flames appeared at the bottom of the door, throwing a little light down the steps. Cloud looked around. The rats glowing eyes met his gaze from a corner, where they seemed to be scurrying about, perhaps trying to chew their way out.
Cloud coughed again, and realized he had to get out before the fire consumed all the oxygen. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could make out the faint outlines of boxes stacked against the walls, and an old-fashioned boiler in one corner. He tried to stand up, but stabbing pains in his legs made him grunt and sink back to explore the agonizing areas. Blood soaked the back of his pants, and his groping fingers touched a protruding shard of glass. He gritted his teeth, yanked it out and flung it away. Eyes watering and stinging, he continued to search, locating another, smaller shard. It was slippery and deeply embedded, and his finger failed to grip it at first. The pain that lanced up his leg when he touched it made his stomach clench, but he finally pulled it out, groaning and hunted for more. He pulled out three more, then sagged back, sick and dizzy.
The door burned, flames licking at the ceiling. Stifling fumes made it hard to breathe and the heat was almost unbearable. He climbed to his feet and hobbled along the wall, running his hands over it. His head swam. Flames crept down the stairs. His hands encountered a frame, and he examined it, finding a hatch set at an angle to the wall, which must open upwards. Stepping into the recess under it, Cloud set his shoulder against the trapdoor and heaved with all his strength. It creaked, the dry wood digging into him.
Again he pushed, his legs weakening. He was tempted to give up, lie down and surrender to the injustice of this cruel world he had struggled so hard to survive in all his life. With a strangled cry of defiance, he put the last of his strength into a final push. The hatch flew open as the rusted lock gave way, and he climbed out, inhaling huge gulps of fresh air.