Title: Sephiroth and the Remnants
Authors: shadowededen and mydarkrosaline
Fandom: Compilation of FFVII
Characters: A worried Rufus, a put upon Tseng, a Reeve desperately needing some hot chocolate, a Vincent desperately needing some eye drops, three SHM desperately needing divine inspiration, and a Mysterious Voice.
Warning: Language, innuendo, butchery of characters.
Word Count: 4128
Disclaimer: We do not own FFVII or any of the other titles that spawned from it. After reading this, I am sure you will be glad that we don't and Squaresoft do. No profit is being made from this.
Author's Notes: This is ridiculous. Really. We know this is crack. We know it's ripping the series. Hopefully you'll get a laugh from it!
CHAPTER 01 – FOR THE REUNION.
From behind the highest windows in Midgar, Rufus surveyed what was unofficially his kingdom. Or had been. Once, when they'd had the likes of Loveless signed to them, they'd been omnipotent in Gaia. The people listened to what the Shin-Ra wanted them to. They worshipped who the Shin-Ra told them to worship.
The lights twinkled back at him, and he spent a moment glowering at them accusatorily. Sephiroth was out there somewhere, had been out there somewhere all this time, the key to their success, to their power.
But five years of searching, and not a trace of the silver haired god had been found, not even by his best. Five years, and in that time Reeve's WRO had snatched up the likes of Aerith Gainsborough, and what did Shin-Ra have? A couple of lack-luster copies and little else.
This had never happened in his father's time. His father had turned Shin-Ra from a small time, small town album store into a company so powerful it was deemed more powerful than the mayor's government.
That in itself was insult enough; that his father could do it where he could not. It wasn't his fault that the old man had suffered a heart attack, or, at least, nobody that really mattered had pinned it on him.
The key was finding Sephiroth. He should have been an easy target; after all, it wasn't like he could go unrecognized. But here they were, five years after his disappearance, and nothing.
He eyed the documents on his desk. In the haze of numbers he could easily, too easily, pick out the meaning. Sales slumping. Income slipping. Everything, essentially, deteriorating, just as it had been for those five years.
"I'm worried, Tseng."
There was a movement from behind Rufus - a very slight one, but noticeable enough because the man had been standing so still beforehand. Tseng was perfect at standing still and silent, unlike Reno or Elena, and he was unobtrusive where Rude was threatening. He was a perfect bodyguard and right-hand man.
His hand had shifted to his collar. He straightened it needlessly before clasping his hands behind his back once more, expressionless and stony.
"There is no need to worry, sir," he said, smoothly, "The operation went without a hitch; no one knows that the prostitutes were killed, let alone that they choked on your -"
As he spoke, the sullen expression, which sat upon Rufus' face, had smoothed itself into something like a smile. It was as amused as Rufus was ever really going to look, and as he leaned upon his desk, the tranquility of it made him look all the more sinister.
"That's not what I'm worried about, Tseng."
Reeve sighed, closing the circuitry on the Cait Sith doll and zipping him back up. There seemed to be some kind of malfunction in the little robot cat's personality. Rather than be gently jibing at Reeve, as he had intended for the show, Cait seemed to have adopted a taste for utterly mocking people and insulting them quite badly, all in a broad Scots accent. He'd tried to fix it, but he wasn't entirely sure how it had happened.
Besides, his mind was on more important things tonight.
He sighed again, glancing down at the promotional below him. It showed three silver-haired men, aged from their early twenties down to - Good God; it really had to be - their mid-teens. The words "THE REMNANTS" were emblazed across the top, and the three seemed to be trying their best to look dark and alluring. Which they did, there was no doubt there.
The problem didn't lie with the Remnant's look, however, oh dear me no, but with their music. They were good, certainly passable or Reeve wouldn't have signed them, but they lacked a certain something to push them to the top. Certain oomph. A kind of... zazz. So far they had gotten by on the tails of their brother's career, but they had not the power of the Great Sephiroth. People had hoped that the (admittedly surprising, for Sephiroth had always been rumoured to be an only child) rising of his brothers would bring the silver-haired god back, but no.
A happy little tune tinkled from the radio, and Reeve reached over to switch it off. He had no problem with Aerith's music per sae, but he was the one who had signed her and he had heard almost every variant on how flowers were wonderful, and even her lovely, sweet voice could get a little grating at times.
She was his star, however, rising almost to the height that the Great Sephiroth had reached while with the Shinra, and he couldn't argue with that.
He looked up at Cait again. The cat's little black eyes stared right back at him. He could really go a mug of hot chocolate about now.
"Vincent?" he said, sighing, "I'm worried."
As was his style, Vincent seemed to materialize from the shadows themselves, the type of illusion which one watched whilst their mind supplied accompanying music in the form of a few notes from an electric organ. The cape he wore added to the effect; it gave a theatrical swoosh when Vincent tucked his phone into a pocket, the light gleaming off his claws.
For a man that put a lot of energy into wanting to be unnoticed, he sure made himself look conspicuous. When he spoke, however, his accent - perhaps disappointingly - was not the expected Slavic, but simply rather gruff. Between the drugs and the comas in his early years, he'd acquired quite the rasp.
"What do you need me to do, Reeve?"
Reeve blinked, forgetting that he had Vincent take care of his dirty work for him for a moment and wondering what on Gaia the other man was talking about. The remembrance dawned on him with all the inevitability of a tax refund, of course, and he shook his head, offering a tired smile and a small chuckle.
"Hold your horses there, Vincent! There's nothing like that that needs to be done!" He clasped his hands together and twiddled his thumbs briefly, eyes flicking back down to the promotional. Those poor boys - because they really were just boys, especially that youngest one, look at him, he hadn't even properly lost the softness from his face - were trying their best, but they were slipping from the public's eye. Their first single, Velvet Nightmare, had done well, but the others, such as Mother's Boxed Head didn't seem all that popular (not that Reeve could really blame people, the thoughts behind that one were pretty strange).
But anyway. Those poor boys. He sighed again, looking up at Vincent wonderingly. Did he know that he looked like one of those ridiculous forty-something year old Goths?
As soon as the thought came into Reeve's head, he pushed it aside. Not only was it irrelevant and just plain mean, but also Vincent had a rather large gun that he often caressed with very sharp claws, and he had always seemed to be slightly psychic - around Reeve at least.
"I'm just worried about..." he picked up the promotional and held it out to Vincent. Really. Poor boys. They were crashing, slowly but surely, and Reeve would have to drop them and then who else would they turn to, because the Shinra were evil - or at least, very naughty - and it would crush their poor spirits and and...
Vincent was silent whilst Reeve languished in his own altruism. His expression was absolutely devoid of any form of actual expression, which raised the question of whether or not it was really a valid expression. Regardless of such arguments, Vincent's crimson eyes rested upon Reeve's form, until the contacts itched so much he had to raise his hand to press against them.
He recovered just as Reeve looked round at him then, and took the poster from his hand to glance at it impassively, because impassive was Vincent's middle name (actually it was Ferdinand after an uncle, but impassive was more fitting).
His eyes flicked to Reeve again. Thankfully, he was at a distance where even Reeve, specially attuned to sense signs of suffering as he was, would not see the bloodshot.
"Reeve," he said, firmly, arms folding across his chest.
... And they wouldn't be able to get back up after it and oh no it would just be so awful -
"Mm? Sorry, Vincent?"
"Shut your inner monologue up," he finished flatly, placing the promotional back on the desk. The eyes of the Remnants stared back at the room as whole entreatingly, begging for their big break, but willing to settle for a bit of praise.
Kadaj forgot his own strength sometimes, and had been amazed when the pic had gone soaring through the air and landed outside with a tinkle of breaking glass. Granted he did insist upon playing with a heavy, metal pic that he totally hadn't stolen from Genesis' coffin, no one could prove it, but he had been impressed that he had thrown it with enough force to send it sailing out of the window.
He had been yelling at his brothers, who were too busy goofing around not taking the Remnants seriously enough, and now he was stomping around outside, flicking back curls from his eyes and scouring the ground for any sign of the blasted thing. His sweet face was twisted in a petulant scowl, and rather than looking as sexy and as powerful as Him, he simply looked young and desperate.
He just wanted this band to work, dammit. He just really wanted them to go places. He wanted everyone to know how damn important Mother was to everyone and no one seemed to be taking them seriously. Almost as bad, no one was taking him seriously either! That Reeve guy had smiled at him and offered to make him hot chocolate when he was offering Yazoo and Loz other stuff. Granted Yazoo turned down the alcoholic beverages because he was allergic to some shit in them and Loz wanted hot chocolate, but the fucking principal was there.
The pic caught the sun and glittered prettily up at him. With a snarl he scooped it up and turned to stomp back into the garage, where his two brothers were still snorting and sniggering with each other rather than practicing their songs.
From within the garage came music, a few merry strains of piano and a lilting drumbeat to accompany it. It was altogether very pleasant, in a twee, Aerith Gainsborough sort of manner, and it lacked both the haunting melancholy that Yazoo favoured and Loz's desired brutality altogether. Both siblings looked up, as Kadaj stomped in, not that the way he entered was particularly surprising. In fact, both looked decidedly more sinister, hawks waiting for the prey to approach within swooping distance.
Well, Yazoo did. Loz looked like a puppy eyeing a chew toy it knew could only be meant for it.
"We wrote a song whilst you were out, brother," Yazoo said, in that quiet, soft way of his which made it seem like he had this private joke only he knew the answer to, "Would you like to hear it?"
Kadaj eyed his brother warily. He hadn't liked the Aerith Gainsborough sound that they had been making, which made him pretty damn sure that he wouldn't like whatever the hell they wanted him to listen to. Aerith was such a happy-go-lucky little shit - Gaia wouldn't be pleased until Kadaj had spread his dark word about Mother. Copying Aerith's style was almost as bad as thinking about Him.
Still, there was always the chance that his brothers had been doing something right. He licked his lips and palmed the pic from hand to hand, taking some solace in how heavy and warm it was.
"Oh yeah?" He sneered, because that was his look nowadays anyway, "Sure, go play it."
If anything, the dangerous quality upon Yazoo's placid face intensified. He flexed his gloved fingers, ran them over the keys, and then sat poised to play, whilst Loz's lips were sealed tightly together in concentration, drumsticks ready.
Yazoo's fingers glided over the keys with a skill that was almost virtuoso. Every note was crystal clear and charming, and blended impeccably with Loz's surprisingly delicate drumbeat. The song conjured up images of summer days spent in meadows under a clear blue sky, all birdsong and soft breeze, so perfect that Yazoo wasn't even complaining about how all this outdoor time was aggravating his hay fever. When the eldest brother sang, his voice was as clear and lovely as the water from the stream in those meadows was.
"It wasn't the grass that tickled your ass, it was my finger"
A pause, and Loz chimed in, his tone blundering through with all the affection and love in his heart.
"I'll never forget the day that we met -"
Kadaj's face had been growing redder and redder since the first few notes. It was only a matter of time before he screeched "Shut up!" as his brothers, arms flailing, the pic making another arc through the air, thankfully not passing through any windows, but closer to the door that lead to the rest of the house. It landed with a small thud, sending up a crater of dust and probably killing a good few micro organisms or something.
With a growl, he stomped over to it and picked it up, crushing it in his hands. "If it's not fucking copying Cloud fucking-emo-shit Strife, you guys are pulling retard crap like this! Are you forgetting that we're in this for Mother? We want to make it big for Mother!" He snapped, a definite screech intertwining with the rest of his wails, "But if you aren't going to take this seriously..."
Sobered by the power of Kadaj's speech, and the wanton destruction caused by the flying plectrum, Yazoo and Loz looked at their brother apologetically, then to their respective instruments. Admittedly, it seemed like they were trying to definitely not look at each other, because that might lead to overt revelry of their victory, but at least Yazoo, to his credit, managed not to sound particularly amused. He didn't even snigger.
"Of course we're taking it seriously, brother."
Loz nodded fervently to verify this statement as the complete and utter truth, "We just wanted to make you laugh," he explained, somewhat meeker than usual, "We're in it for Mother too, Kadaj."
There was a long pause. Loz and Yazoo risked looking at each other and managed not to start laughing. When Yazoo looked at Kadaj again, he was cowed, calm, and collected.
"Besides," he said quietly, watching his youngest brother intently, "You're the one who copied one of Cloud's riffs."
Kadaj coloured again. "Shut up," he snapped, glancing over at Souba. He often felt that the double-necked guitar was his only friend in the room, but it offered no words of consolation or comfort. Of course it couldn't; it was just a guitar, but it was better hoping for that rather than admitting he was impressed by Cloud Strife and have really discreetly tried to copy some of his music.
He looked back at his brother's eyes, both green and feral, and both staring at him. Well, all right, Loz's weren't entirely feral, but still. He focused on Yazoo and lifted his chin. "I'm front man; I can try to see how that sort of thing sounds. Anyway, you -"
At that moment, there was a shrill ring as the phone went off. Kadaj dropped his gaze from Yazoo and looked at the door that lead to the house.
"Huh," he said, distracted, "Anyone expecting a call?"
Yazoo was spared having to embarrass his brother further with what doubtlessly would have been a cutting remark by the cry of the phone, and as one he and Loz followed Kadaj's line of sight to stare at the door. The elder gave a nonchalant little shrug, a mere shift of the shoulders, and turned to Kadaj. "I don't believe so," he answered, because he was acutely aware of the fact that he was the one who received the least phone calls in this house.
Loz was equally nonplussed, but rather than vocalize this, had started staring at his feet and wiggling them within their slippers. They were big pink rabbits with big red mouths full of big white fangs, and he claimed that they helped him drum. It still didn't make them let him wear them on stage.
Yazoo shrugged again to Kadaj, looking quizzical.
Kadaj frowned, but he left the garage anyway. He couldn't help the way his heart pounded - he was almost afraid that it was going to be Reeve - or more likely one of his underlings from the WRO - telling him that they couldn't sell them anymore, or that they were dropping them, or maybe even (and here was a flash of hope) - they'd hit number one and were simply raking it in and spreading the word of Mother all over the world.
He hoped beyond all hope that it was the last one. He and his brothers had been trying their best - he knew they were, even if Loz and Yazoo did goof around and try and talk back to him - and they deserved this.
The phone was in the kitchen. Kadaj passed their white fridge with the magnets all arranged until they spelled 'loz is the greatest', and, suppressing an urge to arrange them into 'loz the great tit' (he'd get rid of the s, maybe sacrifice an extra t from 'kadaj for the win', but Loz would just think he meant the bird anyway), he reached out to pick up the receiver, heart in his throat.
"...Hello?" he asked.
His blood ran cold at the voice that answered him.
"Kadaj," The Blood Curdling Voice said, because It was the type of voice that demanded the use of capitals, "How have you been? Working hard, it seems. Not quite hard enough though, hm?" The Voice was indulging Itself in a Monologue, and when It did that you just knew not to intervene. Kadaj was given no option but to listen – The Voice did that to you. It beat you into submission with every syllable, and left you browbeaten but oddly satisfied about it.
"It's been a while," The Voice Acknowledged, as if that was just a smidgen of what It was aware of, "I hope your brothers have been looking after you, you are the youngest after all." The Voice liked stating the obvious, too. But when It did, It made it feel like it had never been obvious, as if It knew everything and you knew nothing and It was for the best if you just hung on Its every word.
"I've been looking at your promos, Kadaj. You need something for that hair. GHDs, perhaps."
The line went Dead. This also had a capital, because it was The Voice that had made it so.
Kadaj held the receiver to his ear for about a minute longer, listening to the dial tone trying to remind him that it really shouldn't be off the hook anymore. He wasn't just surprised; he was struck dumb - dumber than Loz, that time Yazoo had taped his mouth shut. He didn't know what to do.
Of course he'd heard The Voice before. When he had been younger he'd often tried to beat his brothers off the phone so he could talk to It. He'd used to spend hours trying to practice The Voice, to get Its authoritative and overpowering tone and sound, to use It to get what he needed and wanted. He'd always ended up sounding like Aerith trying to sing one of Barret's songs, but he'd still always tried The Voice. It had been the best voice in the world.
But one day The Voice had stopped getting into contact. Kadaj had been eleven then. Now, at the still-technically-jailbait-if-you're-not-in-Britain age of sixteen (but he was almost seventeen, sixteen and three quarters, to be exact), he had heard The Voice once more. He felt frozen to the spot, and he also had a very uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, like there were live eels wriggling around inside of him. Exploring his organs, like a internal -
He realized that he had been holding the receiver to his ear for a few minutes and suddenly slammed it on the wall, staring at it like it was a poisonous spider, or possibly Loz's pygmy chocobo.
Swallowing, he reached up and tugged on a lock of somehow still curly hair. GHDs were on his wishlist - how had The Voice known...?
"Kadaj?"
Loz had poked his head around the door, and was looking at him with no small amount of worry. "Everything okay? It was a good call?"
"Uh, yeah," he replied, pulling himself together and drawing himself up to his really unimpressive full height. He just reached Loz's collarbone. "It was fine. I'm coming back in." he rolled the plectrum in him hands again, trying to ignore the eels and the horrible icy feeling that was slipping through him. Loz was easy to placate; already he was nodding and casting Kadaj slightly worried looks and shuffling his stupid rabbit slippers against the floor, but Yazoo would ask Questions. He always ended up doing so.
"Who was that?" The eldest brother asked abruptly, virtually on cue, as Loz somehow managed to half-pad, half-bound into the room, Kadaj following in his wake. He watched the latter with a gaze that would not relent, his expression calm but perhaps not devoid of concern. "Well?" He pressed, merciless in his conquest for knowledge, because Yazoo had always been of the mind that if Kadaj knew something you didn't, one of the world's delicate balances had been upturned.
Loz, smiling helpfully, looked at Yazoo from behind his drums and supplied, with all the sagaciousness of a guru on the subject; "It was a good call."
Yazoo blinked at him. If Loz knew something you didn't, it was apt to presume that Ifrit had just indulged himself in a snowball fight. His eyes narrowed, and slid from Loz to Kadaj, as though they were plotting his ultimate downfall and were about to execute it.
"And who was it, brother?" He asked, with a twinge of desperation.
Kadaj looked into Yazoo's eyes for a moment, wondering if it would be worth it to lie to him, know that he knew he was lying, and then chase him around the house with a peanut butter sandwich until he dropped it, or to just tell the truth. After all, as much as he enjoyed the smarmy brother's suffering, Yazoo was also family, and he had as much of a right to know about The Voice as Kadaj had.
He eventually opted on the latter. He didn't think they had any peanut butter left.
"It was..." he sighed, dropping his gaze and running his hands over one of Souba's necks, "Him, all right? He called." Loz gave him a surprised look, but he chose to ignore it. Loz's hurt face was a little heartening, though, "Being all... cryptic and 'It's been a while', nothing about how we were, just rubbing it in we weren't doing well, not even offering for a get together, all right? Didn't miss anything."
Yazoo stared at him for a moment, then remembered himself, and tranquility washed over his expression once more. He said nothing, didn't really need to say anything; none of them did. An uneasy pause had confined them as they were, almost ripped the breath from their throats. It did that to you, that stagnant, electric pause. He did that to you.
What annoyed Yazoo the most at that point was not the apparent lack of care in regards to them, but the rusting of creative flow that it had caused (Yazoo was comfortable enough in his pretentiousness to use a phrase like that without ceremony). Yet another day that would go by where nothing got done, no new material, not even an idea.
Oh, well. What else was new?
The three of them were drawn sharply from their respective reveries by the abrasive sound of scraping metal, as the garage door started to swing up. It flooded the room with daylight, so bright against the darkness they had been used to that it drove you to squinting, half-blind. In the white blaze of light was a black figure, tall and statuesque, hair flowing in the breeze, coat fluttering, and arms outstretched, bass in one hand.
"Did somebody call for a Reunion?"
It was The Voice that spoke. His Voice.
