A/N: Thanks for reading! I'm sorry for the delay between updates, but junior year just beats you down-and then keeps smashing at the bloody pulp for the fun of it. :p On spring break now, so I'll try and update faster! :)
Thanks for your patience! Please enjoy!
"Who's the big guy?" asked Cameron through a mouthful of potatoes, shaking one of his stray blonde locks out of his cheerful brown eyes.
"Where?" Cloud asked, scanning the lunchroom discreetly. Everyone seemed to be where they usually were: the jocks and the preps, the geniuses and the nerds. All settled comfortably into the little cliques and hierarchies that defined one's high school experience, roosting with those most similar to them.
"I think Cam means that guy over by the door, next to the prep table," replied Quinn helpfully, plowing through his own meal with his usual distracted, peaceable expression.
Cloud followed Cameron's gaze to the specified table. Sure enough, breaking the flock mentality, a rather well-built man sat by himself, looking a tad too old for high school and yet too casually dressed to be a teacher. Donning black cargo pants, a black sleeveless turtleneck, and black combat boots, the man gave off a serious, quiet vibe without falling neatly into the emo group nor the goth clan.
Tom, their unspoken ringleader, spared the man in question a quick appraisal. "Kind of weird for him to be sitting alone like that, huh? Doesn't seem quite like a student but doesn't seem quite like a teacher, either."
"True that," seconded Winston with a drawl, tossing a tater-tot up into the air and catching it in his mouth. "But who cares? He doesn't seem t'be botherin' anybody."
"No, but it does seem like somebody's about to bother him," Cameron said, an uncharacteristic frown appearing on his face.
They all turned to look this time. One of the more popular jocks – a particularly bold and aggressive one nicknamed 'Bear' for his size – had left his groupies and was now heading along a beeline towards the stranger. The whole lunchroom noticed the social break in protocol within seconds, and the room grew strangely quiet as Bear drew closer to the man in all black.
"Christ," Winston swore under his breath, his brow furrowing. "Can't those meddling preps jus' leave a man to eat his lunch in peace?"
"Well, it is Bear, after all," Quinn noted dryly, but even he had managed a look of faint concern.
Cloud felt an impending sense of dread – as did the rest of the room's occupants. They all unconsciously drew closer to one another as the scene unfolded, sensing that something was amiss…
A piercing pain abruptly lanced up his neck and jabbed at his brain. Cloud felt his eyes grow watery at the unexpected agony and gripped the table tightly as his sense of balance went haywire. As an uncomfortable pressure built at his temples, Cloud squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the world as it dissolved into bizarre, slurred splotches of color.
He started to panic, one hand completely covering the left side of his face in an attempt to hide his fear. What the hell? This has happened before, but it's never hurt…not like this!
Through misty eyes, Cloud noticed Tom's concerned expression turn towards him.
"…Clou…?" Why does he sound so far away? He's sitting right next to me – "Cloud, are…feeling…okay?"
Then, suddenly:
– perfect. I'll show this emo kid who's really the boss in this lunchroom. After all, we can't risk having some sort of weird revolt from the emos or anything; putting that down would just be a waste time that could have been spent on the football field – typical human. Always trying so hard to show off, never given a moment's peace simply because he needs the attention. The child should consider himself lucky that Genesis isn't here. After all, at least I'll leave him alive; if the child tried this with Genesis, he'd probably have been decapitated the moment he looked at him –
Cloud couldn't help a quiet, sharp intake of breath as he returned to his own consciousness with a dizzying speed. What the hell was that? Cloud stared at the stranger with a new sense of horror. If that's what he's really thinking…
"Cloud?" Tom repeated. He'd definitely noticed Cloud's momentary lapse in…well, his lapse in existence. "Are you feeling okay?"
Cloud didn't bother explaining. It would sound insane to anybody, he knew that – but at the very least, he could save Bear before something really bad happened. He turned to the two of them, half-rising out of his chair.
And then a gloved hand gently but very firmly pressed down on Cloud's shoulder, forcing him back into his seat.
"I think it would be prudent…" A soft voice accompanied the touch, but Cloud somehow knew not to turn and look directly at the speaker. "…to stay out of this particular fight, hmm?"
Tom was staring over Cloud's shoulder at the speaker with a profoundly confused expression. Cloud was highly tempted to turn and look, but some sixth sense told him it was better to keep staring straight ahead.
A spark of conflict between Bear and the stranger suddenly recaptured the room's undivided attention.
"I already explained to you that this is my territory," Bear growled, obviously at the end of his short patience as he cracked his knuckles ostentatiously. "These are my rules, and you play by them or you leave."
"My, my, was that a threat?"
All eyes snapped to focus on a spot directly behind Cloud's seat, and he finally turned around to look at the random interloper with the soft dove-tone.
This stranger wore even more bizarre clothing than the one that sat so nonchalantly before Bear. Black and red leather dominated his entire outfit, topped off by an epaulette-bearing red leather trench coat and a pair of black combat boots. Reddish-russet hair barely brushed his shoulders and fell into his feline-green eyes in long, slightly wavy strands. His delicate features stopped a hair's breadth from femininity, balancing out his broad shoulders and impressive height.
And, to Cloud's astonishment, in his right hand the stranger casually carried an elegant, red-and-white steel broadsword.
"Genesis," said Bear's mild-mannered opponent in a faintly chastising tone. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. He's still a child."
Bear bristled at that, misinterpreting kindness for pity. But before he could voice his protests, 'Genesis' cut in:
"Not a child, a young adult. And as such, he should really take credit for his actions, wouldn't you agree?" Genesis's clever eyes glittered, and Cloud noted the black-gloved hand tighten minutely on the hilt of the blade.
As unobservant as ever, Bear took Genesis's words as a challenge. Bear's expression darkened as he raged, "Why, you – "
"Genesis," came the admonishing voice again, this time more insistently.
Annoyance flickered across the Genesis's face before he rolled his luminous green eyes. "Oh, come on, Angeal. The boy's asking for a fight – and I am kindly willing to provide one. It'll make everyone happy: he gets his fight, the spectators get a show, and I get another victory – what's there to lose?"
It took Bear only two seconds to react to the insult. Abandoning all forms of rational conversation, Bear roared and ran at Genesis.
Genesis refused to budge so much as an inch as Bear charged, his eyes half-closed as if sleepy, his sword loose at his side. Cloud shrank back from the inevitable collision, sliding away from Genesis discreetly. Unfortunately, in doing so, Cloud briefly attracted Genesis's attention, and for an instant Cloud locked his own summery-blue gaze with that viper-green one…
– the boy actually charged; he's more foolish than I thought. No doubt Angeal will stop me before I have any real fun, but any action is welcome after two whole weeks of sitting and waiting for the new Chevalier to show up – stupid boy, he'll get himself killed if he keeps baiting Genesis like that – the hell are these people? Wonder if they're transfer students or new professors here –
And then, suddenly, out of the usual chaos emerged a simple yet dominating image of a white cat. Feline paws, silvery claws fully extended; needle-point teeth bared in – a growl? Or a smile? Drowsy blue eyes widened, their deeper-than-black slit-pupils dilating rapidly as they focused on him and swallowed him whole –
– I…see…you –
"Cloud!"
At the sharp bark, Cloud returned once more to his senses with an unceremonious jerk, his arms automatically flailing outwards as he realized he was suspended mid-fall. His hand painfully clipped the edge of the lunch table but failed to find any traction, and he crashed to the ground backwards in a confused heap.
Any other time, Cloud would have heard immediate peals of laughter burst forth from his classmates as he peeled himself off of the tile. But something was very wrong, and there was merely a suspenseful silence as he winced at the new bruises on his hands and looked up.
Bear lay motionless on the floor, his elbow at an odd angle, eyes closed in unconsciousness. The red-haired newcomer – Genesis, was it? – had one boot planted on Bear's back and his blade half-raised in his left hand; the dark-haired newcomer appeared to be in the process of stopping him, having procured a positively gargantuan blade from thin air to intercept Genesis's. His peers all had mixed looks of fright, shock, and morbid fascination on their faces as they drew back from the conflict.
But everyone was frozen in place now, startled by Cloud's loud and epic plummet to the ground. The bizarre tableau lasted for a few impossible moments as everyone stared at Cloud.
Whoa…what happened? Just how long was I out? Cloud felt a rising sense of horror.
Am I completely losing my mind?
And then Genesis's wide, viper eyes narrowed and shattered the illusion of stillness.
Cloud barely had time to register a blur of red streak across the room and a forceful jerk to his neck before finding himself face-to-face with Genesis, Cloud's collar caught in Genesis's fist, half-hoisted off of the ground.
Those unnervingly green eyes bored into his. "What did you see?"
Cloud was utterly bemused. "Wh-wha—?"
"What did you see?" Genesis repeated, and Cloud swore he saw flames flicker in those vividly colored orbs, some internal, inextinguishable flame that fueled Genesis's unnatural strength…
"I – I saw…I saw a cat," Cloud said, too stunned to lie. Genesis's silence prompted him further. "I…it was a white cat – white, with silver paws – I mean, claws – and…and…"
"And blue eyes that feel like they're nailing you down?" offered a quieter, solemn voice. The other newcomer – Angeal, that was his name – stood next to them, his calm blue eyes wise and peaceful.
Strangely, although Cloud had to struggle to remember what its eyes looked like physically, Cloud perfectly recalled every last detail of their gaze.
"…Exactly like that," Cloud affirmed with a touch of wonder in his voice. "As if…as if you were a butterfly, and someone's hand was pinning you to a board…"
Genesis opened his hand and let Cloud fall back to the tiles. "So it's not this one, either," he mused cryptically, leaving his previous opponent entirely forgotten. "How irritating."
"But he saw the cat, too," Angeal reminded. "That cat's been showing up more and more frequently, and not just to anyone – you saw how it affected only the Chevalier, starting with the most sensitive. This boy could be a Clair."
Genesis showed a split second of hesitation at Angeal's warning before scoffing. "Angeal…"
"I think it would be best to keep an eye on this one," Angeal elaborated patiently, nodding at Cloud. "He could turn out to be the one we're looking for."
"Or we could end up chasing useless leads for another six months," Genesis complained. "Let's just clean up and leave, Angeal. The boy will be more trouble than he's worth. Aside from all of that, he doesn't even look like a Chevalier."
"Genesis." This time Angeal's voice brooked no argument.
"Oh, very well then, if you insist," Genesis sighed as he turned to Cloud again. That conversation had been entirely unintelligible to Cloud, and judging by the looks on the others' faces, it had been the same for all of his classmates.
Despite the calm benignity in Angeal's eyes, Cloud still couldn't help but feel threatened by the man's solid frame. As if sensing his fear, Angeal smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry we can't explain all of this to you now – Cloud, is it?"
"A dreamy name for a dreamy boy," Genesis commented, twirling the grip of his sword dangerously in skilled hands. "Our little scuffle was not exactly what you could call 'quiet', and Cloud still managed to drift off into oblivion."
"Genesis," Angeal said, more weary than chastising. "Not helping."
"Swiftly, then, my friend," Genesis replied, sheathing his broadsword and crossing his arms. He still seemed subtly restless as he fixed Cloud with that bright green gaze.
Angeal turned back to Cloud with another sigh. "Again, I do apologize for the confusion. You will be informed later, I promise."
'Will' understand? Clearly they intended on whisking Cloud away somewhere – an idea that, considering the violent nature of these people's thoughts, inspired a new sense of dread in Cloud.
Cloud gathered his feet under him to rise. "I don't think I want to – "
"For the greater good," Angeal and Genesis said in unison as the former reached out and tapped Cloud's forehead before he could react.
That tap, that light touch, sent Cloud tipping backwards, off-balance, his eyes suddenly heavy with sleep. He felt the length of his elbow, quickly followed by his entire arm, make contact with the floor as his mind shut his body down forcefully. Fatigue set in, bone-deep and tempting as his eyes flickered.
"I don't…understand…" Cloud muttered, using every ounce of his rapidly diminishing concentration to force out the words. His entire body had successfully declared mutiny, and he now had to struggle to keep his attention focused on the faces above him. "Who…are…"
"Sleep," Angeal – or Genesis? It was getting hard to tell – commanded gently. "You'll understand."
And Cloud gratefully obeyed.
...
Angeal suppressed a huff of exertion as he readjusted the body slung over his shoulder. How on earth did I manage to carry him while we were escaping from the school? The kid's no lightweight, he thought as his arm began to complain.
"Are you coming or not, Angeal?"
Angeal sighed and hurried his last few steps to fall into stride with Genesis. "He's heavier than he looks."
"Mmm," Genesis replied in his usual, directionless manner, his nose stuck in a small, leather-bound book, neither offering to help nor outright snubbing.
"'Loveless' again, Genesis?" Angeal asked, a little smile on his face as he recognized the well-loved white book. "I've lost track of how many times you've read that play."
"It's a classic," Genesis said in reply, closing the book and looking up at Angeal. "A true work of art. How's the child?"
"Heavy, but otherwise he seems to be peaceful enough. It seems that the cat cannot extend its paw into the realm of dreams quite yet," Angeal replied.
"And what exactly is your opinion on the cat, Angeal?" Genesis queried, seeming only vaguely interested. His intense eyes belied his focus. "It first appeared to the Clairs only a month ago, and yet it seems to haunt all of them now. They're not as…lackadaisical as they once were, don't you think?"
Angeal nodded as best as he could with the body draped over his shoulder. "It is strange. A natural psychic disturbance should affect even non-sensitives, but judging by the way the cat terrorizes just Clairs…it seems too directed to be random. Too…human."
"Mmm," Genesis responded again mysteriously.
"Perhaps it's another Chevalier unconsciously releasing negative energy," Angeal hypothesized, spurred by Genesis's silence. "It would explain why only the Clairs are affected."
"But it seems unlikely that unconscious feelings could coalesce into such distinct forms. Claws, teeth, eyes – they all require intention and effort to form. Nobody, not even a Senior Clair, is capable of producing such clear images without some measure of focus," Genesis volleyed, sounding more contemplative than argumentative.
"How else can we explain it?" Angeal suggested with a shrug, the uncomfortable weight on his shoulders inhibiting any further higher cognitive processing. "The only other possibility is that one Clair is specifically broadcasting to a single category of sensitives across the globe."
"And no Clair has that kind of power," Genesis finished, acknowledging Angeal's argument even as he completed it. "Hmm. Curious."
"Curious," Angeal agreed. "It's likely we'll find the origin of the psychic disturbance soon. It's attracted the attention of more and more Clairs as it has grown more powerful. With all of them hunting for the same thing, it will only be a matter of time now until they find the source."
"It's a small world," Genesis mused. "Especially for Clairs. I'm sure they'll figure it out sooner rather than later."
"What kind of Clair do you think Cloud is?" Angeal queried, purely to distract himself from his strenuous exertions to stay upright. "Just judging from what you've seen so far, of course."
"I'd say a well-directed empathizer," Genesis replied. "He also seems to have a decent Gift in telekinesis, even if he's shown no proficiency in the matter thus far."
"I know what you mean," Angeal said. "Telekinesis would fit him. Either way, if he's powerful enough to pick up on the psychological nuances already, he won't be an Undecided for long."
"Hmm," Genesis conceded as they finally approached a little, run-down motel that looked as if it were on its last legs. The roof sloped, unwilling to support its full weight; sodden wooden fences sagged. Genesis's fine features wrinkled. "Who chose the rendezvous point again?"
"Lazard did," replied Angeal dryly.
"I should have known. Sephiroth has taste; I have style," Genesis mused, disdain seeping into his voice as he walked into the parking lot towards a sleek, tinted-window, black Lexus RV. "And you, Angeal, though perhaps not quite as discerning, have sense at the very least." Genesis opened the door for Angeal, still talking. "Honestly, who chooses a place like this as the meeting point for Shinra's 1st Class SOLDIERS?"
Angeal grunted as he hefted the blonde teen onto the beige leather backseat. "At least we have legroom this time, huh, Genesis? Last time they provided us with a car, your elbow was digging into my ribs the whole ride there."
"Again, poor judgment on their part," Genesis provided simply as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. With expert movements, he cuffed Cloud to the back of the front passenger seat.
Angeal and Genesis took a step back and looked at their handiwork. Unconscious, one arm anchored to one of the car seats, long legs barely fitting within the threshold of the car, Cloud sprawled across the backseat, his breathing smooth and easy.
"They all look so peaceful at the start," Angeal sighed. "Before they really learn their roles as Chevalier, anyway."
Genesis hummed his agreement. "Yes, they certainly do, even if it is only for a moment."
Angeal shut the door before moving around and climbing into the passenger's seat up front. Genesis fished a pair of car keys from his pocket and followed suit.
"We'd better get going," Angeal commented lightly, tapping the glowing green numbers on the control panel as the engine purred to life. "Sephiroth will catch up later, no doubt."
"Mmm. That, and the fact that I'd rather take a frown from Sephiroth rather than a lecture any day," Genesis yawned nonchalantly, throwing the car into reverse. "Well, then. Time to visit our favorite Turk."
"Did you hear about the new complex Shinra has been building?" Angeal mentioned off-handedly as Genesis pulled out of the parking lot. "There's been quite a bit of rumor surrounding its construction."
"Where there are people, there are rumors," Genesis answered, supremely uninterested. "As long as they don't affect me directly, I could care less."
Angeal grinned at Genesis's candor. "Let's go home, Genesis."
"Indeed." Genesis pressed on the gas and they began their journey home, their new recruit, unaware and alone, in tow.
…Yet even in his unconsciousness, Cloud's eyes flickered nervously behind their lids, tracking bits and pieces of that strange white cat…
I see you.
…
Zack dared not move a muscle. The steel resting under his chin seemed real enough, chilly and tempered to a razor-thin edge. But steel is metal, Zack reminded himself, regaining some form of self-control as he forced himself to think. And I can effectively neutralize metal, just like those handcuffs. All I need to do is calm down…
Cautiously, Zack reached out to the metal with his gift, searching for the tell-tale hum of electrons responding to his call…
And found nothing. Not so much as a peep of the electrical charges that flowed through every electron of every atom of every bit of matter in the universe. Zack blinked, surprised. What the hell is this sword made of? Without electrons, neutrons, protons…this thing shouldn't even physically exist.
"I admit, you're an interesting one," the angelic form in the windowsill murmured, one dark eyebrow raised. "I would not have considered tossing the bomb out of the window."
Zack said nothing, instead focusing on not going cross-eyed while still carefully monitoring the sword dimpling his neck. Then again, what exactly was one supposed to say to a party-crashing, lone-gunman-style swordsman in the 21st century, anyway?
"In any case, you pass," the creepy stranger declared abruptly, lowering his sword (much to Zack's relief). "You're resourceful, talented, and obviously intelligent. It seems Director Lazard was correct in selecting you for SOLDIER."
SOLDIER…? Zack frowned. As in my thief name? Are these guys after the Hope Diamond?
"…I'm not from the government, if that's what you're wondering," came the amused statement as the man stepped forward gracefully off of the windowsill and onto the floor. "I'm afraid I'm not good enough to suffer and be one of those poor government lapdogs."
Zack took a closer look at his aggressor as he approached. The man actually had a rather affable face, with a wry smile and half-closed, feline eyes. It was the hair that threw Zack – that long, silvery waterfall that rippled distractingly with every step.
"It seems I've thrown away my manners in all the excitement," the stranger said with a tone of genuine apology, his slow steps coming to a stop at Zack's outstretched (and throbbing) leg. "I am Sephiroth Masamune, SOLDIER First Class, serving as official recruiter for the SOLDIER division of Shinra Industries, Inc."
Zack stared at him incredulously, for a moment forgetting the rapier in Sephiroth's hand. "…Shinra, Inc.?"
Sephiroth gave a gracious dip of his head in affirmative.
"As in the electric company turned military-tech powerhouse?" Zack pressed further, his confusion evident. "How do they have anything to do with…?"
Sephiroth smiled, and it was a pleasant smile – faintly amused, maybe, but still amiable. "That will all be explained in much further detail by our coordinator later should you choose to join SOLDIER."
"Director Lazard?" Zack hazarded, dredging his blurry memory and trying to keep this 'Sephiroth' talking. The longer he kept that sword lowered, the better.
"Yes, actually." Sephiroth raised an eyebrow, apparently impressed. "I only mentioned Director Lazard once, and yet you remember. You would make a fine SOLDIER recruit."
"What exactly…is SOLDIER?" Zack queried cautiously. If this was really a good deal that Shinra was offering…well, even though thieving was fun, all thieves got caught eventually. It was just a matter of time before Reno, Yuffie, or he slipped up…and then all of their lives would disintegrate from there. But if they could secure decent-paying jobs at Shinra? Oh, the possibilities…
"You could call it a privately-owned, privately-managed paramilitary group," Sephiroth answered after a brief period of thought. "It handles all of Shinra Inc.'s…dirtier issues. It's a quiet force, but a well-respected one. And you will want for no material goods with the SOLDIER pay."
There it is, Zack thought. The dealbreaker. 'Want for no material goods,' huh? Hmm…
And then Zack remembered the poor, unconscious doctor still draped over his shoulder.
"Actually," Sephiroth commented curiously as he, too, seemed to note (with a politely small amount of confusion) the other person in the room. "May I inquire as the nature of this…other party?"
Zack craned his neck to peer at Aerith's face. Long lashes curled shut over those emerald eyes, Aerith seemed alright – her pulse thudded strongly where her wrist had flopped over his; her breathing was deep and unhurried. He felt a slight blush rise to his cheeks and an unsolicited protectiveness stirred within his heart. She's…pretty…
And for some reason, Zack did not want to get her mixed into Shinra business. He cleared his throat. "She's just – she just happened to be there when I…when I fell."
Sephiroth raised a silver brow. "Oh, really."
Zack nodded firmly.
"And why should I trust your word again?" Sephiroth mused, the query almost more directed at himself than at Zack.
"I could ask you the same question," Zack said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a wry grin. "Dude, you sent me a bomb in the mail."
Sephiroth's eyes widened for a moment…and then he chuckled. "Touché." Those cat eyes were comfortable again. "I will take your word for truth if you will do the same for mine."
Zack nodded vigorously. "Alright, then. It's a deal." He offered up a hand to shake.
Sephiroth smiled but shook his head. "If you are truly to become SOLDIER, you will learn the standard SOLDIER way of making promises sometime during orientation. As for now, Zack, let us agree upon a mutual verbal oath, shall we?"
Zack shrugged, retracting his hand, and winced at the sore muscles that complained at the movement. "Sounds good to me."
"Very well, then." Sephiroth stepped closer.
"Whoa…" Zack found himself having difficulty focusing on Sephiroth's suddenly expanding frame. "Why are you…"
Sephiroth settled two fingers on Zack's brow, that amused smile still on his face. "So many questions. Sleep for now, Zack Fair. It will become clear to you soon."
Zack tried to open his mouth to complain – ah, that's not fair, you can't go all mysterious Jedi Master on me now of all times – but then found that his eyelids weighed, like, a hundred thousand tons and thought maybe he could just rest his eyes for a couple of minutes…
And, for the first time, Zack fell asleep without the lullaby of Reno's sleeptalking or Yuffie's snores, instead breathing cool midnight air, a pretty girl leaning on his arm, all under the soulful, watchful eyes of a one-winged angel.
…
Tifa rested her head against the cool car window. The engine purred powerfully under her as they drove past streets made murky by the tinted glass, just barely disturbing the façade of utter stillness in the air. She welcomed the placid atmosphere, though
"We'll be arriving soon," Wilkins said, interrupting the silence.
Tifa jerked at the sudden sound but quickly recovered herself as she twisted to meet his eyes.
Wilkins continued. "When you arrive at our training facility, pay attention to where you're walking – some of the local residents possess highly unstable or dangerous Genii, and straying from designated safe-zones is a guaranteed way to get yourself wounded or, worst-case scenario, killed. Also, please stay close to your guides during the tour; they serve to protect you and introduce you to the Promontory, and it makes it much easier for them to do their job and ensures your continued safety."
"You're not coming with me?" Tifa regretted the words the instant they left her mouth; even to her own ears, the statement sounded petulant and childish – certainly unbefitting of the avenging angel she strove to become.
But Wilkins shook his head, his smile touched with regret. "I'm sorry, Tifa. House rules – Promontory grounds are off-limits to all external staff until they've been cleared for re-admittance by the Espers."
"Espers?"
"It's the shorthand name for any people with Genii relating to extra-sensory perception – ESP. ESP-ers. Espers." Wilkins absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair as he thought. "There's also…let's see…the Viros – en-viro-mentals – who can individually control or manipulate their physical surroundings: elementals, telekinetics, that sort of thing. Then there's the Mass Dynamic group, more commonly referred to as the WMDs—"
"Weapons of mass destruction?" Tifa interrupted doubtfully.
"MDs, or, as the students like to call them, WMDs, possess Genii that influence large areas or groups of people. These Genii can vary pretty drastically; we've got one WMD who's capable of putting over a hundred people to sleep, and another who could send people into such a frenzy that their hearts would burst within five minutes."
Tifa stared and absorbed the information as quickly as she could, suddenly all too aware that her bodily welfare depended upon her ability to remember it later. Wilkins smiled apologetically at the intense expression of concentration. "Tifa…I know it sounds difficult now, but I promise you it gets easier. It's hard to believe, but you'll make friends…and with time, you'll feel way better about this whole thing."
As if on cue, the car rolled slowly to a stop, gravel crunching under its tires.
"We're here."
The car door opened before she could reach for the handle. Tifa cautiously stepped out of the tinted-window, black SUV.
They were parked in the middle of an abandoned parking lot, occupying the pool of light cast by the single streetlamp. Some sort of building stood off in the distance, but only silence and empty asphalt bounded Tifa and Wilkins's little entourage.
"Do you know who they're sending?" Wilkins asked, turning to look at the driver.
"I heard they were sending Red, but I wouldn't take it too seriously," the driver replied dryly, straightening his lapel.
"Why not?"
"Questioning an inebriated Highwind is not exactly what I'd call reliable information reconnaissance."
Wilkins let loose a soft chuckle. "Ah. I see."
Understanding literally nothing of the exchange, Tifa felt highly visible and uncomfortably exposed in the light, as if she were being inspected under a celestial microscope. She suppressed the urge to twitch her head to track every errant movement she thought she saw in the corners of her eyes.
Calm down…you're psyching yourself out, Tifa coached herself, breathing deeply.
"Miss Tifa Lockheart?"
Tifa instinctively homed in at the sound of her name, almost giving herself whiplash as she, along with Wilkins and their driver, spun around to look at the car.
Perched atop the car were two male forms, one standing, arms crossed, the other, smaller one sitting cross-legged, elbows on his knees, torso tilted forward as if to peer more closely down at them. The former was dark-skinned and well-built, broad shoulders and muscled structure wrapped in an unassuming black business suit, complete with patent-leather shoes and leather gloves; his shaven head and sunglasses gleamed even in the weak light of the streetlamp.
The latter was significantly younger – thirteen at most – and physically less robust, his light frame dressed in typical teenager clothing: jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a flannel jacket. His pixie features peeped out from under a mop of untidy light-brown hair, dominated by a pair of wide, intensely violet eyes that seemed to take in everything at the same time.
"Miss Tifa Lockheart?" repeated the younger boy in a clear, polite chirp, fixing that bright, bird-like stare on Tifa.
"Yes?" she finally answered, bouncing her gaze between the boy and the man. Where did they…how…?
A smile broke out on the boy's face at her response. In one fluid movement he brought himself to a crouch, braced his arms, and leapt off of the roof of the car onto the ground. Tifa realized how young he really was as he straightened to his 4'9" maximum height.
"It's nice to meet you," he grinned, stepping forward and offering her his hand. Tifa hesitated for a moment before she shook it, surprised by his manners. "…It's nice to meet you, too."
"As you've been informed, Denzel, Ms. Lockheart here is your ward," Wilkins said, nodding at the boy. "Please take care to keep her safe, will you? We don't need a repeat of the fiasco that happened with Tidus."
"He recovered eventually," Denzel scoffed, his twinkling eyes belying mischievous glee under his offended voice. "And he even has a pretty girlfriend now, Wilkins. Do you remember Yuna?"
"Those two are a couple?" Wilkins said incredulously, his professionalism slipping. Tifa felt the corner of her mouth twitch. For a moment, he'd sounded like any scandalized teenage gossip discussing the latest rumor.
"I know, isn't it weird?" Denzel yipped enthusiastically. "I mean, let's face it, we all know that Tidus is better looking than Seymour, but still—"
The man still standing on the car sighed. Loudly.
"Oh fine, Rude, ruin everyone's fun," Denzel grumped, rolling his eyes and pulling a face at the man. Those violet irises focused on Tifa once more. "Party-pooper back there is Rude. Not as in the characteristic 'rude,' as in his name is capital-R-U-D-E—Rude."
Rude maintained an air of offended elegance as he stood impassively on top of the car.
Tifa couldn't help but chuckle at the bizarre tableau before her. Her face felt strange when she did, as if they'd briefly forgotten how to express happiness during her mourning period – but it also felt right, as if she'd been missing something until she'd smiled. Even the anger she'd been nursing was slipping away, and her heart eased as she laughed out loud.
"Whoa…Tifa, are you okay?" Denzel asked as tears started dripping from Tifa's lashes. Tifa couldn't remember when she'd started to cry, but she could feel the wetness on her cheeks as she shook the rest of the mirth out of her system with more and more exuberant laughter.
And Tifa felt more and more that she had the right to smile.
"Yeah…" Tifa wiped away tears, her eyes red, her sinuses stuffy, but smiling a real smile this time. "I'm okay," she said, and actually meant it.
Denzel seemed to hear the new sense of relief in her voice and dispensed another one of his brilliant little smiles. "Good." To her startled astonishment, he stepped up and gave her a swift hug before moving back again to a respectful distance.
"You seemed like you needed it," Denzel said simply, tucking hands in his pockets as she blinked at him, wondering if she'd imagined the gesture. He turned to Rude. "Are we ready, Nightcrawler?"
"Don't call me that," came the deep, rather resigned voice with another sonorous sigh, and Tifa briefly marveled at his lung capacity, capable of such expressive exhalations. "And yes, I am ready. Are you?"
Denzel grinned. "I was born ready," he crowed. "Alright, well, Jenkins, Wilkins, we'll see you later in the Promontory after you've been through the Espers. Tifa, if you'd be so kind as to take my hand?"
Confused, Tifa cautiously took Denzel's outstretched palm—
And felt her entire body jerk forward suddenly, as if Denzel had given a hard tug – but it couldn't have been Denzel's doing, because she was hurtling through a twisting, blurry tunnel through space—
And fell flat on her ass on top of Denzel, coughing and gasping as she tried to regain her breath. Denzel gave a squeaky little 'whuff' underneath her as she knocked the breath from his lungs.
"Oh…wow, I am so sorry," Tifa apologized, rolling off of Denzel. The teen stirred weakly and gave her a thumbs-up.
"It's…fine," he wheezed, sitting up. Denzel fixed a rather unfocused glare at some unknown point over her shoulder. "No…thanks…to you…Rude."
Rude's silence was unmistakably smug.
Tifa suppressed a giggle and planted her hand on the ground, steadying herself as she stood—
And then stopped.
"Umm…" Tifa's eyes were the size of dinner plates once more. "Where exactly…are we?"
Sprawled before her was what appeared to be a huge university complex, complete with intermittent patches of poison-green vegetation and vast, rambling steel-and-glass edifices that stretched for a few miles before ending at the edge of an even more expansive lake. It was neatly sheltered on the west by a mountain; on the east, a grassy open field glimmered in the fading sunset-light before running into a thick line of untouched forest.
"Geographically, we can't tell you until you've been initiated. But it's beautiful, isn't it?" Denzel beamed cheerfully as he came up behind Tifa, dusting the last of the dirt off of his jeans. "Here's your official welcome to the Promontory."
Tifa stared around, searching for some point of reference. Not an inch of the former nighttime parking lot could be seen. "But then…how—?"
"Rude has a Solo Genius," Denzel explained. "He can bend distances in reality to a certain extent, making it easy for him to 'warp' or 'hop' from one place to any other place on the globe fairly quickly. Naturally, taking other people with him takes quite a bit more effort, but Rude is capable of it."
Tifa looked at Rude with renewed awe. Rude responded with a demure, slightly apologetic silence.
"Then…what about you?" Tifa asked, turning to Denzel. "Do you mind if I ask what your Genius is?"
"I am just irresistibly adorable," Denzel chirruped with a grin, eliciting an eye-roll from Rude. "But in all seriousness, you'll see later. It'll be pretty obvious when I use it."
Tifa decided not to push the subject. She was quickly finding that even the most innocent queries could open a Pandora's box's worth of issues.
"We should probably start heading down to the Promontory," Denzel yawned as he started strolling towards the buildings. "Park us a little closer next time, Rude. Walking all the way down there gets pretty boring."
Rude fumed. Silently.
Tifa was starting to notice a trend with these two.
But even as Tifa took her first step towards her future and her new home, a low wail sounded in the distance. All three of them stopped, and Denzel and Rude exchanged a quick look.
"Crap," Denzel swore, looking to the sky.
The siren picked up volume and pitch with every passing second. With impossible speed, rain-heavy gray storm clouds rushed to block what little remained of the sun, and in under two minutes, the balmy sunset evening had turned into the windy beginnings of a torrential downpour that drowned out even the siren in the background.
Tifa gaped. "What the – but that's impossib—" A raindrop plopped onto her nose and truncated her statement.
"Rule of thumb around here, Tifa," Denzel shouted as a literal curtain of silvery rain approached rapidly behind them, his hand grabbing hers as he began sprinting to the building. "Nothing is impossible!"
And all three of them made a mad dash for the far-off gleam of the Promontory's entrance, leaving only crushed grass and laughter in their wake.
…
Vincent Valentine was not a fearful man.
He frequently walked into dangerous situations with little to no information on hand, fully aware of the myriad deadly ordeals set forth inherently by his occupation. He'd been shot at (more times than he could count), actually shot (twenty-two times and counting), physically beaten to incapacitation (but that was only three times, and even then it had been in a ten-versus-one back at the academy), verbally menaced by anonymous angry parties (he didn't even try tallying), and generally threatened with bodily harm and death every single day of his career as a Turk.
Again, Vincent Valentine was not a fearful man.
But even Vincent – intrepid, brilliant, focused, creative Vincent – feared visiting the "White Room".
And what an apt name. Walls and ceiling spread with bleached-bone paint and furnished with completely white furniture, the White Room housed yet another pale, beautifully ghostly entity within its untainted walls: Rufus Shinra.
The White Room had been another well-thought-through feature built by President Shinra to accommodate their new, living, breathing trump card. With his weakened immune system and still-healing surgical scars, Shinra the junior required a specifically sterilized habitat in which to rest and recuperate. President Shinra, foreseeing these special circumstances, had built a specified biologically clean environment for the newly code-named "White Prince".
What nobody could have predicted, though, was the amplifying effect of the color white on the White Prince's unusual gift.
The second Vincent had escorted Rufus Shinra – no, not Rufus, he reminded himself, the White Prince – into the White Room, a sharp pang of pain had nailed Vincent squarely between the brows and nearly sent him to his knees. Never once in his hazardous career as a bodyguard had Vincent felt quite such a deep, stabbing pain, as if a corporeal metal rod had been driven into his skull.
Rufus had turned abruptly to meet Vincent's eyes, as if also experiencing the same pain. However, with a moment's worth of observation, Vincent realized that Rufus's expression was not pained but surprised – and curious.
Those bright, glacier eyes were slightly wider than usual as Vincent's own vision hazed and flickered. White and blue yielded to even deeper shades of white and blue until Vincent found himself standing in an endless expanse of white, blinking with surprise, an unusually large, white, blue-eyed cat humming a purr a few feet in front of him.
Vincent stared at the cat. The cat stared back. It was certain – that cat was not just looking at him, it was clearly staring.
And then the cat smiled.
It was a difficult phenomenon to describe: cold eyes half-lidded and oddly defiant, little paws neatly arranged under an elegantly arched, white-furred back, ears perked upwards and canted in mild curiosity, its tail's tip methodically curling into a inquisitive question mark and uncurling, the corners of its lips curved upwards into a slight, enigmatic smirk.
You again.
The cat gave a…well, a very Chesire-cat grin. [Yes, 'me again', little Valentine.]
Vincent stared harder at the cat, his eyes shooting a borderline-glare.
So…I wasn't dreaming before. You really are…talking to me. In my head.
The cat twitched its whiskers once and flicked its tail.
[Yes, you are correct.]
And this time, hearing that poetic lilt, that velvet-covered stiletto of a voice, Vincent knew for certain.
…And you really are Rufus Shinra.
The cat smiled again and winked. [As astute as ever, my dear Vincent.]
Vincent had then discovered himself lying on the floor, sprawled uncomfortably on the entrance hall's hardwood floors, a bruise forming on his cheekbone and his head throbbing.
And, as his vision had slowly returned to its normal focus and coloration, there had been the White Prince, perched on the top stair of the safe house, cloaked in white and sunlight, elbows on knees, head cradled in one propped hand, his cat-eyes drowsy yet watchful with his mouth curled in that sweet, venomous smile.
And then, for the first time, Vincent heard Rufus's actual voice:
"Twenty-seven."
Irrational alarm spread through Vincent, and he had to physically repress a shudder as he hastily regained his feet. Some illogical, unconscious instinct triggered a deep discomfort that prompted him, urged him to stand up and recompose himself before…before something unusual happened.
And by 'unusual', he meant 'undesirable'.
"I'm sorry?" Vincent said.
"Twenty-seven," Rufus repeated, leaning to an even more absurd angle with his head on his hand. "Twenty-seven times I've seen your mask slip since seventy-three minutes ago, Vincent." His eyes narrowed slightly and his smile widened. "I'm disappointed."
To his credit, Vincent kept his cool. "I apologize for disappointing you, but what exactly did you mean by—"
Rufus rolled his eyes. "Come on, Vincent. Don't tell me you seriously expected me not to notice. Whenever I catch you off-guard, you look away for a second before meeting my eyes again. It's only for a moment…but it's there."
Yet Vincent could not resist glancing away again as Rufus's eerily piercing blue eyes wandered over him again. On reflex, Vincent's hand twitched toward his gun.
Rufus noticed and smiled again, that feline grin spreading delicately over his face.
"Planning to kill a god, my dear Vincent?"
To kill a god…
And, standing before the looming white structure with its modernistic steel-and-glass frame and sheer size, Vincent could almost believe that the White Room did indeed house a god. The building had been expensive – approximately two million dollars total – but nothing was spared for the residence of the new and unmatched weapon of Shinra Incorporated.
Vincent approached the skeletal building unwillingly, apprehension coiling in his stomach. He reached out with a hand, typed the passcode, and then stepped forward to present his iris and thumbprint to the biometric security system. Only after he had been thoroughly vetted by the Shinra defense system did the airlock open and admit Vincent into its glowing inner sanctums.
With every step, Vincent grew more and more uneasy. White had never been his favorite color, but now…coupled with…that…
Vincent opened the door into the residing quarters before he could change his mind.
White assaulted his vision, bright and unyielding and unashamed. Only the cool chestnut-brown of the hardwood floors offered any solace to the eye, and even then, in the sunlight, the hardwood reflected the light back to the rest of the room.
Discomforted by his temporary blindness, Vincent hesitated for a moment before calling out:
"Master Shinra?"
As he surveyed the developing scene, Vincent felt the back of his neck prickle. He whipped around, his hand actually coming to rest on the handle of his Valkyrie handgun this time.
The White Prince lounged silently on a long, sunbathed sofa set up on a raised deck, staring Vincent down with an amused smile on his face.
Good morning—
"—Vincent."
An all-too-familiar pain throbbed at Vincent's temples. Dealing with the White Prince's propensity to mix mental projections with actual speech tended to give people headaches, and Vincent was no exception.
"Good morning, Master Shinra." Vincent replied, courteous as ever as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the unnatural brightness of the room. He could barely make out the shape of the White Prince on the sofa. "I've been sent to check how you've been healing."
As his eyes focused, Vincent saw the White Prince slide off of the cushions and stand. "Prodigiously, Vincent. All this white—"
—all this glorious white is healing to mind, body, and soul, don't you agree?
Vincent did not respond immediately. He personally found it eerie, the sheer absence of color in the room.
"I see that you don't," the White Prince murmured as he began descending down stairs to Vincent's level. "That's a shame." As he emerged from the glare of the direct sunlight, Vincent could see more clearly the details of the Prince's silhouette.
The Prince took the last two steps onto the same level as Vincent and stopped a comfortable distance away, just out of reach but close enough for Vincent could make out that laconic, self-satisfied smirk.
Vincent stared. There was something…different about him. Naturally, as time had gone on and the Prince had recovered from the surgeries and his stint of uninterrupted bedrest, he'd bounced back from the paper-white pallor, the muscle atrophy, and the general unhealthy weight loss. But there was something else different about him today – something other than those positive signs of healing.
Something…malevolent.
Is it just me…or his eyes a different color?
"So." The sound of the Prince's voice snapped Vincent's attention back to the situation at hand. He crossed his arms and, brows raised in some sort of expectation, settled those unnerving eyes on him. "I suppose I owe you an explanation."
The random statement caught Vincent off-guard, and he flicked his gaze away from those strange eyes – dammit, I did it again. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."
"The cat, Vincent." The Prince said patiently. "The cat, the mind tricks, the hallucinations, the headaches? Weren't you the one seeking enlightenment?"
Vincent blinked. He hadn't had one of those mysterious, pounding headaches in a while – and he'd almost forgotten.
"But before I go divulging secrets with you, let's get something straight, Vincent." The Prince's smile went from animated to…arctic. "Anything and everything I say to you in here, I say with full confidence that you will not repeat a word to anyone else." A raised brow. "Do I have your word?"
Vincent knew there was a correct answer to that question. "Yes."
Rufus's shoulders relaxed minutely. "Good. Now that we're clear – "
– I can properly explain to you the circumstances of our little engagement. You see, when we first met back in that lab –
Vincent got a brief mental impression of the room, and for a second he swore he could smell that acrid antiseptic scent in the air; feel stiffly starched sheets press down on his legs and the hated IV faithfully pumping paralyzing poison into his blood; hear the steady, droning hum of the machines; taste those metallic traces that anesthesia and tranquilizers always left souring the mouth—
[[—Master Shinra…it is now time to awaken—]]
Vincent blinked and swayed as he returned to reality. He nearly fell over out of sheer disorientation as his body realized it was standing, feeling as if he'd been woken too quickly from a dream.
"If it would please you, sir, please warn me before you do that next time," Vincent coughed. He swore he could still taste that saccharine bitterness of sedatives on his tongue.
"Before you do what?" called a mellow, quizzical voice.
Vincent froze at the sound of the unfamiliar tone and automatically straightened, squaring his shoulders and planting his feet in the proper stance of the Shinra Turks. Only then did he dare turn to see who the newcomer was.
Vincent had to stop himself from staring.
What's he doing here?
For there, standing at the entrance of the White Room, squinting owlishly into the light, was the newest and mildest-mannered Head of the Science Department in the entire history of Shinra, Inc.: Dr. Reeve Tuesti.
Rufus smirked slyly and flicked a glance in Vincent's direction.
[[Ah, two men caught alone in a secluded room on Shinra property. What will Public Relations have to say to make this one go away?]]
A/N: Thanks for reading the latest installment of "Chevalier" - if you have any questions or oustanding points on general information, continuity, or even just personal opinions on anything in the preceding text, please feel free to tell me via PM or review! Thanks! It does my muse good to see a review sitting in my inbox...and also makes me type faster... *hint hint* Thanks again! :)