Disclamation! Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

A/N! Due to recent updates (meaning mag77, who is wonderful, told me about the subbed version of the Duodecim trailer), I have decided to see if I can slide Dissidia's newest faces into the this story. Kain's covered, obviously, he was here from the start, but now you can expect to see Tifa and Lightning and maybe even Vaan (Vaan's not a guarantee, because I know absolutely nothing about his character). And, because mag77 is just so wonderful, I now know the context of that conversation between Zidane, Bartz, Squall, and Kuja and it is, well, wonderful~! I'm so freaking pumped for this game! Just as freaking pumped as I am for Julie Taymor's version of The Tempest! Gah! So many wonderful things in my life!

ALSO! I went back through the previous chapters and set up a timeline for myself. It was becoming painfully clear that I'd lost track of the dates within my story and it was inevitably going to screw me over. So I took care of that, went back and re-uploaded chapter five to fix a spot where Tidus says, "we met a while ago at Dream's End," because "a while ago" implies a larger passage of time and my handy-dandy timeline reminded me that, hey, they met at Dream's End YESTERDAY. Mongo difference there!

My handy-dandy timeline has also revealed that, starting at Chapter 0, this story had taken place over the course of five days so far. Wow, even I didn't know that! Anyway, if you've noticed any discrepancies with timeline in the previous chapters, please let me know so can fix them right away!

One last thing, I swear! A couple of you guys were wondering about the KujaxJecht pairing, because it kind of is a pretty random pairing… I was inspired by a conversation on deviantART and yadda-yadda, I've already given that spiel in the review replies, and for a while I couldn't remember a single cut scene with the two of them together, but there is one! At the end of Firion's Destiny Odyssey, there's a little scene where Kuja's picking a fight with Garland and then Jecht shows up, makes a sarcastic remark and demands to join the fight. Kuja stares at him for a moment, then gets all huffy and says, "I've lost interest," and then just up and flies away. YES! There's at least one scene between the two of them in the game~ Yay! :3 (Also, I think they just look cute together!)

THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto


The Messenger

Chapter Six :: Revelations

The front of Bartz Klauser's cottage was reminiscent of a cozy summerhouse porch, complete with swing and small veranda to provide shade when the trees could not. The cottage itself consisted mainly of three rooms: the kitchen and living room were united, set apart from the bedroom, which was separated from the bathroom-slash-laundry room by a short hallway down the middle. The backyard was the same size as the building, if not slightly bigger to accommodate Boko and all the necessary sheds and shelters that went along with owning a large, domesticated bird.

It was a small, comfortable place to live. It was a place where Zidane had always felt so welcome, so at home. It wasn't until now that Zidane realized it wasn't the house, but the man who lived there that made him feel so safe. It wasn't until Bartz was no longer there that he realized just how much of a difference the brunet made in his life.

Zidane sat on the back steps and watched as Boko rooted through the grass with his large beak, searching for fallen oats and maybe the occasional worm. Inside, he could hear the muffled voice of Tidus speaking wearily to the police officers, who had been delayed in their arrival due to a sudden emergency on the road. A car crash, more accurately a car accident—an old silver car crushed under a fallen telephone pole—but it was all the same to Zidane. He didn't stick around to hear the details of the accident; he knew it was Bartz who had been crushed, knew it was Bartz who had had to be cut out of the vehicle and rushed to Order's Sanctuary General for emergency surgery. Zidane didn't need to be told twice, there was no need to put salt on a fresh wound.

Zidane tried to deny the tears in his eyes, but he would've had a better chance denying the need to breathe.

He didn't look up at the sound of the sliding glass door rattling along its track, opening and then quickly closing again, and he didn't look up at the sound of heeled boots crossing the wooden deck. He didn't need to look to know who was standing behind him, especially when that person kneeled swiftly and looped a pair of thin, familiar arms around his shoulders. The sweet smell of Kuja's salon-brand shampoo encompassed him and, though he and his brother had never really been close, Zidane couldn't stop himself from giving in to the embrace. He leaned back against Kuja's chest, bowed his head, and cried.

Kuja laid his cheek on the top of Zidane's head and rocked him slowly back and forth, cooing small phrases that held comfort in the sound of his voice instead of the words he spoke. Kuja held him and didn't let go until the tears stopped flowing, until he felt too empty to continue. Then Kuja shifted so that he was sitting beside his younger sibling and gently tugged Zidane to lean against him.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, keeping an arm around Zidane's shoulders in a soothing half-hug.

Zidane only shrugged, his eyes still fixed on Boko's grazing form. He was almost angry at the stupid bird for being so nonplused by the world surrounding him, so unaware of all that had happened. But mostly, he envied Boko's ignorance, his lack of capability to understand. He wished he could be so simple-minded, only able to focus on one thing at a time—like the grass beneath his feet or the wind rustling through his feathers. That would be so easy.

"Come on, then," said Kuja, rising and pivoting gracefully to stand directly in front of Zidane. He held out his slim hands expectantly. "On your feet, let's go."

"Go where…?" Zidane asked faintly, nevertheless he placed his hands in Kuja's, implicitly trusting his older sibling.

"Order's Sanctuary," Kuja said as though it were obvious and then rolled his eyes. "Bartz isn't dead, little brother, so stop acting like he is."

Kuja held onto Zidane's wrist and dragged the blond inside, leading him through the living room where one of the two police officers was interviewing Tidus and a broad, muscular man who shared Tidus's facial features. Zidane vaguely wondered if this was Tidus's father and how he'd gotten here and why. Kuja flashed the man a familiar smile, but didn't slow his pace—Zidane also noticed how Kuja's eyes slipped to the female police officer and tightened noticeably. He recognized her, too, that much was obvious, but Zidane couldn't decide if his brother was friendly with her or if he hated her.

It didn't matter though, because Zidane wasn't a simple-minded chocobo. He couldn't distract himself from the fact that Bartz was in the hospital.

Zidane looked down at the note that was still crumpled in his fist, gripped in the same hand attached to the wrist caught up in Kuja's demanding grasp. He'd read it after Bartz had rushed from the house, before the police had arrived, and he'd recognized the handwriting immediately.

Something bubbled in the pit of Zidane's stomach. Something like fury.

He'd figured it all out while sitting on the back step, listening to the police interrogate Tidus in the living room after they'd finished interrogating him. Bartz had left the room to answer a phone call—a phone call that Zidane knew nothing about—and while in that other room, he'd found the note—Zidane didn't know anything about the note either. When had Bartz gotten it and why hadn't he showed it to Zidane sooner? Regardless, Zidane had no doubt that the phone call had been distressing and then reading the note had been the final straw, the one that broke the proverbial camel's back. All the stress of today alone was enough to make Bartz jittery, but add that to the past few days and it was enough to make Bartz reckless. Enough to make him irrational. Nevertheless, Bartz had kept himself together very well; he'd managed to brush off an attack from a tree and even make a rather twisted joke about the car salesman. If Bartz hadn't gone into the other room, Zidane figured, then he would be sitting right alongside Tidus, talking calmly to the police. If he hadn't gone into the other room, he would not have taken Tidus's car in a panic and he would not have crashed.

If Bartz had not gone into the other room, he would not have found that note like he did. He would have found it later when he wasn't worried about a missing person and failing in the task that Calais had given him. He would have been calm and he would have continued to conduct himself with admirable self-control.

All the 'ifs' in the world weren't going to change a thing, Zidane knew that—he knew that better than anyone—but there still remained a single, undeniable fact: it was the note that had set Bartz off, the note that Bartz had gotten from Kuja.

Something very much like fury bubbled in Zidane's stomach, it bubbled up and up until it reached his throat and filled his mouth with bile.

He stopped short and vomited onto the rug underfoot.

Kuja yelped in surprise, releasing Zidane's wrist as he jumped back to protect his boots from ruin. Then he sidestepped the mess, took his brother gingerly by the arm, and led him to the bathroom. Zidane sunk to his knees before the open toilet seat, leaning against the cool porcelain of the neighboring bathtub, and watched weakly as Kuja busied himself at the sink. A moment later, Kuja held out a cup half-filled with cool water. Zidane rinsed his mouth, spat into the toilet, and then drank down the remaining water.

"Thanks," he muttered. The anger still writhed in his stomach, but he didn't think he was going to throw up again.

Kuja crouched down in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, fingers twined loosely together, and stared until Zidane met his eyes and held them there. He puckered his lips in thought and narrowed his eyes slightly, and then finally he spoke.

"Why are you so mad?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This is all your fault," Zidane growled out.

Kuja nearly flinched at the accusation. "How so?"

Zidane uncurled his fist and held up the crumpled note for his brother to see. Kuja grimaced slightly and lifted it delicately from Zidane's open palm, smoothing it against his leg and taking in the familiar words.

"I admit I had not anticipated such a dire reaction to this silly little poem. It's hardly even my best work." Kuja shook his head and made a point to meet Zidane's eye once more. "To think it was only yesterday that I gave this to him. It's remarkable how the time can fill up and fly away so unexpectedly."

Then Kuja rose fluidly to his feet—Zidane wondered how Kuja could move so easily in those boots, black suede that clung to his lower legs and boosted his height with spiked, three-inch heels—and smoothed out his pearl-gray cashmere sweater. The dark tones of his outfit made the silver and lavender of his driving gloves stand out like twin beacons and Zidane was hard-pressed to understand the fashion-appeal of that. Kuja held out one gloved hand and hauled Zidane to his feet, acting as if they were the best of friends.

"Come, come," said Kuja, his voice calm and melodic. "We've a friend to visit in the hospital."

"Wait, I'm mad at you!" Zidane protested as Kuja dragged him from the bathroom and back through the living room.

Kuja paused to catch the attention of the broad, muscular man and deliberately ignored the irritated glare directed at him from the female police officer.

"Jecht, be a darling and throw that rug in the wash," Kuja said in the sweet voice he reserved for manipulating and guilt tripping. The broad man only grumbled good-naturedly and heaved himself off the couch, wrinkling his nose as he bundled up the rug and carried it off to the laundry room.

Zidane glanced up at his brother, but Kuja was staring at the officer with a highly superior smirk on his face. The staring match only lasted a second longer and then Kuja exited the house at a smart, brisk pace with Zidane dumbly in tow.

Once past the threshold, the brothers were immediately barraged by the heavy winds, strong enough to make them both stagger the moment they stepped off the veranda. Kuja scowled and released Zidane's wrist to gather up his long, silver hair, loudly complaining about it getting tangled and how the shorter, fluffier layers around his face were blocking his eyes. Then, once he'd collected his voluminous hair in one hand, Kuja snatched up Zidane's wrist in the other and continued to pull him towards his red SUV.

Even crossing ten feet of Bartz's driveway was perilous. The wind struck relentlessly, stinging across their cheeks and slicing through the layers of their clothing, leaving them chilled and shivering. Kuja, as well balanced as he was in his oh-so fashionable boots, wobbled with every step and his direction listed noticeably. It was a wonder he even stayed grounded, he was a very small man and didn't weigh much at all.

Zidane tried to shout to him, ask more about what was going on or further express the anger that had settled in his stomach, but the wind pushed his voice back down his throat. So Zidane, in favor of escaping the chill and gale-force, quit dragging his feet and hurried with Kuja to the car. Once safely inside, the silver brother jammed his keys into the ignition and brought the heaters to life alongside the engine, then he spent a few minutes smoothing out the mess that had been made of his hair. Zidane waited impatiently for Kuja to notice that he was glaring, because Zidane was determined to be angry with his brother.

But Kuja only told him in a low, neutral voice to buckle his seatbelt while clicking his own into place. Zidane didn't fully understand why Kuja was being so overly careful while peeling out of Bartz's gravel driveway until he noticed the second police officer sitting behind of the wheel of the black-and-white cruiser, relaying updates of the situation to the police station through a radio. Once they turned out on the paved street, Kuja pressed a little harder on the gas pedal and removed one hand from the wheel to undo his seatbelt.

Once he was settled into his usual driving position—the fingers of his left hand lazily curled over the bottom of the wheel, forearm resting on his lap, and his right palm dangling loosely over the gearshift—Kuja slid a sideways glance at Zidane, one elegant eyebrow arched delicately.

"Well, go on," he said, "I'm sure you're bursting with questions. There are a few blatantly obvious ones that I'm surprised you haven't blurted out already."

Zidane tried to come up with a way to stay angry and sate his curiosity at the same time, but it was difficult when Kuja was being so uncharacteristically agreeable. Zidane pursed his lips when it became obvious that he simply couldn't be angry—he was upset, undeniably so, but he wasn't angry.

"All right," he said with an air of defeat, "clearly you know way more about what's going on that we do…"

"Indeed," Kuja said silkily, taking the curves in the road with an ease that was startling, considering how only half his mind was on his driving; Zidane couldn't feel any of the expected inertia.

"I… I'm not sure what to ask or…how to say it," Zidane admitted. "I mean… Bartz… I wanna know how that happened…I wanna know who called him and why and… I want to understand what's going on, because nothing actually makes sense when you really think about it! Some strange lady shows up and gives him a list and says to find them, but doesn't explain why and somehow we believe her anyway? Seriously! What the hell? Why would any sane person believe all the crap she told us?"

"Because in your heart, you know it's true."

"It's completely stupid and illogical and—what?" Zidane paused mid-rant; he almost hadn't heard Kuja's low murmur.

Kuja kept his eyes fixed on the pavement while he spoke in a voice that was nearly drowned by the combined rumble of the engine, the roar of the heaters, and the howl of the wind streaming over the vehicle. "Deep inside you, in your heart or your soul or whatever you choose to call it, you know that Cos—" Kuja winced, "Calais is right. It's not something you are consciously aware of; it is far more intimate than that. There is a knowledge branded into your very being, but it is being…suppressed."

"What is it…?" Zidane whispered, awed and terrified all at once. Suddenly…Kuja wasn't just Kuja anymore, he was someone far more powerful. Though he did physically change in any way or shape, there was a perceivable shift in the air around him: a sort of crackling, like static electricity—raw power—waiting to be tapped into.

But Kuja only shook his head. "I cannot tell you that, little brother. I am a mere, mortal messenger. I can only offer hints and occasional guidance; you must find the answer by yourself." Kuja's mouth was set in a grim line. "When you do find your answers, Zidane, beware. This cast consists of many players, some very good and some very bad, and they are not always obvious."


The murmur of the television, currently broadcasting one of the world's many late-night talk shows, was a low hum in the sprawling countryside house, but the silence was so thick that every word was easily heard. From across the living room, seated in an aged armchair by the window, he listened to the host chatter on in a loud, boisterous voice and wondered if he could get away with unplugging the television. He was about to stand and put this thought into action, when the host abruptly switched to a new topic.

"Have you guys heard about all the crazy stuff that went on today in Rift? Well"—he sniggered—"I suppose a more accurate question would be: who here know where the hell Rift is?" He laughed and the audience gave an obligatory chuckle. "Anyway, anyway, so earlier today—around one or two, I think—this guy's car gets smashed by a telephone pole. The thing just fell over right when he was driving by, according to the crash's only witness…who is fifteen, so clearly unreliable." Another obligatory chuckle from the audience. "So the accident is reported and paramedics show up and this guy has to be cut out of the car and rushed to the hospital. But that's not the crazy part!

"Right before the accident, moments even, someone called in a missing person and this 'someone' was the best friend of car-crash-guy, but the missing person was someone completely unrelated. So here we've got Bartz Klauser in the hospital and Firion Bosch is a missing person. We can assume that the two know each other, because best friend Zidane Tribal called in the report. Then, only half an hour later—half an hour, people!—another report is filed and this one is a doozey. Cecil Harvey—man I bet this guy got picked on all through school for a name like that. Anyway, Cecil"—a snigger—"and his partner Kain Highwind are reported missing by Harvey's older brother."

He scowled at how the host ridiculed Cecil's name and how he couldn't even be bothered to learn how to pronounce it correctly.

"After some investigation, the police found out that Bosch took fencing lessons from Harvey Jr., but there's no connection between Harvey and Klauser.

"And then, just to make things weirder, two more people are reported missing! Holy crap, what is wrong with this town?" The host laughed again and the audience chuckled along as instructed. "But these two other people don't fit the established pattern. All the people missing are white men, late teens to early twenties, and are connected somehow. The next two other people are women and they are totally unrelated and they were called in by two different people on different sides of town. Here're the names: Tifa Lockhart and Claire—I love this—'Lightning' Farron. That's one hell of nickname, I'd like to know how she got it." He could hear the lecherous grin in the host's voice and it made his skin crawl, how was this man still on television? "I mean, she's a smart, young Federal agent; I've seen her photograph and"—he let out an appreciative whistle—"I wouldn't mind being arrested by her, if you kno—"

He shifted in his chair so that he could see the television set, curious as to why it had suddenly gone quiet. A tall, slender woman with porcelain skin, silken pink hair, and razor-sharp eyes stood over the monitor, plug dangling from her right hand, left hand placed akimbo on her hip. She looked ready to kill.

"Repulsive," Claire growled. She was still dressed in the smart black slacks and fitted black button-up that she'd been wearing when she arrived, though she'd dropped her government-issue bulletproof vest for comfort purposes.

He smirked. "I'm surprised you didn't shoot it."

She glowered. "Theodore took my gun."

"With good reason," he said, managing to joke in his mild, unexpressive tone. "You would've destroyed his television set."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't see why he'd care, he never actually watches it."

He shrugged and sunk back into the armchair, returning his flat stare to the windowsill. He didn't care for the sprawling countryside or the penciled lines of the barbed-wire fence that held in the distant neighbor's multitude of cattle. He didn't care for the view that stretched miles away from the window. He only cared for the nearby figure that stood on the edge of the porch, lost in his thoughts as he stared out at the endless expanse of dry, western territory.

He heard her sigh and listened as her sensible shoes tread across the thin carpet, she came to stand behind his chair, leaning against its wide back with folded arms.

"Give him time, Kain," she said gently. "It's a lot to take in. If not for the years of studying psychology, criminology, the police training, and data analysis for the FBI, I'd probably be as overwhelmed he is right now."

"I suppose we've both had an unfair advantage over the others," he remarked. "We've both been trained to stay collected in any kind of situation."

"Also, and I'm sure you realize this, he also had the disadvantage of your job requirements."

Kain frowned and bowed his head slightly, the greatest mark of his displeasure. Ever since they had met so many years ago, Kain had held to his sworn secrecy and explained away his sudden absences as spur-of-the-moment vacations. But as they had become closer and closer, the lies became increasingly difficult, because he couldn't just "fly to Europe on a whim" anymore. He needed legitimate excuses and reasons to not bring his partner along—so he became a researcher, an article-writer for a historical magazine. His trips became less "fun" and more business and though Cecil was welcome to come, it would be terribly boring to hang out in a foreign city alone while Kain met with and interviewed professors and historians.

He was lucky that he wasn't called away for international missions as often as some of his fellow agents and almost always spent every night in his own bed. If he had to endure anymore than the occasional weekend away from home, Kain didn't think he'd able to keep his real job a secret.

"I know that he understands why I had to lie," said Kain, "and he knows that I understand why he's upset about it anyway."

"No matter how logically he thinks about it, deep down it still feels like a betrayal of trust," Claire said wisely. "Add that to everything else that has recently been dumped on him and suddenly it's like nothing he's ever known is real, not even you."

Kain nodded somberly. "But he'll come around."

"Are you confident in that or are you trying to convince yourself, because you're not actually sure?"

"You're off-duty, Lightning, there's no need to analyze me." The scowl was in his voice; his expression remained impassive.

She pushed off the chair and moved to stand beside it so that she could ruffle his hair in something like sisterly affection. "You're off-duty, too, you know? It's okay to open up a little."

He brushed his hair away from his face and glared at her retreating form. When he looked back at the window, he caught the fading wisps of magic as a second figure materialized on the front porch. He watched Cecil flinch and leap away like a skittish horse. He couldn't hear the words being spoken, but it was clear that the newcomer was flippantly assuring that he would do no harm.

Moments later, the front door opened and the distinct clip of heels against the hardwood of the entryway preceded Kuja's entrance to the living room.

Kain stood and addressed the slighter man. He tried not to come off rude, but it couldn't really be helped given the questions he was asking. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital with your brother and his friend?"

Kuja clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Such hostility. I am here only by request and I won't stay long. I am needed at the hospital after all."

"Who called you?"

"I did."

Both turned to the open doorway and the figure that stood under the yellowed light of the hallway. He looked pale and unhealthy, like he hadn't been getting enough sleep, but he also looked determined.

"Absolutely not," Kain said immediately. "You're in no state to go anywhere."

"Not even to a hospital?" Firion asked ironically.

"Especially not to the hospital. If you go there, he'll know the minute you step through the front door."

"Perhaps," he conceded, "but he won't get me."

"Of course he'll get you. Do you realize that the only reason Light is there is to draw you in as well? It's a trap and I can't let you walk right into it." Kain had the remarkable ability to shout without raising his voice, it was a skill he'd picked up from years spent in espionage and had perfected to an art form. Usually, he could cow even the hardest man with the chilling baritone of his voice, but this sleep-deprived boy standing before him was not entirely fazed.

"I realize it's a trap," Firion said impatiently. "He's the master of traps, I'd be surprised if there wasn't some kind of trap waiting for me. But that's exactly why I have to go. Bartz is in that hospital, too, and wherever Bartz goes, Zidane is not far behind and I know that Tidus is with them now. Why else would Zidane report my disappearance?"

Kain let out a long, frustrated breath; years of espionage had also told him when an effort was futile. "You'll go no matter what I say, won't you?"

"Yes."

Kuja stepped up, grinning with lazy arrogance. "Don't worry one bit, canary, I'll keep him out of trouble."

An instant later, Kuja and Firion vanished in a pulse of magic and Kain sat heavily, dropping his head into his hands. He was hardly convinced of Firion's safety, because he knew from experience that trouble was something that came, unbidden, to Kuja's side.


Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring—click.

"Hey, what's up? …Uh-huh. …Yeah. …Hey, hold that thought, I'm not actually here right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P. so we can continue this wonderful conversation! Thanks!" Beep.


A/N: Okay, this will the be the last chapter for at least three weeks, because the next two weeks will be a mass of studying, performing Pericles, and then finals weeks. After two weeks I'll be off on Winter Break and my goal is to get chapter 7 up by Christmas.

And I hope Lightning wasn't out of character… I've never played FFXIII and, as I mentioned above, she's a recent addition to the story.

Thanks for reading and please review!

:) Astrum