And It Don't Stop
Tifa Lockheart had spent the first dozen or so years of her life mostly unaware that such a boy as Cloud Strife existed, let alone that he existed right next door. She knew he was there, but in the sense that a mapmaker notes a lonesome tree in the middle of a mile-wide meadow. Simple detail, and not worth fussing over.
She had then noticed him – noticed his kindness, his hurt, and his anger. His differ-ences. When he left, she spent the next several years busily falling in love with him. When he returned, cold and empty, it was the same. When they were reunited among a platoon of friends at Radiant Garden, it was the same.
When he arced off into the sky, locked in a battle to the death with his mortal enemy, she was predictably the last thing on his mind. When she vowed on her life to find him, it was the same.
And now she was stomping on daises, cursing the day he was born.
That's amore.
"Selfish ass!" she raged, backhanding an armoire. It flew to ragged pieces that clattered on the floor.
"Heartless bastard!", and a granite tabletop bore her wrath, slamming to the ground in two halves that dredged up clouds of stony dust. The man who owned the house, a well-to-do writer who happened to have gone to college with the nephew of the second cousin of Rita Strife, would have a lot of accounting to do when he got home.
Tifa panted, her fists clenched but down. Sweat glistened on her brow.
"I'll find you, Cloud Strife . . . Just as soon as I-"
She collapsed into a padded chair and sighed. "Whoo! That's better."
But if only there were something to put her feet up on – ah! A misplaced footstool. She pulled it up and kicked back . . . back . . . back. There must be a solid yard of cushion on this thing, she marveled. Those novelist types sure have it good.
Now there was time to think.
"Let's see," she announced aloud. She tended to talk to herself more and more often these days. With the exception of passing meetings with Yuffie or Barret or Cid, conver-sation partners were rare. "Check this guy off the list, and . . . next is . . . That salesman in Kalm! Then, if Cloud's not there, then we'll check Junon again. Third time's the charm. And then . . .
"And then . . ."
And then what?
Did she expect him to run into her waiting arms like in some B-movie? Or promise not to leave again? Leaving places where he was supposed to stay was in his blood.
What exactly do you expect to happen?
Come on, Tifa. You're grounded, you've got a damn good head on your shoulders, and you know by now to be a realist. In every aspect but one. A girl can't dream forever.
The voice was slow, sultry, not like hers at all. But on some level it was hers. And she could not stop it from breathing its terrible logic into her head.
For all you know . . . he could lose to that psychopath, it whispered. For all you know, he could be dead. Knowing that, will you still go on? Will you hope to catch a ghost? Will you spend the rest of your life traveling blind, pining like a forgotten groupie?
The answer came immediately.
If I have to.
. . . She just wished it'd be a little easier, dammit.
(Nothing ventured, nothing gained . . .)
And from behind, in front, and on all sides of her came a voice.
"It can be," it said solemnly, booming.
Tifa jerked and shot to her feet. Where there had only been musty air and swirling dust before, there now stood a figure before her. He stood comfortably on the ceiling, peering at her with his head cocked gently to the side, as if puzzled.
He wore a featureless black cloak that did not shimmer in the light. His face was a dist-urbing portrait of shadow, invisible beneath the hood. The overall effect was unsettling, in a very quiet way. The air felt vague and grim, as if she were the only mourner at a stranger's wake.
"What are you doing up there?" Tifa asked, with wise caution.
"What are you doing down there?" he replied mildly.
She blinked and the stranger was no longer on the ceiling. Now he was standing on the west wall, his tall frame jutting outwards from the wall like some bizarre ornament.
She blinked again and he was on the east wall.
She blinked and he was behind her, close enough that she could sense him. She whirled about, preparing a kick.
"I wouldn't do that," advised the man in the cloak. "After all, we have business to discuss, Miss Lockheart."
"It's 'Ms.'," she heard herself say.
"You want Cloud, Ms. Lockheart. Am I right or am I wrong? Because we happen to know where he is . . . And it would be such a shame for me to have come all this way if-"
There was a blur of motion, and Tifa had a fist at his collar, lifting him into the air.
"Tell me what you know," she ordered, not blinking.
The man's head rocked back like a puppet's, but the hood did not fall.
"I offer a compromise, Ms. Lockheart," he said, as unflinchingly as before. But – was that a touch more coldness she detected in his voice? – as if he were offended by some inappropriate comment she had made.
"You have searched far and wide for Cloud Strife. Surely you do not mind searching a little farther – to a little competition, let us say. A sport in which you are hardly green."
A black-coated glove slid over her wrist and clamped down like a vise.
"Cloud Strife is extremely popular where one such as I comes from. You should have no trouble finding him," he intoned, showing by the position of his head that he was looking her dead in the eye. "That is, if you decide to come along . . . and participate."
Tifa let go of his cloak. In her eyes blazed a message: You better hope you're right.
He tsked, and made a small gesture. "Such a fiery young lady. I wonder if you still have that famous compassion that made your little business venture so successful."
A portal opened into nothing, tearing apart the threads of time. White and black and purple and green and blue and orange, and a thousand thousand other colors, swirled and flared. It was hypnotic – the sort of thing that would drive you insane if you stared at it too long.
Tifa did not. She closed her eyes and stepped bravely forward – hesitating for only an instant.
Her last thought before the awakening was:
Cloud . . .
Please be there.
The starry gate closed, sealing them both into infinity.
That's amore.
By Dragoner