Final Fantasy VII -- Twisted Chapter 1: Cloud in Seventh Heaven, a final fantasy vii fanfic

An alternate reality version of Final Fantasy VII, 1997-98, revised 2015-2021.

This story is based on the original Final Fantasy VII (© Square, 1997) game, and does not acknowledge any subsequent (collection) additions to the original. Rated PG-13 (language, mild violence, non-graphic sexual situations, drinking, smoking, references to drug use.)

Dedicated to Stephen S., who had been my best reader and harshest critic.

WARNING. Cloud is not very nice to Tifa in this chapter. It doesn't repeat, though. Seriously, though, it all gets much lighter, because I love writing humor. Also, I use "Midgard", since "Midgar" looks like it's missing the final "d" to anyone who knows Norse myths, and that bugs my stickler self. And "Midgard" is prettier. Admit it.

Chapter 1: Cloud in Seventh Heaven

A late autumn twilight descended into the streets of Midgard, and the city flared alive in the soft evening light, glittering like a rich, dark jewel and casting shadows that melted into the rain-greyed meadows surrounding it. Walled off by a parameter of steel and stone that constituted its outer boundaries, it was a city that gathered itself closely to itself while reaching out invisible, preying tendrils like a deep ocean beast. From a moderately-sized town it had been fattened into a metropolis that was fed by mako energy lines leading from mako generators constructed and controlled by the omniscient and seemingly omnipotent Shinra corporation. The upper city, built around the reactors and constructed upon giant plates supported by enormous pillars, boasted luxurious high-rise buildings, well-kept streets, and broad avenues. Access to these sectors was tightly monitored, and only workers with appropriate permits were allowed to board the train lines that led into these privileged zones. Midgard's downtown area and surrounding suburbs where its citizens lived belonged to the upper city. But underneath the plates lurked the slums, popping up like a cluster of squalid mushrooms, their denizens eking out a living in the shadowy grind of the city.

Like the upper city sectors, the slums were numbered sequentially, corresponding to the sectors under which they were constructed. Partly old buildings that used to belong to the original town, partly shantytown, the slums had formerly been the dwelling place of the city's blue collar and working poor that could not afford to live in the city. Makeshift shacks sprung up alongside the older, official neighborhoods as people swarmed into the slums from the countryside to seek work in the city, while others were attracted by the rapidly growing opportunities for high-stake criminal activity and shady dealings. Many of these new shacks were built in a haphazard manner, and although newer than the official neighborhood apartments they were in a significantly poorer condition, and the environs of the city's underbelly rapidly deteriorated. The blue collar worker class fled, some managing to scale into the upper city, others preferring small-town living in the countryside to the new environment in which they found themselves; and the slums became bleaker, a population plagued by lost souls who either hoped to find work in the city or who have given up on the countryside and withdrew into the shadows, conducting shady business on which the upper city's law enforcement rarely infringed.

Shielded by metal and iron, weather in the slums only consisted of temperature changes and the occasional inundation generated by heavy rains that swept over the meadows and drained into the lower-lying areas, where the city authorities never bothered to construct a decent waste disposal system. In severe weather some slum denizens were flooded out of their homes, scurrying into higher areas and packing into already over-crowded neighborhoods. But they always came back, rebuilt, and waited for the lucky break that would rescue them from the misery of their world; or otherwise, for the next flood.

But sometimes in those days of autumn, the breeze blew into the slums and refreshed its dark soul. The light drizzle that had begun that late twilight afternoon soaked the green lawns of the upper city, and drove a wet wind that crept below the plates as if wary of the smells and sounds that it would find there. It stirred the dead leaves that drifted over the locked gates; it quested its way into the entrails of the city; and it blew the fresh smells gently into the depth of a small, shabby bar situated on the margins of slum sector 7.

Sitting at the corner of that bar, its owner caught a waft of that smell of grass and leaves, and could almost sense the new life thriving and growing outside the city's sealed boundaries. He reflected, somewhat grimly, that he had been ensconced inside it for too long. It had been a self-inflicted cage; Barret, an outsider, had chosen to make the slums into his home for reasons that went beyond economic opportunity. The slums were a temporary stop, although it had been a lengthy one; they afforded him a hiding place and an access to his target in his quest to wreak the revenge that had been the drive of his existence for many years. Several years ago he traveled to the city, leased out a tiny, two-story structure in slum number seven, obtained a license to sell alcohol, and called it a bar.

It was, indeed, a poor sort of living. A backroom elevator led to the lower level, which was split into several tiny rooms arranged in a rudimentary manner and sometimes split by a ragged old curtain. These consisted of two tiny bedrooms for himself and his six-years-old daughter, Marlene, a washroom combined with a bathroom, a grubby workroom littered with machines and documents, and a storage room. The people who worked in the bar had to make do with the cramped apartments, or renting rooms in the shacks nearby. But Barret had come from a poor town and was used to hard living. That rainy day, the day when it all began, he sat with his arms folded across his chest, a giant, powerful black man with a dour countenance which seldom betrayed his grim sense of humor. He could not, however, sense the beginning, and instead reflected on the stagnation and decay which he witnessed every day, and marked the slums of the city. Like a reflection of its environment, the bar that he ran was shabby and badly maintained. The windows were grimy, letting in very little light from a world greyed by rain; the tables were overspread with clothes whose fringes were tattered; the counter was of faded wood; and the small lamps stationed on the tiny tables emitted a half-hearted glow. One of them flickered, and a moth buzzed around it, making rasping, repetitive sounds as it slammed its body against it unceasingly. Some of its fellows were sprawled on the floor beneath the table, their wings broken. This dark hole of a bar, Barret thought, which he ironically called Seventh Heaven, was his base and his tomb at once. He never doubted once that one day his luck would fail and the authorities would come for him. But he was fixed on his goal and beyond caring.

This thought lingered as he shifted his gaze to the waitress who was distributing bottles of cheap beer. A tall, graceful woman of twenty-eight, Jesse had fine features and short, auburn hair. A pair of reading glasses perched on her small nose, a barely discernible reminder that Jesse's position as a waitress was a front for her undercover role as the primary technician of Barret's underground resistance group, Avalanche. Jesse came out of her own volition, and Barret had warned her that she had to be ready for the ultimate punishment, the one that he himself had accepted for himself a long time ago. But she, like all the others, seemed to have accepted that possible fate. He had never pressed any of them as to why. He knew that they all, not excluding himself, had a past to conceal.

The hour approached five o'clock. The doors opened to business, and soon a few of the regulars began to drift in. One of these, a tall, bald, browned-skinned man in a shabby suit, took his usual seat at the counter, ordered the usual beer, and drank in silence, waiting. Barret, who knew who he was waiting for, smiled to himself for a moment. He was not, however, the only one. The bar soon became noticeably more crowded as customers flocked in; mostly men ending their workday, or relaxing before their nightly dealings. It seemed a night like any night. Except that then – Barret, his thoughts interrupted, regarded the newcomer intently, his features etched with a frown – then HE came.

The young man had come alone. He always came alone. He strode towards a table in the corner – he always sat in a dark corner – the one with the flickering lamp, and seated himself in a deeply shadowed chair. He was not a regular; he had attended the evening shift the last few days, and always sat at that particular table, as if he sought the shadows. Barret observed him narrowly, as he has done the last few days. There was something about this particular customer that flared an instinctive warning. The young man was undeniably conspicuous among the seedy customers that typically patronized the bar; he was obviously a military man, evidenced not only by his clothes and weapon but also by his controlled, upright deportment. He wore a dark, long-sleeved sweater, black pants and heavy military shoes; sturdy, practical wear appropriate for the streets of the city. Blond hair fell in lengthy strands over his white, serious face, shadowing blue eyes whose color was curiously sharp, and a sword of exceptional quality was securely strapped to his back. And he did not come to the bar for company. He always sat in that dark corner, keeping his face low and soliciting only Jesse for drinks. But his eyes never acknowledged Jesse; he rarely spoke to her except for his orders.

No, Barret thought. It was Tifa that that young man was always watching, his blue eyes following her every movement with silent vigilance; Tifa upon whom his attention had always been fixed. And he was always exactly on time for Tifa's shift.

Not that it was extraordinary for Tifa to have admirers. The tall, bald man at the counter, whose name was Rude, was one of her most devoted cronies; and she had others. It was, indeed, impossible for men to patronize this bar without falling in love with Tifa at least a little bit; she was a beauty, sporty and lithe, whose warm, humorous manner made her a general favorite. Barret could not tell whether her strange admirer has drawn Tifa's suspicion the way it had his own, and he did not want to worry her needlessly by raising the topic. But something about the man's attention to fia bothered him nevertheless. When the first opportunity offered itself, he thought, this man will be permanently banned from this place.

The kitchen door opened and an attractive young woman emerged, distracting Barret's attention. It was Tifa. Yes – and the young man was once again just in time for her shift. The young woman wore a white tank top, and a long-sleeved jacket protected her from the cold. She also wore black shorts and sportive shoes made for lighter weather; her standard martial arts gear. Her lustrous, dark brown locks rippled to the small of her back, and the creamy hue of her skin accentuated her brown eyes. She smiled at Barret as she gathered her long hair into a ponytail, and he nodded curtly in greeting.

"Back from martial arts practice?" he asked. "You can warm up a bit before you start."

"I'm all right," Tifa answered. "I lived in the mountains until I was fifteen. I can take a bit of cold weather."

Jesse, perceiving Tifa, now hurried over and dragged her to a corner. "Listen," she whispered. "I really need to catch up on some work, so— if you don't mind?"

Tifa sighed. "Not again."

Jesse hung her head with an air of guilty constraint. "I— I'm so sorry. It's just that—"

Tifa gave her a friendly shove. "Dammit, Jess, you're just too gullible. I can handle this, you know. And how many times did I tell you to stop apologizing?"

Jesse's face cleared. "Oh! Thank you, and I'm so sor—" She stopped at Tifa's quirked eyebrow. "I mean—yes, I'll be back in two hours, I promise! You're the best!" And on that, she picked her things and rushed out.

Tifa turned to Barret, hands on hips and shaking her head with a mock sigh. "Doing a double shift alone, again. Don't tell me that it's for the good of the movement, 'cause I'm not buying it."

"I said nothing," Barret grumbled.

As Tifa tended the tables, distributing drinks to men only too eager to socialize with her, which made her already hectic shift even busier, she noticed the young man sitting in his shaded corner. When she initially noticed him a few days ago, she felt vaguely interested in him since he struck her as somewhat familiar. But this interest soon gave way to exasperation. He never applied to her for drinks and had averted his face in discouraging silence, hunched low over his table, whenever she tried to address him. But she had a persistent impression that he watched her, his eyes following her in a guarded manner. She forced herself to control an urge to shake him out of that secluded corner, but decided to refrain for the moment, both because there was a chance that she was wrong, and also because she did not want to create a needless scene that would stick in someone's mind, or draw unwanted notice. They were taking enough risks as it was.

Tonight, however, the young man was left without options. This was the first night that week when she was the only waitress; and because he was a new customer, he had not been aware that this option was soon forthcoming. Jesse had to leave Tifa alone many times on Avalanche business. Well then, she thought, this was judgment day. If this young man wanted to be served, he could not avoid speaking to her. It was against her policy of good service; but she decided to let him make the effort to solicit her attention rather than seeking his, somewhat curious to see how long he held out.

For a while there was silence from his corner, and Tifa became very busy. For all she knew, he had left; and she almost forgot about his presence, when his voice addressed her.

"Hey," he said. "Waitress. I'm still waiting for my drink."

His voice was attractive, but there was something curt about it. For a moment she wasn't sure that it was him that had spoken, but the attitude was exactly as she had always imagined it would be from HIM, and she immediately pinpointed him as the source. She stopped in her tracks, turning towards him.

"You must have made the order with Jesse," she replied. "She left a while ago. Just let me know what you ordered, and I'll get it immediately."

"Just get me a beer," was the reply. His face was, as always, low over the table. Tifa caught a glimpse of a finely-chiseled profile. He was certainly a good-looking young man; but what struck Tifa the most was that vague, lingering sense of deja vu— like she has seen him before. It was difficult to verify, given his usual, reticent pose; and she did not want to try for a better angle by getting too close, or being too social, since his manner kept her on her guard. She settled a glass of liquor on the table, and immediately walked away.

"Tifa, Tifa..." one of the men mumbled in a low voice, his hand arresting hers as she passed. It was Rude, her most staunch of admirers. "I feel desperately down. If you could sit right here…. close to me… and comfort me... it would be great... Tifa."

"I see you've had enough to drink today," Tifa said, approaching Rude and patting his fingers gently, with a motherly air. "Maybe you should go home."

"Can't," Rude mumbled, his head sinking low. "Tseng... will be displeased. Reno... mad I didn't wait for him."

"Reno?" Tifa strained her memory. She recalled that name as being associated with a tall, red-headed young man with a charming smile who was a little too free with the witty banter. "Oh, that pain in the ass who came in with you a couple of weeks ago? I'd actually be grateful if you kept him away."

"Yeah, keep him away..." muttered Rude. "Won't... share... you... Tif-f-a."

Tifa laughed. Without ever taking him seriously she was rather fond of Rude, who as far as she knew was harmless, and always meticulously polite, and somewhat shy when sober. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I have absolutely no intention of paying THAT one any special attention."

Rude's response was muffled into the crook of his arm, and Tifa shook her head with a smile, and walked on. After a moment, however, she heard the young man's voice again as she passed his corner. "Hey. I need you to replace this beer. It's vile."

"Would you like a more expensive brand?" she asked, turning to him and trying to remain polite, despite his curt tones. "It's all we have for that price."

"I still expected something better than THAT," he answered, sharply.

Tifa narrowed her eyes at his tone, and crossed her arms. "Then you should either buy something more expensive, or find another establishment," she suggested coolly.

The young man said nothing, his fingers tight around his glass. The weak light of the table lamp flickered again, as if disturbed by the tense atmosphere, and a moth crawled out from a dark corner, its wings fluttering weakly. Then the young man rose to his feet, and faced the young woman fully, still silent. And Tifa, on catching a full look of his face, gave a start, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Cloud? Yes… Cloud, it IS you!"

For a moment the young man became very still. But then his eyes narrowed, and he made a sharp shrug with his shoulders, as if shaking off an instinctive response. He began to turn away. Tifa, however, jumped forward and placed her hand on his arm. "Wait!" she said, her voice shaking. "Cloud, why don't you recognize me? It's me, Tifa! Tifa Lockhart!"

He halted, his eyes glancing at her sideways coldly. "No," he said. "I don't know you. And I'm not sure why you're trying to keep me here after you asked me to leave, so I'll be leaving. IF you don't mind."

"But how can you—" Tifa could not help a stammer. "How can you not know me? It's only been five years!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he answered tightly. His tone was becoming icy, so Tifa gave up the argument and allowed him to walk on. She stood frozen as he vanished through the door, and passed a hand over her forehead. She felt fingers resting on her shoulders. "Tifa," Barret's voice said quietly. "Want to go into the kitchen for a minute, and tell me what's this about?"

She followed him almost mechanically. He seated her in chair and crouched besides her, peering into her face. "Hey," he said. "What's the matter? What's that guy to you, anyway?"

But Tifa only stared at the floor. "Barret," she finally said, "I— I'm scared."

"Scared?" Barret growled, his eyes darkening. "I should've thrown that guy out earlier. Tifa, how do you come to know him? Is he from the city? Did you have an encounter? What is it? Come on, you've gotta let me know. It could be a security issue."

But Tifa shook her head, and raised her eyes to him. "No, it's nothing like that," she said. "Barret, the last time I've seen Cloud it was five years ago, when I was fifteen. He – he said that he doesn't remember me. But he and I have known each other since we were children."

Final Fantasy VII is © Square, 1997. Thank you for this cyber-or-maybe-steampunk masterpiece, boys, which was bursting with such youthful vigor, quirkiness, and vision. I love its dystopian vision, a great mix of Blade Runner, Battle Angel Alita, and The Thing. Just stop destroying it with the collection.