A harsh wind roared through the streets of Kohlingen that evening.
Its citizens, worried about getting literally carried away, had retreated into the warmth and comfort of their homes. Anyone who happened to arrive in this town would have heard only the wind, screaming around corners and through the alleyways.
They would also have seen a handful of cloaked, hooded figures marching toward Rachel Avenue. Then the wind would have roughly ushered the unfortunate visitor out of town.
* * *
The veins in Celes's forehead throbbed like mad.
"I don't mind a little wind," she griped, "but that gods-forsaken rattling is just killing me!"
"Amen to that." Locke winced as the windows of their house quivered like Jell-O. The noise was so loud as to almost damage the human brain.
"How is it that Athena and Rachel—" the ex-"treasure hunter" indicated the crib containing their twin baby daughters "—just have to scream and yell for us in the middle of the night, when it's so quiet you can hear your ears ring, but they sleep like kittens in the middle of this gods-damn hurricane?"
"Children are odd," his wife laughed. "Well, I guess we have this time to ourselves then."
"Yeah...maybe we can, heh, do something." Locke raised a very suggestive eyebrow.
"Oh, you—" Celes dove into him in a storm of giggles. "Yeah, downstairs."
* * *
They headed down into the room where Locke's ex once lay and where the couple now slept.
Both hit the roof at what they saw. Their noses were none too pleased either.
To say that it was a wreck would have won an Academy for Biggest Understatement. Scattered bits of wood marked where a chair had once sat. Shards of clay littered the floor. The wastebaskets had been untidily emptied all over the room. Raw broken eggs decorated everything.
Rachel's bed was the worst. Not only had it too been trashed, stabbed, egged, and repeatedly axed, but the vandals had also adorned it with several unusually fragrant substances normally reserved for toilets.
Celes buried herself in her husband's arms. "What, who...who could've done...done this?" she gasped out between sobs.
Locke's face twisted with a terrible realization. He dashed over to the filth-laden bed. "Ye gods, did they take the—"
The lights abruptly dimmed.
"Yes, and it's ours now," laughed a deep voice behind them. They did an about-face.
Standing at the top of the stairs was a tall blond man wearing a black cape over a snappy blue-green suit. "Did I forget to introduce myself? I'm sorry." He rubbed his neatly trimmed beard. "I'\m Goenitz. I'd love to stay and chat, Mr. and Mrs. Cole, but I'm afraid I've got someone to deliver this to." He held up a small keepsake box.
"NO!" Locke reddened with fury. "Give that back!!!"
He lunged, aiming his Orichalcon at Goenitz's throat. A long purple tentacle flew from the darkness and slapped the ex-thief aside.
"Ultros!" Celes snarled, grabbing a broom-sized Estoc off the wall.
"Uweh heh heh! Don't tease the octopus, kids!" Sure enough, out crawled the great purple eight-legged blob that, after three arse-kickings, Death still refused.
With a mighty roar, Celes leaped forward and thrust. Ultros skittered aside, but the tip of the Estoc caught one tentacle, severing it.
"Yeouch! Seafood soup!"
The rest of his tentacle seemed to turn to liquid for a moment. Then it extended and hardened into two new tentacles.
Celes swore. "You've grown stronger!"
"Damn straight I have! I haven't exactly learned nothing all these years!" he cackled, and raised his tentacle again.
Goenitz stuffed the keepsake box in his coat pocket as he strode for the town gates.
At least he was, until he felt icy cold steel at his temple, a restraining arm around his neck, a pair of soft legs round his abdomen, and warm crystal where the sun did not shine.
"Hi," said a soft voice, "Wanna dance?"
"If not, you'll give us that box," added another.
Goenitz smirked. "I'll decline that offer – I can't dance. Besides, who'd want to with a violent wench like yourself?"
"Smart ass, aren't we?" asked the soft voice with grim amusement. "You know what we do with smart asses? Tell 'im."
"Make 'em piss and moan like an impotent jerk, then give it to 'em up the jography!" announced the woman's companion, or boyfriend, or whatever the hell the man was.
Or king of a certain desert-going castle, perhaps? Goenitz recognized the man's voice.
"Your Majesty, King Edgar of Figaro," he said with feigned astonishment. "Such an honor to meet someone of your bearing."
Edgar melted out of the shadows. "You're so kind. Who might you be?"
"Goenitz."
"So, Gonads, what makes you think you have a right to steal other's items?"
"It's GOENITZ." He growled. Why must nobody get his name right? What a disgusting world they were living in. People were so simple minded these days. Goenitz sighed inwardly.
"Whatever, Gonetits, or Gopiss, or whatever the hell your name is. Just tell my lady friend and I what you're going to do with that little relic, which by the way, happens to belong to our good pal Locke."
"Heh. Wouldn't you like to know?" Goenitz replied, and melted into nothingness.
He rematerialized a couple yards away, and saw the woman for the first time.
She was truly a sight for men's sore eyes. Wavy, green hair tied up into a neat ponytail, emotionless emerald eyes, and clothed in a red tank-top, and a pair of white short-shorts.
"Well, well. You've certainly picked a good one Edgar," Goenitz complimented.
"You're certainly not going to get her," Edgar said venomously.
"I'd hook up with you, but my tight-ass schedule forbids it. Besides, you must be pretty dumb to fall for his pathetic pick-up lines," Goenitz quipped.
"I am NOT his bitch," Terra drawled.
The wind was squeezed from him as she sent her elbow into his stomach. Her other hand descended upon him and pinned him to the unforgiving cobblestones underneath.
She let loose her violet flame, submerging him in blistering hot pain.
Now, it was Edgar's turn. He hefted up his drill, which magically appeared, and ran through Goenitz. He missed. He tried it again. Miss. Then again. There was a satisfying sound of flesh and steel.
"Got you there, didn't I Gonads…Gonads?"
What he had skewered was not Goenitz, but a rutabaga.
"What the—?" Edgar felt a large hand tightly clasp his neck. The hand slowly lifted him off the ground. A small gasp next to him indicated that Terra was in the same situation.
Goenitz laughed maliciously. "You managed to hurt me…a little. None of my opponents have even scratched me." He roughly twisted their heads round to give them a better view of the cut on his chest. "But you two actually made me bleed!"
His lips twisted into a snarl. "So for that, your lives shall be mine."
"Oh, you're a sportsman," choked out Terra. She kicked her legs and thrashed wildly, but no avail. His vise-like grip tightened.
"Yes, I am, aren't I?" he replied. He exhaled.
And the screams of a man and a woman rang out through the uncaring night air.