Between the Shadows

By: Ethereal Fury

Chapter One: Zephyr

It was a dark and star-free night in the expansive continent of Zanark. The timid moon ducked playfully in and out of passing clouds as if engaged in a solitary game of hide-and-seek, shining a teasing snippet of silvery light unto the landscape. Twinkling stars were hidden from view by thick, puffy, tinted clouds that threatened to spill their menacing watery contents without prior heed. In the occasional dim moonlight, the unmoving scenery exuded unspoken secrecy and mystic intrigue. Not a soul dared disturb the calm of night or reveal the dark secrets and ploys hatched in the placid gloom of the deepening shadows of the winding alleyways of Zion. Not even a blade of grass dared sway in the tranquil breeze that swept through the city, but a lone hooded figure, oblivious to the surroundings and the occult perils that lay awaiting an incautious victim, crept stealthily and purposefully through the flickering shadows of the side streets. The figure's head turned imperceptibly from side to side, glancing in both directions of the narrow street in an attempt to discern what only the night and the figure knew.

A black cat crossed the figure's path languidly and, abruptly, the hooded frame halted at a plain wooden door undistinguishable from the hundreds of neighboring ones. Squinting against the dim glow of the emergency light situated above the doorframe at a small square of white paper, the figure confirmed its destination and rapped brusquely upon the unadorned door three times. Muffled movement was heard from within as a heavy frame shuffled to the inconspicuous entrance and the peephole was pulled back to reveal a pair of eyes peering suspiciously at the figure. In the deficient light, it was impossible to determine the color of the irises.

"Password?" the mysterious pair of eyes whispered, straining to see past the dark capuche in the almost nonexistent light.

"Lrulumyda lraacalyga," came the reply from underneath the hood. The foreign language rolled abruptly and awkwardly from the hooded figure's tongue. That dialect had not been spoken in the land of Terra for hundreds of years and its harsh guttural sounds were a stark contrast to the flowing eloquence of the figure's native Zanarkist tongue.

"Jano famm, bmayca lusa eh (Very well, please come in,)" the eyes echoed, much more fluent in the same archaic idiom as they disappeared from view and the creaking wooden door was pulled open. The aperture was barely wide enough to allow the hooded tall and robust frame entrance to the concealed interior.

The figure squeezed through the narrow doorway into a deceivingly welcoming fire-lit tavern and peeled back the hood to reveal a handsome youth of seventeen with jagged brown hair, calculating sapphire eyes, a scar above his right eye, and a sparkling silver stud in his left ear. He knew better than to trust appearances; the amiable aura that emanated from the brick fireplace belayed the true sinister character of a place buried so deep in the heart of the notorious Zion alleyways, where militarists and troublemakers were known to congregate. The Zion side streets were known throughout Zanark and the other nations of Terra as the most unsafe in the continent, perhaps one of the downsides of being the capital and biggest city of the exemplar country and most advanced nation, Zanark. Knowledgeable of this disrepute, the youth took no chances and warily scanned the room.

At a table in the far corner away from the radiance of the fire, almost fully occluded by the shadows cast by the burned out lamp that hung above it, four men clad in black played cards, thrusting exorbitant amounts of money onto the wooden table and keeping a hand on the butt of their unconcealed guns in case one of the players had the audacity to cheat. A man sitting comfortably in a cozy armchair by the fire polished his rifle—standard Aerian war issue— lovingly, running a rag over the rotating barrel with the expert deftness of an experienced soldier. Many other people sat in huddled clusters, carrying out whispered conversations, wisps of the rough modern Aerian tongue drifting to his ears. The youth shifted his azure gaze quickly around the room again, noting the Aerian black and red flags proudly displayed on the walls, and then to his watch. Good, he was a bit early; that was always important—a late arrival would likely reduce his pay. It was better he wait than they wait. With this in mind, he strode over to the bar and ordered a drink, watching the tavern-goers with scrutiny. Within five minutes, two imposing men in black with two red stripes on their shoulders and armed to the teeth approached him. They looked not much older than himself, twenty or twenty one perhaps, and eager to please whomever it was that had sent them.

"Ze-phyr Le-on-stri-fe?" one of the men inquired hesitantly, noticeably struggling with the melodious words of the Zanarkist name.

The youth nodded, "Yeah." He knew better than to say more until the two men stated their purposes.

"Good, the Boss awaits. Follow us," the other demanded slowly. He spoke in the fluid Zanarkist language, but it sounded rough and abrupt, laced with what the youth identified as the thick accent of the northern mountains of Aerith.

Zephyr downed the remainder of his glass with a gulp, placed a five-Zanarkad bill on the counter for the barman to collect and followed the two men through a narrow corridor off the back of the tavern to a small anteroom framed by two doors. He glanced suspiciously at his two companions and at the antechamber he found himself in; years of training had taught him to be wary of everything and always on the highest alert. Not like these two wimps would pose any problem for me, he thought with an inward arrogant smirk whilst his semblance displayed nothing but indifferent boredom.

"Fyed rana, Declan, fydlr res," the man that had prompted Zephyr to follow stated gruffly to his fellow guard, entering the door on the right upon receiving the confirmatory nod from his partner.

Zephyr leant against the wall to await the reappearance of the guard and his admittance to 'the Boss's' presence. The command had been spoken in a gruff modern-Aerian mumble, probably assuming the youth's complete ignorance of the language, but Zephyr's Akademy training had endlessly drilled him in the knowledge of the various languages of Terra with the pretext that a spy and mercenary had to easily handle a foreign environment. He could speak Komarkese almost like a native because of its evident evolvement from Zanarkist colonization and contemporary Aerian with some difficulty due to the sheer dissimilarity with Zanarkish, but the writing and understanding of the languages came with ease. All the young guard had told the other was to wait and watch him. Zephyr turned his head lightly to study the youthful warden that kept an unblinking vigil on him, watching Zephyr's every move with a hand on the butt of his gun.

Declan, the other guard had called him; what would bring a young Aerian teen out of Aerith and into the heart of Zanark? With a shake of his head that startled Declan and caused him to draw his gun, Zephyr wondered why he would even care what this guy was doing here and glanced at his watch again. He only had about an hour before his absence would raise suspicion back at the Akademy, and he was sure Reed would be delighted to see him in trouble. Let him be as delighted as he wants; I'll just kick his ass in training tomorrow, he thought with a mental chortle. His reticent glee was interrupted by the creaking of a door.

"The Boss will see you now. Through this door," the man that had previously exited the room said, speaking slowly and clumsily in Zanarkish once again.

Zephyr nodded, pushed himself off the wall and followed the man through the door, flanked from behind by the other — Declan— and his drawn gun. He walked into a darkened and elongated narrow room, presided by a lengthy table lit by candles at regular intervals. Guards like those that had escorted him into the room, albeit older and more experienced with obvious battle scars, encircled the table. At the head of the table was a black high-back chair, turned away so all that could be seen was a wrinkled pale hand. Zephyr narrowed his eyes and quickly scanned the room, weighing the chances of a successful escape should things get ugly.

He counted fifteen guards, though he suspected a few more kept a strict vigil on him from their concealed spots in the room's various shadowed nooks. That gave him little chance of retreat; he knew he was good, but even he couldn't take on more than fifteen armed guards without his weapon. Hand-to-hand combat wasn't his particular forte; he was naturally gifted with the mystic gunblade. He had no choice but to hear 'the Boss' out—at least—so he stepped up to the table and waited for 'the Boss' to begin talking. He had been taught never to pressure a potential employer; tonight, he would put his Akademy training to good use. A voice coming from the chair began speaking in a cold and almost screechy tone, much like nails on chalkboard.

" Miehsn nul (Search him)," came the gruff authoritative command. Three guards immediately stepped forward, forced his hands onto his head and ran handheld scanners that bleeped and blinked as if they were alive over his clothes and hair, searching for a hidden microphone or camera. Having satisfied themselves that the youth was clear, one of the guards nodded to the high-back chair and muttered, " Ymm lmayn, cen (All clear, sir)."

Whoa, okay, these guys are serious-- I mean, a search?! And those nifty Megatron plasma scanners that can analyze even your most basic body molecules cost at least a couple million each on the street, if you know where to go. They're certainly no amateurs; I mean, ZEG's stocked up on those, but ZEG's like national security, Zephyr thought in amazement, straightening out his clothes and waiting again for the voice from the black chair. He'd have to be much more careful than he had originally thought; he wasn't dealing with some street gang desperate for help-- Megatron Plasma Scanners? Those things were hard to come by, even on the illegal market. His wonderment was interrupted once more by the raspy voice seemingly emanating from the depths of the high-back chair.

"Zephyr Leonstrife. Aged 17. Top student at the elite Zion Akademy of Espionage and the Battle Arts. Gunblade specialist with exceptional sniper qualities. Destined to take the ultimately challenging ZIFE exam this term. You're pretty well known in the area," the voice stated slowly and deliberately, pausing after each fragment of information as if he were reciting a memorized paragraph.

Strange. He's speaking in fluent Zanarkish with only a twinge of a foreign accent; the other two could barely string two words together. He doesn't seem Aerian yet he's undoubtedly the boss of an Aerian gang; the meeting place, the password, the flags… and how does he know so much about me? I haven't heard of any active Aerian gangs that hired ZEG-to-be's, Zephyr thought. A tingle of familiarity waltzed uneasily down his spine; that voice seemed vaguely familiar. He shrugged it off indifferently and focused on what the man had to say, "That's me. Guess word goes around fast."

"Much more so than you would think, young one. But enough of that, let's talk about why you're here. We have a mission for you, for which you will be handsomely recompensed," the voice continued shrilly, getting straight to the heart of the matter. The faster they got through this clandestine meeting, the better; he had a lot of planning to do. This mission he was about to commend the boy with was of the utmost importance—years of meticulous scheming would finally pay off, they couldn't afford to leave any detail overlooked. Oh yes, he had a lot to do; getting the boy involved was only the beginning. Finally, revenge would come to him, and it would be oh so sweet.

After a subtle hand signal from the man in the black chair, a small white package was pushed across the table to where Zephyr stood. Akademy training subconsciously kicked in and he eyed the package suspiciously before probing it lightly with a pen he found lying atop the table. "What's this?" he inquired. Rule number one Leonstrife, never pick up anything until you've made sure it's not explosive, his inner voice stated, reciting what he had been taught in his first Akademy lesson. He didn't trust this unseen man, and he wasn't about to be blown up by sheer curiosity; if they could afford plasma scanners, they could fashion any type of bomb. It wasn't all that hard really.

The voice spoke up again in its chilly, gravelly manner. "That's to aid you on your mission," it replied. There was an unspoken finality to the statement; it left no room for argument as to whether or not Zephyr would carry out the mission. It seemed to have been decided beforehand without his input or approbation. "You can pick it up; it won't explode."

Zephyr nearly smirked; what, did this man think he was stupid? He wasn't the Akademy's best for no reason. He signaled to one of the guards beside him to pick up the package, and upon confirming it was indeed harmless, took it warily in his hands and shook it lightly. "What's the mission?" he asked, placing the package back on the table. He wanted to get through with this meeting as much as the man that had organized it did. At least they agreed on that.

"We want you to," the voice paused dramatically. Zephyr thought, with slight cynicism, that if this were a movie, the cheesy suspense music would be reaching its resounding climax by now. But this was no movie; it was the reality of his life. "Assassinate the President of Zanark," it concluded triumphantly.

The chair whirled around to reveal the owner of the voice. He was the ugliest man Zephyr had ever seen—a scarred and half-burned face with snake-like slits for nostrils, one eye scarred permanently shut and the other seemingly an eerie red color, and pale cracked lips. The rest of his body looked no better—burnt and shriveled, wrinkled and in some parts limp. Zephyr took an involuntary step back in disgust, and after quickly averting his gaze, forced his eyes back unto the monstrous man in front of him.

"Assassinate President Jecht? You kidding me? Apparently, you're not very up-to-date with Zanarkist politics; he appears publicly everywhere with at least ten bodyguards. It's virtually impossible to get within 10 feet of him. What am I supposed to do, waltz up to him and go "Excuse me Mr. President, may I kill you?"?! That's crazier than deserting a young woman in these alleyways and expecting her to come out alive. And how 'handsomely recompensed', as you put it, will I be anyway for such a daring action?" Zephyr inquired incredulously, heavy cynicism tainting each of his words. He knew he should be courteous to a prospective employer but what this man wanted was damn near suicide! Assassinate the President of Zanark and the Terran Council? That was insane.

The man in the chair grinned maliciously, revealing a mouth full of cracked and missing teeth and gums of a bluish hue. In the dim candlelight, he looked utterly monstrous. "You underestimate us, Zephyr," he stated in a cold voice that sent chills down Zephyr's spine. The boy had changed so little; that trademark cynicism of his was still there, and that response had been quite funny. If this hadn't been such a serious affair, the man would have had a good chuckle. But now wasn't the time for that; it was time for business. Zephyr would become involved regardless of the cost. "You will be paid 100,000 Zanarkads. The President will be holding a reception for his recent re-electoral victory at the Presidential Mansion in two weeks. We expect you to be there, learning all you can about him, his security measures, how he walks, how he talks… everything. Hell, you can even figure out the color of his underwear for all we care."

"What, you expect me to just stroll into the Presidential Mansion just like that? Tell ya what, why don't I just put on a flowery dress and hang from my neck 'I'm here to kill the President' and jitterbug my way in there," Zephyr retorted sarcastically, shaking his head in disbelief. "How the hell do--?"

The man interrupted him by snapping his fingers, its strident sound ringing loudly throughout the quiet room. Immediately, one of the men stationed around him brought forth a sheet of paper and laid it in front of Zephyr, who glanced at it curiously from where he stood. It was a map of some sort. The man in the chair cleared his throat in a horrific sound that resembled a rusty saw. Zephyr shuddered and raised his eyes to meet the man's once more. The lone eye had a youthful amused twinkle sparkling in it, playing off the flickering candlelight.

"As interesting as that dress proposition may be, this is no joke Leonstrife. What you have in front of you is a floor outline of the Presidential Mansion. As I'm sure you are aware, the President's reception is by invitation only, so you will have to determine how to infiltrate it. We give you complete creative freedom there. Security will be at its highest, but I'm sure entering a building will be effortless for such a talented young man," the man smiled again, that twinkle still in his eye, before continuing. "The actual reception will be held in the main ballroom, down on the ground floor, so while everyone is enjoying the President as a host, you will be investigating the President's files upstairs. A breeze, I'm sure."

Zephyr cocked his head and rolled his eyes lightly. "Oh, totally. I'm sure the mission isn't that simple; there isn't all that hype about entering a building."

The man shook his head in an almost appreciative gesture. The boy was smart, really smart. Perhaps he really proved true to the legendary reputation that preceded him. All the better for them. "Of course not. A week after his reception, after the conclusion of the Council's annual summit, the President will be addressing the nation to announce a restrictive treaty that will further limit Aerith's military might. The speech will take place publicly here in Zion for anyone who wishes to attend and will be retransmitted to all of Terra. You will be hiding on the roof of a nearby house and from there fire the shot that will end his life. Not a problem for a sniper like yourself."

"And if I were to miss?" Zephyr inquired. It was more out of habit than anything that he asked the question; if he really put himself fully into the shot, it shouldn't be a problem. He could hit a running hare in pitch dark; a stationary man on a fully-lighted stand he could do with his eyes closed. Perhaps except President Jecht; it depended on the security around him.

"Don't," the man finished, a semblance of a smile on his twisted features.

Zephyr cocked his head and studied the man with scrutiny, analyzing his proposal. Assassinating the president of his home country was risky, very risky, and innumerable things could go wrong. But, he was no coward and he would not back away from a challenge—and this was a big one. Besides, despite all he had said before, perhaps it was less than it seemed. President Jecht was well protected, yes, but you can't really protect a man from a sniper unless you know he's there. In all its morbidity, it could even be fun; it'd be like hunting a lion with a slingshot. He wasn't committing to anything yet though; they'd had to pay him more than that "Two hundred fifty thousand Zanarkads and I'll consider it," he said, looking the man straight in the eye.

That wiped the confident smile off the man's face and he frowned. The boy was more than doubling the price, but they needed him; he was the best there was. And they could not miss the great opportunity given to them by the President's public appearance; they had to complete the mission then or else Aerith would never rise to power, led by them. They had been trying without success for ten years, waiting for someone with a talent as invaluable as the boy's; they needed him, he needed him. Much more was at stake than a simple assassination and the dictatorial rise to power of an undermined nation, roughly oppressed and vastly ridiculed for the majority of its tempestuous history. He frowned more severely, causing deep crevasses to appear on his already wrinkled forehead, and looked at his commander-in-chief, who slowly nodded in agreement. The boy was to be become involved no matter what, that had been the deal. No matter what. Finally, after a moment more of contemplation, the man spoke up, "Two hundred thousand, and that's final."

Zephyr shook his head, causing wayward jagged strands of chestnut hair to fall over his eyes, evoking an imperceptible strangely wistful smile from the man. "Hey, you've got the money; those scanners you used on me don't come for less than 1.5 million Zanarkads, and that's if you know the dealer. And you've got three, at least, so a little more cash won't hurt. 225,000 and we have a deal; you need me more than I need you," he said. Okay, that's not entirely true, but whatever, he amended silently.

The man nearly smiled again; the boy really did know his stuff. He was right and knew it, those scanners had cost him a bit over two million each, and he had four along with laser binoculars that could see through concrete and a few other multimillion-dollar gadgets, most of which were courtesy of his backer. Nonetheless, he wasn't about to be pushed around by some know-it-all runt, regardless of who he was. The man narrowed his eye menacingly. "Don't bargain with me boy," he threatened.

Zephyr held the man's gaze steadily, unwavering. This was his turf and he knew it; he probably knew more about whatever contraptions the man may have had than his entire gang put together. And he would use that to get his way; hell, he'd be risking his liberty and his life, he could at least get decent pay. "Two hundred twenty five thousand and I'll do it. If not, you can find someone else, and good luck with that," he replied evenly. He noticed the man broke the intense eye contact and glanced off to his side.

There was an almost proud smirk on the man's twisted features—a slight curvature of his pale cracked lips, really— as he paused in hesitation, seemingly debating whether to accept the impertinent youth's counteroffer or signal his men to eliminate him immediately. The grin grew slightly wider as he fixed his gaze back on Zephyr, who was standing calmly with his arms crossed across his chest and an arched brow waiting for a response; his father would be so proud, and he had reason to be. The youth had beat him and gotten his way. "Very well boy, 225,000 it is. I take it you accept the mission, then?" the man inquired after a moment more of silence, placing a hand lightly on the handle of his gun. It was a rhetorical question, if anything.

Zephyr was silent; the query had been more a statement than a real question. If he wanted to decline now, he would have to fight his way out of the room and triple his guard; witnesses to the plotting of an assassination were a threat if not dead and he was sure the man before him was not above killing him to achieve his goal. The man had said it himself, if not directly then implicitly: the President was to be assassinated at all costs, regardless of who stood in the way. If it was him, then he would be dealt with and another would be found. Zephyr knew he really had no choice, that his demurral to answer was just that, a postponement of the inevitable: his participation in the 'mission' was an unavoidable fact, just as his name was Zephyr Leonstrife and he was a seventeen-year-old Akademy student. There was no contending those two certainties, and there was no disputing he would be the one to end President Jecht's extensive run in the political— and physical— world.

Honestly though, while he still had time to ponder it, he hadn't really expected the man to agree to his 225,000-Zanarkad bid. For any amount less than that, he would have walked away from the offer without looking back; fought his way out if need be, killed as many guards as necessary, saved himself the trouble of an extremely perilous mission for an insufficient remuneration. What this man had planned was treason of the utmost degree— assassinating the elected political leader of Terra's most powerful nation!— and execution the inescapable consequence were he to fail or be found out. He certainly had to be crazy to agree to undergo such peril, maybe not willingly, but certainly not fully unwillingly. The grand sum of money offered for his audacity hung over his head like a weight, quashing any rebuttal or refusal his moral scruples may have weakly voiced— he'd be killing a man that had done nothing to him, or for him. Although he had no personal attachment to or particular like of Decan Jecht, he was the president of the country, a country Zephyr had lived in for the entirety of his life and undoubtedly grown to honor and respect and even love in that peculiar way only natives could. Patriotism they called it; the belief that the love for one's country overruled all personal desires and made people willing to do anything and everything for that country. Yes, Zephyr liked Zanark, but he was a mercenary and as such his 'love' lay where his employer's pocketbook lay; it could be momentarily bought and sold with the cold blue color of Terran cash. 225,000 Zanarkads was a lot of money, even for an elite ZEG mission, and he could make good use of it. Very good use of it, but was it worth the risk he'd be running?

He closed his eyes in weary meditation; he hated this side of himself, always thinking and analyzing everything too much. He couldn't afford to do this, think and analyze and worry and whatnot, when he became part of ZEG, it demanded unwavering obedience and efficiency without question. Thought and analysis were not a part of an Akademy-approved ZEG mission; agents had to do exactly as the employer requested and trust the employer's personal judgement. Only when specifically asked were they to give input, always impartial and objective and directed at the best completion of the assigned task. Zephyr opened his eyes briefly again and scanned the room quickly through half-lidded eyes, resting his gaze on the man in the black chair at the head of the candle-lit table. The man's lone eye seemed to be watching him with an expression between amused and impatient. There was something too familiar about him, and not knowing quite what it was unnerved Zephyr. With an inaudible sigh, he closed his eyes again and immediately his younger sister Storm's hungry blue-green eyes appeared in his mind, as if haunting him. She was too young to join the Akademy, a mere six years in age, and by law was forced to live with their alcoholic mother, their father having been executed for treason against Zanark a month after their mother had become impregnated with Storm.

Oh yes, dear mom who spends whatever money she can get a hold of on alcohol rather than food and is too drunk half the time to even care about anyone else's wellbeing, Zephyr recalled bitterly. Thinking about his family, lest it be Storm who was awfully cute in his opinion, never evoked anything but hateful acrimony from him. He had run away from home at the tender age of eleven, three months after Storm had been born, when his mother's constant drunkenness had become too much for his young shoulders to bear. After a few weeks on the streets in Zion's harsh winter winds and blustering blizzards, Zephyr had gotten a job as an overworked and underpaid apprentice in Zion's steel factory to provide for himself. He had soon after stumbled across and enrolled in the Akademy—after all, it was the only school that was willing to take him in exchange for his innate combat skills.

Every once in a while, whenever he was not swamped in work or training and could either obtain a permit or sneak out in the morning, he returned to his home in what had now become the slums and took Storm whatever food he had collected from the Akademy's cafeteria. It hurt him to see his little sister go hungry, when it came to her he was anything but cold and unfeeling, but there was nothing he could do. She was obliged by Zanark law to remain with her mother until she was at least of age to attend school, regardless of how unfit a mother she was. After enrolling in school, custody could be transferred to the institution's Headmaster until another relative claimed and was deemed fit to have custodianship. It frustrated and angered him greatly; since they had no father and Zephyr would not be of age until he turned twenty, as decreed by the Zanark constitution, the only legal guardian Storm could have was her mother. It was only another year until she could go to school and two after that until Zephyr could assume the role of legal protector; he had that much time to accumulate a small fortune and prove worthy of being a parent. It was ironic how he would do that through assassinating a man.

He sighed inwardly, yes, he certainly needed the money, not really for himself but more for Storm so he could get her out of the slums and put her through school. He wouldn't send her to the Akademy but a real, private boarding school where she could get a worthy education and get ahead in the world; the itinerant, unfulfilling, and immoral life of a mercenary was not for her. She was too young and innocent to have such a brutal fall from grace imposed upon her, to have her dainty hands tainted by the blood of others. Yes, accepting this mission and its inherent pay would prevent Storm from befalling the same fate as Zephyr.

Besides, he told himself, what he was doing was no different than what he would be doing once he became part of ZEG— sell the services and skills he had honed and sharpened endlessly in austere training sessions for six years without question to an employer that would pay him an exorbitant amount of money. That was what they were trained for in the Akademy after all, why they slaved over textbooks and their weaponry of choice through endless hours in the training facilities and classrooms, the very essence of ZEG; Zephyr was just getting an early start. Why should it matter to him if the mission required killing? He was impartial to it, just as he had grown to be with any other emotion (guess I can thank mom for that he sneered); he'd been trained in the deadly and precise art of sniping since he was eleven and exposed to the ancient skill of gunblade wielding since before he had been born. This was to be his job, his life— fighting somebody else's war in exchange for the universal commodity, money; he'd do it, get it over with, get his pay, and move on. There was no use dwelling on it, thinking back on what had been and could or should have been, whether his actions were right or wrong; there was no room for doubt or 'shoulds' in the life he had chosen, or more accurately, been charged with. This was what life had destined him to be—an uncompassionate mercenary who sold his services unquestioningly to the highest bidder. A simple life with few choices, doing what he was told regardless of how he felt. He was not there to feel but to obey, that was the heart of ZEG. With a silent prayer to any deity that would listen to a legionnaire to spare Storm this life, Zephyr opened his eyes definitively and noticed that the man and his cronies fondling their guns, impatient with his long silent indecision.

As I said, it, looks like I gotta accept now. There's no way I can get out of here with all those guns, and I didn't bring my gunblade. Funny how all the choices seem to be made for me, he thought cynically albeit with a hint of regret. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke those words that would forever change the course of his life. "I'm at your service. Anything else you need from me?"

The man smiled widely in a mixture of triumph and pride. His dream, his revenge, what he had coveted and carefully planned for for so long would finally be carried out. And as had been decreed, the young Zephyr would be his instrument of retribution. It was all perfect, so perfect; the way it was meant to be. "Smart choice Zephyr. No, nothing else. Dismissed. Retrieve that package, it contains very useful information. We shall see you after the reception. Breathe not a word of this to anyone."

Zephyr saluted him formally, retrieved the white package from the table, placed it in his jacket pocket, and turned on his heel. His heavy booted footsteps echoed sternly throughout the room as he strode out of the room, and could even be heard faintly as he returned through the narrow corridor to the fiery brightness of the tavern's main room. The man watching him go with a proudly satisfied smirk on his contorted features before immersing himself in the blunt Aerian murmurs of his followers. His backer would be very pleased; all was going as planned. It had begun.

***

A/N: For those of you FFX gamers, you may notice that the 'Aerian' language is actually Al Bhed-- this is only because the printed version employs runes to represent Aerian to differentiate it from Zanarkish, but they're not supported by the HTML code. R&R please!