Disclaimer: The previous disclaimer still stands. I still do not own Final Fantasy VII, but nor does Square own Madai, Aaron, or anything else I came up with. And really, why should they want to?
.. scratch that, I may not even own Aaron. He's a joint character between I and a friend of mine, though I can't remember who came up with him.
Author's Note: Okay, original character alert. Not a self-insertion, though. For one, I'm not male.
And yes, I'm aware that Cloud is a bit of a doof in this chapter. I caved into peer pressure. ;.; Besides, I had to get rid of the plane somehow.
--
When Vincent had received the letter, he'd been more than a little sceptical about the location that had been suggested for the reunion. From what Tifa, who was in charge of organising the festivities, had said there would be everything from cook-outs to volleyball on the beach, neither of which he was particularly fond of.
The others, the letter said, had voted for the Southern Islands for one reason: the majority of the eastern continent had lately been experiencing an ongoing downpour of cold rain, and after half a winter of improbably high humidity and temperatures that fell beneath freezing on a regular basis, they had all been looking forward to the sun and warmth promised by the Madai Resort—by the time that December rolled around the weather had begun to depress even Vincent (if further depression was indeed possible in his case), and a little sun had sounded like a welcome change of pace.
He'd written back the same day solemnly expressing his reluctant agreement, left the note in the mail collection box, returned home, quietly closed the door behind him, and danced a small jig.
He was not dancing come the day of the flight.
From the beginning, it seemed, he'd been doomed to a bad trip: it had taken his cab driver the better part of an hour just to navigate through the excess side-roads into the actual parking lot, and twenty extra minutes of aimless driving to locate the right sector. As soon as he'd entered the concourse his ears had picked up the sound of vehement arguing—Cid and Yuffie, hunched over a map of the airport, trying to decide which escalator they should take to reach the baggage drop-off. Cloud had been nowhere in sight until about thirty minutes before they boarded: security had caught him trying to sneak the Ultima Weapon onboard, and (so said a smug Yuffie) they'd apprehended him on suspicion of terrorism. It had been cleared up eventually, but they'd still confiscated the sword.
Then Vincent's prosthetic arm had set the metal detector off.
"Sir!" the guard manning the checkpoint had said helpfully. "Please remove all metal items from your person and step through again."
When he'd pointedly held up his left arm, the officer had been at a loss as to what to do and had summarily detained them so that he could call his manager for assistance. The manager had promptly declared a thorough search of his bags, just in case, and another quarter of an hour was wasted as several employees rifled through his suitcases. It had been acutely embarrassing.
He hadn't been surprised when their flight was delayed—in a way, it was actually something of a relief, as he hadn't had the time to grab breakfast before he'd left. Unfortunately, there was only so long one could dawdle over a plate of toast, and he was eventually forced to return to the waiting area and endure the haze of nicotine that had permeated it as a direct result of Cid's continued presence. The man would not extinguish his cigarette for anyone, though airport security had certainly tried to make him after several complaints had been lodged about the smoke.
Cloud had shortly arrived in a predictably foul mood, sans weapon but plus an exorbitant fine, to exchange greetings with Vincent. (The first words out of his mouth had actually been "Twenty thousand gil? We were out there saving the Planet while they hid in their houses and rotted—they should give me a discount!," but Vincent supposed that counted as a greeting.)
"$%^&, Cloud, that ain't half of what you shelled out for the &^%#in' villa," Cid, always the voice of reason, had pointed out logically, "and y'hardly ever use that thing anymore."
"I do so," was the defensive growl. "I live there!"
"Which is why you had to travel for two weeks to get to the Costa del Sol airport, riiiight?" Yuffie had hastened to put in, fairly bobbing in her seat. Cloud'd glared fiercely at her, then sighed in defeat and shook his head, inciting the woman nearest him to change seats lest her eyes be poked out by his hair.
"I got a little lost, okay?"
As Cid and Yuffie roared with laughter, Vincent impatiently checked his watch.
It was going to be a long day.
-
"So, what've all of you been up to, anyway?"
Cloud's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. Looking round, he opened his mouth to speak, but Yuffie cut him off.
"He," she nodded towards Cid, who seemed to be dozing with his goggles pulled over his eyes, "has been evading taxes! Hah!"
Abruptly the pilot reanimated, his upper torso snapping towards the seat in front of him with shocking speed. "%^&#in' $^&%! I never %$#&in' did a thing! The $^%#s #^$%in' misfiled my claim! %$#& $#^% #^&% $%^#—$%^#in' %$&#!" he added as an afterthought, his voice rendered somewhat breathless as his belt caught his stomach and threw him back.
Cloud, not sure whether to be laughing or staring, simply rolled his eyes after a brief pause for thought. "Sorry I asked..." he muttered, turning a page of the catalogue sitting on his lap.
"Atoning," Vincent said quietly, once he was satisfied that he wouldn't be interrupted again. Cloud raised an eyebrow without looking up.
"Come again...?"
"Atoning."
"There's a friggin' switch," Cid grumbled, yanking irritably at his seatbelt. "Ow! That's makin' it worse. &^%#."
Shifting around in her seat, Yuffie hooked her arms over the back of the headrest and gave him the fisheye. "You're supposed to pull it the other way..."
"%$&^. I knew that. —%&^#! That's $#&%in' tighter!"
Yuffie snickered. "Looks like you're gonna need some help with that! Slave boy! Hey, slave boy! —yeah, you!"
The steward she'd summoned gave her a look of utmost rancour as he stalked over. "What is it now?"
"Get me a barf bag," the ninja commanded, slumping back into a "proper" sitting position as her skin began to acquire an unflattering green hue. "And make it snappy."
"Gah! %^&#—" Cid redoubled his efforts to free himself before she blew.
"Geez, Cid, just push the catch. See? Like this." Disregarding the momentum such an action would currently reap for the pilot, Cloud reached forward and pressed the "release" button on the buckle.
"No! Not while I'm—"
The resulting collision did not end prettily.
* * *
"Gee, I've never seen such a splatter before...is that even physically possible?"
"Best not to think about it."
"#$%^!" Cid agreed, wiping his face on his towel for the tenth time in half as many minutes. "Frick! All can I smell is onion rings."
"I believe I speak for all present when I say again that we could do without the details, Cid."
"What, and you think I %^&#in' can't? You're not the one who wound up nose deep in Yuffie's breakfast, Valentine!" He gave his brow another convulsive sweep with the rag and threw it towards the nearest unoccupied stewardess, who jumped back and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Would it &^%$in' kill you to get me a wet washcloth this time? And some %&$#in' soap too. %^&#. I think I got some in my hair!"
Cloud, Cid, and Vincent (along with most of the other passengers) had relocated to the back of the plane after Yuffie had relinquished the contents of her stomach to the frayed burgundy rug travelling the length of the aisle. Their server had not been fast enough in retrieving the barf bag, though whether it was Cid's fault for crashing into the back of her seat was open for questioning.
Currently, the ninja in question was perched, wrapped in a blanket, on a vacated seat (there were quite a few of them now) situated out of harm's reach; she was muttering continuously to herself, and trying not to watch the cleanup crew.
The head steward was also muttering continuously to himself. His tone fairly oozed vehemence, however, and it bore no good will for the members of AVALANCHE as he strode stiff-backed towards them.
"Look, we're really sorry about all this—" Cloud began, doing his level best to sound contrite, but a raised hand forestalled him.
"You're sorry? Do you know what this is going to do to our sales record, Mister Strife? No one is going to want to fly a company that has a history of vomit spattered over the walls! American Airlines of Midgar could well be ruined thanks to this debacle! Ruined!"
"I think you're overreacting—"
"Ruined!" the steward fairly shrieked to drive the point home, then huffed and spun on his heel, turning his back to the other men. "I think," he added after a moment, when none of them spoke, "that you should get your parachutes."
Cloud once again attempted to speak. "We didn't bring any parachutes—"
"Huh! Figures," the steward grumbled, twisting around to face them again, poking his horn-rimmed spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. "Parasites til the very end! Leeches. Filth."
Cid stepped forward angrily, intent on giving the younger male a sound verbal flaying. "%^#& #$!% $%^#—" he started heatedly, then yelped and ducked back, rubbing furiously at his eyes, as the steward produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a bottle of industrial-strength cleaning solution and sprayed it at his face.
"Okay," Cloud said wonderingly. "I've seen combs, small mammals, and mega-phones used as weapons before, but that's gotta be the first time anyone's pulled a bottle of 409 on us."
"^&%#! You're not helping!" Cid snarled, keeping his face hidden in the palms of his hands even as he clomped in a small, agitated circle.
"I guess I'm not," Cloud assented with a shrug. "Ultimate End!" he stated decisively a moment later, and a collective groan rose from the others.
"No, not Knights of the—"