"Final Fiction"
A Final Fantasy / Pulp Fiction Crossover
By Simon Draskovic
Prologue
The coffee shop was a small one, well-lit for Midgar. Located close enough to the exterior wall to be exposed to sunlight, it was set far back enough from it that the wall's shadow would not keep it in perpetual twilight. The coffee shop enjoyed a small amount of business from blue- collar workers on lunch breaks, white-collar workers grabbing a bite before the train left, and no-collar teenagers coming in late at night. This morning, it was a sleepy mix of the three, with sunlight streaming in through the large panelled windows carefully positioned for the effect. In a small booth seated along the front wall, a quiet conversation was taking place.
"No, forget it, it's too risky. I'm through doing that shit. I'm going back to being a treasure hunter."
The speaker was a lean young man, who had obviously seen better days. A dark blue bandanna kept his hair back from his pointed face as he leaned against the back of the booth bench. As he spoke, he lit a cigarette and took a quick puff.
"You always say that, the same thing every time. 'Never again, I'm through, too dangerous'."
Opposite him sat a young woman, about the same age. Her clothing was several brilliant shades of green, contrasting with each other and the red hues of the restauraunt. The gauzy dress had also seen better days, and tiny rips were beginning to appear in many of the seams. She would mend them as fast as they appeared, but finding the exact shade of green needed was always a hassle. An orchid rested in her hair. The man waved his hand dismissively.
"I know that's what I always say. I'm always right, too, but—"
"But you forget about it in a day or two—"
"Yeah, well, the days of me forgetting are over, and the days of me rememberin' have just begun," he punctuated his point with a wave of his cigarette.
"When you go on like this, you know what you sound like?"
"I sound like a sensible fucking treasure hunter, is what I sound like."
"You sound like a Chocobo. Warkwarkwarkwarkwark..." The man leaned forward as the woman warked at him.
"Well, take heart, 'cause you're never gonna hafta hear me wark about how I'm never gonna do it again."
"After tonight," she smiled. The young man grinned and leaned back.
"Correct. I got all tonight to wark."
The waitress, a palette-swap of the others wandering around the coffee shop, came up to the pair with a pot of coffee. "Can I get anybody any more coffee?" The girl in green smiled back, tilting her head up to look at the waitress.
"Oh yes, thank you."
The waitress wandered off after pouring the coffee, a brief jerky motion. The young man lit up another cigarette, and resumed speaking as the young girl proceeded to dump an inordinate amount of cream and sugar into her coffee.
"I mean the way it is now, you're takin' the same fuckin' risk as when you rob a treasury. You take more of a risk. Treasuries are easier! The guards aren't supposed to stop you anyway, during a heist. Not their money, why should they care? You don't even need to get in a fight to rob a treasury. I heard about this guy, walked into a treasury with some note, the note says 'This man's trying to stop the Dragon Lord, let him have whatever he wants, or the world shall fall into darkness forever.'"
The young woman peered, intrigued. "Did it work?"
"Fuckin' A it worked, that's what I'm talking about! Pixelhead walks in a kingdom's treasury with a note, not a sword, not a fireball, a fuckin' note, cleans the place out, and they don't lift a fuckin' finger."
"What about the Dragon Lord?"
The man shrugged. "I don't know. There probably never was a Dragon Lord— the point of the story isn't the Dragon Lord... The point of the story is he robbed an entire kingdom with a note."
"You wanna rob treasuries?"
"I'm not sayin' I wanna rob treasuries, I'm just illustrating that if we did, it would be easier than what we been doing."
The woman looked at him through narrowed eyes. "No more Weapon Shops?"
"What have we been talking about? Yeah, no more Weapon Shops," he waved his cigarette, bits of ash falling unnoticed onto his plate. "Besides, it ain't the giggle it used to be. Too many fan-translated characters own Weapon Shops. Kazusians, Altarians, translated over by some fuckin' high schooler with a Japanese dictionary and too much time on their hands, can't fuckin' speak English. You tell 'em: "Empty out your Weapons Vault," and they don't know what it fuckin' means. They make it too personal. We keep on, one of those sprite motherfuckers' gonna make us kill 'em."
The woman leaned down, putting her head on the table. "I'm not gonna kill any characters," she said, half-smiling.
"I don't wanna kill any characters either," he responded. "But they'll probably put us in a situation where it's us or them. And if it's not the fan-translated it's these old eightbits who've owned the store for fifteen fuckin' consoles. Ya got Grandpa Two-Frame sittin' behind the counter with a fuckin' MegaNuke. Try walkin' into one of those stores with nothin' but a note, see how far it gets you. Fuck it, forget it, we're out of it." Disgusted, he stubbed out one cigarette and immediately lit another. The woman in green raised her head.
"What else is there, day jobs?"
The man snorted. "Not in this life."
"Well, what then?"
He paused for a moment, considering. Grabbing his cup, he waved it in the air and called out. "Garcon! Coffee!" Looking back at the girl, he smiled. "This place."
The waitress came over, and poured him more coffee with the same jerky motion. "'Gracon' means 'boy'," she said, then stalked off.
The girl leaned forward. "This place? A coffee shop?"
"What's wrong with that?" the man countered. "People never rob restaurants, why not? Bars, liquor stores, magic shops, you get your head blown off stickin' up one of them. Restaurants, on the other hand, you catch five hours past a save point. They're not expecting to get robbed, or not as expecting."
The young woman smiled slowly, her mind working. "I bet you could cut down on the Player-Character factor in a place like this."
"Correct. Same as banks, these places are insured. The managers don't give a fuck, they're just trying' to get ya out the door before you start pluggin' diners. Waitresses, forget it, they ain't takin' a bullet for the register. Busboys, some eightbit twoframe getting' paid a Gil and a half an hour, really gonna give a fuck you're stealing from the owner? Customers are walking in place, standing at their tables with food on the plates, they don't know what's goin' on. One minute they're having a Balamb Omlette, next minute somebody's sticking a gun in their face."
A slow smile begins to spread across the girl's face. The man leans forward, speaking quietly.
"See, I got the idea the last Item Shop we held up. You remember all them customers coming in?"
"Yeah."
"Then you got the idea to take everybody's Inventory."
"Uh-huh."
"That was a good idea."
"Thank you."
The young man grinned. "We made more money from the Inventories than we did the shopkeeper."
"Yes we did."
"A lot of people go to restauraunts."
"A lot of inventories," she grinned back.
"Pretty smart, huh?"
She looked ove rthe restauraunt, scanning the pallette-swapped characters walking in place at the bar, the sprites and polygons in booths and at tables. "Pretty smart."
The young woman leans forward, intense. "I'm ready. Let's go, let's do it. Right here, right now."
The young man grins. "Remember, same as before, you're the crowd control, I handle the employees."
"Got it."
The young man placed his hand on the table, grasping a chunk of bluish-white crystal. It glowed faintly with an inner light, and a dim figure was barely discernable inside, like a fly trapped in amber. The young girl placed her hand next to his, holding nothing, but glowing a soft red. They looked into each others' eyes.
"I love you, pumpkin." she crooned.
"I love you too, honey bunny." he murmured.
The man stood up on the table, brandishing the magicite in his hand. "Everybody be cool! This is a robbery!"
The woman leapt onto the floor, hands spread out before her, glowing with the contained might of a spell. "ANY OF YOU FUCKIN' PRICKS MOVE, AND I'LL FIRE-THREE EVERY MOTHERFUCKING LAST ONE OF YOU!!!"
- Cue Title -
Prologue
The coffee shop was a small one, well-lit for Midgar. Located close enough to the exterior wall to be exposed to sunlight, it was set far back enough from it that the wall's shadow would not keep it in perpetual twilight. The coffee shop enjoyed a small amount of business from blue- collar workers on lunch breaks, white-collar workers grabbing a bite before the train left, and no-collar teenagers coming in late at night. This morning, it was a sleepy mix of the three, with sunlight streaming in through the large panelled windows carefully positioned for the effect. In a small booth seated along the front wall, a quiet conversation was taking place.
"No, forget it, it's too risky. I'm through doing that shit. I'm going back to being a treasure hunter."
The speaker was a lean young man, who had obviously seen better days. A dark blue bandanna kept his hair back from his pointed face as he leaned against the back of the booth bench. As he spoke, he lit a cigarette and took a quick puff.
"You always say that, the same thing every time. 'Never again, I'm through, too dangerous'."
Opposite him sat a young woman, about the same age. Her clothing was several brilliant shades of green, contrasting with each other and the red hues of the restauraunt. The gauzy dress had also seen better days, and tiny rips were beginning to appear in many of the seams. She would mend them as fast as they appeared, but finding the exact shade of green needed was always a hassle. An orchid rested in her hair. The man waved his hand dismissively.
"I know that's what I always say. I'm always right, too, but—"
"But you forget about it in a day or two—"
"Yeah, well, the days of me forgetting are over, and the days of me rememberin' have just begun," he punctuated his point with a wave of his cigarette.
"When you go on like this, you know what you sound like?"
"I sound like a sensible fucking treasure hunter, is what I sound like."
"You sound like a Chocobo. Warkwarkwarkwarkwark..." The man leaned forward as the woman warked at him.
"Well, take heart, 'cause you're never gonna hafta hear me wark about how I'm never gonna do it again."
"After tonight," she smiled. The young man grinned and leaned back.
"Correct. I got all tonight to wark."
The waitress, a palette-swap of the others wandering around the coffee shop, came up to the pair with a pot of coffee. "Can I get anybody any more coffee?" The girl in green smiled back, tilting her head up to look at the waitress.
"Oh yes, thank you."
The waitress wandered off after pouring the coffee, a brief jerky motion. The young man lit up another cigarette, and resumed speaking as the young girl proceeded to dump an inordinate amount of cream and sugar into her coffee.
"I mean the way it is now, you're takin' the same fuckin' risk as when you rob a treasury. You take more of a risk. Treasuries are easier! The guards aren't supposed to stop you anyway, during a heist. Not their money, why should they care? You don't even need to get in a fight to rob a treasury. I heard about this guy, walked into a treasury with some note, the note says 'This man's trying to stop the Dragon Lord, let him have whatever he wants, or the world shall fall into darkness forever.'"
The young woman peered, intrigued. "Did it work?"
"Fuckin' A it worked, that's what I'm talking about! Pixelhead walks in a kingdom's treasury with a note, not a sword, not a fireball, a fuckin' note, cleans the place out, and they don't lift a fuckin' finger."
"What about the Dragon Lord?"
The man shrugged. "I don't know. There probably never was a Dragon Lord— the point of the story isn't the Dragon Lord... The point of the story is he robbed an entire kingdom with a note."
"You wanna rob treasuries?"
"I'm not sayin' I wanna rob treasuries, I'm just illustrating that if we did, it would be easier than what we been doing."
The woman looked at him through narrowed eyes. "No more Weapon Shops?"
"What have we been talking about? Yeah, no more Weapon Shops," he waved his cigarette, bits of ash falling unnoticed onto his plate. "Besides, it ain't the giggle it used to be. Too many fan-translated characters own Weapon Shops. Kazusians, Altarians, translated over by some fuckin' high schooler with a Japanese dictionary and too much time on their hands, can't fuckin' speak English. You tell 'em: "Empty out your Weapons Vault," and they don't know what it fuckin' means. They make it too personal. We keep on, one of those sprite motherfuckers' gonna make us kill 'em."
The woman leaned down, putting her head on the table. "I'm not gonna kill any characters," she said, half-smiling.
"I don't wanna kill any characters either," he responded. "But they'll probably put us in a situation where it's us or them. And if it's not the fan-translated it's these old eightbits who've owned the store for fifteen fuckin' consoles. Ya got Grandpa Two-Frame sittin' behind the counter with a fuckin' MegaNuke. Try walkin' into one of those stores with nothin' but a note, see how far it gets you. Fuck it, forget it, we're out of it." Disgusted, he stubbed out one cigarette and immediately lit another. The woman in green raised her head.
"What else is there, day jobs?"
The man snorted. "Not in this life."
"Well, what then?"
He paused for a moment, considering. Grabbing his cup, he waved it in the air and called out. "Garcon! Coffee!" Looking back at the girl, he smiled. "This place."
The waitress came over, and poured him more coffee with the same jerky motion. "'Gracon' means 'boy'," she said, then stalked off.
The girl leaned forward. "This place? A coffee shop?"
"What's wrong with that?" the man countered. "People never rob restaurants, why not? Bars, liquor stores, magic shops, you get your head blown off stickin' up one of them. Restaurants, on the other hand, you catch five hours past a save point. They're not expecting to get robbed, or not as expecting."
The young woman smiled slowly, her mind working. "I bet you could cut down on the Player-Character factor in a place like this."
"Correct. Same as banks, these places are insured. The managers don't give a fuck, they're just trying' to get ya out the door before you start pluggin' diners. Waitresses, forget it, they ain't takin' a bullet for the register. Busboys, some eightbit twoframe getting' paid a Gil and a half an hour, really gonna give a fuck you're stealing from the owner? Customers are walking in place, standing at their tables with food on the plates, they don't know what's goin' on. One minute they're having a Balamb Omlette, next minute somebody's sticking a gun in their face."
A slow smile begins to spread across the girl's face. The man leans forward, speaking quietly.
"See, I got the idea the last Item Shop we held up. You remember all them customers coming in?"
"Yeah."
"Then you got the idea to take everybody's Inventory."
"Uh-huh."
"That was a good idea."
"Thank you."
The young man grinned. "We made more money from the Inventories than we did the shopkeeper."
"Yes we did."
"A lot of people go to restauraunts."
"A lot of inventories," she grinned back.
"Pretty smart, huh?"
She looked ove rthe restauraunt, scanning the pallette-swapped characters walking in place at the bar, the sprites and polygons in booths and at tables. "Pretty smart."
The young woman leans forward, intense. "I'm ready. Let's go, let's do it. Right here, right now."
The young man grins. "Remember, same as before, you're the crowd control, I handle the employees."
"Got it."
The young man placed his hand on the table, grasping a chunk of bluish-white crystal. It glowed faintly with an inner light, and a dim figure was barely discernable inside, like a fly trapped in amber. The young girl placed her hand next to his, holding nothing, but glowing a soft red. They looked into each others' eyes.
"I love you, pumpkin." she crooned.
"I love you too, honey bunny." he murmured.
The man stood up on the table, brandishing the magicite in his hand. "Everybody be cool! This is a robbery!"
The woman leapt onto the floor, hands spread out before her, glowing with the contained might of a spell. "ANY OF YOU FUCKIN' PRICKS MOVE, AND I'LL FIRE-THREE EVERY MOTHERFUCKING LAST ONE OF YOU!!!"
- Cue Title -