Jackpot

Nicholas was at home, a bachelor's pad, naturally sipping a beer and watching a college football game. He lusted to be out there on the field with the other players who were about his age. But here he was, a runaway, a hit man, a henchman for various different gangs and rejected by the most beautiful woman of Deling on the account that he was 'just a boy'. So he parked his rear on the sofa, stuffed his face with cheesy puffs and drank beer, brooding over his broken ego.

Little Nick, about thirteen years of age had been thrown out of his home in Timber by his stepfather. After a rather violent argument with his mother, Dan, the sad replacement for his deceased father, had hit the woman with such vigor that she had fallen in a desolate corner of the kitchen, sobbingly clutching her bruised face. Her son had retaliated by throwing all his weight into one punch that was simply absorbed by the older man's developed muscles.

Not strong enough, he was only a boy. In a drunken, slurring rage, Dan had picked up Nick by the scruff of his shirt and tossed him out into the rain, bellowing that if he ever set foot in the house again, his head would be severed from his body and fed to the starving dogs. Taking that threat seriously, he had searched his pockets to pay for one train fare to the city of opportunities … Deling.

The first few months had been harsh. Begging on the street was neither profiting, nor secure but he had survived, toughened up and gotten his first actual job. Barely a man, fourteen and getting a weekly pay from the docks where shipments had to be unloaded was quite an accomplishment for him. It was then that he had moved up a notch, associating with people who knew of the secrets locked within the stroke of midnight.

He had acquainted himself with people that paid illegal money for illegal things. Blood had made its mark on his untrained hands by the age of fifteen. It was easy working for those people, easy pretending to be a tough guy. You curse, slur, drink and smirk like them and they make you part of the club, just like that. Then they shower you with money for killing people, some looking identical to the Dan he left with his mother back in Timber. It was so easy.

He was out of the slums by now, living in a small apartment in the industrial sector. Not the most pleasant of places, but it was a roof over his head and three meals a day. What more could he ask for? In this city, you were untouchable if you carried a gun or a switchblade, if you knew how to talk and walk like a tough guy, if you knew how to suppress all silly emotions (like love) and all those things were achieved with relative ease, especially when you were a 'natural'.

What was even easier was tricking the gangs. Most were too infatuated with territory and cocaine that it was a breeze to work for two or three at a time to double, or triple your normal wages. You learnt every secret ever whispered in the accursed city, you knew when a war was going to break loose, you learnt when to make yourself scarce. He became an undetectable chameleon in the shadowy alleyways playing the amused catalyst.

Though Rinoa Heartilly wasn't as stupid as the rest. She knew how to figure things out; there was something besides her beauty that gave her an omnipresent status. It was remarkable how she had seen through him like a polished windowpane. How had she known of his discreet association with DeGracia? It was mere sorcery to him … how had she found out that DeGracia had known of their little meeting on the top parking lot floor in front of the casinos?

Perhaps DeGracia had called her to warn her … but the two had nothing to do with each other. Rinoa Heartilly … Antonio Massimo DeGracia … what the hell? Had Rinoa suddenly grown an Italian background? She looked nothing of it. Her porcelain skin was not the olive tint that was a marking point from the nationality.

This may have been why she had rejected him so badly, she had picked up on the hints that he had been a turncoat. But she could make him swear an oath of loyalty and servitude to her in less than a minute. A goddess in every aspect, it was incredible and he had never seen anything like it. Rinoa was the image of control, in his eyes. Her brother Irvine wasn't something to be reckoned with, though, "Just what is up that guy's ass?" Nick rubbed his eyes tiredly.

There was a rapt of knuckles at the door that made him jump out of his thoughts. It took a while to recollect the broken pieces of his strength and pull himself off the couch to open the door in sleepy, drunken gestures, "What do you want?" He groaned and rubbed his eyes furiously as though they were failing him.

"I need you to find me a hobo that'll recite Heartilly's past, word for word." Cain was let into the messy bachelor's pad and he immediately made himself at home by stalking to the couch and dropping his weight to one side, "Nice snacks you got out." He grabbed the bowl of cheesy puffs and began propping them into his mouth.

Nick joined him and sat down on the other side, "Rinoa Heartilly's got a murky past and I don't even think I could figure that woman out. She's … just … I don't think she'd let a hobo in on any information that could project a diluted image of her." He suppressed a faint shrug and sighed instead, "Why?"

Cain licked the tips of his fingers from the powder cheese, "My brother. Being a real prick lately but you don't understand how much I need the dough flowing into the friggin' newspaper building. It's goddamn mind numbing. I'm getting real sick, real fast though … Christ, you don't know how he tosses me out of the good deals … you don't know how much he treats me like a freaking kid."

They were both the same, in one way or another. One neglected by his older brother, incapable of assisting to the real business meetings, the other rejected by a woman he was attracted too, too boyish to satisfy her in bed. Both judged too young. "Yup, life's a bitch, isn't it?" Nick grabbed his bottle of beer and let the golden drink run down the back of his throat, "Want a cold one?"

Cain shrugged, "Hell, why not?" On that note, platinum-haired Nick trotted to the fridge and fetched his buddy a drink, "You know, I'm thinking of just … shoving the big brother aside and taking this city myself … you and me, what do you say to that?" The two boys laughed genuinely at Cain's comment, setting it as a complete joke.

"Wouldn't that be sweet? By day, two innocent men lounging in luxurious suites at five star hotels but in their minds, diabolical plans forming. They thirstily wait for the stroke of night. When the darkness of the silver moon settles, they lunge out, drinking, smoking, toking, fucking, ruling the entire damn city. When the night recedes, they slink back into obscurity." Nick spoke richly with a tone of absorbing suspense.

"Drugs, alcohol, women … murder, protection, whatever. We'd take over everything, we'd be the kings of this cursed city, man … wouldn't that just be …" Cain smirked, not ending his sentence due to lack of vocabulary.

Luckily, Nick finished off with a harsh, pessimist attitude, "Implausible." He looked at his friend a smirked wryly, "Forget it, buddy, quit dreaming and filling me up with your false hopes. They're hard to shit out, you know."

Cain was silent for a moment, as though Nicholas has struck a blow that winded him. His emerald-hued eyes seemed to be deep and pensive and his friend guessed a plan was hatching, ever so delicately in his foolish, juvenile mind. Finally he spoke slowly but confidently, "We could do it, you know. You and I. We know these intercrossing streets … every corner, every store, every damn person who's somebody out there … we've got what it takes, man …"

The silver-haired one laughed and took another sip of his drink, "Damn, what the hell are you on, Cain? Each time you come to my place, you're either finely drunk or stoned. Plus, you've got these whacked-out ideas." He shook his head and chuckled some more at his friend's preposterous idea.

"I'm not doped up!" Cain defended himself sourly, "You asshole, don't you have any remote confidence in me whatsoever? Damn it, Nick, I'm telling you we could do it. Name me a street I don't know, I'll name you a corner you've never been on, if there is one. We know the way things work out here, we've been through this shit … we've got damn battle wounds from turf wars, and we've seen what goes on inside the criminal empires. We've learnt it all buddy, we know everything." He looked at his friend eagerly, as if waiting for a positive response.

His response was a shake of the head and two words, "Quit dreaming."

Cain, frustrated, kicked the coffee table making it jerk forward, "Shit, you're never with me when it counts! I'm telling you we could do this … not with the snap of our fingers, but we can do this! You're being a damn coward! Come on, we can take this damn city for our own … think about it, we'll be the authorities, we'll make the rules, we'll break them too and we'll have everything we've ever wanted."

… Everything we've ever wanted … everything. The words rang in Nick's head like a chanted mantra until his mind formulated illusions to make him believe it, "No, not alone." He finally spoke up shortly, "We need … we need one more man." Nick grinned crookedly at his new business partner, "And I think I got him too."

Cain slapped his friend on the back amicably, "I knew you were with me."

His buddy nodded and changed the subject, "Now about Heartilly …"

ELLONE'S WEARY MIND lacked the patience and energy to deal with the disjunction of thoughts so she sleepily watched television to lead them astray. The news was depressing, the soap operas were corny, the porn was raunchy and the comedies were far from hilarious but she was in an accepting mood.

Her 'dearest' brother was supposed to phone any minute now but she doubt he remembered, or worse, he could be doing this purposely. Squall had promised to drop a line this evening to further discuss his murky plans that he had failed to divulge to her last time. If he needed her help so badly, then perhaps he should have started by explaining to her the part that she was responsible for.

Sometimes he made her so damn angry.

Stubborn, cursed with mood swings, rough, aggressive … and now that she thought of it, "What the hell does Rinoa see in him anyways. You'd think a refined type like herself, raised in mansions with maids and elegant suitors would never even deem Squall Leonhart worthy of shining her shoes. Yet she falls flat on her face, in love and not knowing how to handle it. She's … not like anyone I've ever met before."

It was undeniable; Rinoa was like a little sister to her, a little baby girl that she had taken under her wing. Squall had reluctantly introduced his girlfriend to his sister two months after 'dating'. Rinoa was simplistic and outgoing, the two only characteristics one required to gain Ellone's respect. It didn't take long to become friends with such a person.

Rinoa's brother, however, was not at all like her. Ellone's face slide into a frown, "Complete asshole from the depths of Hell, I'll shoot myself in the ass before I touch him without disdain again." Suddenly, she became quite furious both at herself and her old lover, "I should have seen right through him, Mr. Hotpants … the damn bastard, what the hell was I thinking?"

She had never quite gotten over 'that' love affair yet, even though it had been over a year since she had left Irvine. Their relationship hadn't lasted very long, only a month but it had been the most incredible month of her life. He had fed her a false hope that had left her crushed, hopeless and terribly angry.

She shut her eyes tightly, blocking the memory. It was just too painful … more painful than she would ever admit.

SQUALL ARRIVED AT his apartment several hours after being hired by Caraway, alias DeGracia. The old man had given him his business card and instructed him to call tomorrow as they were on the brink of hatching a plan. "A stupid, risky undertaking." He had described it as and he continued muttering unhappily about how he didn't know why he was going through with it.

The young man tossed his black denim jacket on the couch, startling the little kitten that had been resting there. He flicked the lights on, reached for the television remote and watched 15 minutes of news, "Man, this world is so fucked up." He thought solemnly as a picture of a young 13 year-old boy accused of brutally murdering his mother and father with an axe danced across the television screen, "That could've been me, God knows I had the motivation." He sighed and rubbed his sore eyelids.

His heavy arm reached for the phone on the end table and he sleepily composed Ellone's number, "Hello?" A feminine voice answered anxiously.

"Hey Ellone … it's Squall." He replied, scratching his temple exhaustedly, "I'm going to take out Diabolos. He's Trepe's underdog that fetches her newspaper. They're small so the police shouldn't have too trouble with their investigation to prove the big boss guilty of prostitution, drugs and whatnot. Ok, so … publish the article in your newspaper … let's say next week. I'll highlight a list of things for you to include your article later … in the meantime, do you know what bank Rinoa's with?"

"Yeah … wait … why?" Ellone's confusion was submerging her general tone of voice.

Squall yawned before continuing on, "Because … tell me."

"She's with the Royal Deling bank … with what other bank would she be with? It's Rinoa, remember?" Ellone sighed, still wondering where this was going.

"Shit, still? … She knows exactly what she's doing, doesn't she?" A spark of admiration lit inside of him and he couldn't help a small smile, "Well, she's done a magnificent job of making things harder for me. You're thrown out of there if you don't own a damn Rolex watch …" He sighed, "How … how is she?" Squall reluctantly let his worry win over. Ellone grinned in sweet triumph, "Desperate." He remained silent at the other end, "Y'know, Irvine won't tell me and she's certainly pro at hiding it but she's slipping further and further into an unreachable vortex and the worst part is that you don't even know why. You don't know the pain you caused her. That's what bugs me, Squall … you think she's a bitch, a whore … a turncoat but you never even thought about why she did this. Maybe it wasn't just her, Squall … maybe it was you too."

"Don't fucking bother, Ellone." His voice was raspy but so cold and curt, "I don't need the extra guilt trip … and this is why I'm doing all of this, remember? I'm trying to figure out why she did this to me, if I was part of the problem and whatever. Is that satisfying enough for your Majesty?"

She sighed on the other end and her voice softened, "Squall … unless you … she's not just going to tell you why just like that. Her reasons … are painful. You have to gain her trust again, remind her she's still in love with you. I'm not saying everything's your fault but you need to try and understand her, and let her to understand you. Please … try?"

He didn't reply, instead he merely grunted and remained silent for many minutes that seemed like eternities for Ellone, "Whatever. Bye." He finally snapped and hung up tersely and glared at his television screen that was still avid and lively with sport results. In the two decades that he had survived never had he been so confused, so emotionally struck, so lost and so damn angry at himself and at a woman. Never had he even imagined he would fall in love so hard that he would end up bleeding and bruised.

What the hell had she managed to do to him? What the hell had he managed to do to her?

In the last few weeks that he had been with her, she was different. Solemn, grave and serious, as if she had attended funerals daily. He hadn't understood it, immediately assuming that she was nervous about the 'plan'. But … had he subconsciously hurt her to an extent where she began to plot against his life, turning their plan into his demise? "Goddamn …" He cursed his moment of weakness and ran his hands through his light brown hair, "Rinoa, what did I do?"

NICK SEARCHED FAR and wide in the city of Deling. If he believed the birth records, Rinoa Heartilly was a simple figment of his imagination, a mystifying shadow that had danced across the walls of his mind. But he knew better, he knew for a fact that he had not fallen in love with and been rejected by an illusion.

So that left him with one conclusion, 'Rinoa Heartilly' had never really 'been'. The demigoddess was someone else. He began searching for every damn woman in Deling city who had been given the first name 'Rinoa' and who was around twenty years of age.

He was blessed with luck that day. In fact, he was doubly blessed and should have serenaded Julia Heartilly for coming up with such a unique name for her daughter. There were five 'Rinoa's living in Deling, three out of those five were either toddlers or pre-teens. One was a sixty-year old grandmother living alone in the outskirts of the city.

And the remaining one, well … she matched the profile. Bonus? Her deceased mother was named 'Julia Heartilly'. Nick smirked at his new findings. Rinoa Caraway had been born on March 3rd; her proud parents were Julia Heartilly, an old piano player and singer in the Deling City hotel and James Caraway, the renowned and widely hated politician. Since Julia Heartilly had a death date on her profile, he proceeded to checking 'James Caraway'.

Upon skimming the file of the politician, the young man discovered that James David Caraway II had remarried, shortly after his first wife's death, to a Linda Kinneas. Another smirk tickled his lips as he searched up her file, bound it to the three others he had collected and shut the drawer of the filing cabinet. He exited the white room that was basically a reference library of the citizens of Deling.

Once back in the mayor's secretary's office, he declared to his associate, "Done."

Cain, who had a pistol cocked at the secretary's head, gave a swift nod of his head and returned to his captive, "Baby, I'm sorry … but we needed to start somewhere. Let the body count begin." The silencer muted the shot, but it did not stop the blood from painting the wall behind the victim, "Let's bring on the bloodshed."

Next target: Linda Kinneas.

IT WAS EARLY next morning when Squall dressed himself with a suit, much to his displeasure. Before leaving his apartment, he took one last glance at himself in the mirror and grimaced. "I look like a goddamn geek." He said to himself contemptuously. But he was obviously being too harsh on himself because the clean-shaven man that stared back at him in the mirror was obviously nothing short of an Adonis.

From his polished shoes and ironed black dress pants to his white shirt, buttoned and tucked was the emblem of perfection. His tie was loosely knotted around his neck, letting his top two buttons undone and his black jacket fell perfectly on his broad shoulders. A passable gentlemen, though he didn't know it himself.

He also ignored the fact that if Rinoa had seen him, she may not have been able to help herself. Though it was probably best that this knowledge was covered and out of Squall's wanting mind.

The young gentleman drove his BMW to the Royal Deling bank that was located in the heart of the city. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Squall passed through the gold-framed rotating doors like he had done so many times with Rinoa and entered the building. Nothing much had changed. The tellers were all at their positions, like soldiers in the army and this was basically what it was … they were all taught that perfection wasn't a goal, it was an expectation. The floor and half the walls were polished marble, as were the tellers' desks. A large chandelier loomed down from the cathedral ceiling, giving the large room a golden hue.

A bronze elevator was seen in the back. It led to stock trading floors and other such complicated business transactions. His tasks weren't complicated enough for that yet. What he was here to do was quite simple.

Squall went up to a free teller and began stating his affairs, "I'm here to make a transfer. It's a large sum of money, perhaps we can take care of this in a private office?"

The teller nodded and called up a manager. The man in a gray pinstripe suit showed Squall into a private office and sat down across from him, "How may we help you today, Mister … ?" He let his sentence trailed, a signal for Squall to complete it.

"Squall Leonhart. I'm here to make a transfer from Rinoa Heartilly's account to my own." The manager stared at him blankly as if he were crazy, "She's a friend of mine and if you feel it necessary I can validate my authorization to her account."

"Very good, sir." The manager nodded and went to his computer, "Rinoa Heartilly, you said?" He typed the name in and opened the account, "Ah yes, alright … you must enter her ten digit code." Squall picked up a hand-held machine from the corner of the desk and looked at it, almost as if having second thoughts.

He mentally begged to God, of which he normally wouldn't have believed in, "Please, please, please let this work or else my ass will be hauled back to jail." His fingers skimmed the number keys and finally he uncertainly pressed down twice on the 7, then the 5, followed by the 3 until he had in all inputted 7-7-5-3-6-6-4-2-7-8. When he was done he was assured that this would never work and that he would be thrown back in the place where he would eventually rot and die - prison.

A chime validated the combination of numbers and he tried not to look as if it was the biggest surprise of his life, though it near well was. The pin number had worked … he smiled self-consciously and a feeling of relief, as well as pure flattery washed over him. If the numbers corresponded to letters on a telephone dial, he could have spelt out 'sqleonhart'.

The bank manager too, seemed slightly surprised, "Alright, sir … what is that you wish to do again? Ah … a … transfer of funds. To which account?"

Squall grabbed a piece of paper and jotted down a long slew of numbers, "That's my account number. Transfer the funds there."

The older man nodded and took the paper from Squall's hands, "Alright sir …"

"How much is there in the account?"

The bank manager stared, dumbfounded, at his screen, "Eleven million, roughly, sir." Squall smirked in a pensive way but did not reply right away. Finally, the manager lost his nerve, "How much do I transfer?"

"All of it."


Author's Pointless Rambles: Yeah, Squall's one big badass, huh? So, ten bucks says Rinoa castrates him. Hah, no, I'm joking, I'd never do that to Squall … or Rinoa for that matter. I love to toy with these characters, does that make me evil?

Ok, so … once again, for the lazy people:

a) I loved it

b) Quite good

c) Nothing special - needing work

d) Burn, baby, burn!

And, for the wonderful people who I love with all my heart (aka: those who can write beyond helpful reviews) … please do not hesitate to add anything you would like to.

I would also like to know your social insurance number, credit card nip, your age, your address, your gender, your dog's name, how much Kleenex you use a day and your position on anorexia and breast implants.

Warning Note: THIS PLOT IS INSANE, TELL THE PEOPLE!

For those of you who are still reading … you must really like me. I don't think anyone has ever withstood my bullshit for this long. Since you love me, why don't you tell your friends of this story so they can review too?