Avalanche

To sleek the tense atmosphere, they had calmly sat down and Ellone had made coffee. She still remembered how he liked it: two teaspoons of sugar and a bit of milk, just enough to give it that caramel color. She cursed herself for having been so infatuated that her memory could still serve her to this day.

Ellone set the mug down on the table and carried her own cup to her seat. Irvine followed her with his eyes, taking in her every movement. There was something enrapturing about her at this moment, a bittersweet guilty pleasure. Her faultless façade was cracked, exposing beneath the mask an enticingly desirable she-devil. Ellone Loire was wicked but twisted around a mentality of good. She was human.

"So … how've you been?" Ellone asked nonchalantly while taking a sip of her caffeine fix. She stared at him in a peculiar way over the rim of her mug.

"Quite the stupid question." Irvine remarked, equally indifferent, "I've been juggling work for The Syndicate, meanwhile watching my sister from the corner of my eye making sure she doesn't run into excess trouble, which she's quite talented at doing. I'm sure you've heard that your brother has taken the liberty of removing all the money from our bank account. I can't blame the guy … he was given the pin number … by Rinoa, of course … I'm still not clear on the 'why' part." His speech had turned slightly bitter towards the end of his say.

Ellone smiled slightly, "Yes. I've heard. You know, he only did it to get her attention." She attempted to explain in light undertones of amusement, "Because there would be no way in hell that Rinoa would've agreed to see him otherwise."

"Couldn't he have done it in a less radical way?" He remarked, quite annoyed, "He could've … I don't know, purchased an advertising board and made it read 'RINOA HEARTILLY PLEASE CALL THE FOLLOWING NUMBER' or something along those lines. Now I can't even buy myself lunch until Rinoa fixes this problem, which will most likely take ages because, let's face it, they've got a few cobwebs to clean up."

There was an awkward silence, "So what else is new?" Ellone inquired smoothly, taking another sip of her coffee.

Irvine, who hadn't even touched his cup yet, shot back at her defiantly, "It's important to you that we stay off the topic of Rinoa and Squall, isn't it?"

Ellone clicked her tongue in annoyance, "What do you want me to do, Irvine? It's their story, no one made me narrator so I won't assume the position. What will be will be and in the end everything will be fine."

It was Irvine's turn to be stabbed with a needle of aggravation, "Oh yeah? How'd you figure? Rumor on the street that there are plots on my sister's life, which is understandable as she's been pissing off some other gangs but the thing is that we're fresh out of allies. From what I've heard, Squall's been working with Diabolos and Trepe which means against Rinoa. So unless you're little brother's got a couple of Aces up his sleeve, my sister's either going to be murdered or she'll kill herself."

"Oh stop saying things like that!" Ellone snapped, "Squall's planning to drag Diabolos out of the picture, that means Quistis'll be more dependent on him. Trepe's allied up with Almasy, whether you chose to believe that or not is your choice. Through Trepe, Squall will be able to control, indirectly, the two other major players. Almasy and DeGracia are his main targets."

"You've got way too much confidence in your little brother. Almasy won't be manipulated by anyone, especially not a little shithead like Squall." Irvine ignored her offended expression and continued on, "Quistis is a small fish to fry, what keeps her alive is DeGracia and Almasy. What I need to be able to sleep at night is for Rinoa to get back on her feet. I'd worry less about leaving her alone. I would need Squall to just stay out of the damned way, just for a little while. I would need … I would need Viktor Lynch and his motley, freaky crew to limit the DeGracia barriers, I would need Dincht to …" Irvine trailed off as if he were onto something, "I would need Dincht to wipe out Diabolos … then …"

"You would need a goddamn miracle, Irvine!" Ellone exclaimed wildly, flailing her arms in an insurmountable frenzy, "Wake up! You're asking way too much of everyone. Alright, listen, I can take out Diabolos on my own, I'm a journalist, remember? By cutting Trepe from her daily street newspaper, my brother becomes the favored one, ok? Check out this strategy: Trepe relies on my brother for news on the streets, Almasy and DeGracia rely on Trepe for news on the streets … uh-oh … I think there's a problem with this system already!"

"Tell me, sweetie, how the fuck are you going to kill Diabolos with the fact that you're a journalist? Are you going to interview him to death?"

"Do you think you're funny?" Ellone rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, "And anyways, I'm fresh out of ideas, ok? Everything I say is either stupid or unthinkable with you so let's cut this conversation short. You're always the smart one, I'm always wrong … isn't that right? I don't know anything, fine. Get out of my apartment."

Irvine chuckled, "Do you always take things personally?" He shook his head and smiled at her. A smile that nearly turned her to mush, "I didn't mean it that way. You're very intelligent and very gorgeous and I don't doubt you'll succeed in your domain of journalism but you're just not a girl from the streets."

"No, you're right. I'm not a girl from the streets and so what? I've adapted. That's what I do best anyway." She averted his eyes and wore her pouting look well.

Irvine couldn't help the tiny smile that tugged at his lips, "Ok, Ellie, ok … if you say so."

SEIFER HAD REMAINED in his office late into the night. There was nothing left to do. Quistis was chasing a shadow, a damned illusion. If she still thought Leonhart was going to be her little lust puppy and wag his tail while bringing her news fresh from the streets, she had gone blind. "No, forget her … I don't need her." He thought while staring out into the darkness. He had shut off the lights and the only hum came from the air conditioning.

"I'll pretend we're still good friends … then I'll stab her in the back like everyone else. I want to be top dog and once I achieve that, I won't need anyone else but until then … until then I just need just one useful moron." He jerked a desk drawer open and reached to the very back of the compartment.

Seifer brought out a small Ziploc bag containing fine, white powder. He set the baggy on the cool desk surface and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. The blonde chairman of Deling's head newspaper took out a fifty-dollar bill and rolled it in a perfect cylindrical tube.

He dumped the crystalline dust from the baggie and used a file from the corner of his workspace to divide the cocaine into thin, straight lines. Snorting the lines, one by one, he indulged in the drug that stung as it infiltrated his nasal cavity, a portion shooting up to the brain, the rest he tasted. Soon, the white lady would come to deliver his angst. She would soothe him, like a mother does to her child with blissful lullabies.

"Rinoa … she could be used as leverage." He thought, licking his dry lips, tossing the rolled fifty to the side, "We'll trade in Quistis for Rinoa. We'll eliminate the blonde, fuck the raven, and then shoot her down too. Yeah … good idea."

Seifer cracked his knuckles and his neck, "Good idea."

INSTEAD OF HEADING home like his sister had suggested, Squall drove on into the heart of the city. He turned onto a main street, one of the busiest during the night. Neon signs lit the sidewalks littered with drunks, prostitutes and guys looking for a good time. It occurred to him that he had never went to 'a night on the town' to get drunk, laid and whatever else there was to do in this beautiful city.

He was taking a risk by trespassing into DeGracia territory. For all he knew, Caraway may already be on the prowl for him. It didn't matter. The faster he got Rinoa's chores done, the faster he would be able to ask her the questions that were like spiders, biting into his flesh, their venom crawling under his skin making him itch in guilt, in anger, in betrayal.

Squall stopped his vehicle at a familiar street corner, parked expertly, walked out of the car and inserted a few coins in the parking meter. A block away from that particular corner was a shadowy boutique that sold posters and t-shirts of heavy metal bands, spiked jewelry. They also specialized in piercing and tattoos.

He had been into that shop many times, sometimes for thrills and after he had met Rinoa, it was for business. Now he found himself entering it for the sole purpose of running her errands once more and a murky mixture of resent and a child-like joy crept up on him. He had succumbed to her damn will again, but on the other hand, it felt as if he were still 'working with her'.

The handsome handyman strode all the way to the counter, situated at the very back of the shop and nodded at the clerk, "Hey, any chance I could speak to Viktor Lynch." He felt the soft reverberations of the floor beneath him as the music down below pumped bass from its loudspeakers.

The cashier, whose navy blue Mohawk was perked five inches from the rest of his bald, tattooed scalp snorted and grunted, "Who the hell're you?" He placed a calloused hand on the counter. His wrists were covered in heavy metallic jewelry, more tattoos intertwined complexly around his forearms and he had matching stud piercings on his eyebrow and his left ear, though he had preferred an indiscreet loop for his lip.

"A friend … acquaintance, rather." Squall replied, casting an eye around the grungy shop, "I'm sure he won't mind."

The man behind the counter snarled, "Oh yeah? Feel safe enough to say that, ey?" He turned and motioned for Squall to follow him. He led Squall through a backroom, a stock room until finally they arrived at a heavy wooden door. The henchman in disguise knocked twice and the door swung open with a creak. With the door open, the music sourcing from the basement was louder, "Aye, Erich … this bloke wants to see the boss."

The bouncer, physically similar to his friend, smirked, "Oh yeah, eh? There's quite the mosh pit down there, I don't know how you're going to get to him but like we'll keep you from trying."

Squall was lead down concrete stairs, looking a little unsafe to his liking. Strobe lights were rapidly blinking from every corner of the vast room, it was giving him a headache. He could feet the beat of the music in his throat, "Jesus, can it be any louder?" The screeches that were belting out lyrics were one with the cries of the crowd. It could be assumed that most of the people were dancing but from Squall's standing point, it looked like a big, drunken orgy. He couldn't help his eyes from rolling.

Sticking to the wall, he made his way slowly up to the stairs, leading to a balcony where Viktor was enjoying the spectacle. As a subway slinked past underground nearby, the secret basement below the shop shook and for a moment, the music was unheard. Squall pressed his hands to his ears and sat on the steps in a moment of weakness, "Oh my fucking God, how can they stand this?" His head wanted to split in two with the searing pain all the noise was causing.

After the metro had run its course, the music took hold again and Squall was able to continue his path up the steps, not without his headache of course. When he reached the top, he recognize Viktor's familiar mug, chugging down vodka without even feeling the burn anymore. He had always been a small man, only an inch or two taller than Rinoa, sporting a raven faux-hawk with green ends at the meticulously combed spikes. Viktor made leather fashionable since he rarely wore much else. His steel-toed boots were quite the fearsome things, especially if received with a swift kick to the tailbone.

Unlike most of his collaborators, he had few piercings, a stud for the left eyebrow and a stretcher for his right ear. To the women who liked his type, he was irresistible. He had a certain drive, his attitude matched his accent and his gray eyes stooped everyone to a lower level.

"Hoy!" Viktor greeted him, screaming over the music.

Squall slinked from the shadows to come take a seat in front of his old acquaintance, "How have you been holding out?" He asked loudly, in an attempt to make unimportant chitchat for the time being.

"Just feckin' fine. 'Cept for them damn rats down in 'ere." The rowdy leader replied, offering Squall the bottle of alcohol, "The guests jump 'round a bit and the next mornin' yeh find rat corpses 'stead 'o the floor. It's disgustin'." Squall felt something slither a path around his ankles and he flinched. With a downcast glance, he made out the thick body of a baby boa constrictor slinking towards Viktor, "That's why I got me this baby, named her Amy … she been gettin' rid of the babies."

If Rinoa had been here, she would've freaked. Squall pictured the snake coiling around her ankles, her giving off a shriek that would bury the music entirely and standing from her chair. He could also picture her finely sharpened heel repeatedly stabbing the despicable creature until it hissed and withered dead.

Squall took a gulp from the bottle and felt it blaze down his throat. He gave the bottle back to Viktor, "M'yes, she does look quite useful. Anyway, I came here to offer you something."

"Still with tha' blasted woman?" Viktor looked incredulously at his companion.

"Well … not exactly, no." Squall admitted hesitantly and Viktor gave him a smile of congratulations, "But I am doing this for her."

"What in the hell? Have yeh no spine, man?" Viktor snapped and glared at Squall, "She doesn't even feck you anymore and your still runnin' around doin' her favors?" He had picked up the boa and had wrapped it around his arm. Due to its excessive length, the snake had continued to curl across his shoulders and down his other arm.

"Let's just say I owe her this one." Squall retorted, slightly insulted by Viktor's harsh words, "She's not bad … well, not as bad as you put her out to be."

" … 'Course not … if she shut her mouth once in a while, she'd be a great feckin' feck but that don't seem to be the case. She's always complainin' and goin' on about ridiculous things. And I jus' love the way she called me a freak all the time, that was jus' so flatterin'." Viktor grumbled and petted the slick body of his pet, "So … what's her majesty want from me?"

"For me to give you her card. And for you to call her back. I think she's looking into an alliance or something." Squall saw the look of disgust in Viktor's eyes so he put up a hand defensively, "No, think about it for just a second. I know it's farfetched but you've got to just think it through. Viktor, you live underground … no one knows of your business, she's no exception. You could probably deal at two different tables. Just use them all. I'm sure you'll be hearing from others like Trepe and Almasy in no time. If you can just slip around them, you'd be the king of this place … you'd always be safe."

Squall thought quickly, a trickle of sweat forming at his temples. If he could just get Viktor into the game, everything would become a mess and thus simpler for him to begin the long process of elimination. Diabolos was itching to take a swing at The Syndicate, which left him with no time. He needed to start delivering the punches soon or Rinoa would be found dead in a matter of days.

Viktor's lips curled into a malicious smirk, "You know, I like ya … if not for the respect and attitude you project, then for yer mofo ideas. It's risky, y'know? But I like it. I'll give her a call."

"Yeah, she just forgot to give me her number." Squall smiled wryly, "I guess I'll have to find her and give her your number. I have to take care of some other business anyway." Other business. The words tasted acrid on his tongue.

"Fine." Viktor jotted his seven digits on the back of an empty cigarette carton and tossed it over to Squall, "But make her hurry … I'm in no mood for waitin'."

"Yeah, got it."

CARLOS WAS GETTING very impatient, "When do I get to kill? When do I get to lick the blood off my fingers? I'm getting sick of this procrastination, what are your allies doing?" He yelled into the cellphone.

"Be calm!" Diabolos ordered harshly on the other end, "The Trepe woman and I are still undergoing plans for this murder and it will be intricately carried out without the least little fault. Do you understand the importance of predicting every little move from The Syndicate? Rinoa Heartilly is not a woman easily killed!"

"I'll make it so that it is so!" Carlos hissed, "This is my job, I know what I'm doing."

There was a sigh from his boss' part, "Wait, amigo. You've been my right hand since ever … do not disappoint me now. I promise you your bloodshed soon … just not yet." There was a click of the cutting of a line and Carlos threw his phone out his car window in frustration. He watched as a car ran over the device and left it in a million pieces.

Opening his car door and slamming it shut he took long strides on the sidewalk for a bit until he had calmed down slightly. It was then that she caught his eye. A beauty, at the corner of the street. He had to look twice, "Is that her?" Her raven hair was layered and fell to her shoulders. She was wearing a navy mini skirt with a red tube top. Her looped earrings grazed her cheeks when she turned her head swiftly.

"A Rinoa Heartilly clone." Carlos smirked upon his good-fortune. He approached the young woman and tapped her bare shoulder, "Hello miss."

She flashed him a killer smile, "Hi."

"Are you lost?" Carlos asked pleasantly. She giggled, obviously flattered at the handsome Hispanic's attention.

The woman flipped a lock of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear, "I'm looking for Wolfe Avenue. Could you direct me to it?"

"I could bring you right to it, senorita." He coaxed flirtatiously. She couldn't help crumble to his charm. Sure, there was something creepy about his gaze but Latinos were just so irresistibly charming. She followed him to his car, he made small talk. When had she begun to realize that something was wrong?

It was definitely before he turned into the dank, dark alley, "Where are we?"

She could barely make out his features any more. His five o'clock shadow, his spine-chilling glare … all was lost to the darkness. He didn't answer her question but instead got out of the car. The passenger door opened and he dragged her out of the vehicle, "What're you doing?!" She yelled, engaged in a panic. A blow to the head struck her down to her knees. Again, no answer, "Help! Please!! Don't!" The shine of a blade glared for only a short moment. She felt the cold steel just below her ear. The young girl shrieked, unbeknownst to the entire city, "Why're you doing this?" She tried to flail, she tried to hit, punch, grapple at anything she could but it was hopeless. Carlos had locked her hands behind her back, "Please, don't! Stop!" The sharpness of the cutting edge traced her jaw teasingly until it drew a line down to her neck, "Please! Please stop! Why are you doing this?"

Carlos could have lied. It would've have made a difference. But he figured that the dead could always keep a secret. As silent as the grave. So he replied in all sincerity, she deserved to know the truth, "Practice."

And with a sickening slash, he ripped the young woman's throat apart. Blood gurgled from the bubbling wound and just to satisfy his lust for a kill, he wrenched her head to the side to make a stomach-turning crack. The dead body of his 'Rinoa Heartilly' dropped limply to the asphalt and drenched in a puddle of blood.

THE NEXT MORNING, Rinoa picked up the newspaper and it was comparable to seeing her own face in the obituaries. The sight of the murdered girl's face exposed on the very front page sent a wave of shock that rooted itself to her bones. What dementia was this? Whose sick idea got published in the paper?

She scanned the girl's face, bloodied, her empty eyes, her mouth a semi-closed gap as if she had died with a final scream. "What is this? A cheap warning?" She covered her partly opened lips with her left hand as her trembling fingers fumbled to find the article. "This is sick … this … is … Seifer's paper. What the fuck does he think he's doing? Is this intimidation or something?"

Girl was found dead in unkempt alleyway by a homeless man. This would be the fifteenth reported homicide in the past month. Chief of police is looking for any leads, any potential witnesses. Parents of the girl shocked, unavailable for commentary. Detectives are looking for any motives behind this mysterious killing.

Her eyes tore away from the disturbing paper and she grappled for the phone. Rinoa shakily dialed Ellone's number and waited two rings and a half to be answered by a groggy voice, distinguishably her friend's, "H'lo?"

"Ellone, what do you know about the murder displayed on the front page of Seifer's paper?" Rinoa avoided beating around the bush.

"Uhm … good morning. I think I should really teach you how to make phone calls one day, you know that? So, how're you feeling on this fine, fine morning?"

"I'm not joking! What's up with the front page?!" Her voice was twisted with alarm and Ellone sensed this quickly enough.

"Woah, ok … cool it. I don't know what you're talking about. The 'front page' of Seifer's paper? I wouldn't know, you just woke me up. What's the big deal?" She asked sleepily, yawning.

Rinoa was lost for words. She began to imagine how stupid she would sound if she shrilled out something as mindless as, "There's a dead girl that looks exactly like me, oh my God, it's a sign!! An omen! Check the sky for crows flying west or ... north ... or ... just crows in general, do it!!"

"Well?" Ellone prompted, "What's up? What's got you so panicky?"

The younger girl remained silent for a few seconds and took in quick, shallow breaths, "Nothing. I'm just going crazy." She answered curtly and hung up.

Rinoa's gaze settled to the kitchen window, to avoid the paper. She could see the morning mist of the never-sleeping city slowly dissipating as the sun began to warm the metropolis. She figured that if she listened very carefully, she would be able to hear the soft rumbling of a commencing avalanche. The torrent that would crush her.


Author's Pointless Rambles: Woo, it's been a while. Got back from P.E.I. just yesterday but was having some issues so here I am, at 8:30 a.m. posting a chapter. I got a good deal of writing done on my vacation so I'm not so much in a crisis anymore but I still won't be able to update weekly, sorry folks.

So ... where was I? Oh, yes ... reviews. Why do you people not like giving reviews? Do you have something against me or is it just laziness? Come on people! It's not that hard. Click on the little 'Go Review' button at the bottom of your screen and tell me what you thought. I'm not asking you to write me a novel-lengthed critique - hell, I'll be happy with "I enjoyed it."

a) I want to marry it

b) It was ok

c) It didn't meet my expectations

d) Your writting isn't fit to kiss my ass

I just made it SO much easier for you guys. It's not that hard, you guys can do it - and think of the bright side ... all your efforts will be compensated by me doing a chicken dance and ramming into a wall so you can all point and laugh at the freak.

Thank you all for your support (those of you who give it). And I don't own Ziploc it is a trademark of Glad, bla bla bla ...