(A/N: Some minor character exploration. Gun enthusiasts, please don't rip me into itty bitty shreds for improper terminology, if there is any. To readers...plzzzzz R&R OMG lolzzz happy face kawaii happy happy.)
With Cid out of the house, there was not much for a former engineering assistant to do but sit in the corner with a book propped up on her lap and a pencil in her hand, scrawling away on a notepad.
Shera knew how to keep herself busy. Sometimes she stopped to adjust her light brown hair. Her hair ties never held it exactly right. Her glasses slid off her nose occasionally. Had textbook editors made more money, Shera would have ordered new hair ties and new glasses. ShinRa claimed all potential glasses-money, though...Shera had trouble keeping up with all the bills anymore. It wasn't that she made any less than when Cid was around. No, not that. She tried to pay as many bills as possible, and usually managed it solo.
She was so, so tired. She had all the features of a worn-out blanket. She had lost concentration hours ago, and as she sat, she slumped. Shera stared without focusing as her mind once again traveled back under the familiar weights of guilt and worry. The woman sat like that in all her faded clothing until her stomach rumbled, and she put the textbook on the coffee (tea?) table and slowly hoisted herself out of the chair.
Well, time for lunch. Shera thought about making a sandwich, so she opened the fridge and took out lettuce, tomato, bread, and a jar of mayonaisse. There was some raw bacon on the lower shelf that she could zap in the ancient microwave.
The fridge growled at her. Wait, besides the noises of the ice machine and the little fan at the bottom...Those did not usually sound like disgusting, throaty snarls, and if they did, then something was seriously wrong with the fridge. Shera peeked to the side, saw a chubby red-and-green monster sitting there, and dropped all the materials for a sandwich on the spot. She fled into the hallway, where dust motes danced innocently.
'How did that get IN?' she wondered while adjusting her glasses and patting her hair down. Everything was cool, everything was fine...there was just a HIDEOUS monster in the kitchen, nothing to be worried about. But how DID it get in? Thinking, she knew she always closed the door tightly whenever she left or entered the house. Then again, the doorknob no longer locked, in fact no longer moved. Shera hardly had to do more than lean on the door to get inside. And usually that was helpful, useful when Shera's arms were full of notes and rough drafts.
Shera, carefully avoiding the kitchen, hunted around the house until she found one of Cid's spears leaning against the coatrack, and hefted it in both hands. She had to drag the spear's blunt end on the ground as she advanced with the sharp shaft forward. She entered the kitchen, slid open the window over the sink, then moved in on the growling Velcher Task.
"Mmm, poke, go on, move."
The Velcher Task considered the spear with mean little eyes.
"Meep," said Shera as it easily swiped the spear out of her hands. "Ouch," Shera noted as the spear dropped across her toes. She nudged the spear off one foot by using the toes of the other. The spear rolled across the floor, coming to rest at the pantry, right under the growling monster.
Velcher Task: 1. Shera: 0. Shera's toes: -1.
At least it was a baby, Shera reasoned. A full-grown monster of that variety would have not sneaked in unnoticed! By the same token, a baby couldn't knock down walls. Its venom was not potent enough yet to melt through solid objects. As far as Shera was concerned, she was lucky that this little beast hadn't brought along its mother. Or its father. Or its siblings.
What Shera decided, after leaving the spear on the floor alongside the broken mayo jar and bread and lettuce and tomato, was that she needed a portable weapon, something small and light that could be used from a safe distance. Shera wasn't going back into the kitchen until she found a gun. And luckily, Shera knew that Arthur was visiting. A quick glance out the window showed her the presence of a familiar fat chocobo. Maybe Arthur'd have something more maneuverable than the big shotguns that the old man in town usually sold.
Into the early afternoon sunshine Shera stepped, closing the door behind her. One thing Rocket Town really had going for it was the beautiful skies. The clouds had all the freedom in the world, piling up or stretching out to the whims of the wind. The sun made the edges of the clouds white and brilliant, outlining every loop and curve with blinding clarity. Shera knew that if she returned to Costa del Sol there would only be haze hanging overhead.
Shera approached a stocky white chocobo standing in front of the weapon store. The chocobo had been there for a week. Shera felt a little sorry for him, because his owner had strapped him down with not only a saddle, reins, and stirrups, but also all manner of weapons. A few bastard swords, some shurikens, two rifles, boxes and boxes of ammunition, pistols, metal knuckles, some partisans...Every weapon gleamed like the clouds: Sharp and concise. When the chocobo shifted his feet, he jingled.
"Woooolk? Kwahkwahkwah," he warbled. Shera smiled up at him, and after a moment's hesitation, raised a hand to pet him.
"Woah, careful there, he's going to bite your hand off," the owner of the chocobo, a man similarly decorated with weaponry, ran out of the store. "Bartholomew's trained to kill anyone who gets too close. Asides me of course. Gotta be careful of thieves and all.You a customer?"
Shera nodded. Her hands instantly went to her sides. "I'd like a gun, please."
"Rifle? Pistol? Automatic? Semi-Automatic? Gatling? With or without attached grenade launger? I've got a nice vintage model...or are you simply interested in self-defense?"
"Self-def--" Shera was interrupted by an older, gruff man who ambled into the daytime, blinking his eyes.
"Shera, don't you buy any junk from that cheapskate," he growled. "What're you doing over here?"
"I've decided to invest in a gun," Shera shrugged off her smudged lab coat and hung it off her shoulder. Her arms were getting a little sweaty.
"Why?"
"I just don't feel safe now that Cid's gone..."
"Ahh, understandable. Well in that case, I guess Arthur's got -some- good stuff, but let me help you pick something out."
So Shera and the old man, after Arthur unclipped some of the better pistols from Bartholomew's complicated harness, sorted through weapons. Shera sat on her coat, which she had spread on the ground, and held her glasses to her nose as she leaned over one particular gun. It never occured to her what the Velcher Task might have been trying in her house while she was perusing weapons. She was glad of an excuse to get out of there anyway.
"You seem to like that one."
"Yep," Shera turned it around and examined it, taking special care not to point it at Arthur, the old man, or herself. "What kind of ammo does it take?"
She felt silly saying 'ammo.'
"This kind," Arthur put a small red box on Shera's jacket. "And juuuust for you, I'll give it to you half-price as long as you buy the weapon, okay? It's the Fatty-Bartholomew Special."
Fatty-Bartholomew Specials were acceptable. Shera gave the weapon trader her gil.
Arthur started re-attaching his wares to Bartholomew as Shera walked away with the box in one hand and the gun in the other. Her coat was draped over her left arm.
"You sure you know how to use that thing?"
"Of course, we had to take a mandatory class at the training academy..." Shera trailed as she used the opportunity to unclip the revolver and load narrow bullets. She leaned against the doorframe of her house.
"Best to keep it unloaded if you're just keepin' it around, you know," the old man chuckled nervously after Arthur became interested in rearranging his wares, "Don't want to risk it going off suddenly in the heat now do ya? Oh well, I trust you. Take care, Shera."
"I will," Shera nodded, because her hands were full of lab coat, bullets, and gun, so she couldn't exactly wave. She leaned into the door and it opened. Shera made a quick mental note to fix that lock first chance. Before it hadn't been much of a problem, but now she could see that it needed a solution soon.
Shera prowled the cool recesses of the small house. Her coat was hung over the chair, and the box of bullets lay on the seat. She decided to scope out all the other rooms first, even though she was certain that the Velcher was still locked in the kitchen. Finding the rest of the house Velcherless Shera returned to the kitchen door, took a deep breath, and went inside.
The growling started again, and this time Shera took a good, long look at the tiny beast, how it bared its fangs and dribbled ropy drool. It hadn't moved since she left it. She shivered when she imagined how that face might look with a bullethole in its skull. Not any prettier than before.
Technically, Shera did know how to use a gun. She had passed that mandatory class with solid marks. She knew how to click the one metal piece into place, and she could recite all the safety habits. Shera might not have remembered all the terminology associated with guns, but then again, this wasn't a written test.
Physically, Shera did not know what to expect. The shooting range at school gave their students earmuffs. She took a few moments, aiming and trying to work up the nerve to pull the trigger. It'd just be a little ping, one little shot.
It wasn't. It was an EXPLOSION.
Ears ringing, Shera opened her eyes again, only to discover that she had successfully assasinated one of the cupboards. The Velcher Task lurched but still didn't move. Its growls were ever louder, and it smacked its chops. Shivering all over, Shera let out a big sigh and was very thankful that the Velcher seemed to be somewhat stuck in the pantry.
Outside, Arthur and the old man looked up from Bartholomew, glanced at each other, and simultaneously barked, "What the hell?"
"Did you hear that?" Arthur choked. "Wasn't me...I dun load guns unless I'm gonna use em right away."
"Shera prolly shot herself...I told her not to load it right away!"
Shera shook her head in the kitchen, took more careful aim this time, and set her whole body rigid. She didn't want to hear that loud sound again, but she knew it was coming this time, at least. Just before she squeezed the trigger, she clenched her eyes shut, turning her face to one side.
Shera heard another explosive crack and an odd squelch. She didn't hear the two men beating on her door because she opened her eyes, took aim at the twitching Velcher Task and shot many more times, emptying the gun into its skull. With each blast, she averted her face. Squelch, squelch, squelch...
Shera: 1. Velcher Task: -7! Grr!
She hadn't the heart to look at her handiwork, and instead let her hands drop to her sides.
"Shera!...Woah, holy shit? Huh?"
The smoking gun dropped from her hand, spinning on the ground, and she shuddered so much she could hardly stand. Arthur and the old man gaped for a moment at the now-faceless Velcher Task, who hung off the counter, its tail wedged inside the nearby pantry. Sticky green blood was smeared all over the place.
"You could have told me there was one of those things in the house! I'da dealt with it for you!" the old man shouted. "Or did you forget there's other people in town than Cid who can protect you?"
"I'm sorry...I'm so, so sorry...I thought I could deal with it myself..."
Arthur quirked a smile. "You don't sound too stressed...Are you giggling?"
"Arthur, get your cheap ass outside! Go do something useful and pet your goddamn chocobo," the old man shouted. Shera's sobs sounded like laughter at first. Arthur left, muttering, "Yeah, I'll pet your mom's chocobo." The old man waited until Arthur was gone to speak again. "Hey, well, it might have done a number on your cabinets, Shera, but you're all right aren't you?"
Shera stopped sobbing, and pulled up a chair. She was still shaky all over. The old man pulled up another chair.
"Anything I can get you?" he said with a reassuring smile. He'd been in Rocket Town even before the actual rocket, so he regarded the other townspeople to be like his children. Little misguided souls, they were.
"I'm sorry. Don't trouble yourself."
"If you need to cry..."
"No, I'm fine, everything's okay," Shera took deep breaths. "Whoo. Sorry to have scared you."
"Stop apologizin'. It's actually pretty funny once ya think about it."
"Would you, ah, like some tea? I'll make you tea." Shera slumped back onto the table.
"Nah, I don't need tea."
"I'm thinking about going to Costa Del Sol," Shera blurted out, "Except, well I don't really like the people there. Surfers are losers. Always like, 'Hwwuuuu duuuude!' and yuck just can't stand em. But I try not to be too closeminded. If I ever meet a surfer who likes working on steam engines I might like him."The old man nodded, a little lost.
Shera stopped grinding the floor with her heel glanced up at the old man. "Oh...sorry, was I talking too much? How about some tea?"
"I'd better get back...I'll send in Arthur to help clean up stuff. He owes customer service, heheh."
As the red sky filled the windows, its clouds aflame with bits of yellow and orange, Shera still sat at the table. Only now her posture was very stiff and proper, legs crossed, hands on her lap. The dead Velcher had been cleaned away, though a hideous green stain remained. The cabinets would never be the same. They'd warp, and weaken. Earlier, Arthur had mistaken the mayonaisse for congealed fatty cels, which had made Shera giggle snortily at the thought of those balloony cheeks exploding. But the time for giggling snortily was past.
She was all alone again, hungry but still too keyed up to eat. The gun was now in plain sight. The gun was on the table. And two rent bills from ShinRa, both unpayed, were still lying open on the floor like some child's simplistic attempts at creating origami cranes. Those were paper birds that would never fly. Next to the bills lay an unopened letter as well, one with a nearly indecipherable address scrawled on its front. That letter intimidated Shera more than the bills, and if the president of ShinRa were breathing down Shera's neck she'd not have minded forking over incredible amounts of gil so long as she did not have to open the note from her mother.
Shera stirred the old ash in the tray with a finger. The scent reminded her of the anticipation of certain victory, but at the same time disappointment, shame, betrayal...Fear. Dragoon's breath. Fear of the familiar...Fear of being left all alone for another year, with nothing but rare newspaper blurbs to keep her updated. No real friends, except for perhaps the old man. Shera did not associate with the lingering rocket crew in the same manner as Cid. Unless the captain was around, they all acted like shallow copies of him, calling her slow in a manner meant to be jocular, although their jeers always came across as desperate attempts to seem tough. Sheep engineers. Shera did not especially appreciate their company unless their attention was diverted by the Captain, in which case she liked how invisible she felt.
"I'll call him tomorrow," Shera promised herself. And, thinking of the implications of the return to surfer-infested beaches, Shera pushed herself away from the table, walked around the letters on the floor, and headed upstairs to bed.
Cid's old spear leaned against the door, its business end stabbed into the rusted-over lock. It was heavy enough to keep the door closed during the night. Arthur had set it up, though he was hardly better than Shera at lifting the thing.