Final Fantasy: The War to End All Wars, Chap. 3
A/N: So many reviews, so little time…Lol. Three more people have joined in the resistance! Pink Chocobo 13, NightmareShadow and Resha-988, I bid you welcome. Your OCs sound excellent, interesting personalities, pasts and such. The latest OCs are: Mattheis Hiashin a.k.a. Bleeding Phoenix, (Pink Chocobo 13), Damien Nocturne a.k.a., Shadow Assassin, (NightmareShadow), and Cecilia Silverberg a.k.a., The Fallen Angel, (Resha-988). I'm still having Matt introduce the FFX cast, Damien or Cecilia may be accompanying him on that mission, but that's next Chappie. One of them will be making an appearance in this Chappie though, it will be revealed to my readers soon.
Anyway, now this chapter flings us back with Saint 'n' Company, still making their way back to the Rebel H.Q. This Chappie shall introduce a formidable adversary that has claimed many Rebel lives, plus the Soviet's secret to taking over the world, and it reveals a little secret about my OC. I'm not gonna tell you what it is so you'll have to read to find out. Alright, with my rambling done, I'll start up the Chappie. Read and Review people!
Note: I'm getting tired of saying this. If I portray any FF characters or OCs incorrectly, please notify me and I will rectify the problem. Thank you.
Chapter III
The Soviet Butcher
Saint watched quietly as Cloud prodded the fire with a stick, trying to coax more life out of the dying flames. The group had stopped around four in the morning, which had been about an hour ago; most of Cloud's companions had been exhausted, and almost immediately fell into a deep slumber; with the exception of Cloud, Vincent and himself, who had remained up on watch.
The three men were basically bored out of their skulls; their watch had been pretty uneventful, except for when Vincent had accidentally shot a squirrel that had ran in front of the trio. After four fits of raucous laughter from Cloud and Saint, and being told to 'Shut up, by the rest of the group, the men had returned to watching the trees quietly, looking out for anymore 'killer' squirrels.
Saint yawned loudly, rubbing his eyes sleepily with his hands. "Hey, Cloud."
Cloud stopped poking the fire for a moment, and looked at Saint. "Yeah?" He asked.
"What's your story?" Cloud and Vincent glanced at each other, and then sighed.
"…You're gonna find this hard to believe…" Vincent said, quietly.
Saint shifted his gaze to the gunman, smiling politely. "Try me."
Cloud sighed again and reluctantly began to relate their story to Saint, who listened intently. Cloud told Saint of his and his companion's tale of constant battles, death, and treachery, from the very beginning, where Cloud had participated in the destruction of Mako reactor 1, laughing at the part when Cloud had been forced to dress up as a woman, and scowling darkly when Sephiroth killed Aeris, Cloud told his story all the way to the ultimate clash with the crazed swordsman, Sephiroth. Saint scratched at the stubble which was beginning to grow upon his chin, he hadn't shaved in a day or two; Saint turned his gaze to the fire.
"Why…well, a better question: How'd you crash here?" Saint inquired, not taking his gaze from the dying fire.
"To be truthful…I don't know." Cloud said, shrugging. "All I know is that we had defeated Sephiroth, and were on our way back to rebuild Midgar, when one of the WEAPONS, Emerald, I think, blasted us with a huge laser beam. And suddenly, poof, we were here and about to crash-land onto your planet." He finished, emphasizing 'poof' by snapping his fingers.
"I have no idea how we survived, but we were… fortunate." Vincent added, seriously.
Cloud glanced at Vincent, and then turned his attention back to Saint. "Yeah… hey, we told you our story, you tell us yours." Cloud requested, hoping that he would uncover a secret about the mysterious man. Saint glanced at Cloud, and the young mercenary swore that he could see sadness in those usually cheerful eyes.
"…My story… is one for another time," Saint responded, his attention returning to inspecting the remnants of the fire. Cloud cocked an eyebrow at this and was about to insist that Saint tell them, when said individual raised a hand to silence him. "I'll tell you as much as I know about the world, but that's it." He said, turning to look at Cloud's curious face, while Vincent's remained as impassive as ever.
"It all started about, I think somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 to a 150 years ago, not too sure though, no one is anymore." Saint began, shrugging sheepishly. "A man named Sergei Radomir gained power in Russia; he reenlisted the Communist government of the Soviet Union and became the sole dictator of the U.S.S.R., Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, he was a fairly kind ruler, (even though he did have random people murdered on occasion)… Then it went all wrong… really wrong, he had a son, Mikhail," Saint said angrily, his right hand twitched slightly as he continued his narrative.
"The day his son turned 30 years old, we believe sometime in 2125, Sergei died 'mysteriously', leaving Mikhail at the helm of the Soviet Union. Then all hell broke loose, Mikhail attacked the world with the Red Army." Saint continued, angrily. "At first, it didn't go so well for the U.S.S.R., they kept losing ground, but then a Spanish scientist made a ground-breaking discovery…" Saint hesitated.
"What? What was it?" Cloud questioned, the curiosity eating away at him.
"…They figured out how to make clones…" Saint replied, solemnly. Cloud's eyes widened and his mouth fell open.
"Wha…?" Cloud asked, his curiosity replaced by horrible memories of North Crater.
"Clones, man, fucking clones, something from those Sci-fi movies I watch…occasionally," Saint said, sounding slightly embarrassed. "Anyway, the U.S.S.R. immediately confiscated the scientist and his machine, and by confiscated I mean: kidnapped. And began putting it to use, soon after Mikhail found out that there was a defect in the cloning process."
"…What's that?" Vincent asked.
"Death." Saint replied, simply. "Death, but with each man, and woman that was murdered, 10 more were created," Saint began to roll up the left sleeve of his trench coat, "of course, they had to keep track of the ones that they had harvested from other countries." Saint said, holding his left arm out in front of him, branded into the flesh of his left forearm was a set of numbers, 756478.
"Ouch…" Cloud muttered, disgustedly, Saint smirked.
"Trust me, the smell was much worse." Saint replied, shaking his arm so that the sleeve fell back into place. "The first digit of my 'brand' states that I hail from Italy, the seventh country to fall after Mikhail's war of the world, and as you can plainly see, I was not cloned." Saint concluded his smirk fading.
"How did they supply these clones?" Cloud asked, stretching his legs out in front of him.
"With more clones, of the…bovine variety." Saint replied, chuckling. He drew a pack of cigarettes from his coat's pocket; he pulled a cancer-stick out with his teeth, and lit up. He took a long draw on his Marlboro, and exhaled, blowing out the smoke. "Anyway, the very first clones hit the front lines in…2138. And well, 62 years later, here we are, the Rebels, the last resisters of the Soviet tyranny and we… are… losing."
"So, how long you been in this…'Rebellion', kid?" A gruff voice asked from behind them. Saint turned around to see Cid walking towards the trio, his arms stretched out above his head.
"Two years." Saint replied. "But I've seen more combat than a lot of people." He added, seeing the smug grin on Cid's face.
Cid shook his head, as he drew a match box from his pocket, and asked: "Got anymore? Fresh out." Knowing that he meant cigarettes, Saint tossed the packet of Marlboros into Cid's awaiting hand. "Thanks, kid." Cid said, taking a seat by 'Vampy-Boy' and lighting up.
"So, from what I hear, you nicks aren't doin' so well." Cid began, taking a long draw on his smoke, "how many of ya are left?"
Saint's face darkened considerably. "We…had over 500 cadets, now we're down to 200, 30 Special Forces members, 15 are still alive and five Elites." He replied, his expression one of suppressed fury and remorse, which could now easily be seen, because the morning sun had just begun to creep over the horizon, casting a radiant orange glow over their campsite.
"Elites?" Vincent asked, "Like SOLDIER?" Saint looked at Vincent, and nodded.
"Yeah, sorta like SOLDIER." He said, quietly. "If you are wondering where I fit in, I am one of the five Elites, or (heh, heh) as we're more commonly known: The Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse." He finished, smiling. Cid snickered.
"…The Five Horsemen…" He muttered, shaking his head. Cloud cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Cid, sighed and turned back to Saint.
"So what are the names of these 'Horsemen'?" He asked, curiously.
A look of sudden horror dawned on Saint's face. "Oh, hell, I have to check in with them." He said, drawing a cell phone from his trench coat pocket. He flipped the small device open, dialed a series of numbers, and then he lifted the phone to his ear. After listening to a soft thrumming sound on his phone, he heard it click as someone answered it and then nothing.
"Damien? That you?" Saint spoke into the cell phone calmly. "Press a button if it's you." Saint heard the beep of a button being pressed.
"Good." Saint replied, the Fourth Horseman, Damien Nocturne, although a great Rebel fighter, hardly ever spoke. "Hey, Damien, could you put Matt on?"
A couple of seconds later, Saint heard the young, cheery voice of Mattheis Hiashin answer. "Yello?"
"Hey, Matteo!"
"I told you to never call me that." Saint laughed.
"Oh, come on, Matteo! Where's your sense of humor?"
"In my other pants." Matt replied, flatly on the other end of the line. Saint laughed again, and then said, a smile on his face.
"Hey, Matteo, I got a favor to ask ya."
"Stop calling me Matteo and I'll agree to anything."
"Alright then, Matt, do this for me."
"What?"
"If you see any odd looking people," Saint glanced over his shoulder at Vincent, who was conversing quietly with Cloud and Cid, "bring 'em back to base, kay?"
Saint could almost see the Fifth Horseman smiling. "Alright, Capi-tan." Saint shut his phone, and then reopened the silver device, and quickly dialed another set of numbers. Lifting his phone to his ear he heard the Second Horseman's stern, cold voice answer.
"Yeah?"
"Hey, Vemar, I got a favor to ask ya." The Reaper only grunted on the other side of the line.
"See any odd looking people, bring back to H.Q. will ya?"
"…Alright, will do, get back to H.Q." Saint was about to reply when something caught his attention.
His mouth dropped open; his face was a mask of pure fright as his cellular phone slipped from his right hand, and his other hand reached for one of his guns. Cloud noticed Saint's horrified look over Vincent's shoulder, and followed his gaze to the thing which was scaring the living hell out of Saint, and immediately reached for the Ultima Weapon.
A tall, hulking machine stood before the group, its blazing red eye was surveying the trio beginning with Vincent, Cloud and then Cid, slowly examining each one of them closely. Its skin was made of pieces of steel varying in size, giving off the impression that it is a Frankenstein monster, only crafted from metal. A large number of piping sprouted from the small of its back, and branched out to its ankles and wrists. Atop its broad shoulders sat a pair of Russian RPGs, each rocket launcher turned slowly back and forth, pointing at each of the Highwind survivors. Then its single, menacing eye settled upon Saint.
"Saint, true identity: unknown. First Horseman of the Rebels, threat: minimal, orders are to exterminate subject on sight." It said, its voice, cold and lifeless as it brought back its right arm. Saint dove out of the way as the machine buried its massive fist into the earth. The first Horseman drew his pistols, a pair of silver 45. Colts and poured hot lead into the mechanical monstrosity's back.
The Machine climbed back to its full height, ignoring the rounds that were peppering its metallic skin and turned back towards the 1st Horseman. "RUN!" Saint shouted as he clambered to his feet, still firing. "RUN, DAMN IT! IT HASN'T REGISTERED YOU AS A THREAT YET, RUN!" Saint screamed, over the gunfire as he slowly backed away from the advancing monstrosity of metal, whose one and only objective was to slay the First Horseman.
They weren't running, and apparently, they were going to try to fight the Machine. And Saint could not allow that to happen, it would be such a waste to lose these recruits. He took one last look at the survivors of the Highwind, and leapt into the undergrowth at a full sprint, the Machine followed after him, its massive feet trampling the foliage as it pursued its prey.
As Saint ran, he discarded the almost spent clips and slapped two more into the guns, cocked them, and fired off a few rounds back at the Machine. It continued to pursue him, not even noticing the rounds that struck it, dead-on, in the chest. Saint darted to the left to avoid a rather large oak, and stopped a few yards away from the oak for a moment, looking back at the Machine.
He watched as the Machine came to the tree, and batted it out of its way with a swing of its mighty arm, tearing the tree from its roots with a resounding 'rrrrrriiiipppp!' So the rumors were true, this thing did hit like a Mac truck, snapping out of his musings, Saint ran for his life. The Machine, or as it was called by him and his kind: a 'Soviet Butcher' gave chase.
Saint saw the light that signified the edge of the forest, and ran for it. He leapt from the tree line, rolling on the concrete of the forsaken highway; he came to a stop on his side, both of his pistols trained on the edge of the forest. Suddenly he saw something soar into the air, Saint rolled out of the way as the Soviet Butcher's fist collided with the concrete, leaving a small crater in the pavement. He leapt to his feet and trained his pistols on the Butcher's head and pulled the triggers.
The rounds clanged harmlessly off of the Machine's head, causing little or no harm at all. The Butcher clambered to its feet, and turned to Saint. Saint's hands did their trick as the Machine stalked ever closer to the young Rebel, its hand balling into a fist. Then suddenly Saint heard the most horrific sound of them all, the 'click!' of a dry gun. He cursed himself for not bringing more ammo, and tossed his prized pistols to the ground.
Reaching into his coat, Saint withdrew a silver cross from the confines of his trench coat. He smirked as he pressed a small switch in the center of the crucifix. "Back to Hell, you scum." Saint growled ominously as he gripped the cross tighter in his hands, the Butcher, unabated, kept slowly walking towards him, a menacing gleam in its single red eye. A curved blade slowly emerged from the cross, and it locked into position, forming a katana with the hilt fashioned out of a crucifix. Giving the sword a quick twirl, Saint rushed the Butcher, letting out a mad battle-cry.
Saint slashed downward. The Butcher reacted quickly, raising its arm; it warded off the katana blow and lashed out with its other arm. Saint ducked under the blow, and struck back with his katana, catching the Machine in the stomach, leaving a long horizontal gash in its gut. The Butcher looked down at its wound, then back up at Saint, then back down at its injury. "Aw, snap…" Saint groaned, as the machine looked back up at him. With a soft whirring of ball bearings, the two rocket launchers trained themselves on Saint. He took two steps back, and then, for the second time that day, ran for his life.
Saint was about twenty feet away from the Butcher, when time seemed to slow to a crawl as the Machine staggered backward from the force of the rockets being let off from their launchers. The rockets homed in on their target, spiraling through the air towards the First Horseman. They moved ever closer to their target, nipping dangerously at his heels. "Let's fight fire with fire." Saint muttered, unclipping a grenade from his belt. He tore the pin off with his teeth and cooked the frag grenade. When he judged the time was right, he tossed it behind him and flung himself to the ground.
A massive explosion ensued, sending shards of shrapnel in every direction, cutting through the dense undergrowth and imbedding itself into the concrete. After the dust cleared, Saint climbed to his feet with the help of his katana. He turned to see the Soviet Butcher bolting towards him; its 'skin' was smoking, leaving long spiraling trails of smoke in its wake. Saint sidestepped the blow and slashed again, leaving a vertical gash in its back, the wound erupted in a shower of sparks.
The Butcher lurched forward from Saint's attack, but quickly regained its balance, turned, and retaliated with an unbelievably fast punch, which caught Saint in the gut, and sent him flying. He hit the concrete of the forgotten highway with a sickening thud, and bounced once, twice, and a third time before he hit the highway and laid there. Saint climbed onto his hands and knees, his right hand involuntarily went to his lips, and he coughed violently into it. Once Saint's coughing fit had subsided, he looked at his right palm. It was smeared with his blood.
A fury coursed throughout Saint's form, and he stood up, ignoring the agonizing pain that lanced up and down his entire form, (he suspected the Butcher's blow had broken a few ribs, which had punctured a couple of organs, but he didn't care, if he was going to bite it here, he'd take that Butcher with him), he wiped the blood from his lips, and spat out some more of the red liquid. He looked up at the Butcher, whose fiery eye betrayed no hint of human emotion.
The Butcher watched as Saint walked towards it, stopped, bent down, and picked up his fallen katana with his right hand. He hefted it over his shoulder; his face contorted in a mask of excruciating pain, and glared daggers at the Butcher. "Do you submit, First Horseman? You know who will be the victor, submit and accept your fate." The Butcher spoke in its cold, metallic tone, as it took a giant step towards Saint, the pavement cracking under its weight.
Saint shook his head and put on a painful smile. "I still got one more Ace up my sleeve." He replied, and his left hand was a blur as it shot inside of his coat, and drew a Colt Python .357 magnum revolver in a flash. Saint raised the gun with one hand, a sent a round straight into the Butcher's chest, tearing a large jagged hole in the steel, it was knocked back a few feet, the Machine regained its balance, only to meet another round to its knee, which forced down onto one knee.
Saint approached the Butcher, his Colt Python slid out of his left hand as it went numb, he didn't have much time left. He summoned what strength remained and swung his katana into its neck, decapitating it; sparks flew out of the severed electrical lines that served as the Machine's arteries. Flipping his katana so that it pointed towards the open neck, Saint drove it deep into the body of the Machine, destroying its central processing core and ending its existence.
The machine fell backward onto the concrete, dead; its colossal bulk caused the concrete to fracture, leaving small fissures in the black pavement.
"The only good Soviet is a dead one…" Saint muttered as he stumbled backward. He took a few more steps, and then fell to his knees. Using the last vestiges of strength left in his battered body he drew from his bandana, a small rectangular device with a red switch in the center. He pressed the button and raised it to his bloodied lips.
"First Horseman…in need…of…assistance…send…medivac…to…near…Palmero…Italy." He spoke into the device, panting heavily.
"Ellen…help me, sis…" He muttered, incoherently as he dropped the gadget to the concrete, the switch in the center blinking red. Moments later he too fell to the concrete, his breathing slowing. His eyes began to shut, causing the world to go hazy.
"Saint!" A voice shouted from seemingly thousands of miles away. It was a woman's voice, and Saint could dimly make out a group of seven people running towards him, the First Horseman's eyes slowly closed and Saint descended into the world of shadows. He wondered if this would be his final resting place…he hoped not.
Cloud and Company bolted toward Saint, weapons at the ready in case anymore Mechanical monsters decided to attack. Cloud came to a halt and kneeled down by the prone gunslinger. "MEDIC!" Cloud shouted at the top of his lungs as he checked Saint's pulse, which was gradually fading. "Somebody cast Life 2!" Cloud shouted, imbedding his sword into the concrete of the deserted highway, and then he clapped his hands together and held them above Saint's still form, a sparkling green light twisted and curled around Saint, as Cloud cast Cure on him.
"Move Spike!" Cloud turned to see Yuffie; their resident medic after Aeris had died, running towards him and Saint. This seemed to shock everybody, as it appeared that the only thing Yuffie cared for was her precious materia. Cloud quickly backed up as Yuffie knelt down beside Saint. A blinding light surrounded Saint's still form, causing the survivors of the Highwind to cover their eyes from the incredible radiance. (A/N: I don't know what Life 2 looks like, just to let you know.)
When the brilliance had diminished, Cloud and Company lowered their arms. Yuffie fell backward onto her rear, dazed, the brilliant flash of light had stunned her. Tifa was the first to step forward; she picked up the blinded ninja and carried her to the back of the group, where she administered a vial of Eye Drops on her eyes.
After the rest of the group had recovered, Cloud issued orders, being the leader and all. "All right, Tifa, Red, Cait Sith, and Yuffie, look after Saint, get some supplies if you can. Barret, Vincent, Cid and I will keep an eye on that thing over there." Cloud finished, inclining his head towards the Soviet Butcher's…uh…carcass, yeah, carcass sounds good. The gang nodded, and went about their assigned tasks.
As the day wore slowly on, the group set up camp on the side of the road, in the shadow of the trees. Tifa, Yuffie and Red took care of Saint, addressing his wounds with curative materia. Vincent and Cid went hunting; they returned a couple of hours later, looking battered and exhausted, sticks and twigs stuck in their hair. Everyone tried to hold in their laughter, trying not to incur the wrath of the pilot except Barret, who burst out laughing at the first sight of Cid, clearly trying to aggravate him, which in turn, caused a wave of violent cursing so profound that it even surprised the leader of AVALANCHE.
Night unfolded faster than Cloud's group had expected and the group bunked down for the night, keeping watch in shifts. Around midnight, Cloud and Barret exchanged watch duties. Barret sighed heavily as he surveyed the surrounding landscape, he couldn't stop worrying about Marlene, and how was she doing without him? Had anyone hurt her? If they did, when he got back from wherever-the-fuck this place is, there would be hell to pay.
"Don'tcha worry Marlene…," Barret muttered, seriously, "Papa will be home soon."
Barret yawned loudly. He rubbed his eyes sleepily; he wasn't used to night watch. He'd rather be in thick of it, gunning down his opponents; he was not used to all of this, 'waiting-for-the-enemy-to-attack' bullshit, as Cloud had said. He sighed and continued to glance up and down the road; then he noticed it. Well, rather heard it.
He stood up, ears perked to attract any sound, it sounded like a low rumbling…of what? He soon got his answer. "Tires…" Barret muttered. He pointed his Missing Score towards the origin of the rumbling, and waited, arm tensed, ready to fire. Then he saw it, a group of headlights cresting the hill, approaching their position fast.
Barret stood there, carefully aiming. Suddenly, a small stiletto imbedded itself into his arm. The burly man grunted in pain and pulled the knife out of his arm with his other hand and tossed it behind him. "WHERE THE FUCKS DID THAT COME FROM?" He screamed into the darkness, firing wildly into the trees surrounding their campsite. All of the sudden, Barret began to feel very sleepy.
"Marlene…I'm still…comin' home." He uttered unintelligibly as he collapsed.
"BARRET!" Tifa screamed, leaping out of her sleeping bag and running over to him. Cloud was on his feet in a moment; sword at the ready, so was the rest of AVALANCHE, weapons at the ready, eyes darting wildly about, searching for the culprit. As Tifa bent down to check Barret's pulse, she found that he was still alive.
She jumped back to her feet, and sprinted back to her blue sleeping bag, grabbing her gloves from inside it; she slipped them on and turned back around. She found herself staring into the most dazzling pair of sky blue eyes she had ever seen.
"Who are you?" She asked, threateningly, drawing her fist back to punch. Before she could do so however, the mysterious individual sprayed something into her face. Tifa immediately collapsed. The last thing she saw was a set of headlights approaching the campsite.
"…Cloud…I'm sorry." She murmured, sadly. What would become of her and her friends? What of Saint? Are these the Soviets he spoke of? These questions floated through her mind as her vision was clouded by swirling black smoke. She finally gave in and slipped into unconsciousness.