Seventh Heaven - the diner that had once had fame in Sector 7, Midgar. Ever since its comeback, the place had been full of people, some of whom had come after hearing all about that little place from Johnny in Johnny's Heaven. It came to no surprise that the new diner was going to do as well as the old.

Today, however, was without a single customer of any kind; the moment the weather started to change, many of them hastened to return home before it got any worse - ever since that first time it rained since the long period of clear skies, every time there was rain, now, there would be a storm soon after.

Tifa had just sent Marlene and Denzel in not too long ago and was about to close shop for the night when two wet, dripping figures burst in. One was a stranger - perhaps a soldier, the way he was attired. The other was a familiar face.

"Johnny!"

"Ah...hello again, Tifa!"

"Have you lost your mind? What were you thinking, running through a storm like that?"

The strange soldier silently watched as Johnny stammered out a string of apologies. Tifa was unsure if she had ever seen him before, but let it pass; one drowned rat looked hardly different from another.
That was when Johnny finished with his apologies and started his introductions.

"Tifa, allow me to introduce Mr. Leonhart - my only customer for today, despite all that rain."

"...and then you bring him here?"

"Well...you know...the rain and all..." Johnny trailed off, playing with his thumbs. Tifa knew immediately what it was going on, but couldn't bring herself to throw them out again in such weather.
Even if it was closing time.

"Fine, you and your friend can stay here until the weather clears," Tifa conceded, replacing her keys in her pocket and retreating to the counter. Thankful and relieved, Johnny hurriedly ushered the soldier to the bar stools by that same counter.

"Since you're here, you want a drink?"

"The house special," Johnny replied quickly, then hastily turning to the soldier. "You should try it, it's great. We can split the cost on it, too, if you're interested."

The soldier was quiet, but finally nodded.

"Alright, one Corel Alcohol coming right up. Stay there, please."

As Tifa disappeared into a different room, Johnny waited almost impatiently for the soldier to shed off his wet jacket, the now clearly visible weapon - some sort of revolver-blade cross - set to lean against another stool.

"So, then what happened?"

"...?"

"You know, after you left the station to join the W.R.O. What happened?"

The soldier stared blankly at Johnny, slowly shaking his head in amazement. "You've got to be kidding me..."

"So humor me."

"..."

Under the command of the World Restoration Order, Leonhart had a new role. His shovel was now replaced by either a gun or a sword - mostly a gun, and his duty no longer lay in burying dead, but in preserving lives - defending the civilians.

As he was tasked with guarding the parameters, he continued to watch people die around him. Most of them were bleeding pitch black. Most of them were children. As he watched other civilians either find the kindness to bury the bodies, or become fearful and leave them untouched, he remembered a time when he and Chief would stand opposite one another, digging holes and covering bodies.
All he did now, was turn around and walk away.

Slowly, signs of dissent started to stir among those who were bleeding black but not anywhere near dead yet. Their cries for aid changed to ugly accusation, blaming the soldiers for only looking out for themselves and no longer concerned with civilian welfare. Some who were strong enough managed to cause some few, short-lived riots or staged protests - no matter how short, they hindered the work of the World Restoration Order greatly.
Soon, permission was granted to the soldiers to fight back - with their weapons.

Despite being among them, Leonhart found it disgusting - an outrage to use his gun to shoot desperate people who were like cornered beasts, too scared and frantic to understand the truth. Yet, he found himself forced to pull the trigger countless times on these same people - the issued swords and blades' quality had downgraded in favor of the firearms, and were either too brittle or too soft to be of much use apart from picking dirt off the bottom of boots.

After one and a half weeks of what should have been rightfully termed "pointless slaughter", luck finally decided to pick his side.
After another futile attempt to get the local weapons dealer to tamper with his military blade - anything to strengthen it - he spotted an old beat up blade in the corner of rejects behind the counter.

"...what's that?"

"Oh, that? That's a gunblade, of course! Never seen a gunblade before?"

Leonhart shook his head dumbly. The weapons dealer scratched at a balding spot on his head before reaching for that same blade. He hefted it up, slapped its weight carefully against his palm, then placed it on the counter.
"Guess it's no surprise - hardly anyone uses these things anymore; kinda tricky, takes a lot out of people. You good with blade-fighting, son?"

Leonhart slowly nodded, his eyes moving quickly between the weapons dealer and the old blade.

"Then you could try this out for size. A few refinements, some sharpening, maybe a new finish, and it'll work like a charm - not to mention get damn handsome, too. What do you say, son? Wanna give it a chance? I'll give you a good price."

Leonhart finally lifted his hand from his side to run it across the old, rust-covered blade. It was large, but not as large as the comically gigantic blades he had come across. Just a right size, when he thought about it. Where the hilt should have been, instead was embedded what looked like the barrel of a regular army-issued revolver, ending with the pistol's handle and trigger.

"...how low can you go?"

In the weeks after, Leonhart started to work away from the military issued weapons, and moved on with the gunblade. The weapons dealer had been right about one thing - it took a lot of him. By the end of each day, he was spent. Still, he continued to fight with the gunblade. He changed his stance several times, and returned to have the blade cleaned and sharpened equally as often. As time slowly crawled on by, he started to get the hang of it - perhaps that explained how those guys could wield those same comically gigantic blades like they did; practice made perfect, indeed.

On the day he finally adjusted completely to his new weapon, he commemorated the moment by tagging his family's totem onto the revolver handle - the Griever.

The soldier reached toward the weapon he had set down, cupping the tagged lion in one gloved hand.

"The Griever - the body of a man, but the heart of a lion; his totem has existed in my family for a long time. I once heard a story from a...relative, that the Leonhart were descended from one man - a Dark Knight - and the Griever was his symbol. Thus, the Leonhart, his descendants, continue to bear his symbol, perhaps to receive the Dark Knight's favor, and also his blessing."

"Ah, that explains all those lions," Johnny commented dryly.

The soldier unconsciously flicked his eyes once over himself - the lion head pendent around his neck, the lion on the arm of his jacket - and back at the tag he was still cupping. He let it drop back down and swing as he slumped over his seat in a resigned manner, not exactly answering Johnny's question.

"Here you go, one round of Corel Alcohol."

Both men looked up as Tifa returned with a bottle and two empty glasses. Setting the three items before them, she took back her tray and retreated within once more.
"Clean up after yourselves."

"We will."

Johnny reached over and took the bottle, pouring out an even portion of alcohol into each glass before setting the bottle down once more. Looking back at the soldier, he urged him. "Go on, try it."

The soldier reached for the glass and took hold of it, studying the contents as he brought it close. Finally, he tilted his head back, his throat working as half the glassful of liquid went down. Lowering the glass again, he licked his lips thoughtfully before giving his verdict.
"...it's good."

Johnny nodded his agreement, but did not stay on that topic too long.
"So, what happened next?"

The soldier tilted his head back and finished the rest of his glassful. As he lowered his glass, Johnny instinctively poured him another glass. Looking briefly at Johnny, the soldier nodded his thanks.

Day by day, more and more people became infected. Although the death count hardly rose, there soon came a point where nearly half the population was bleeding pitch black.
Not even the soldiers were spared - just as suddenly as it had snuck up on everyone else, it snuck up on them and took them, no matter if they were flat on their backs or had their boots on. Some joined the list of deaths, and some never got up again - lying there on their backs and simply wasting away.

Leonhart had watched his team fall apart; every other day, another member would collapse. Some, he would visit; others, he would never see again. As he stood there and stared down at the bodies either heavily bandaged or soaked with black blood, he wondered why he was not the one to lie there in pain. Was it as they had said; was the Griever truly protecting his own?
He loathed this protection as much as he cherished it. What should have been a blessing, he could not help but regard as a curse - a sentence to live through life like a worm, until the day he finally had an heir for Griever to be passed on to. A cursed, yet blessed heirloom.
As time continued to crawl pass, he finally stopped visiting altogether.

He was soon transferred to a new squad, comprised of all the remaining survivors of other teams. Some had kids of their own, some had wives, some had girlfriends, some were still single; like him, all were still healthy and strong.
On the night of their official formation as a new team, some suggested they head down to the local saloon to "bond". A majority vote went in their favor, and they were soon seated around a table with bottles of cheap alcohol, watching the acts going on. Leonhart sat with them, but wished no part in their lewd comments about the performers; he did not even wish to look up at them as he chugged mug after mug into his system.
He felt too tired to try anymore.

He could not recall how many rounds he had downed, but he remembered the world around him started to give a more fuzzy appeal to him. He could still walk, he remembered that - he remembered leaving his comrades to pass out in the saloon as he left to go somewhere.
He remembered a quiet place of retreat from many years ago, a place he had once been brought to as a boy. He remembered meeting a girl there - she had a face, words, hopes and dreams - he remembered her mentioning a boyfriend, but he could not summon any names to his recollection.
But he remembered, well, that she had told him he could always come back and see her, whenever he needed a friend to talk to.

He needed a friend. A friend who he could talk to. A friend who was not doomed to drop dead in battle.

He wanted a friend more than ever before.

Then he came to the front steps - old, run-down as ever, and the rugged doorway. He stepped inside, and saw the flowers again - they were still blooming, still a fond sight despite the brokenness of the building that housed them.
And there was still the girl there.

He approached, almost desperately, his hand moving as he tried to reach out.

You're still here...?

Then she turned around, and something snapped within him.

This girl was different, not the one he remembered. Her hair was still long, but it was a darker shade of brown and did not flow down her back - it stopped at her shoulders. And she wasn't much as tall, she was rather smallish.

It wasn't her.

"I'm sorry, am I intruding on anything?"

The hesitant, timid voice registered finally in his foggy mind, and Leonhart tried to say something - that took a little more effort.

"...where is she?"

The girl frowned slightly in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"...she said she'd be here..."

"...Aerith? Do you mean Miss Gainsborough?"

He squinted as he tried to recall the name. Then the girl started to prompt him further.

"Long light brown hair? Pink dress? Red jacket? Pink bow in her hair?"

Then it registered, and he managed to nod hurriedly.

"Yes...yes...that's her..."

The girl's expression suddenly appeared dimmer, even to his slightly blurred perception of things.

"She left a long time ago, and she's never come back since. I...I've been taking care of the flowers for her, but there's been no sign of her ever returning."

He swore his chest seized up for a moment there as he suddenly couldn't breathe.
This wasn't right. She had promised him. She said she would be here, anytime he needed someone to talk to...anytime he needed a friend to just listen to him ramble away at nothing...even in a drunken phase, like now...she said she would be right here for him.

...she...lied...?

...even...you?
Lost...everything's lost...?

The girl gasped audibly enough as he fell into a messy sitting position, shaking as he shivered hard with suppressed emotions.

She had her own life, she was not obligated to be here for anyone. She did mention, somewhere, that there were people after her, and she did mention she had her boyfriend. Maybe she left with him to have a better life. Maybe she was living happily somewhere.
He should be feeling happy for her, shouldn't he?

"...sir, are you alright?"

He was supposed to be happy for her, right?

...was he sobbing now?

Must be all that alcohol, then.

Then something was held out to him. It was blurred at first, but he finally recognized it as a small lacy handkerchief. In the hand of the girl he had just been...talking...to.

"...um...here, blow."

...what?

Something just seemed so strange to him in that simple phrase, perhaps because his mind was so disorientated from the booze and torrent of emotions.

He didn't know why, and he figured it was not really fair to confuse and scare the poor girl as he did, but it happened.

He started to laugh out loud.
The tears were still streaming down his face, but he was laughing.

Laughing and crying...crying and laughing.

Right there, with just a confused, worried and slightly frightened girl as an unexpected witness, he lost control of himself entirely.

After that night, Leonhart found out she was actually one of the dancing girls performing in the saloon; she had finished early and come there, that was all.

He continued to spend his leisure time at the saloon, just to watch her perform. Sometimes, he would manage to talk to her again. Sometimes, he only watched. There was once, perhaps, she sang, but he never heard her sing again for a long time.

Despite the initial difficulty, the two of them soon started to meet more regularly. Both were as patient with one another as they could manage; Leonhart gave her his respect and friendship, and the girl put up with him when he unconsciously lost himself now and then.
The day they finally met halfway, he confessed.

Johnny, just lifting his own glass of to his lips, yanked the glass back down as he sprayed alcohol across the counter in what had to be an overly dramatic spit take. Hardly impressed, the soldier did not respond other than to duck slightly back, out of the way.

Coughing hard, Johnny finally blurted out what had caused his shock - "You fell in love with a dancing girl?"

"Yes; why?"

Johnny caught the look in the soldier's eye, realized that the latter did not really see his point, and coughed one last time. "Sorry, do go on."

Eventually, the girl resigned from her job with the saloon. Leonhart, too, received a successful transfer to the W.R.O.'s Selected Reserve. The two gathered what possessions they had, and departed from Edge. It took some traveling before they came upon a small, isolated village among the hills, not too far from Edge itself, so occasional supply shopping was still possible, as well as checking up on old friends in the town.
Thus, they settled there.

It soon came to no surprise that they were the only two there who were not infected by the black blood; all the villagers there had come from different places, to this peaceful little place - to die in peace.

By then, the public had been enlightened to the fact that this strange plague - they called it "Geostigma" - was not contagious in any way. Though, there were still no solid explanations as to how one got infected in the first place.

Leonhart only knew he could not take any chances. The villagers were kind, good people, despite their suffering. Yet, he did not wish the girl to share their plight, ever.
A week after they settled, he went back to Edge. After reacquainting himself with the merchants, he managed to convince one to help him make two special items, both bearing Griever's totem. The moment he made it back home, he passed on his pendant to her. He made her promise to always hold onto it, that is, until he asked for it back. If Griever truly watched over those who bore his totem, then let Griever watch over the girl.

As the couple settled down in the village, Leonhart started to earn his keep among them; although the place was in the hills, and was usually peaceful, it still fell victim to the occasional monster pack that came by. Leonhart was in his element, fighting them off with his gunblade whenever they approached. The villagers he protected never did get close to him, but he was fitting the role of "neighbor" better with each passing day.

One day, just as luck picked his side so long ago, luck left him, suddenly and ferociously.

There had been nothing different about that day - he only recalled awakening to a strange feeling of lethargy. There had been a more aggressive pack of monsters upon the village that day, and what few fighting buddies he had were under the weather and weakened. It had been a hard battle, and he felt like he had been fighting for an eternity as he hacked through the pack.

Then the fight was over, and he nearly dropped his blade as a sudden new feeling of exhaustion and weakness seized his entire body. The world suddenly looked a little less focused, and he could hardly move from his half-crouched position.
A sudden pain stabbed him hard in the lower back, lancing up to his shoulders as his legs went numb. As he hit the ground, his mind started to spin. He could barely even call out, getting nowhere past pained moans. With some difficulty, he managed to reach and touch his lower back. There was something sticky there.
He pulled his hand out in front of him again, causing him to fall onto his side. Groaning, dreading what he would find, he finally forced himself to look at his hand, at the substance that was now soaking his back.

The glove was stained pitch black.

To be continued...