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It has been a while since Vincent was met by such a horrid sight. From what he has experienced, this sight does not bother him much, rather, the consequences, the motives and the unknown acquaintances that may arise due to this scene before him are what chill him.
The desert is mysteriously silent right now, providing emphasis to the area. The sun is much hotter than usual and the rays penetrate through the layers of Vincent's clothing to cook his undead skin. The man's eyes are devoid of emotion yet deep inside, the pain swells like a tumor. They all had fought for peace- he had fought for peace, and peace is mocking them- mocking him.
The only condolence he received came from the heat wave. This unlikely being sensed Vincent's pain and in a good-natured response, tried desperately to blur the view from the man's eyes. It failed miserably, only succeeding in masking the nothingness of the environment enveloping the horrible sight. The scene itself was as clear as glass and any attempt to erase it is futile.
This is what peace is. Peace is a sadistic form of insult to them; or to Vincent, at least. Peace prevents any form of destruction to the masterpiece-of-insult it has created for the tortured peacemaker to see. It was too much to bear.
Vincent fought to shut his eyelids and struggled to keep them shut. Peace saw this as a minor disappointment and resisted the man's actions. Even if his eyelids blocked the view from his eyes, peace has found a way to make those eyelids transparent. In response, he tried to shut them even tighter, and clearing his mind of any thought. He tried to think of happier times with his new friends, the rebuilding of the planet and... peace.
Every good thought boils down to peace- the peace that was attacking him. Vincent still fought for one last inch of tranquility and, as always, determination prevailed.
Peace failed to secure victory in this little skirmish but the war was not over yet. For peace, and every other thing in the planet, that war is about to begin.
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"So, when will you be back? I thought you were gonna stay here for a while."
"Well, duty calls."
"How long is this trip going to take?"
"It depends on the destination and- there are so many factors to consider. So, I don't know yet."
"We'll be waiting for you."
"Yeah, obviously."
"What made you say that, huh?"
"Seeing as this is the only home we've got, who else are we going to wait for if one of us is out?"
"Alright, you win. Just be careful okay?"
"I will. Hey, you can always check the newspapers, right?"
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Reeve wandered his eyes at the reports piling up onto his desk. Today was an unusually lazy day for Reeve. He wished that he could stay at home and relax but unfortunately, the missing convoy problem has lured him into the trap of his office.
He checked his watch. 9:00 am. By now, he should be sitting on his couch, legs propped up on the table in front of him, daydreaming. In a few minutes, he should be sleeping again in that same position. Then probably, he should be going out to eat lunch on a restaurant. "Take note of the 'should be'." he muttered.
He then should be coming back home to watch TV. 'Oh wait, we only have four channels'. The Avalanche-Shinra battle wiped out most of the TV stations on Midgar and time and effort was placed on the rebuilding of homes; not on the rebuilding of entertainment. 'Mental note: Ask W.R.O. to restore television entertainment after.'
Aside from television, probably he would read something. A book perhaps, or a simple magazine. However, he realized that his magazines were outdated. Yet again, a direct casualty of the battle. He would settle down with a book then.
But for now, he must read these papers. Now that the convoy problem has successfully trapped him, papers came flying on to his desk, all filled with more problems. 'Ah well, the only person without a problem is a dead person.'
He began to shuffle through the papers, wanting to finish the job early.
As soon as he read the papers, he knew that he will be staying here for a while.
He pushed a button on his intercom and spoke, "Can you please contact my three general officers, I need to speak to them at once."
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Vincent stood, his eyes still shut. Peace has stopped its assault, allowing him to fortify his stronghold against a possible attack. How ironic it is that peace is on the offensive.
But still, he must defend peace for the sake of others, and the planet. He must defend that which has attacked.
And in doing so, unleash hell upon the unsuspecting residents of this home. They will unknowingly embrace hell, thinking that it is good for them. And hell, in return, will open its fiery arms of suffering to those who will embrace it.
Nothing is safe now. Nothing will ever be safe for anything, yet Vincent still believed that there is peace. Somewhere, the real peace is there for them, laying dormant while its evil replica plagues the land. This is what Vincent will fight for right there and then. It will be a long and arduous campaign and he will march into the fray with nothing but his belief of that true peace.
How can peace have an evil clone? This seems illogical. Peace is supposed to be one and only, a lone term for something positive, and something that is wished by many. How can it have an evil clone then?
Could it be that without this clone, the importance of peace will be overlooked? Could it be that peace is taken for granted? Yes, that is it. Peace will become so common that it will be forgotten as a simple part of everyone's daily routines. Peace will be just in the corner, working beneath the shadows. It will no longer be desired, and peace is alive when it is desired. This desire gives hope and strength. It gives people a quintessential basis for their battles, giving them the will to fight for peace.
And since peace, once attained, will become so commonplace, and it will be taken for granted. As a defensive mechanism, peace created an evil clone, a false peace in order to remain in existence. Survival of the fittest.
This false peace is there in order not to taint the real peace in a shroud of darkness and misery. It is there to provide people with a false sense of security while slowly wreaking havoc among the populace. Eventually, it will cause new fighters to emerge, all of them with the hopes of having peace. They will desire peace, enough to die for it.
And this is exactly what peace wanted in order to survive.
Survival of the fittest.
Due to this struggle for existence, there will be no peace because of peace.
This reality bathed the lone figure in silence. He kept his eyes closed, slowly creeping out of the internal stronghold he created. There is nothing left to do. The truth is something he must accept.
But truth is an unverified fact, only agreed upon by many.
Probably, he can change that truth; hope for the true peace to settle down and manifest itself in everyone's hearts. In return, he will ensure that peace will never be remembered as a commoner.
How great are the demands of peace...
The sound of a motor engine suddenly invades the silence. This sudden, expected disturbance snaps his eyes open. He watched as a machine, no more than a meter in width approached him. A pair of goggles reverberates the glimmer of sunlight as it hits it, and the wind messed the alreasy messed-up spiky blonde hair of its rider.
The man and machine stopped a few meters from him. Vincent shifted his gaze towards the sand, listening as the newcomer kills the engine and hops off the bike.
"What happened here?" the blonde greeted.
"Ambush." he greeted back.
"By who?"
"That is what we're about to find out." he fumbled in his cloak. After a few moments, he pulled out a small, brown stick with two red stripes enveloping it. He then walked over to a fairly large open plain. He then popped off the top, releasing a thick, blood red smoke into the air.
Vincent then knelt down and jammed the bottom part of the stick in the sand, making sure that it firmly held in place. He took out his PHS and dialed a number. "I found them. Send a medevac chopper here. Red flare's up."
Cloud interrupted. "I'm here by Reeve's request. I brought some medical supplies."
"That does not seem to be necessary as of now." Vincent said, looking at the carnage.
Cloud went to a large box strapped to the back of his bike and pulled out a small, white plastic bag. He took out a bottle of water from the box and walked towards Vincent, stretching his arms out to offer the plastic bag and the bottle of water to his friend, "Well, looking at you, these seem to be necessary."
Vincent relieved Cloud's hands of the two small burdens, "Thanks." he held the bottle between his right elbow and his side while he opened the plastic bag. Inside the bag was a piece of sandwich. What was inside the sandwich, he did not care. He took a small bite of it and realized that he was actually hungry; famished, in fact.
"Good?"
A small nod.
"Wait 'till you taste Tifa's meals."
"So I've heard." Vincent placed the last bite of sandwich in his mouth and began to open the bottle of water.
"When?"
He swallowed, "The Seventh Heaven bar has earned quite a large reputation, you know."
Cloud scratched his head.
"It's somewhat surprising." the red-cloaked marksman placed the bottle on his lips and he let the refreshing liquid flow down his throat. He closed his eyes as some of his strength returned to him.
"What?" the blonde said patiently.
Vincent screwed the cap of the now empty bottle before replying, "From all the travels you've been, you have not heard about its popularity."
"I'm not much of a gossiper."
"Now that's not a surprise."
The blonde looked back at the scene of chaos. "So, this is the convoy huh?"
"Hello, Sergeants."
The two men revolved around the controversial wreckage. It was such a mess, as if ten demons played around it. The trucks no longer burned and the extent of the burns reduced all other materials other than steel and metal into ashes or hardened goo. Bodies decorated around the trucks, sprawled in all sorts of positions. The peaceful silence was but a facade of the rioting torture that occured.
"There are some marks left behind by the attackers. I came across them earlier."
"Show me."
Vincent obliged and motioned for his friend to follow him onto the plateau. The imprints on the sand, and the bullet casings were still there, untouched. "Who were these people?" the blonde asked.
"I'm not sure. Look at those footprints."
Cloud followed Vincent's finger to the imprints in question. He leaned in for a better look at them. "Heavy combat boots."
"Look at the soles."
The spiky-haired man studied the footprints and nearly gasped. "Vincent, these are..."
"Avalanche-issued combat boots."
"A coup d' etat?"
"Highly unlikely. Influence by lower ranking officers are not enough to gather support from their subordinates."
"Yeah, and they are extremely loyal to Reeve. Treason is intolerable in their ranks. Maybe freedom fighters?"
"It's probable. I checked the bullet holes on the trucks. They are bunched up together especially on the areas where the dead soldiers once stood. Even their placement and tactic during the attack are something that are taught by paramilitary means. They are trained. Somebody experienced in the military may be helping them."
"Or they may not be freedom fighters after all, judging by that training." Cloud looked back at the footprints and thought of the possibilities.
Somehow, the footprints were giving him much to ponder about. In fact, they were helping him. Cloud found it foolish that these unknown men would leave some of their tracks behind. Maybe they wanted Avalanche to find out and lead it into a trap. Or maybe they merely forgot to cover it up.
It's somewhat probable. The heat of the sun, the adrenaline, and the manic desire to kill as many as they can may lead their brains to forget about cleaning up their tracks.
But still, there is something very peculiar about these footprints. "Vincent, look at the shape of the boots. Most importantly, look at the edges."
"Squarish and sharp. There must be another thick and extremely sturdy material in the boots."
"Reinforced rubber. Why would they put reinforced rubber in these boots?"
The red-cloaked man thought about this question for a moment before an answer crossed his mind. It may not be the right answer, but it is better than none. Probably, it is correct. "Because these boots are designed for paratroopers..." he mumbled. He then looked at his blonde-haired friend. "Yes, Cloud. Look back at the soles. The grip under the soles are diamond shaped. They can be easily mistaken for army boots. Army boots' grip designs are squarish, designed for traction in rough terrain. These diamond grips are designed for more grip during landings."
"Hence, paratrooper boots."
"But only one city trains paratroopers. To be capable of producing those troops, a city needs to have a vast land to be able to make the drops."
Cloud looked to the west and over the horizon. It is pretty difficult to swallow the realization, "Junon."
"The clues lead there. Junon is a large city with a large land. It is plausible."
This is not yet verified though, allowing Cloud to swallow it better albeit, a bit.
"Choppers will arrive shortly. You may want to stay in Raven outpost for a while."
"Yeah, I think I'll do that. I'll just call Tifa and the kids and inform them." he spoke, while retrieving his PHS from his pocket.
Vincent replied with a nod and walked towards the box of supplies the delivery boy had brought. He peered inside the box, hoping to find something useful. Inside were rolls of bandages, some alcohol, morphine, ammonia, cotton buds, and the like. They are useful indeed, for people who are alive. If only the supplies arrived much sooner then perhaps their usefulness could still be utilized.
From a distance, Vincent began to hear a faint whizzing. Gradually, it became louder and louder. He looked over to the signal flare he put and found it spewing the last of its smoke. He placed it much too early and unfortunately, he had none left.
It was no problem, however. The area of the wreckage is large enough for the pilot or the men to see and with the faint smoke of the flare, it would not be difficult to pinpoint their location.
"Tifa and Marlene said hi to you."
Vincent slightly smiled. "So they know?"
"Yeah. I was only able to talk to Tifa. She was pretty reluctant about it, I could tell. But she agreed when she found out that you're around. I'm sure she told the kids."
Vincent nodded, "Chopper's arriving shortly. Don't worry about your bike, plenty of space for that."
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Two metallic birds zoomed across the infinite blue. Smoke trails from the afterburners and the roaring sound of their engines make their presence known among those, if any, on the ground.
Inside one of the planes, two men sat in a column- a seat, electronical equipment, and displays serve as their dividers. The man at the back spoke, "Hey, you still owe me two hundred and fifty gil for beating you in our chess match."
"I could've won, damn it. Didn't see your horse." came the reply in front of him.
"Knight."
"Whatever."
"Lesson to be learned, partner: when playing a certain game with nothing but inexperience and a loud mouth, be sure to avoid betting."
"Hehe. Next time, I'll be the one teaching you a lesson, smartass."
the co-pilot smirked, "I believe you already did."
"Oh, and what would that be?"
"When playing a game against an inexperienced loud mouth, be sure to have him bet a lot of money."
The man smirked at the remark, "But at least I'm better at flying. Why do you think you were placed in the co-pilot's seat?"
"I dunno." to avoid further embarrassment, the defeated co-pilot tried to change the topic, "Hey, where are we?"
"Check the nav computer. You're my co-pilot, you should know." he replied, giving more emphasis on the word, 'co-pilot'.
The man cursed himself for being dumb and placing himself further up in the throne of shame. He checked the screen on the lower left of the panel in front of him. A digital pixel of a plane was in the middle of the screen. A line stretched from the nose of the plane to the edge of the screen. He took a gloved hand and slowly turned the knob on the left side of the screen counter clockwise. The plane became smaller and smaller with every click, telling the co-pilot that the screen was zooming out.
He saw the line stretch further until it stopped on a tiny dot on the screen. Beside the dot was a small '3' and a large block. On the lower right of the screen were the figures: "Waypt. 3-Junon: 5.7miles", "ETA: 5min"
"We're about five miles from our third waypoint. So we're just going to check out Junon and leave?"
"Yep. Then we're goint to Midgar, then Kalm, then Raven outpost, then back to Fort Condor."
"This is getting boring."
"Rox and Jak don't look too bored about the job." and the pilot pointed to the plane on his left.
"They are newbies Pyle. Third time to fly. Of course, it's exciting for them." the co-pilot replied blankly.
Pyle turned on the communicator and spoke, "Seven, this is six. How are you guys doing?"
On the other plane, the two rookies received the transmission from their superior. The pilot, Rox, answered, "We're alright, sir. Nothing much happening though."
"Ah. Just wait 'till we get to Junon. The action is going to start there."
"But we're just going to take some aerial photographs, sir. Nothing much."
"We're at peace so the only shots we're gonna be taking are pictures."
"Yes sir." The communication was deliberately cut off and Rox spoke to his co-pilot, "You enjoying yourself?"
"Yeah."
"Me too." the young pilot checked the screens around him. He made sure that everything was working optimally. "How long?"
It took a brief moment before the young man behind him replied, "Not long. We're near already."
Back at the other plane, the two men sat, listening to the sharp hum of the engine. Somehow, it soothed them both.
Then, a transmission from the other plane pierced through the calm. A beeping noise was heard, followed by a frantic yell, "Sir, we've been locked on!"
"Evasive maneuvers, now!" the two senior pilots donned their oxygen masks. Pyle grasped harder on the control stick while his co-pilot made a run-through on the plane's combat systems.
Pyle pulled the stick towards him and the plane made a sharp climb. Both of them had to pull their helmets' visor down as the sun glared in their eyes. Pyle tried to open up communication with the other plane but their communication systems were jammed. He looked around for his wingmen. "Can you see them?"
"I can't! But sensors show that they are still around. We must get out of range quick, before we are targetted!" their voices were partly muffled due to the masks.
"But we can't leave our wingmen!"
"Look! On our three, there they are!"
Immediately, the pilot looked to his right. The silhouette of a plane could be seen among the clouds, followed by a small object. The plane flew around in a frantic motion, as if dancing out of tune, just to keep its distance from the object. "Damn it! They're gonna stall!"
The plane dipped, rolled, and climbed. Despite these efforts, their hunter was gaining on them.
The two veterans watched as their wingmen pushed their plane to its limits. As the plane tipped its nose upward to climb, it stalled and began to fall like a rock. Its sudden movement made it luckily pass the missile. The missile in turn, made a large U-turn in the air and sped after the falling bird. "Point your nose down damn it! Point your nose down and speed up!" was all Pyle could say. If only the two rookies could hear him...
The pilot thought of an extremely risky idea but if it worked, they would be able to breathe much easier. He guided the plane down after the missile, armed the guns and let the computer acquire the lock on the missile. He had to be extremely cautious for a missed shot could hit their wingmen.
His co-pilot realized what he was about to do and braced himself.
Pyle found it difficult to acquire a lock. The missile was moving so fast and it was pretty difficult to steady the plane. "Come on..."
In the other plane, Rox felt his stomach rising up to his chest. Both of them were panicking so much that they forgot how to recover their plane from a stall. It's funny how much panic leads to more deaths than the direct cause itself.
In a final effort, Rox released all the countermeasures from his plane, hoping that the missile would hit them. It was a bad move.
The missile was radar-guided, not heat seeking. Countermeasures are useful as another heat source for heat-seeking missiles to hit and not for radar-guided missiles.
And, the extremely hot objects caused Pyle to lose his focus on the missile and evade the countermeasures.
The hunter was only a few inches from its prey.
Time slowed down for Rox as the missile impacted on the back of the plane. He heard the deafening sound of metal screeching and being torn apart, and the sound of fuel and metal bursting into flames. He could also hear the faint scream of Jak behind him. 'Jak is dying... I'm going to die too...' and then, his co-pilot's scream was overpowered by the sound of ripping metal and fire breaking in.
He caught a glimpse of the altimeter before its screen, along with all the other screens, became blank. It read: 16,000 ft.
Then, he felt the flames lick from behind him. His suit caught fire and as more of the canopy shattered, the oxygen from the atmosphere made the flames grow. It was an endless torture. He wanted to die instantly on the spot but somehow, he is being kept alive. He felt extreme pain as the whole cockpit ripped open. Small pieces of metal and glass splashed on him. Then, he felt like he was thrown out with much force. And all he could do was scream.
Next thing he knew, flames were all around him as he fell straight down.
The two survivors watched in horror as the missile hit their wingmen's plane. In a second, the plane burst apart.
And they swore that they saw a small, burning figure flailing about as it plummeted thousands of feet to the ground. It was such a horrible way to die.
Pyle heard a yell, "Watch out!" when he looked, a large piece of metal was being blown at their direction. The senior pilot reacted too late, as the metal hit their stabilizers. He lost control and the plane began to plummet down, leaving behind in its wake, a trail of black smoke.
The pilot pulled back on the throttle, bringing the thrust to zero then he pulled as hard as he could on the control stick as the altimeter fell from 16,000 to 10,000 ft. The plane responded too slowly. Pyle clenched his teeth as the ground came closer and closer.
Well, at least his co-pilot was motivating him, "COME ON, PULL UP! PULL UP!"
"DAMNIT! THIS ISN'T WORKING!" he yelled through clenched teeth.
"TWO THOUSAND FEET!"
"AAAARRGH!"
"cOME ON PYLE, PULL 'ER UP! PULL 'ER UP! ONE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED FEET!"
The plane seemed like it lost its will to live. It didn't want to respond and if it did, it responded very slowly. Its occupants though, are thinking the opposite. They wanted to live, and their lives depended on the plane.
"NINE HUNDRED FEET!... EIGHT HUNDRED FEET!... IT'S GETTING SLOWER! COME ON, JUST A LITTLE MORE PYLE! PULL HARDER!"
"WHAT THE HELL YOU THINK I'M DOING?"
The plane was almost level with the ground by now.
"SEVEN HUNDRED FEET!... SIX HUNDRED FEET!"
The pilot even used his feet to try and propell him upwards as he pulled hard. He pulled with more than what his strength can allow, because of his will to survive. Due to the effort, the plane was nearly parallel to the ground.
"TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY FEET!... TWO HUNDRED FEET!... ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FEET!... ONE HUNDRED FEET!... GODDAMNIT, THAT SAND'S AWFULLY CLOSE!"
"I KNOW! I KNOW!"
"FIFTY FEET PYLE!"
He was almost there. Only a few more and the plane will be running parallel to the ground. "WE'RE GONNA CRASH PYLE!"
"WE'RE NOT GONNA CRASH! AAAARRRGGH!" he pulled so hard, he felt that the stick would snap. But he didn't care; he wanted to live.
Both men tensed as the sand came very close to them.
And finally, with only a few feet to spare, the plane was running parallel with the ground. It was then that the pilot began to feel the repercussions of his struggle. His arms were burning hot from the strain.
"GOD! YOU CAN KEEP THE TWO FIFTY YOU OWE ME!" Both of them can now breathe a little easier. Pyle squinted his left eye as a bead of sweat trickled down to it.
However, they weren't out of the woods yet. He still had to maintain his pull on the stick as the plane flew dangerously close to the ground. They needed to throttle up for the plane to generate more lift so that it can gain altitude. The pilot, however, could not dare move even a finger to the throttle for it may cause the plane to tilt downwards. He couldn't roll the plane left or right for either wing may come in contact with the ground. In fact, he wouldn't dare move even an inch.
They were stuck in that position until God knows when...
They watched as the mounds of sand went by them really fast. They are moving at a very fast rate, but not fast enough to generate the much needed lift. They waited until something made them tense once again. To their horror, a large mound of sand began to loom in front of them. There was no other way to avoid it but to gain altitude and pass over it.
"PULL UP PARTNER! PULL UP!"
"I AM! I AM!" Pyle forgot the pain in his left eye as he struggled to move the throttle bar up or leave his hands pulling on the control stick.
On instinct, they pressed their backs further into their seats, thinking that they needed to stay as far away as possible from the much-feared object. And that much-feared object is getting larger and larger. They needed to gain that much needed speed right now.
Pyle pushed aside all his second thoughts and without reluctance, he hastily unclamped his right hand from the control stick, pulling it off the grip of his left hand, and pushed the throttle bar all the way forward.
"DAMN! EJECT! EJECT!"
"TOO LATE!"
Both their eyes grew wide. The plane hit the mound like a missile. The sand erupted and sprayed everywhere, but the majority of it sprayed to the direction the plane was heading. The once proud mound was reduced to nothing.
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A/N
Brutal eh?
Wow, over 840 hits.. Well, for me, that's really nice... And I'm glad.
Hehe. Hope you enjoy! Please R & R!