Author's Notes: Good morning! I'm not a hardcore Final Fantasy fan, but I have fallen in love with Final Fantasy 7, thanks to a very special friend. Well, I guess two very special friends. Anyway, I have not played the original game. I'm so sorry, I sinned. However, I know a freakin' lot about the world, terms, and characters.You may see a little out-of-character-ness in this, and if so, please excuse me, but I would also say that this story is in a slightly alternate universe. If I were to squeeze it into the FF7 timeline, I'd place it before Advent Children. Why? 'Cuz Vinnie V. don't got a phone!

...It's okay if I call him that, right?

Rated: T for Teen, due to mild violence and Cid (language and tobacco use)

Warnings: Slight AU, implied VinCid (meaning light shounen-ai/yaoi/boys' love/whatever), and silly nicknames. Not a crossover, but there are references to The Dark Tower that can easily be ignored.

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and all places, terms, characters, and logos belong to Square Enix. The Dark Tower series and "Roland's gun" belong to Stephen King. Heinz ketchup belongs to... Uh, Mr. Heinz. The Cosa Nostra headquarters, the gun upgrades, and Vincent's desk belong to me (Okay, so it's his, but I let him borrow it!).

This is dedicated to and was written for Naraku's Ji-chan. Happy belated fifteenth birthday!

Being an already finished story, Part Two will be distributed on Wednesday, and Part Three will be given out on Friday. It's a little weird, but I hope y'all enjoy it anyway!

Cosa Nostra

Part One: Our Thing

1

They didn't know how he managed it. All they knew was that he did. Whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, who could tell at this point? Most assumed it would be more of an in-between-thing, and either stay that way, or evolve with the potential of good and bad.

They weren't quite sure what to call it. A club? A gang? A cult? A religion? Somehow, it had the feeling of all those things, plus some. Two things were certain: First, it was organized, extremely organized. Second, Vincent Valentine organized it.

Of course, that made Vincent the leader. He started it. It was his idea. That made it his club/gang/cult/religion by default. He did a pretty damn good job of it, too. Did so much as order a base headquarters to be constructed—a four story building that housed members when they needed to be there or had nowhere else to go, complete with a meeting hall, a training hall, a kitchen, and various other useful rooms. He put the organization in action, and he gave it a name. He called it Cosa Nostra, and he said it meant "our thing." Since no one could pinpoint exactly what kind of organization it was, to call it "Our Thing" seemed fitting.

So fitting, in fact, that Cid Highwind began addressing its leader as "Don Vincenzo."

2

It caught on fast. Pretty soon, all the initial members got to referring to Vincent as Don Vincenzo, and as the name became more widespread both in and out of the Cosa Nostra headquarters, they shortened it to simply "The Don."

The Don, reserved and reclusive as he may at first appear to be, proved himself a worthy if not entirely admirable leader in those first few weeks running the organization. Rather than taking over or replacing AVALANCHE, he made it so Cosa Nostra was more of a branch—separate from, but still connected to the former group. Most of the members in AVALANCHE were also a part of Cosa Nostra, but Cosa Nostra accepted members that AVALANCHE would never dare hire, and for good reason. All Cosa Nostra followers were dangerous, despite their rank and skill level. Good or bad, it was a dangerous organization.

And it was custom-made to be that way. The Don hand-picked every member, sometimes going to them, sometimes letting them come to him. He took help. He listened to opinions. He tested individuals and allowed them to test him back, although it wasn't required for initiation. Each initiation was different. Every new member got their own personalized mission to complete. The Don believed having a standard initiation test for everybody to go through would be too easy. He didn't accept followers on a whim. He got to know them inside-out, watching and judging them closely for days or weeks at a time before coming up with a decent challenge that would try all their most notable strengths and weaknesses. In this stage, one was called a "TBE," To Be Explained. Succeeding in the mission made you a rookie, and you were stuck into a crew and given the rank of "Foot Soldier" until you proved yourself to be more useful than that. If you failed your mission, you were cast aside and ignored. For security, a record of every member joined and every person shunned was kept in Don Vincenzo's office in the Cosa Nostra building, but The Don seldom used those records. That was Cid's job.

Cid Highwind, of all people, had one of the highest positions in Cosa Nostra. He did all kinds of things. Secretary work, fixings here and there, gave advice, helped The Don take care of business. Nobody, not even the beloved Don, had any idea what to officially call him. So they improvised. Many names and titles came out of it, but only one—probably the most embarrassing of them all—stuck; Cid Highwind had such a high rank in Cosa Nostra that he was referred to as The Donnette. Direct underdog of The Don? No, more like The Don's feminine counterpart. In spite of how very little feminism ran through Cid's blood, most everyone in the group liked to think of him as Don Vincenzo's wife. He did that much, had that much equal power, and was that valuable in case of loss. Cid, along with many other traits and functions, was probably the most protected member of Cosa Nostra.

3

Rain. He smelled it before hearing it come down. The windows were open, so the stench came in strong with the breeze. It would have smelled nicer if this wasn't a city, and such a rotten city at that. Smog, fog, general air pollution. It was like the freshness of spring mixed with gasoline, broken hearts, and a hideously beautiful melody no one else could hear but him alone.

Vincent Valentine had set up a desk in the corner of his office, which also served as his bedroom. It sat opposite the window and not quite pushed against the wall. A monster of a desk, like the monster who worked behind it. Generous surface space. Big drawers, little drawers, side drawers. Wide, long, and deep drawers. If he wanted to, he could pack his clothes and his weaponry inside and move somewhere else, with nothing to bring but that monster of a desk carrying all he needed, and himself.

He took pains to keep it neat. Whatever went on top got put in its own special place within eyes' view. Nothing got away with being buried or hidden. Papers stacked according to category, with paperweights if necessary. Pens, highlighters, and pencils in their own corner where they'd be easy to reach. Staplers, paper clips, and staples in their own drawer. Sometimes Vincent stored items for other people in his desk, and he always made sure to keep a list of what was being stored, for who, and where it could be found within.

He enjoyed working on that desk. Whether it be paperwork, reading reports, or writing letters, that desk was his favorite place to do it. The room was quiet and the surface was flat and solid, sturdy and dependable. He liked the sound of his pen tapping on the wood as he wrote. He also liked how, if something needed to be typed, there was plenty of room for him to cast aside his papers and set up his laptop in front of him. Easily accessible. But there was another reason he favored this desk above all others AVALANCHE could supply him with.

Cid build it for him in his spare time.

4

"Hey, Vinnie, is it okay if I come in?" Among other privileges, Cid was the only person allowed to address Vincent as such. The Don didn't bother hiding his favoritism, either, so everyone knew it.

"Yes," Vincent answered quickly, as he usually did when he wasn't too busy.

Cid came in carrying a relatively big and heavy-looking box, which explained why he didn't knock and also why he kicked open the door after turning the knob. He set the box in a spare hunk of surface space on Vincent's desk, ever thankful The Don was such a neat freak.

"This is the weapon upgrade you've been askin' for," Cid explained. Vincent looked up from whatever work he had been doing once Cid opened the box. "These are for the Soldiers," Cid continued, holding up a sleek black double-barreled pistol. "I call 'em Heinz 57 'cuz they came in a variety of colors, but they're really just a newer version of the Glacier 26." He returned it to the box and pulled out a bigger gun, of which the barrel was streaked with two red lines on each side. "This is the Hawk 2002, for the Captains. It's got more fire power, better speed control, holds more ammo, and reduces the recoil to a higher degree than the 2001 models." The Don didn't say a word, only watched as Cid returned the Hawk 2002 to the box and took out an even bulkier, heavier, older-looking gun. An ancient revolver with a sandalwood grip. It appeared fairly worn and well-used, well-taken care of for its age. Cid grinned almost sheepishly as Vincent took the gun apart with his eyes. "I know you're perfectly happy with your Cerberus and all, but I thought you might like this as a sort of collector's item—"

"Where did you get it?" Vincent asked. His voice was always low, but Cid was pretty sure it dropped an octave nonetheless. Vincent's eyes were locked on the revolver, but Cid couldn't read what they said. And he was usually pretty good at guessing Vincent's emotions, too.

"Well, I, uh..." Still holding the revolver in one hand, Cid's other hand traveled to the back of his head. After a moment of contemplation, he shrugged, placed the gun on the desk in front of Vincent, and rested his hands on his hips. "Antique shop."

Vincent made no visible reaction to this news, as usual, but Cid was beginning to doubt himself all the same, for he feared he knew what question would come next.

"How much did it cost?"

Oooh, yeah. Like a kick to the groin. Cid's expectations were well-met. That hand of his went back to its place behind his head.

"Hey, Vinnie, you really don't hafta know. It's paid for, it's here, don't worry 'bout it."

Vincent dropped his pen and took up the revolver with the sandalwood grip instead, turning it over in his "human" hand, and once more taking it apart with his eyes. Finally, he stopped turning it and simply held it, bringing out his clawed hand for support, because it really was a heavy gun. He stared at Cid as though taking him apart, and said, ever so calmly, "Yeah. It's paid for and it's here. So tell me how much you paid for it."

Cid bit his lower lip and looked around the room, from the murky dark red paint that covered the walls to the decorative lances, swords, and guns that filled up the space on the walls, to the bookshelf sitting against the wall on the other side of the room. Despite that he stared at every(wall)thing but Vincent, he could see those eerie orange-red (red-hot) eyes penetrating holes in his chest and his neck. His neck felt particularly vulnerable and seemed to throb under the pressure of Vincent's stare. At last, he sighed in defeat and gazed down at the floor.

"Twenty thousand gil," he mumbled.

"Cry your pardon, spear-thrower?" asked Vincent. It was a bit of an inside joke between them, although the idea of Vincent Valentine gaining a sense of humor like that scared the living shit out of Cid. And to top that off, it was an inside joke very much related to the big revolver.

Cid lifted his head and stared Vincent squarely in the eyes. Red versus blue, who will win? He spoke up. "Twenty thousand gil, Vinnie. Roland Deschain's gun cost me an even twenty thousand gil, and that was after a good hour of hagglin'."

Vincent didn't blink or look away or anything, merely asked, "How much would it have cost you if you didn't haggle?"

Cid didn't hesitate this time. He lowered his face so that their eyes met on an even level. "Three hundred thousand. That's a three with five zeros after it in case you didn't know."

Vincent shifted the gun into his right hand, grasped it tightly, and aimed it at Cid's head. "Is it loaded?"

Cid didn't so much as flinch. "Doubtful, but ya got two ways of findin' out."

5

There came a gunshot that made everyone, not just Cloud Strife who was closest to Vincent's office door, jump. Barret stopped in mid-sentence in his lecture on life to Marlene. Yuffie dropped her end of the box containing the new equipment for the training hall she was helping Tifa carry, causing it to fall on Tifa's feet. Tifa yelped out in pain and cried for Cloud to get it off her. He did so readily. None of them dared peek into Vincent's room to see what happened, as no one wanted to risk getting shot in case he was royally pissed off. Nobody wanted to go near The Don when he was pissed off. Not even The Donnette.

6

But The Donnette actually didn't mind so much, because he knew pissed off was the last thing Don Vincenzo was feeling right now. That gunshot had been one of his happier moments, no doubt.

Cid stood stalk-still with his hands on the desk. The hair on one side of his head stuck up unnaturally, as a result of the bullet whizzing by and nearly grazing his scalp. It missed him by far too small a margin for comfort, but he remained collected. He nodded like he was agreeing to something that made perfect sense.

"Yep," he said. "That's some firepower for an antique model." He glanced over his shoulder to check out the damage Vincent inflicted upon the wall. A good-sized hole right above the bookshelf, maybe two or three inches in diameter. It was adorned all around with cracks. An old picture of a house in the middle of the woods had fallen on top of the bookshelf, glass broken and frame splintered. God be damned if Vincent hadn't shot the goddamn nail the picture had rested on right out of the wall. A closer inspection later on revealed that nail had actually been pushed farther back into the wall (he then supposed God must be damned after all); Vincent explained with the slightest twinge of embarrassment that he had been aiming for the pirate mug on top of the bookshelf that sat below the picture. His aim was way off (most likely due to being unfamiliar with Roland's gun, as it came to be known), but Cid was glad for that; he liked that mug, gave it to Vincent himself awhile back.

He returned his gaze to The Don and sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "So whadduya think? Like it?"

"I like it very much," Vincent said, admiring the gun for one last moment before opening the nearest drawer on his left and storing it away. "Thanks, Cid."

"You're welcome," Cid replied, deciding he made the right choice after all, and picked the box of spiffy new guns up again. "I know how much you like your Dark Tower stuff, so I figured you'd appreciate a 'real' gunslinger's weapon. Anyway, I'll go distribute these to the troops. You continue on with whatever you were doin'."

"I will." Vincent watched Cid go to the door, watched him shift the box to one arm and a knee so he could turn the knob. "Don't trip on the stairs."

"I won't!" Cid called back as he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Vincent stared at his hands on the desk, flesh and metal, withdrew the gun from its drawer, and turned it over, admiring it for a second time. A small smile crossed his lips. "You are too good to me, Cid Highwind."

END

End notes: And thus, the end of Part One. You probably noticed Vincent was most out-of-character here (he smiled! z'ohmygod he's sick!). Logically, he had to be molded to take the title of "Don." Although for what this is, I believe he's the most in character I can make him. He talks a little more than I guess he normally would, but hey, whatever. I wrote this two or three weeks ago and didn't get Dirge of Cerberus until a couple days ago. There's no Lucrecia-angsting here. No dwelling in the past. Like I said, it's implied VinCid and AU. Leave The Don alone.