Author's Notes: Good morning once again! (And this time, I'm serious, it's 1:23 AM.) This is the second installment of a story consisting of three. Here, we learn some routines of Cosa Nostra, introduce quite a few of my own original characters (don't worry, they're all very minor and none of them are Mary Sues - none of them are women), and the conflict arises. It's a good deal longer than the first part, but it's much more exciting, I think. The reason I'm putting it up this early is 'cuz my sister's coming down to visit and she's likely to stay overnight and hog the computer all the while she's here, so I wanna do it while I have the chance. Expect the resolution by Friday! Oh, and if you remember, I said last time that this takes place before the events of Advent Children. Reminding you so the bit of joking around doesn't befuddle.

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII belongs to Square Enix 'cuz they're special, the Hip Hog Saloon is a reference to Jak II, which belongs to Naughty Dog, the Umbra Company (including Red, Green, and Derek Goodman) belongs to me, as do Doug, Hank, and Jim of Cosa Nostra.

Cosa Nostra

Part Two: Taken Hostage

Cid was too good to everybody, it seemed. The new weaponry went over well with the Cosa Nostra troops. AVALANCHE had a variety of weapons, ships, and fighters, but Cosa Nostra was made up chiefly of gunslingers. Some men took to other means of destruction on the side, but for the most part, Cosa Nostra dealt in guns.

Cid preferred spears, lances, and computers himself, but he knew how dedicated Vincent was to his guns, and so he didn't argue. He learned to shoot. He admitted to liking it a little bit. But he continued to use his spears above all else. And it was okay. The Don understood. The Don made him an exception, a very special exception, but he didn't know why.

Bullshit. He did know why. He knew why better than everyone else, so why lie?

Well, because he wasn't quite sure he liked Vincent's reasoning. He was a married man, after all. Made his vows to Shera and everything. To break those vows because he was an exception to a not exactly set-in-stone rule...

He smacked himself across the face. Ridiculous. He didn't know why Vincent favored him so much and that was that. It probably had to do with how useful he made himself, giving gifts and upgrades and playing Don Vincenzo's secretary—hello, sorry, he's in a meeting.

He smacked himself a second time—going the opposite way—for good measure, and returned to tinkering with his ship. Something popped in the radiator, and—

"Hey." A male voice. Deep and guttural. Casual.

Cid turned around, looked the guy up and down. "Hey."

The man was big. Tall and muscular. Looked like he dipped his head in a bowl of red war paint and painted black lightning bolts all over his face afterward. He was dressed for business in a two-piece black suit with white dress shirt and colorful blue-and-purple-striped tie. His hands, perfectly white compared to his bald red head, were folded in front of him, prim, proper, and ready for business.

His yellow eyes locked onto Cid. "You work here?"

Cid didn't know for sure what to make of the guy. Best not to say too much. He stood straight, pushing all self-consciousness concerning the big oil stain on the front of his shirt aside. "In my spare time, yeah. What can I do for you?"

The red-headed man cleared his throat and put his hands behind him, puffing out his chest. "I hail from the Umbra Company. I am looking for a man named Cid Highwind. Do you know where I can find him?"

Cid's eyes widened and he stepped back on reflex. This guy was looking for him? Of all the people out there, he couldn't be looking for Cloud or Tifa or Barret or Vincent but him? Cid Highwind? When there were many more prominent members of AVALANCHE—

That's it. Cosa Nostra. This red-headed guy probably didn't want anything to do with AVALANCHE...

At last, he shook himself out of his thinking and said, "Maybe I do. Why? Whadduya want with him?"

"Mr. Highwind, I'll explain everything on the way. It's very important that we leave now." The man stepped forward, reaching an arm as though to take him by the collar and drag him away. No chance in Hell he would allow it.

He reached into the ship for one of the guns Vincent taught him to use (alas, he had no spears handy in the workshop), and held it out defensively. One vital rule in Cosa Nostra was to always keep your gun loaded, and carry a few back-ups in case of emergencies.

"If you knew who I was all along, why play like ya didn't? Tell me who the fuck you are and what you want, and maybe I'll—"

"Mr. Highwind, I'm afraid you have no option." The other hand came out of hiding from behind the man's back, and it held a gun much more threatening than Cid's. Before Cid had a chance to react, he was shot in the neck with a tranquilizing dart.

It seemed Cid, for the most heavily protected member of Cosa Nostra, wasn't protected enough.

2

Word of Cid's disappearance didn't get around until later that night, around eight o' clock, when the Cosa Nostra troops gathered into the meeting hall to discuss their missions for the night. No one actually knew something was wrong. Cid didn't make it to the meeting, which was weird, but not entirely unusual. His wife didn't much like it when he spent all day with his buddies and failed to return home at the promised time, so it was unanimously assumed that he had gone home early to be with Shera.

The meeting hall didn't have a fancy name or memorial plaque set on the wall beside its doors. It was quite simply the meeting hall, located on the ground floor of the Cosa Nostra building, to the rear. Vast spacing, room for a thousand, and set up like a church, with two rows of pews on either side, a red-carpeted aisle in between, and a stage up front, podium, chairs, and all.

Walls painted a dusty blue-white color. No windows. Four entrances that also served as exits. The floors were a dark hardwood, and people outside the building could always tell when Cosa Nostra held a meeting, because they heard the echoes of boots tapping and clacking on the floors as members took their seats. The pews were cushioned so especially long meetings weren't a pain in the butt, and were periwinkle blue to give the room more color, but keep the tone calm at the same time.

Of course, that red carpet running down the aisle between the two rows brought more than enough color to the room. It was The Don's own personalized touch, set there where everyone had to walk on it at least once, to remind these fellows that while comfort surrounds them in their home—for Cosa Nostra was as much their home as the homes they returned to when the meetings were over—blood continues to circulate in their bodies, and blood will be spilled if anyone messes with—or betrays—the Family.

Men, and a few scattered women, filed through the four doors and took their seats, their footfalls and chattering bouncing off the walls and vibrating in the air. No one had assigned seating arrangements—this ain't no school gymnasium, yo—but some of them did have their favorite spots, and they scrambled all over the place trying to get to those favorite spots before someone else took them. By 8:15, all were seated, but still chattering, and still no one noticed that something was wrong.

Yuffie Kisaragi took the podium. Everyone referred to her as The Don's voicebox. He wasn't a public speaking sort of guy.

"Helloooo, troops!" Yuffie greeted the hall cheerfully, waving and smiling.

"Helloooo, Yuffie!" the troops bellowed back in the same cheerful tone. All part of routine.

Cloud, Vincent, and Barret sat in chairs on stage behind Yuffie. If they had anything to add, they could either take the podium or whisper to Yuffie at any time. Also part of the routine.

"First, we'd like to thank everyone who donated," Yuffie said, getting down to business. "We have our gun upgrades now, and I'm sure we can all agree that they're pretty sweet." The troops murmured their approval. "Cid's not here right now, but next time you see him, give him a great big thank-you! Donations aren't limited to gun upgrades, either, as you all know. We use them for all sorts of stuff to make Cosa Nostra better! Every little bit helps! If you want to donate, say hi to Tifa, and she'll take care of it for you!"

Like school bulletins, this was something everyone had heard before, and would continue to hear until they died. Another part of the routine, in other words.

Yuffie shifted through some papers for other announcements. "Tonight, everybody gets a chance to practice with their new guns in the training hall. Targets have already been set up and if you find yourself having trouble getting adjusted, don't hesitate to ask a Captain for help! All Captains have been trained beforehand to use these guns, and—"

In the bottom left corner of the room, opposite the stage and to Yuffie's right, the doors burst open. Inward came Shera Highwind, the technician who prevented Cid from accomplishing his dream and saved his life by doing so; his wife. She walked timidly toward the stage via the red carpet, looking scared and embarrassed to be doing this. She had no place here. She was no member of Cosa Nostra. Couldn't shoot to save her own life.

On stage, the Captains and The Don watched her come toward them and waited for her to speak. Such was the rule: Don't waste your breath asking intruders what they want. Let them speak first.

Shera did so; it was a rule Cid told her about if she ever needed to interrupt a meeting for something. "Have any of you seen Cid?"

Yuffie glanced over her shoulder at her seated companions. Cloud looked to Vincent, unsure of what to say. Vincent made an impatient twirling gesture with his hand to Yuffie. Go on. Tell her if you've seen Cid or not.

Yuffie turned back to Shera. "He was here this morning, but he's not here now. Why? Is he... Missing?"

There were a few gasps and whispers among the troops, speculating the possibility. Cloud shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Barret leaned forward and waited for Shera to say something. Vincent made no visible reaction whatsoever. Shera nodded. "I'm... I'm afraid he is. He hasn't returned home and he hasn't called to tell me where he is, or... He won't answer his phone when I call him. And if he's not here, then..." She trailed off.

Vincent stood up. The room quieted at once. He walked toward the podium, waving Yuffie away. She stepped aside. Shera eyed him warily.

He said to the crowd, "Does anyone know where Cid Highwind could have been found within the last hour?" Silence. What he had expected. He continued. "Has anyone spoken to him within the last two hours?"

Someone raised his hand. Doug Etheridge, one of the newer recruits, but a fine marksman nonetheless. Several hundred pairs of eyes focused on him. He shrunk under the pressure, but forced himself to keep his eyes on The Don. "I spoke to him around two hours ago," he explained, voice wavering from one pitch to a higher one and back down again. "I-in the garage. One of the airships had a problem with its radiator, and he was trying to fix it. We talked about the Chocobo races for a little while, and then I left. He mentioned stopping by the bar when he was done."

"Which bar?" Vincent asked.

"I-I don't know," Etheridge answered. "The Seh-Seventh Heaven Bar, I guess. Th-that's where he usually goes. And after that, he said he'd go home."

Vincent dropped his gaze to Shera. "But he never came home." Not a matter of question, but fact. Shera nodded to confirm that fact. Vincent raised his eyes to the crowd. "Our brother Etheridge will leave us now to search the Seventh Heaven Bar for Cid Highwind. If no Cid Highwind is to be found, he will report here and gather volunteers to search within the city. It is likely Cid could have gotten drunk and passed out, but it is also likely he could have been confronted—and possibly taken by—an enemy. We will be on our guard and hope for his safe return." To Shera, "Thank you for notifying us, Shera." To Etheridge, "Leave now. Take what you will. Report your findings promptly." Etheridge nodded and scrambled out of his pew, tripped over the red carpet, got to his feet, and ran out.

To those behind him, Vincent said, "Take half the troops into the training hall and keep the rest here. If there is trouble, I want everyone informed and prepared. After half an hour, exchange groups." The Captains nodded. They each had butterflies fluttering in their stomachs.

An adventure!

3

Cid opened his eyes forty-five minutes after being tranquilized. It hadn't been a huge dose, just enough to drag him down to wherever he was, tie him up, gag him, and lock him in this far-too-bright white room. Across town, Cosa Nostra had half an hour to go before being summoned for their nightly meeting. He blinked a few times, urging the drowsiness to go away, and turned his head to find Red Head Man's green-headed twin brother staring down at him.

He started. Green Head Man placed a hand on his stomach to settle him. "Cool your jets, man. You wanna fall off and crack your head open?" Cid shook his head. "Then don't move. You're on thin ice."

Well, actually, he was on a thin platform, but who cared for details? He would have asked why he was on such thin ice, but alas, someone's dirty rag (he prayed that taste was dirt and nothing more) had been stuffed in his mouth, and his arms had been tied. Besides, he was pretty sure Green Head Man would explain everything in good time. And if not Green Head Man, then someone else. These people owed him an explanation.

As predicted, Green granted it. "You, Cid Highwind, are here because my boss wants you here." No kidding, Cid thought. What for? Green began pacing around the platform. "My boss is a very prominent man in this city, although you may not know it. He knows, however, that you come from two very prominent groups: AVALANCHE, and the fairly recent Cosa Nostra. You're probably wondering which of these groups you're representing today." No, not really, but go on and tell me anyway, why don'tcha? Green stopped pacing at Cid's feet. "Today, you represent Cosa Nostra," he said. "Why? Because my boss—and thus, the rest of us loyal Umbra employees—has a bit of a problem with Cosa Nostra. See, our company deals with a variety of products out on the market. You probably know some of them. We know you know at least one of them, because—"

Oh shit.

Cid groaned into the rag stuffed in his mouth. Green stopped in mid-sentence and removed it so he could speak. "Excuse me?"

"This is about the gun, isn't it?"

4

Doug Etheridge exited the Hip Hog Saloon with a sigh, shoulders slumped and dragging his feet. He paused on the sidewalk, waiting for the other two guys to join him. "Well," he said once Hank and Jim caught up, "this is the last bar. We better call The Don and tell him Cid Highwind's nowhere to be found."

"Shame," Hank said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Doug agreed. "He was a nice guy. I hope nothing bad happened to him." He pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

"No," Hank said. "I mean, shame you can't call The Don to tell him the news."

Doug looked up at him, surprised. "What? Why not?"

"He doesn't have a phone."

"What?"

Jim chuckled and decided to contribute. "He doesn't tell everybody to report back to the base after a mission for no good reason, y'know!"

Doug glanced from Hank to Jim, Jim to Hank, that shocked expression never leaving his face. "What kind of guy organizes an underground band of gunslingers and sends them on missions to rescue the kidnapped and shit like that all the time, but doesn't own a goddamn phone?"

Hank snickered and placed a hand on Doug's shoulder. "The kinda guy who don't like to talk on the phone, that's what."

Still laughing (at Doug's face more than anything else), Hank and Jim led him down the street, back to their leader, who owned plenty of expensive guns, a big, cozy building for his troops, a supply of nifty red capes, and all the horror novels he could dream for, but didn't have a single phone.

5

"Yes... Yeah... I know. It's terrible. So then where...? ... Uh, well... Sure. I'll tell him." Cloud hung up his phone and sighed. "Vincent isn't going to like this."

"Talking to yourself, Cloud?" Tifa asked, walking toward him with a mug of tea in her hands and smiling.

Cloud looked at her with only a mild hint of embarrassment. "No," he lied. "I just got off the phone with Barret."

"Yeah, and?" Tifa handed the tea to Cloud. He took it, but didn't drink it. Nor did he plan to. Now was no time to be sitting around drinking tea.

"He and the guys he brought with him didn't find a trace of Cid. They searched all the hangouts he goes to and some others, asked around the whole city, but nobody knows where he is."

Tifa hmphed. "And you think Vincent isn't going to like this? What about Shera? Cid's wife? She's about ready to break down and cry!"

Cloud sighed again and stared into the mug of murky green tea Tifa gave him. Boy, did he feel awful about this whole thing. He felt bad for Shera. He felt bad for everyone, really, himself included. Cid had been one of his best friends, and well-loved by everybody in AVALANCHE as well as Cosa Nostra. So where could he be? Why couldn't they have kept a better eye on him?

He realized Tifa was still standing there, staring at him, waiting for a response. "Well," he said, "I better go tell Vincent the bad news. He'll come up with something." He handed the mug back to Tifa and dashed down the hall, to Don Vincenzo's office. Tifa watched him go, unable to keep the hurt hidden from her face. Cloud didn't so much as sip his tea. She had the uncanny feeling he was avoiding her.

But why?

6

Hey, knock on wood, people.

"Come in," Vincent said.

Cloud did so. He also closed the door behind him and ventured over to Vincent's monster of a desk. To find him reading, of all things. Reading when he could be polishing guns or checking up on the search parties or calling people to see what progress they made. Oh, but wait, he didn't own a phone. It was up to the Captains to make all the phone calls around here. Well, he could at least supervise those in the training hall (as everyone else had been divided into those aforementioned search parties), but he put Yuffie in charge of that. Still, couldn't he find something more useful to do than read?

Oh, the irony kills.

"Uh, Vincent?" Cloud began. Unlike some of the others, he only occasionally addressed Vincent as "Don Vincenzo." "Barret called to report his findings."

Vincent turned the page in his book. While doing thus, he motioned for Cloud to go on.

Cloud took a deep breath and let it out with his next words: "And there were none. Nobody's found any trace of Cid anywhere." Vincent still didn't look away from his book. "So what do you propose we do now that the city's been searched all over?"

"Search again," replied Vincent. "Send a few parties into the outskirts of the city and search again. We will not rest until Cid has been found."

Looks like you're already resting, Cloud thought.

Vincent lifted his head and made eye contact with him as though having read his mind. "Do you understand?" Cloud gave him an odd look that plainly said, Of course I understand, you silly; just because I'm blonde doesn't mean I'm dumb, although you may be another story. Vincent shut the book and tossed it onto the desk, standing up. He asked again, elaborating this time, "Do you understand, Cloud? People don't disappear on a whim. Unless they're dead. And I don't believe Cid Highwind to be dead. We will turn the earth if we have to, but we will find him."

Those red eyes of Vincent Valentine's were so intense right now, Cloud wished he would go back to reading.

"What," Cloud murmured, and realized that if he wanted to be heard over those intense red eyes, he would need to speak louder. "What do you think happened to him?"

Vincent settled back into his chair. "I believe Cid to have been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?"

"Yes. Kidnapped by an enemy. Kidnapped—" He reached into a drawer and placed the object on the desk so Cloud could see it. "—by the marketers of this gun."

Cloud wasn't a gun expert, but that thing on the desk looked like an ancient piece of junk. "And you came by this conclusion how?" As a second thought, he added, "And when?"

"Just now," Vincent said. "Just now I put the two together. And you, Cloud, are going to lead in finding this company." He tapped the gun's stock with one long golden claw. Cloud had to bend down to read the faint print: Product distributed by the Umbra Company. When he straightened up, he found Vincent regarding him closely, but not as intensely as before, thank goodness. "I didn't pay much attention to that engravement earlier, but considering what Cid went through to get me that gun, it doesn't surprise me that such a thing as this should happen. Those people are the epitome of greed."

"What do they want with him?" Cloud asked.

Vincent leaned forward, lowering his voice to an even deeper octave. "That sinful businessman Derek Goodman wants little more than..."

7

"Payment." Derek Goodman spun around in his chair to face them. "I want my payment, young man."

"Them" included Cid Highwind, un-gagged, but now tied to a chair opposite President Goodman, Green Head Man, and Red Head Man. Seeing the two together revealed a few minor differences between them: While both their heads were solidly colored and had black lightning bolts painted over those solid colors in the exact same places, Green had a smaller, shorter, easier-going build than the big, tall, stern Red. But in the end they had more similarities than differences, as both liked it rough and tough—whatever "it" was. Cid wouldn't be surprised to find Red and Green were gay together.

Derek Goodman, on the other hand, was a perfectly normal-looking guy. Cid guessed his age to be around sixty. He had salt-and-pepper sprinkled hair, jowls that could rival a bulldog's, and small black eyes set far back into his skull. He seemed to squint a lot. Or maybe that was how he always looked.

Another thing Cid noticed was that all three of these guys wore the same style of suit—same colors, same blue-and-purple-striped ties, everything. Like it was a school uniform or something. It made Cid happy Vincent didn't give everybody uniforms when he started Cosa Nostra. Can we say "bland"? Good boy!

"I already paid you," Cid said in his defense. "Twenty thousand gil, as negotiated." He held his chin high, his face set as though to say, And I ain't movin'.

Unfortunately, President Goodman could be just as stubborn, if not more. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk (which wasn't half the size of Vincent's). "Twenty thousand gil doesn't pay for a three hundred thousand gil gun. Do you know why that gun was priced at three hundred thousand gil to begin with?"

Cid swallowed hard, keeping his eyes trained on Goodman's. It took a lot of will power. "It's an antique. One-of-a-kind. Last of its kind. And prob'ly thousands of years old."

"That's right." Goodman tapped his fingers together. "That's exactly right. So, bearing that in mind, why did you convince the shopkeeper—who will remain unnamed for security reasons—to let you pay a mere twenty thousand gil for my three hundred thousand gil gun?"

"'Cuz I couldn't afford the damn thing otherwise."

Red and Green stepped back from Cid, staring at him as though he had just said something not only outright nasty, but also blasphemous. That same look was amplified on President Goodman's face. "Do you realize," he said softly, like he would to a child who had done something so terribly wrong he could not be yelled at, "how sacred that gun is among collectors? How valuable it is in the hunting community? Any dedicated firearm enthusiast would spend his life's retirement money to own a gun like that, and here you, a lowly pilot, have dared pay a petty twenty thousand gil for it and refuse to pay no more? Don't you know how sought after that gun has been since it came into my hands? It's a miracle I would sell it on the market to begin with! And you, you dare—"

"Uh, yeah," Cid interrupted. "Accourse I know 'bout all that. That's why I bought it for the price I did, so I could give it to my boss."

"Your boss?" Goodman scowled at him. "And what would your boss want with a gun as valuable as that?"

"Aw, easy, guy," Cid warned him. "He's Vincent Valentine. I'd be more surprised if he didn't want the fuckin' gun. Now, any'a you happen to have any smokes? I'd be more'n happy to make a deal with ya if I could get a cig."

END

End notes: And thus, the end of Part Two! What kind of deal is Cid gonna make with these guys? Aren't you dying with the suspense?