XII
CHAPTER XII
THE INAUGURATION PARADE
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Huh…?" Cloud faltered, scrambling to his feet as he fought to regain his bearings in the insipid access corridor.
"Why are you still dressed liked that, rookie?" shouted the officer furiously, slamming his fist against the wall next to his head. "The whole Junon Army's supposed to be on show in the President's parade, and you look like a godsdamn civilian!"
"I-"
"Your captain'll be hearing about this," he snarled. "What unit are you from?"
"Um…"
"Godsdammit, private, can't you hear me?"
"The…uh…the 86th Squadron, sir," mumbled Cloud, thinking quickly, adopting a military salute.
"That's more like it!" barked the stocky man, his red tunic taut over his muscular chest. As he spoke, Cloud fleetingly noticed his name and rank embroidered on the padded material at his breast, identifying him as Officer Mutten Kylegate. "Now, come with me…"
Turning on his heels, he marched down the passage towards the nearby junction, his polished boots clicking on the grey linoleum with each purposeful step. Cloud followed close behind, his mind recovering its composure as the ringing in his ears finally subsided, cursing under his breath for finding himself in such a potentially volatile predicament. Mimicking the commander's stride, he obediently fell into line, rapidly recalling his training so as to maintain the charade.
Taking a right at the intersection, the duo ignored the signpost directing them to the business district's boulevards of Level R-6, instead traipsing deeper within the great southern bastion wall of Upper Junon. They soon came to an isolated ingress off the principal interior hallway, inside of which an electronic doorway was located. Officer Mutten paused at the entrance, keying in the numerical code on the adjacent panel, then gestured impatiently for Cloud to proceed.
"What are you waiting for?" he spat. "Get in the room!"
"Sorry…"
Beyond was a cramped changing area, lined on two sides by rows of tall and slender lockers, and opposite them a designated washing space containing mildew-laden sinks and mirrors etched with graffiti. Empty boxes and random items were scattered around the compartment, some piled atop the cupboards while others were strewn beneath the dishevelled steel benches. The stale stench of sweat lingered in the poorly ventilated chamber, an odour he remembered all too well.
"Today is a big day for us," boomed the commander from his position, stuffing his cap under his arm to expose a shaven crew-cut. "We can't afford any more mistakes. Hurry up and get changed, rookie. There should be a spare uniform in there somewhere."
"Yes, sir," responded Cloud, hastily scanning the selection of lockers.
Spotting an unlocked unit in the corner, he crossed the room, and yanked open the already-ajar door. A royal blue Security Division ensemble hung inside, complete with armoured chest plates and combat trousers, accessorised by the standard brown leather utility belt and twin shoulder pauldrons. On the shelf above sat a robust metallic helmet with a golden visor, next to which was a '1/35' model soldier, a rare collectable. Grabbing the outfit from the peg, he swiftly pulled the clothes on over his own, grimacing as the cushioned but weighty headgear matted his blonde locks to his face.
Brings back a lot of memories…I was so proud the first time I wore this…
"Good, it fits you well," said Mutten. "And where's your weapon?"
"I…uh…I dunno, sir…" Cloud shrugged awkwardly, his brain racing to invent an explanation.
"For the love of the Gods…" fumed the officer, storming towards the heavy safe that adjoined the cabinets. Inserting a master key into the slot, he opened it to reveal a small arsenal of SR-80e automatic rifles, more commonly referred to by the infantry as 'Quicksilvers'. Lifting a gun from its holder, he tossed it irately to Cloud, slamming the door shut in the same motion as his subordinate intuitively shouldered the firearm. "Quit fooling around! We need to get down to Level 5."
Vacating the changing room, the pair retraced their steps to the junction on the airport path, progressing in the direction of the business district as the corridor began to decline. Parade music continued to filter from the streets below, muffled by the thick walls of the citadel, echoing in the narrow passages that branched from the primary walkway. As they descended, Cloud could see windows of tinted auburn glass up ahead, illuminating the bland décor of the channel with natural light and awarding an expansive panorama of the city.
The enormous mile-long barrel of the elevated Mako Cannon dominated the skyline as it extended from the summit of Upper Junon, out over the harbour and calm waters of Bottomswell Bay. The so-called Sister Ray itself was set at its default horizontal placement, its manoeuvring mechanisms and shock absorbers compressed inside the monolithic pedestal that rose from the heart of the metropolis. But for the blinking air traffic warning beacons that cascaded the vast and countless reinforced components of its rusting body, the gargantuan warden was lifeless, now nothing more than a wartime monument.
As they passed alongside the windows, the soaring ramparts of seemingly endless tenement blocks came into view, spanning the great length of Level 6's broad thoroughfare towards the Central Tunnel at Junon's spine. Constructed in golden sandstone and scaling the bluffs of Cape Formula, the city's stacked Levels 3 to 8 comprised of more than one-hundred duplicated and individually numbered six-storey apartment buildings, once celebrated during the [µ]-εγλ 1950s for their contemporary architecture and efficient use of living space.
While the majority of these were classed as residential, those of Level 6 were home to the workplaces of the private sector. In addition, Level 8 held the Shinra, Inc.-controlled political offices and barracks of the Armed Forces, and was thus a restricted zone, while Levels 1 and 2 incorporated the shipyards and industrial warehouses. The sprawling faces of the tenements were today festooned by the same ruby banners that Cloud had noted earlier on the Corporation's sky-scraping regional headquarters, with two hanging from the rooftops of each block. The velvet drapes' red cloth bore Rufus' enlarged signature as its primary focus, accompanied by the text 'President of Shinra' and 'New Age', very much representing the attitude the man had shown when AVALANCHE had confronted him on the night his father was murdered.
The concourse immediately beneath the hallway was deserted, littered by discarded paper flags and trash, but hordes of spectators were visible a half mile away, gathering by the stone barriers to obtain a glimpse of the inauguration procession as it advanced along the boulevard below. Mutten quickened his pace when he saw this, clicking his fingers for Cloud to keep up, mumbling incoherently to himself as he glanced anxiously at his watch. Arriving at the lofty security gate that accessed the street, they discovered a pair of flustered infantrymen under the shadow of the grand portal, arguing between themselves.
"Why are you here, you fools?" demanded the commander as the duo stood to attention.
"We're too late, sir…" whimpered the shorter soldier, his helmet somewhat lopsided.
"The Welcome March has already started," added the other, clearly quivering.
"Godsdammit!" roared Mutten, glaring fiercely at Cloud. "This is all your fault, rookie!"
"What are we gonna do, sir?" gulped the first private.
"We'll have to take a short cut," he replied thoughtfully, scratching his chin. "All of the emergency elevators will be out of service, but we can still use the public stairwells."
"Good idea, sir."
"This isn't the time for flattery." growled Mutten, barging past the grunt. "Don't make me madder than I already am."
As he led the others out onto the road, a silver B1-β Shinra News helicopter swooped low overhead, the deafening whir of its blades momentarily drowning out the brass bands. The film relayed by the cameraman from the craft's custom rig simultaneously appeared on the television monitors beaming from the windows of the coffee shops located on the ground floor of building '21', partially obscured by the constant stream of vapour spilling from the sewage vents. The image of the military parade caught Cloud's eye as he trailed the men across the thoroughfare, his jaw clenching when the footage fixed on the President, waving nonchalantly to the assembled audience who applauded him gratuitously. This was swiftly replaced by a studio discussion between two media commentators, joking about awarding the soldiers prizes for their performance based on the ratings.
The four hurried along the tarmac of Level R-6, deliberately sweeping behind the adulating citizens who had congregated by the slanted blockades lining the street's perimeter, hoping for a better angle to observe. Temporary notices of inactivity covered the Junon Metro transit stops, offering a tedious apology for bringing the entire city to a standstill. After several minutes of hastened jogging, drawing forever closer to the Central Tunnel and the colossal structure that supported the immeasurable weight of the Mako Cannon's control terminal, Mutten slowed, pointing to a darkened alley between buildings '26' and '27'.
"Alright," he ordered. "Get over here. It's this way."
Dashing into the lane, they passed the unkempt entrance of an unsavoury saloon, Bar ΣΠΟΤ, and the mangy dog that guarded it. Dim and flickering lampposts buzzed above, lighting the otherwise murky conduit as it ventured towards the internal public steps. Towering six-storey walls flanked the passage, rising to form a distant black ceiling: the underside of Level 7. Located approximately one-hundred metres back from the sidewalk were two steeply inclined staircases hollowed from the concrete foundations, one ascending into the hillside and one descending beneath the alleyway.
Scampering down the wide stone steps, the quartet made for Level 5, the disorderly patter of their boots resonating loudly around the curving grey walls. Sporadic clusters of spray-painted graffiti could be seen as they raced downwards, some of them imaginative illustrations of the artists' names or local monster species, while others were basic variations of the rebel slogan 'Down with Shinra' or even lines from the classic epic poem Loveless. The scrawls were far less radical than those Cloud had witnessed in the Slums of Midgar, though this was a far less derelict community.
Bursting from the underpass behind building '47', they scurried in the direction of Level R-5's main boulevard, almost skidding to a halt as the rotund figure of General Heidegger plodded past the lane's opening. The Director of Shinra, Inc.'s Department of Public Safety Maintenance was at the head of the procession, an emerald green blazer stretched over his obese gut, his eyes scowling behind an extensive bushy beard. Diligently following him were pre-organised squads of ten; a single red-uniformed captain and nine privates marched three-by-three, their strides long but paced.
Among the subsequent detachments was President Rufus, standing at the rear of an elegant beige pA-86 coupe, his handsome young face forcing a smile as he waved to the crowds that bordered the route. Slim in stature with golden hair combed to one side, he wore a white trenchcoat over a business suit and, for a man in his mid-twenties, his piercing eyes revealed wisdom beyond his age.
Officer Mutten went rigid as the motorcade emerged on the street before them, vigorously saluting his leader, but the President's car soon vanished from sight, and the roar of handclapping gradually faded in tandem. He remained there as several more units came and went, eventually turning back towards his subordinates with an odd smirk on his face. Catching his reflection in the glass display of the adjacent item shop, the commander straightened his tunic in an obvious attempt to quell his tizzy of excitement, and gestured for the trio to huddle around him.
"Now, listen up!" he asserted, clearing his throat. "This parade's gonna be broadcast live on Shinra TV around the world. If you look bad, the whole Junon Army will look bad, so remember that and be sure not to disgrace yourselves."
"Sir, how're we gonna do this?" gulped the shorter infantryman, glancing edgily at the advancing cavalcade.
"Well, there's three of you, isn't there?" he answered snidely. "Just sneak in from the back of a detachment when you see an opportunity and create your own row. And, no matter what you do, don't try to go in from the front. The news chopper will be tracking the President, so if we wait until the end, no-one will notice."
"Shouldn't we practice first?" squeaked his colleague.
"Is that a joke?" barked Mutten, causing him to cower. "No break for you! I ain't got time to teach you runts anything. Just keep in step with the person next to you, and march smoothly. Once you're in rhythm, don't forget to present arms. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Alright then," he bade them, "it's showtime. When I give the signal, you better get out there…"
A great murmur arose among the nearby denizens as the group shuffled from the alley and through them to the verge of the sidewalk, peering confusedly at the stray soldiers. His mind focused as he watched a squadron approach, their arms swinging in unison while their heels slammed against the asphalt, Cloud felt a push from behind. Without thinking, he stepped out from the mob, intuitively matching the troops' movement as he shifted his feet and cocked the Quicksilver rifle to assume the demonstration position.
Left, right, left, right, exhibit weapon, angle weapon, shoulder weapon, left, right…
The speed at which he had sub-consciously recalled his training was a strange sensation, realising that despite his amnesia, there were elements of his past that still lingered in his memory. However, the familiarity of the scenario was uncomfortable, and something he did not wish to treasure; his days in the Shinra Army were truly finished. Through the corner of his visor, he could see the other privates alongside him, having succeeded in sneaking into the procession without raising too much alarm. The silver B1-β helicopter hovered in the distance, decelerating to change course as the exterior of the Mako Cannon bore down on the craft, its attention fixed on the Presidential convoy as it pulled up by the iconic monorail carriage.
The parade continued, trampling the confetti into the grooves of the road as the spectators cheered and flapped their paper flags, some leaning from the myriad of shuttered windows on the apartment blocks not obstructed by the cascading velvet banners. As the music repeated its incessant tune, becoming steadily quieter, the units crept ever forward, time and again lifting and adjusting their rifles in near-perfect harmony. The proud captains of each detachment conducted the pace with their leather-bound batons, their capped heads bobbing in front.
At last, Cloud's adopted squad entered the shadow of the Sister Ray, its dark underside repelling much of the late morning sunlight. The segmented breech of its titanic barrel hung in the air approximately two-hundred feet above the concourse, with three of the six hulking Mako stabiliser capsules visible at its height, as was the cascabel for loading the ammunition. Directly ahead was the security gate to the Central Tunnel which lay within the immense column holding the breech aloft, the great shaft now swarming with military personnel who had completed their part in the festivities and dispersed.
As of tenement building '50', the northernmost of Level R-5, the general public were penned behind makeshift steel barriers patrolled by gun-wielding soldiers. The thoroughfare thereafter became somewhat decongested, occupied instead by high-ranking politicians and influential businessmen who had gathered in a temporary seated area to listen to the new President's first official speech. Cloud noted Mayors Domino and Hutt among the audience, the elected representatives of Midgar and Junon respectively, as were elite members of the Shinra Executive such as Director Reeve of Urban Development, Director Scarlet of Weapons Development, and Director Palmer of Space Exploration.
Rufus' address was already underway, his articulate voice resounding from the speakers on either side of the elaborate podium that had been erected at the edge of the boulevard, replacing the din of the now-ceased marching band. The stage was fringed by camera crews and garnished in the same 'New Age' slogan as the drapes, though this one additionally read 'Shinra's future is the Planet's future'. It was all set against a spectacular backdrop of the shimmering azure ocean, and strategically situated by the walkway to the R-Junon monorail station.
The bulky, antiquated 21G tram waited patiently at the platform, steam pumping from the funnels atop the isolated operator's cabin. Most of its tarnished shell was armour-plated steel added during the Wutai War era, marred by thousands of unattractive bolts, the train's half-century of perpetual use unmistakable. Chief Tseng of the Turks stood on the open-top roof deck of the car, his vigilant gaze scrutinising the scene as his sleek hair fluttered at his spine, oblivious to Cloud's presence.
Suddenly, as they drew parallel with the dais from the opposite end of the seated section, the captain of his unit stopped and motioned for the troops to about-turn ninety degrees. Almost barging into the infantryman in front, Cloud mimicked the others as they pivoted, fumbling his Quicksilver but hastily returning it to his shoulder. As he composed himself, he looked up and could not help but emit a startled cough, for Rufus was staring right at him.
"…So, please believe me when I say that I am no stranger to the severe financial pressure faced by the governing bodies of this great city," the President's speech continued as his eyes moved elsewhere, allowing Cloud to relax. "My father did not put enough trust in Junon the way that I intend, and the comparatively poor annual budget will not endure. Junon has encountered hardships as has much of the Planet but, when I visited here not one month ago as Corporate Officer of the Shinra Electric Power Company, I promised a swift and detailed resolution. I may have taken over as President now, but I do not wish to postpone the implementation of these proposals any longer than necessary…"
"Phew, we made it," whispered the private next to him, a note of relief in his tone.
"Made it for what?" Cloud queried mutedly.
"The send-off, of course."
"Shut up at the back!" hissed the captain, glancing fiercely at the pair.
"To conclude," Rufus boomed through the microphones, "I imagine many of you would be expecting a eulogy of some sort to my late father. He and I were not close, but what I will say is that it would be fair to assume he was a materialistic man. As a child growing up, he would often show his affection through superficial or extravagant means rather than genuine displays of love. For example, my eighteenth birthday present was to receive a plaque which honoured my promotion to Vice President and Corporate Officer. While you may think such a comment petty, the point is that he did not once consider whether or not this was the career I desired.
"Preserving the Company was of utmost importance to him. He took it from a small arms manufacturing firm to the most influential organisation in the world within a single generation. My old man, the President, was a remarkably capable manager, and excelled in the art of predicting human nature and guiding public attitudes. It was his cherished theory that he could control the Planet by enticing the population's hearts with money and promising a better lifestyle. That is why he perceived the professional opinion of his own son, an economist and realist, to be dangerous…and took measures to ensure that it was kept from his Company's affairs.
"There are two kinds of people in this world: those who give orders, and those who take orders. When categorising an individual, it is not a question of one's heart, but more a question of one's abilities and foresight. It is my belief that after the War, my father lost just that, instead indulging in his lavish and often-outrageous fantasies unopposed. We must only recall the financial and publicity catastrophe that was the failed rocket launch of planned Space Mission: YA-79. Such meaningless ventures are wasteful of taxpayers' money. I assure you that my interests lie exclusively on the ground, as should the Corporation's.
"If I may, I would like to end on a story, a memory from my childhood," Rufus paused with a snort of amusement, a bitter smile forming on the corner of his lips. "One evening, many years ago, I discovered my old man in his study, brooding over a set of blueprints. The architect's drawings were for a Presidential Office on the top floor of Midgar's Shinra Headquarters. When I asked my father where his planned escape route might be, he simply laughed, and told me that he would never use such a facility. Supreme confidence and fearlessness towards his enemies were two of his virtues but, as we all know, everything comes at a price. I recognise that these personality traits were accompanied by ignorance, and it has proven fatal, for he was murdered on his own throne. I will not make the same mistake.
"Furthermore, I am truly humbled by the painstaking labours of the men and women of my staff and military to arrange today's event," he clasped his chin in poignant reflection, "but this is not a time of celebration; it is a time of mourning. Not just for my father, but for the thousands who lost their lives during the terrorist atrocities in Midgar last month. We cannot grieve one man when so many of us have been struck by tragedy in recent years.
"It is my intention as President of Shinra, Inc. to win back the trust in the Company that has been compromised by repeated conflict with extremist organisations. I will strive to bring stability to the Planet once more, and improve this already-great institution to remind the world of our strength and power…"
With that, Rufus stepped down from the podium and, running his fingers through his hair, made his way sharply towards the monorail station as the rabble of journalists shouted questions and photographers battled for the best picture. Rising cumbersomely to his feet from his spot in the first row, General Heidegger stumbled after him, swatting the media staff aside. As he approached the carriage doorway, Heidegger hesitated, spinning to face the remnants of the procession and punching the air frantically, his bearded features flushed and agitated.
"Junon Army send-off…" bellowed the captain of Cloud's squad as he acknowledged the signal, his baton held upward, "begin!"
As instructed, the soldiers commenced their practiced routine, uniformly presenting their automatic rifles while the spectators turned to watch in awe, Cloud expertly anticipating their every movement. A cacophony of clicks reverberated around the street as the men cocked their weapons, then saluted the President as he disappeared aboard the train, Heidegger at his tail.
A shrill whistle screamed as the dated engine of the transport rumbled to life, fumes spluttering from the protruding exhaust pipes on its wings. With an almighty jerk, the massive car began to trundle up the broad railway track in the direction of the Shinra Branch Offices, both driven by Mako energy and hauled by the wires of a supplementary pulley system. There came a horrendous screech as the wheels ground on the line, finally dissipating as the behemoth ascended from view.
"Squad…about-turn!" roared the captain, resuming command as his troops swivelled again towards the Central Tunnel. "And…advance!"
Progressing below the monorail, they soon traded the boisterous atmosphere of Level R-5 for the austere mood of the vast channel, the filament lights of the concrete ceiling swathing the remaining soldiers in a synthetic glow. An infectious murmur had spread around the passage like wildfire, the tension palpable, dozens of groups deep in discussion.
"Squad…halt!" the captain called as he eventually came to a standstill. "At ease, men."
"What a disaster…" muttered the grunt closest to Cloud, shaking his head.
"Heidegger's furious this time," said another, folding his arms. "It's probably gonna come outta our paycheck. He's such an asshole."
"What's going on?" Cloud asked cautiously.
"Didn't you hear the briefing this mornin'?" replied the first with a hint of surprise. "The President pretty much blamed the state of the Air Force on the General. He said he was disgusted that none of the Airships are fit to fly."
"Heidegger's kinda had it comin', though," nodded the second. "Not to mention he's been really pissed since Hojo went AWOL."
"You mean Professor Hojo?" gasped Cloud. "From the Science Department?"
"Geez, dude, where've you been?" he scoffed. "They discovered Hojo's letter of resignation last week but he's been missing ever since."
"Heidegger's been forced to take care of that investigation, too," added the other.
"I reckon he's just assigned the Turks to it," the private shrugged. "He's been putting all of his effort into finding the man in the black cloak."
"Black cloak…?" stammered Cloud, his mind racing as it absorbed the information, wary of their growing suspicion.
He's been here…
"Y'know, the maniac that's been roaming the city?" answered the first infantryman with derision. "He showed up two or three days ago and killed a few sentries from the Security Division, then just vanished. No-one's seen him so I'd bet he's halfway to the Western Continent by now. There's a rumour goin' around that it was Sephiroth-"
"Hey!" the captain shushed him, appearing at his back. "Shut up about that! You don't know who might be listening. Alright, dismissed!"
"Yes, sir," the three responded with a salute.
"Not you," he growled, pointing accusingly at Cloud. The captain was an older man, with tufts of grey hair poking out beneath his cap, but his jaw was firm and uncompromising. As he strode forward, his posture grand, Cloud felt his muscles flex, his eyes darting around the Central Tunnel as he devised a potential escape.
"Me…sir?"
"You think I didn't notice you?" he spat, standing so near that Cloud could smell his pungent breath.
"I…I don't understand, sir."
"I saw you sneak into the parade," he said fiercely. "You're not from my unit. What were you doing there?"
"I overslept, sir…"
"Not good enough! What are your orders, private?"
"I…I have none, sir."
"Then you are to descend to the docks and relieve the duty officer there."
"Yes, sir."
"Take the monorail from L-Junon and proceed with your assignment immediately."
"Yes, sir."
"You are lazy, soldier," snarled the captain, barging past him. "Your future looks pretty bleak to me. If you want to mess with the Army, you're in for a nasty shock."
The rigidity in Cloud's body subsided along with the risk of exposure, his pounding chest pumping adrenaline through his veins. The encounter had been too close for comfort and, without the Buster Sword, negotiating his way from a concrete conduit swarming with Shinra military personnel would be tricky. However, his deployment to the harbour was a stroke of luck, granting him ample excuse for making his way to rendezvous with his comrades.
Shouldering the Quicksilver once again, he hurried down the wide shaft, beyond the clusters of lingering troops. To his left, he spotted a smaller perpendicular corridor leading farther into the confines of the Mako Cannon's support structure, guarded by two Navy lieutenants in beige uniforms. An adjacent signpost detailed the restricted areas that could be accessed from the elevators therein, including the Cannon Control Room, the Submarine Dock and the Underwater Reactor.
Emerging from the Central Tunnel's security gate several minutes later onto Level L-5 of Upper Junon, Cloud crossed the street towards the second monorail station. Ahead, there was little activity around tenements '51' to '60', with only a handful of citizens and their dogs meandering the mostly vacant boulevard, and yonder the great northern bastion of the armoured city. Steam filtering from the sewer vents floated about the brightly lit doorways of the closes, its ghostly slivers seeping through the shuttered windows of upstairs homes.
Climbing the steps to the platform, he was greeted by a sprawling view of Bottomswell Bay and Port Junon at the depths of the metropolis. While the heyday of the coal industry was long gone, taking with it the relentless commotion of the dockyards, the harbour had not lost its role as a global distribution hub. The extensive wharves of Lower Junon's Level 1 were a stretch of commonly utilised freight space, though large sections remained idle, the depressing grey strip etched with abandoned railway sidings. Standalone storage facilities or customs buildings were dotted throughout the loading zones, surrounded by countless shipping containers awaiting delivery to foreign lands.
The merchant quays at the northeast quadrant were bound by the fortified breakwaters at the base of the sloping bastion wall, defended by mounted grandpanzer artillery, and there a single cargo frigate was anchored. The cranes atop the vessel's deck were hard at work manoeuvring its heavy consignment, while the crew bustled about the vehicle ramp at its stern, carrying individual items or operating forklift trucks. A number of smaller schooners were moored nearby, their skippers transferring their wares ashore.
A piercing whistle followed by a terrible wail of grinding metal reached Cloud's ears, returning his attention to the tramway as the car began its decline from the Level L-6 station a short distance above. He watched the train slowly approach, drawing alongside the platform with a violent shudder, its brakes shrieking as Mako fumes erupted from the exhaust. Allowing a few suited Shinra employees to alight, he boarded the carriage, taking an unoccupied seat by the windows in the corner.
The respective monorail tracks of L-Junon and R-Junon themselves spanned the entire height of the city, both with terminuses at the port and Shinra regional headquarters, and stops on every level in between. As the monstrous tram crept downhill, dragged by gravity and pulley wires, Cloud absorbed the sights. The residential districts of Levels 3 and 4 were almost mirror images of 5 and 6, while Level 2 displayed a very different façade. Instead of tenement blocks, the street was flanked by the hulking porticos of industrial warehouses and factories whose clandestine confines sank deep into the cliffs of Cape Formula, while winch-capped scaffolding towered from stone plinths in designated bays to buttress the assortment of crates and goods.
Arriving at the waterfront, Cloud disembarked, immediately seeking cover from prying eyes behind a row of detached harbour master offices. Skulking in the direction of the merchant wharves, he snaked among the immense stacks of shipping containers as the dock workers went about their business, none giving him a second glance amid the surrounding hubbub. The noise was at a virtually intolerable decibel, worsened by the regularly blaring horns and the vehicle indicators as they whizzed around the pathways.
Turning onto the main straight of the quay, he saw a trio of deckhands scurrying hastily towards him, their physique and movements familiar. They wore matching outfits, clad in white sailor suits with blue-jean collars and bell-bottomed trousers, their faces hidden beneath naval caps. The tallest of the three was a dark-skinned giant, bearing a coffin-shaped trunk on his powerful shoulders, though the sleeve on his right arm dangled loosely as if the lower part of his limb was missing. Each of them ogled Cloud worriedly as he waited by the neighbouring jetty, staring at them from behind his helmet visor.
"Hey!" he hissed as they passed, causing the party to freeze.
"A…aye, sir…?" Barret faltered, looking nervously at him while the girls cowered at his side.
"It's me, you morons."
"Cloud!" gasped Tifa with a relieved grin. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"I was about to ask you lot the same thing," he retorted. "Where's Red?"
"Here," a muffled voice replied from inside the casket.
"And my things?"
"In here, too."
"It's a long story…" frowned Barret, peering around to ensure they were alone. "So, what now?"
"Sephiroth's definitely been here," Cloud informed them, gritting his teeth at the very mention of his name. "But, something tells me he's already crossed the ocean. I was thinking we could hitch a ride on the cargo ship."
"We'd better hurry, then," grunted Barret, nodding towards the frigate. "It's leavin' for Costa del Sol in ten minutes."
"Don't you think we seem a bit suspicious?" Aerith gulped dubiously.
"Not if you have a soldier escorting you," said Cloud, holding out his rifle.
"Alright…let's do this!" boomed Barret, shifting the weight of the trunk on his back, and urgently gesturing them forward. As the others took off with pace, Cloud paused for a moment, gazing out to sea with determination.
We'll set sail for the Western Continent…even if we are wearing Shinra uniforms…
205