Chapter 1
Part 1: 70328
My mother used to tell me there were only two ways out of this town: "the war or the coffin" and that both lead to the ground.
Last spring saw the remaining boys drafted, all packed up on the large trucks that once a week drove down in a spit of dust to ration water or break-up the riots. They'd hose down the crowds with their powerful cannons that turned dirt streets to mud and neat store fronts to glass.
But that didn't dissuade the fighting, so eventually they built The Walls.
What water couldn't separate, surely steel could, at least, I think that was the idea.
They sliced up the population into Sectors, herding them with stern knocks followed much too quickly by bulldozers. Regulations, mandates, zones - all bullshit – all smart words to hide a dumb scheme. There weren't enough resources to keep the people alive, but there were just enough people to keep them rich.
The greatest lie ever told was that you ran the assembly line rather than were on it. That the belt that beat you at home was the same one you rode at work, and then opened your vein with that night.
You were the most valuable yet expendable number in their spreadsheet. And so when they started etching those numbers from their books to our skin at least it was honest.
70328
It's a perfectly straight row printed on the inside of my wrist. The ink is faded and stretched with age but the chip beneath has no problems registering my train fare as I exit the platform. There's an obnoxious buzz as the mechanized lock disables to allow the tall gate to swing wide. I need both hands to get it open.
The station is crowded by the morning rush and poor design. What was once a grand entrance suitable for a small village, is now an unkept tiled box that is unbearably hot and smells as such. Most of the patrons are in transit, using the connecting Red Line to get to the factories before the whistle locks the doors.
I move through the space sideways, using my shoulder to cut through the bodies; bumping five times but only apologizing twice as I head for the Sector 7 tunnel.
It's harder to breath on the street but smells marginally better.
Once on the high street and outside the Scramblers range, my cell chimes with reception. There's been another bombing and the Green Line is shut down. The large screens above explain that all Sector 4 travel has been disrupted. The news anchor, a beautiful blonde woman, takes a moment to compose herself before continuing with the death count.
Few stop to observe.
Most mourn only their inconvenience.
And somewhere – I'm sure – someone deletes a row of numbers from the books.
The phone goes back to my pocket as I resume my route towards the pharmacy. There's already a queue that runs around the corner, the electric sign in the window explaining they've restocked their testing swabs. Most in line are older men with backs too broken to make the factory whistle and passports too sick to catch the train to the surface.
But I'm probably just projecting.
I've only just beat an approaching gentleman to my place when the next bomb goes off.
Part 2: Jessie Rasberry
"The loss of life today is truly horrific and the last thing the survivors want is for their pain and suffering to be politicized for your ratings. I am here to offer my deepest condolences, but far more importantly, to draw attention to the efforts and response from the WRO and hope that we as a country will donate to help Midgar rebuild from this devastating attack-"
"An attack that your party finances. Don't pretend like you're here to rebuild my great country when your party line is built on the dismantling of the very services that are out there on the frontlines cleaning up your zealots' mess," Scarlet practically spits the words across the polished desktop, a finely manicured nail pointing accusingly.
She's far too qualified for this debate, and far too overpaid for this performance. What was supposed to be an empathetic appearance has broken down to thinly-veiled hatred. The lower third onscreen reads: ShinRa Weapon's Development but notably lacks any indication of her doctorate.
It might as well say: blonde distraction, she thinks bitterly.
The viewers would guess that the other woman across from Scarlet is three years – at most - her junior, but it's actually closer to ten. Jessie Rasberry is a youthful representative from the 7th Sector Green Party. Which, as far as Scarlet is concerned, is just a nicer way to say moron.
Jessie doesn't break under the studio lights. Her fine features are coached in the perfect balance between seriousness, remorse, and – perhaps most necessarily – beauty. She gives Scarlet the space to finish her rant, making sure to keep eye contact before turning to the network mediator, Reeve Tuesti.
He's just another strong jaw in a dark suit.
"Firstly, no organized group has taken responsibility for these attacks. Secondly, the Green Party has zero affiliation with any radical groups. And this is hardly the time to be pointing fingers and dividing resources by playing blame games. I lived just off Seven's Main Street, that bomb hit far too close to home," she's delivering to Reeve and the gib, taking a moment to compose herself with a breath. No observable tears, but enough to read as hurt on the wide shot.
"I want to work with ShinRa to serve the people. By moving funds from the largest budget – yes the Defense Budget – to emergency services to help those areas recover."
"Here we go!" Scarlet's veneer smile slices through a painted pout. "Yes, yes – let's hear it. You want to cut the Defense Budget while we're in the middle of a war that is claiming three times as many lives as your party's brute enforcers did in this afternoon."
Reeve leans forward and opens his mouth as if to interrupt before Scarlet holds up a hand and continues:
"We are actively adjusting the fiscal response day-by-day and creating more agile systems to respond to these escalating terrorist attacks that are emboldened by your rhetoric."
"Now, Minister, there is zero evidence to suggest that," Reeve attempts to redirect but Scarlet plows through him.
"No. By her specific rhetoric. The people of Midgar are not stupid Ms. Rasberry. If it walks like a terrorist, barks like a terrorist, and bites like a terrorist, it's probably a dog." Scarlet says it down her nose. "Put your Avalanche dogs down."
Jessie remains stoic and respectful to the speaker, showcasing attentiveness, while being mindful to stay ambiguous to the countless interpretations the papers will surely reconstruct that evening. Reeve touches her with his eyes to indicate she has the final word.
She clears her throat once. "Minister, I do not envy the difficult and complex decisions that need to be made. I'm not asking you to leave our service men and women stranded, I'm asking you to recognize that it's a Defense Budget and right now, those at home need defending too."
The close-up of Reeve face doesn't catch Scarlet roll her eyes as he tosses to a field reporter to repeat the same numbers heard all day. The red tally light above the camera goes dark and the audio tech approaches Jessie.
"Great work, thank you ladies," says Reeve as he reveals a water bottle from beneath his desk.
Jessie sweeps brown hair over the shoulder of a green blouse for ease of access to her earpiece. "Thank you for your time, Tuesti. Pleasure to meet you."
He acknowledges her with a wave of his hand and small smile.
Scarlet rips the mic hidden between her breasts and makes no condolences for the equipment as it hits the countertop. A small, thin man, with immaculate facial hair and pressed suit appears at her side with coffee. He's a curtsy away from embarrassment when Scarlet knocks the drink all over his trousers as she stands from her seat.
"Idiot," she hisses. "And you," she's addressing Reeve, fixing her bottle blonde hair, "I'll have you fired for this. Giving her the closing word. Fuck you. Your career is over and I fucking mean it this time."
Reeve remains unperturbed, if not a little bored. "You can take it up with my producer Scarlet. I'll ping him to meet you in makeup."
Jessie tisks her tongue before flashing a bright smile. "Oh Minister, I'd heard you were like this and I'm so happy it's true."
Scarlet glances over her bare shoulder before screwing her features up in a nasty expression, "and fuck you too."
It's only outside the studio on the street that Jessie releases the sounds she's held all recording. Laughing and dropping her shoulders as she finds cover from the rain in the smoker's area just adjacent the side exit. She doesn't smoke but nonetheless takes the offered cigarette from the lone man using the space.
"Are these filtered?" she asks.
"No, but they're flavored," he responds, finishing their rehearsed exchange by huddling close to her as he lights the tip of her fag. It's a foreign gesture these days due to regulations.
But things aren't as strict on the plate.
His name is Fuhito. A tall man - closer to lanky than thin in build – with slicked back hair and angular features. One of the few Avalanche HQ reps that Jessie doesn't mind dealing with due to his transparency and no-bullshit approach. He's still a zealot, but a much more articulate one that has little interest in conversion or conversation.
Jessie snubs the end of the cigarette on the wall. "Did you have any problems getting up here?" she asks.
"No. Here are the latest numbers," he says curtly, removing a USB stick from the inside of his long coat. He sets it on an exposed (dry) ledge for her to retrieve. As the rain picks up, it begins to roll off his shoulders in thick sheets, turning the dark fabric slick like oil.
Jessie fights the wind to get it into the front pocket of her jeans. "Anything else?" she practically shouts.
Fuhito takes a drag on his cigarette, before flicking the butt carelessly to the gutter. The irony of a smoking environmentalist isn't lost on her, especially not in the middle of a pandemic that started with the lungs.
"Seven wasn't us. We're investigating still," he says it softly enough that Jessie relies mostly on reading chapped lips to understand. "They have Public Safety all over it with Heidegger bringing in his Shock Troopers and even reports of Turks."
Jessie curses. "Turks? Well of course," she exclaims. "They were probably the fuckers that did it in the first place! These bastards and their fucking propaganda war-"
"Not here."
The rain is breaking and the low hum of the distant Reactor can be heard again. Somewhere, a steam clock chimes five times. Fuhito waits patiently for it to finish before continuing, "We will contact you again the day before the hearing. There will be a phone call selling Stamp memorabilia. You're not interested, hang up. In one hour, meet them on the second floor of the Golden Coin. He'll offer you a cigarette."
He taps the pack of smokes in his breast pocket, the yellow print of AVALANCHE curved around the front. Admittedly, the brand hadn't been doing well since the rise of eco-terrorism. Fuhito doesn't smile, but he offers his best interpretation of it to Jessie.
This is the usual song and dance. Brief encounters with brief answers that did nothing to quell lots of questions. But this is the life of a pawn and at least Jessie knows she's playing the game.
"Okay," she says, beginning to tie back soaked hair. "Anything else?"
"May I ask what your next move is?"
His fingers twitch with no cigarette to play with.
"You may, but you won't like it. I'm planning on heading to Sector Seven to volunteer and help the relief effort."
Jessie is a product, one that required years of investment.
"Is that really wise? What with the outbreak numbers in that area…" Fuhito means to pose a question but what it sounds like is: no, you're not.
She practically scoffs. "Well, it's a great photo op for one. And don't forget: I am here because I want to help people. You want to kill ShinRa. And right now, those two things aren't mutually exclusive. So, this works - but I am not your dog on a leash, so don't talk to me like one."
She roughly pats his shoulder as she exits towards the street, hailing a dark cab from down the block. "Thank you again, Fuhito. We'll be in touch."
"Do be safe, Representative Rasberry."
Cabs were a luxury only the Plate could afford as most companies didn't like the insurance premium of car-jackings. So the furthest she could get in one was the uptown station. Since Green line trains suspended civilian travel to help move Public Security, Jessie took the Red Line towards Sector 6.
Masks are mandatory on the trains.
And despite the rail disruption, the carriage is mostly empty. Some ShinRa employees take up the back, their fingers interlaced as they sit quietly. Kissing with fingertips while their expressions are hidden behind polypropylene.
As the train winds down the Central Plate Support, the car goes dark. Suddenly, the tunnel brightens with a news bulletin projected along the windows. It shows the wreckage of the bombings, absently excluding any footage of Sector Seven as the bottom of the screen prints off large scary numbers in red block letters.
The images are gory depictions of twisted metal and bone. A child is sobbing, alone and bloody.
Jessie looks anywhere else, digging in her pocket for a cellphone with blocked reception. Her parents smile at her from the home screen; her father beaming under a toothbrush mustache. It had been taken at her opening night in Gold Saucer, but it wasn't the rave reviews of her performance that landed her a political mouthpiece position, but the fact that he would go into hospital ten days later and never come back out.
Narrative is far more important than qualification because it allows you to move goalposts. Curate context. Aspiring actor turned political activist turned people's champion.
The ShinRa employees notice her now, their whispers indistinguishable, but audible over the rhythm of the train. Their disapproving looks nonetheless clear despite the surgical masks.
They're scanning on the platform. Riot Police ordering the incoming passengers to line-up and present their wrists. The young man that handles Jessie doesn't recognize her at first, angerly knocking her passport from her hands when presented as he twists her arm.
"Mandatory chip scanning," he says, painfully pulling on her in search of a number that isn't there.
"You're hurting me. I don't have an identification bracelet, my papers are in my passport."
An older Security Officer approaches, the shadow of his shave visible beneath the visor. "That's a public representative," he says to the other.
The younger man doesn't release Jessie's arm, but does allow her to bend down and retrieve her passport.
"You're still hurting me," Jessie says, presenting the booklet to the older officer.
The younger man pushes into Jessie's space, pulling her taut towards him as he inspects. Jessie can just make out the white of his eyes behind the plastic.
"Holy shit, it's the Avalanche bitch," he says, releasing her instantly as if she were a hot stove he'd touched.
"Excuse me? What did you say Officer…" Jessie leans forward and squints in an exaggeration to read off the six digit identification printed on the front of his red uniform.
"Shut up," barks the older man. He presses her passport to his forearm scanner, keeping his helmet trained on her. "Paperwork better be in order, Miss Rasberry. Wouldn't want you to get stuck in the Sector waiting on a swab."
"Had my test results in public record three days ago, so please continue to make empty threats."
As far as Jessie is concerned, the Public Security department were no better than the thugs they were formed to eradicate. Just better armed.
The scanner flashes green but the officer still takes his time to thumb through the passport pages, perhaps weighing up the opportunity cost between delaying her further versus the paperwork her tantrum would pile on his desk. Around them, another train had pulled into service, emptying more passengers on the platform.
Some with colorful armbands that had various publication logos.
"Let her pass," he finally says, but he doesn't return her passport, instead dropping it to the concrete below.
It's humid under the Plate, sticky almost, and Jessie quickly finds herself removing her soaked topcoat and wrapping it around her waist. There is no rain for the Slums. Instead, large heat lamps are set into the metal sky above, dimming with the hours, and radiating just enough to provide a measly crop every year.
No one tried to farm these days though. Drugs are a much more stable business. And a much more wanted export.
But then the plague came.
Retribution, some called it. Vengeance. Punishment. The smart men in white suits called it Geostigma on tv.
At first, it was only in the Slums, a distant problem swept under the Plate and doing the census department a favor by culling the "troublemakers". But then it came topside with the drugs.
They still don't know how. But the drug market dried up and that left the gangs with nothing to do and nothing to lose. And then the product changed from the spice going up, to the water coming down.
And this is where Jessie's department came in; devising new systems to negotiate the ownership of natural resources – to move water off the grocery list to the constitution. Water is currently regulated by the government, making it cumbersome and slow to move as the system ironed out the kinks and streamlined the process. Meanwhile, the market demand skyrocketed and corporations found alternatives to pour down the pipeline.
It's easier to buy cola than water in the Slums, and that is Jessie's fault.
But not forever, she hopes.
She buys a diet cola from a barefoot man sitting outside the station. He doesn't have one of the newer chip readers, so the transaction is done by typing her account number on a large brick-like keypad that he then presses his wrist to and twitches as a shock runs up his arm.
He smiles at her with no teeth.
"Any trouble getting down here?" asks a friendly voice.
Jessie turns to embrace Biggs as he approaches. His broad shoulders and strong arms wrap around her in muscle memory, tucking her head in his neck. He smells like gasoline and sweat.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. I'm so glad to see you're alright," she says in the shell of his ear.
"Barret got your message but sent me since he's on the North Side helping with the evacuation. Hope that's not a problem."
"I'll get over it somehow."
They stay embraced for a moment longer, ignoring the panicked bustle around them and pretending it is two spring's previous. When they were in love.
She sighs, pulling her head back, but keeping her arms around him. "How bad is it, Biggs? Really?"
Biggs' dark eyes soften considerably as every detail of his expression pinches with sadness. "It's bad."
He releases her gently and motions for them to begin moving up the dirt road before continuing:
"ShinRa immediately called in Public Security and the WRO are completely locked out. I heard they're not bothering to fight Heidegger on it because there's simply too much to respond to, but it's only Sector Seven that has his goons deployed."
Biggs lowers his voice as the pair pass close to a Security Patrol stationed by the Trainyard's gate.
They're draped in blue with dirty metal detailing and large automatic rifles hanging at the ready. They snap to attention only when a red uniformed Riot officer approaches, but otherwise ignore any forming cluster of people who stop to ask for direction.
There's an advertisement pasted to the wall adjacent. It's an illustration of a man wearing the iconic Public Security helmet and bent down to high-five a smiling child. There are no guns in the image. The slogan reads: Keeping Midgar Safe and Smiling.
Biggs continues: "Barret and the others are trying to get as close as they can but we're mostly just trying to help move the wounded. The doctors are overrun but Wall-Market has provided some birds to get those who can travel out to the Sector Five hospital. But it's a fucking mess."
A large plume of smoke is visible now that they're on the flat road. It's not the billowing white of the factories, or the wispy grey of the stream trains, but a dark sickly black pouring out towards the metal sky and dimming the heat lamps. It's oppressive. Like tar.
Jessie instinctively covers her nose as the smell hits her. Iron and acidic that leaves a metallic taste in the air. Blood.
"How is it that big?" Jessie says through her hands as she digs to retrieve her mask.
Biggs removes a small metal tin of dark paste from his shoulder bag. He gingerly taps his index finger in it before dabbing spots beneath his nostrils. He offers it to Jessie in which she gladly mimics the gesture to discover it's tabacco paste. She always hated the smell.
"We think it was some sort of chemical reaction with the Mako lines," Biggs says, "In all honesty, Jess – we've got no fuckin' clue. Something went wrong and ShinRa want to make sure it's blamed on us but I swear it wasn't us."
As they move off the trail towards the single-carriage highway, there are more people. Some are hurt, most are shocked, and a large yellow bird is making a horrific sound as its wrangler attempts to drag it upright. The chocobo wails in protest, keeping its long legs tucked flat to the ground as it flaps its tiny wings aggressively. The rider can do nothing as the bird swings its neck like a bat, taking him off his feet and the wind from his lungs.
Jessie used to ride them in Gold Saucer. Those birds were of course smaller than the wagon breeds working in Midgar's slums. Agile, elegant, and fast. Real racing animals that had the jockey's train their grip for months just to hang on.
She dated a racer for a few months; one of those hot and heavy romances that seem opportune only when your sole responsibility is to your own selfishness. And it of course helped that she was famous enough to get free rounds at the hotel bar. Jessie can't remember his name, but his Bird's name was Molly.
On their second date he took her to ride Molly around the warmup ring. When Jessie arrived, she spied him in the stalls, cooing to the chocobo with his forehead set against the bird. He did a similar thing to Jessie the next morning; pressing his naked form to hers and setting his forehead against her as they exchanged sweet nothings.
The romance was cut short due to nothing in particular. That's just how it went sometimes. But three weeks later Molly tripped down the straight and sent him into the guard rail. One of Jessie's friends told her it practically ripped his head off.
Molly made a similar sound up until the day they shot her.
Biggs jumps to action, landing on the chocobo's large head and using his weight and length to keep the bird's beak closed and on the ground. He covers its eyes with his chest while tensing his arms around its neck, attempting to soothe the animal by stroking the feathers along the bridge of its spine.
He is careful to avoid the swipe of its talons as it attempts to kick him off, staying far down its neck and out of reach. It thrashes violently, swinging its neck and attempting to drag Biggs across the gravel. Jessie rushes to the side of the bird, laying across it to keep it seated while the fallen rider recovers and matches on the other side. Eventually the bird tires, setting its feathers down smoothly and taking deep breaths that lift Jessie to her toes.
Some people clap around them but most just give a wide berth and continue aimlessly walking with their heads down.
"Thanks," says the rider breathlessly. His Ranchers uniform is dirty and frayed in places, his boots scuffed. "The smell in the air has got 'em all spooked and she just got violent on me."
Biggs slowly stands off the chocobo, letting the bird lift its large head and turn to look at him with blue eyes.
"You sure it's safe to have this one on the road?" asks Biggs. He's examining some of the broken skin along his forearms, picking out the larger rocks.
"I've never seen her bothered like this. Even when the factory was burning down last fall, not a peep from the 'bos," he spits some blood from a split lip. "Only time I've seen the birds this spooked is during slaughterhouse season."
The dead are laid out back on the dirt in neat rows. There is just enough space between them that a single person can carefully step and attach a handwritten card to the body. Most couldn't afford the Identification Bracelets and so are only named by the looping scrawl of the nurse on duty.
Jessie is helping move them. She's not qualified to do anything else. The woman directing her is a local that introduces herself as Elmyra. She's an older woman – forties perhaps - and draped in a simple brown dress and apron that was stained with dirt, but is now splattered with blood.
She speaks with soft authority and greets everyone with warm eyes. Jessie feels better just standing next to her as they wait for the doctors to clear a space so they can begin their work. Elmyra is always the first to touch the body; double-checking vitals and moving with a precision that indicated experience.
Probably the war, Jessie thinks.
Sector Five is a smaller slum, built initially around the metal yards for a community to help move the cogs for Midgar's manufacturing. But when the Plate finished construction, the village rusted away, and now the Slum is just a junk heap that Wall Market uses for extra accommodation.
What small community it fosters are mostly orphans from the war and the drugs.
Needless to say, the four-room clinic is hardly outfitted to deal with the current traffic. It is most recently converted to a Geostigma response center that left large rooms tapped off by plastic sheets. They were working in the lobby now as residents use wheelbarrows to bring in those missing limbs. Outside, WRO agents are setting up white tarps.
"Mom? Mom!" cries a voice from out of Jessie's view.
She and Biggs are gently laying the body of an older man down in the weeds. Biggs' face is set in a hard line, his jaw clenched, and cheeks damp with silent tears.
"Please, I just want my mom. Please! Just get Elmyra!" cries the voice again. It's female and youthful. She sounds like she's struggling.
"Miss, calm down and let us help you," says a male voice.
"No! Please!"
Biggs exchanges a look with Jessie before carefully moving towards the clinic entrance, keeping her in tow as others peer curiously towards the commotion. The woman who appears in the doorway is wearing pink and struggling to support what looks like some sort of fiend the size of her.
It's long and covered with dark sticky hair that hangs in heavy black strips. Only as Jessie's eyes trail downwards, working to process the shape, does she notice human feet. It's a woman with matted dark hair that runs down to her calves.
Elmyra rushes her daughter, shooing the WRO agents back with a hand as she and two of the Sector Five doctors pull the woman's body from the woman in pink. They scramble to clear a space, setting the prone body on three chairs and trying to brush the hair away to find the sickly pale skin beneath.
She's completely nude.
The woman in pink moves from the doorway to allow traffic to continue, but doesn't make it far before collapsing back to the wall and sinking to the floor. She's holding her head and muttering to herself when Jessie approaches.
Jessie lightly touches her bare shoulder. "Hey there, it's okay. You're in shock."
The woman doesn't acknowledge her, continuing to whisper quickly under her breath. "It's too loud. It's too loud. It's too loud."
"Hey," Jessie tries again, shaking lightly. "What's your name? I'm Jessie. I'm here to help you."
The woman quiets. She slowly lifts her head, peaking at Jessie from under a light fringe with green eyes. "Aeris," she responds softly.
Jessie motions to Biggs with a gloved hand that he can return to work. She had this under control. Kneeling closer to Aeris, she begins to inspect the young woman for injuries.
"Are you hurt anywhere, Aeris?"
"No. I'm okay."
Her hands and boots are covered with paint of various bright colors and shades. They shake lightly. The metal of her bracelets chime with the movement and Jessie takes note that there is no number printed on the inside of her wrist.
"I'm going to have one of the doctors check you out anyway, okay? Just to be sure," Jessie stands with Aeris, comforting the woman by keeping her hand enclosed in hers. "Is she a friend of yours?" She motions to the nude form as the doctors use medical scissors to cut away some of the dark hair.
"No," Aeris says, intently watching the process. "She's not like me. She's fake."
Thanks for reading; sorry for the errors. I don't have a beta-reader as I'm just doing this for fun. Stay safe and healthy, everyone.