Warning: there is an OC in this chapter. But no worries – she has little relevance to the rest of the story. :D What can I say? I don't like to throw OCs into the mix if I can avoid it (some of my GW fanfiction, though, found it actually central to the plot). This OC is here because there was no in-game character to handily fill the void as I desired it to be filled.
Disclaimer: I in no way own any portion of the Final Fantasy franchise except the spiffy stuff I've purchased and the Squall plushie I snuggle with regularity. I also don't own any song by Linkin Park, especially not 'Shadow of the Day' which provides not only the chapter titles for this story but also the inspiration for this fic in its entirety. Please don't sue – I'm simply an E6 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.
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Chapter 3
Complex Solutions
I'm finding it much more productive to keep this journal as I have these past few weeks.
Taking quick notes on Post-It notes and culminating them into one massive entry once I actually have enough items for an entry to seem worthwhile is keeping me from classifying this activity as a waste of time. It also is leaving me plenty of pages to use this as a culmination journal – a 'dream journal' as Selphie previously suggested and a 'memory journal' as we'd already settled on – without too much waste.
Since the last 'official' entry in this journal, I've plastered twenty-six notes into it, a few of which were deemed so unimportant that I've already thrown them away. It's been fourteen days since my last entry into this book. I have a contingent of SeeD currently in Esther, Zell and Quistis being among them, to oversee the transfer of materials from the Lunatic Pandora Laboratory to the Sorceress Memorial. Quistis has already messaged me to assure that things are going smoothly and that the perceived threat towards the sensitive test-equipment move is apparently nonexistent; Zell is understandably upset that he won't be able to put his junctions to use, and is getting on Quistis' last nerve if I'm to read her texts correctly. A young SeeD team has been sent to Trabia to fulfill the caravan-guard request, the amount of pay available having been insufficient to save me from Paperwork Hell (tm). They're well balanced, though, and should do fine against snow lions and gaylas.
The offers for work have continually poured in, driving me to near insanity. Only Rinoa's presence, her hands massaging my shoulders and her kisses on my cheek in the afternoon when she has lunch with me keep me from ordering Nida to strafe certain nations so I can personally unleash Eden on them all and cackle like a manic idiot as they lay crumbled in pools of mushy flesh and blood.
All right, I exaggerate. But it is driving me a little bonkers. I don't care if everyone around me professes that I'm a natural-born leader, I don't feel it myself. Ever decision I make it framed by worry and doubt and assurance that it's somehow going to fail. All I can rely on is the skill of my people to make the impossible possible and salvage what I'm certain are horrid command choices into something that can be seen as not entirely failing.
But she does keep me calm and reassured. She's made herself something I can't see myself living without. Without her, I surely wouldn't be able to maintain what questionable sanity I still claim to have possession of. Because only her presence can drown out that diabolical banshee I am forced to deal with day in and day out that others would call a phone, bringing me to serenity and calm after I speak with people I'd rather never deal with and listen to requests for the impossible to be delivered for free.
What part of 'mercenary organization' do people not comprehend, for crying out loud? You want our services, you pay for them. I may have a big heart as Rinoa professes, but I still expect my people to be compensated for their efforts. If your cause is philanthropic in nature I may give you a discount. If you're poor I'll work with you. But nothing's going to get me to offer my SeeDs' lives for free. Doesn't stop people from asking for just that, though.
But they continue to hound me, no matter how blunt I am, no matter how short I am. So the work, it keeps rolling in. I swear that there's a song about this kind of thing from a musical Rinoa dragged me to not long ago.
So now I've got my intelligence team investigating a perceived assassination plot against a Dollet ambassador that my away team of SeeD that are already there have confirmed might have an ounce of validity, a contingent of SeeD out to kill a wild behemoth that's been terrorizing a small settlement outside of Esther's capital city, and a contractor who services Balamb Garden sent with relocation allowances to draft an expense plan and project timeframe for Trabia Garden's restoration after they suffered an extreme setback in building with a collapsed pylon killing their foreman of construction.
On to more inspiring Post-It notes. The 'work' ones make me cringe to look at them. But it is rather satisfying to crumble them up and throw them into the nearby waste bin.
Rinoa's birthday went without a hitch. A note to myself that I'll hopefully remember to read in the future (namely next year) – she LOVES the Opera. Absolutely adores it. Seems there's something of culture in her, regardless of her attempts to shuck any and all tethers to her high-society family. Her birthday that was apparently 'the best she'd ever had' consisted of getting her dressed up in a fancy dress, letting her get me in a suit that I keep for rare occasions where something semi-formal is required and my SeeD dress uniform would be quite inappropriate, an overly expensive dinner at a restaurant that doesn't put prices on its menus, and an operatic show at the Balamb Theatre. Hopefully I don't forget how richly she rewarded me anytime soon, and that sitting through hours of men singing their own death throes rather than just toppling over and gurgling out their final breaths as they do in real life can in fact be well worth the tedium.
Thank you, email alerts, for reminding me of it. Otherwise I don't think I ever would have remembered prior to the day of and been able to get tickets and reservations. Selphie did bop into my office to give me a reminder, but that was a whole thirty minutes before the close of business the day of Rinoa's birthday.
I've finally decided on a best man, now that Rinoa's told me who her Maid of Honor is going to be. She has also decided on having no more than three total members in her bridal party, to my thorough and overwhelming relief (I suspect that she was able to sense my distress in having to match a huge wedding party and took considerable mercy on me). A friend of hers from Delling that she's held as a close confidant through mail and social networking since she left her father's house for Timber's revolutionary forces to 'show that man that she's serious and able to do everything herself' will be coming to Balamb and acting as her Maid of Honor.
She's some girl named Delilah. From the picture Rinoa showed me online on the network she uses to keep in contact with her Galbadian friends, this girl is a brunette with pink tips died into her hair, enough earrings to reasonably assume she jingles when she walks, a curved silver nose ring accompanied by a barbell through her eyebrow, big brown eyes and rectangular glasses that make her look more smarmy and sassy than mum. According to her profile she's single and 'luvn' lif, bebe!' Further research using the Garden's expansive intelligence network showed that Ms. Delilah Silva stands just shy of 160cm and weighs 57kg. She was originally a classmate at the private school Rinoa was sent to as a child, lived three blocks down the road from the expansive Caraway manor, and had a lengthy record of truancies to accompany a rather average record of grades throughout her educational career. She has a short list of misdemeanor offences ranging from petty theft to traffic violations, unpaid parking tickets, trespassing and loitering that could likely to be attributed to being part of protests held illegally on privately owned properties. According to Rinoa, she was also the attendant of many slumber parties and all-time champ at Truth or Dare, and the first girl Rinoa ever kissed during a session of said game.
That instantly drew my attention, but that's beside the point.
Apparently this Delilah was a great planner of parties and if her profile on that social network held any truth or validity to it, held no political aspirations or opinions beyond 'rich ppl SUX and dont pai nuf taxes to help teh por that needs it,' was employed at a bookstore in downtown Delling with apparently no aspirations to do anything more grand with her life, her goals being to make it to 'supervisor' so she could 'get awai from register, omg' and to meet a man to 'hav a gud fling wit'.
That description in of itself made me quite aware that I was going to be steering clear of any perceived political, world-view or economically based conversation around this woman. Surely she'd question Rinoa's judgment in choosing to marry me if she found out the lien of my opinions on such controversial topics.
Given the spelling in her profile, my brain was ruling out anything to be conceivably intelligent conversation as well, but who am I to judge based on an internet profile? Rinoa has taught me to keep a somewhat open mind concerning such after I saw her write-up with its atrocious spelling and horrifying use of acronyms.
But still, even as distasteful as I found the prospect of meeting and potentially having to converse with this person, it did rectify my first major dilemma.
That settled it on Zell. And that decision did bring me comfort – he may be a loudmouth and something of a blundering child who can hardly get his brain out of comic books and into reality, but he's loyal to a fault and his enthusiasm, while natural and deep, is unfortunately easy to crush. He'd take not being my Best Man as being a personal affront, some slight towards him based on some ill-conceived imagining of my opinion of him and devaluing of the friendship he believes we have (and I silently acknowledge exists). He wouldn't see it as the most logical of solutions – if Rinoa had chosen Selphie, it would have instantly been Irvine selected as my Best Man, if only to keep the sniper from jealously drawing a bead on Zell's forehead during the required dances that take place at the reception. Plus Selphie having the opportunity to hang on Zell and see how red she could get him to turn? That would be a disaster.
Also, as I'm going to have Irvine in my lineup opposite of Selphie come hell or high water (unless, of course, he refuses – then it's back to the drawing board), I've gotten Rinoa to agree that burgundy is out. She concurred that it'd look ridiculous on the auburn-haired cowboy.
So that's two monumental tasks accomplished. Colors are decided, ivory and forest green being settled on. Let it be known by this writing in this journal that this is not negotiable and not subject to change in the future. Lineups are complete. Zell gets the misfortune of being paired with Rinoa's childhood friend (and won't that make a picture, her with her loudly dyed hair and multiple body accessories standing next to Zell with his prominent tattoos and spiked mane), which is certain to cause a good deal of discomfort on his part. Selphie and Irvine are naturally side-by-side, an arrangement I wouldn't see broken for anything. And Nida will be escorting Quistis. I already started a requiem for him and have an obituary saved on my work computer in the event that the Trepies get out of control.
Caterers are still entirely undecided. Rinoa's first two choices, Gorgino's and Ferdinand's, have been brought to question by one simple factoid she'd forgotten about – where were we going to hold the ceremony and reception? If we were going to have everything maintained on Garden, it'd be a non-issue – but early on, we'd decided that there was no way in Hyne's most fiery hell that we were going to keep ourselves sequestered to this place.
It may be home and it may forever hold a special place in my heart for being the only stable foundation in my life, but I don't love it enough to tether the memory of my wedding to it.
So still, location is unknown. She's not keen on Delling due to it being her home town and base of many calamitous conflicts between herself and her father, whereas I find the city charming and enigmatic, quiet during the day to sooth my normally frazzled nerves yet flowing with nightlife that we can simply seep into and lose ourselves in. I'm not keen on Esther, the technological 'marvel' being more like a turquoise nightmare that hurts my eyes with its bright colors, my ears with its constant racket, and my head with its borderline insipid layout – she finds it 'fun' and 'pretty' and 'awesome, even if it's home to that creepy Odine.' Trabia is out for both of us – too cold. Rinoa was originally pondering a winter-wonderland wedding, standing in the snow in the dress of her dreams and framed by arching pine trees dusted by frost, before I told her she'd have to import the snow to a warmer climate and there was no way she was going to get me to freeze my ass off in a tux for pictures. She finally relinquished after I'd made her watch the weather channel.
Winhill with its quiet, rustic charm called to me, but shunned her with its remoteness and silence. I'd laughingly suggested the Omega Ruins in Centra – she'd smacked me with a rolled up wedding magazine. We're both pondering the ups and downs of Timber and Balamb – both locations were calm and quiet enough to appeal to me, and modern and rambunctious enough (especially once the sun sets) to appease her. Both are of rather similar climes.
All that has me concerned about Timber is their continued governmental unrest and strife. That and having to put up with more of the Forest Owls than those who would normally be able to make the trek from Timber to Balamb for the event. Really, seeing Zone doubled over in a corner whining about his stomach and having Watts 'sir' me to oblivion wasn't a prospect I was looking forward to. Unfortunately, regardless of where we'd decide to hold the ceremony, I was likely going to have to put up with both of them.
Plus the uprising of monsters in the Obel Lake region had me a little worried. Rinoa had rolled her eyes when I voiced that concern and reminded me that SeeD would take care of the problem some time within the next nine and a half months, and everything should be perfectly safe.
The more I write about it, the more I'm thinking we're going to choose Timber. She brightens every time she mentions it.
While I may cringe at the prospect of seeing the Forest Owls again, she legitimately welcomes such a meeting. They are her friends, after all.
And seeing as how I can just bring everyone I usually welcome association with onboard the Garden…
We'll still have to work out the details.
Maybe a trip to Timber is in order. After all, I got that request for assistance a little over two weeks ago from that region, and my contact has yet to report to me (in fact, he seems to have dropped off the fact of the planet) – perhaps it's time for me to follow up personally.
Surely Rinoa will want to come along… but that shouldn't be a problem. After all, it's just going to be a touch of reconnaissance, seeing how dire the threat truly is (clients have a penchant for exaggerating the severity of their issues, after all) before making a final decision on whether or not to draft a contract with Timber itself. There shouldn't be anything in the way of danger beyond what we can handle.
After all, she is a Sorceress.
And I am her Knight. She will always be defended, whether against monsters that would threaten her, people that wish to see all of her ilk dead or humanity itself – I would stand against them without fail, until the moment of my death.
Which brings me to the part of this journal I haven't been looking forward to writing.
I guess some of my brain is still rebelling against the validity of these claims or something, writing off the possibility of dreams being 'prophetic' simply because a person has a Guardian Force tethered to his or her brain as impossible and the practice of recording them as imbecilic. Something deep inside of me wants to refute Selphie's words of caution and potential wisdom as imagined ramblings and some sort of ill-conceived joke.
I had dreams, to be certain. Some of them were apparently quite vivid. Normally I would have done the sensible thing – ignored them and allowed them to fade into the obscurity of the waking world as the nonsense they truly should be. After all, dreams are nothing more than the imaginings of the brain when it is receiving a slim amount of stimulation from the outside world. Sometimes they're the brain's attempts to figure out a dilemma that was bothering that brain upon the moment of sleep's oblivious darkness falling over the rest of the body. Usually they were just silly culminations of light and colors and caricatures of things in the real world.
But I still wrote them down on Post-It notes and stuck them into my notebook. Having looked over what I'd jotted down, it's kind of surprising how many similarities there are between them.
Irvine had said something. I think I wrote it down.
Yup, sure had. "If her dream revolves around her, it seems almost probable. If she dreams the same thing more than once, it comes true in one way or another."
Well, these dreams didn't seem to revolve around me. Rather, I seemed entirely absent from them. And reading the contents of my dreams in the Post-It notes I've been reviewing, it almost seems… frightening.
They revolve around Rinoa. And they all seem rather dark in nature.
They all open the same way – a dark place, the features of the land blotted out by black clouds covering the moon and stars. A few flashes of light give definition to the environment; toppled trees frame an area devoid of life, a sharp spire from that pit of rocks and dirt stretching towards the heavens, the top of that spire severed from the rest of it and laying lamely upon its base, very nearly among the trees' roots that reached for that jutting tower of stone. Upon the opposing edge of that dead dark plain, a cliff erupted, dark figures standing upon its top.
For some reason, it looked alien yet familiar, like I should recognize it despite it looking as if it had been ravaged. A circular bowl in the land, dark and black, surrounded with recently devastated woods. An unnatural spire that looked entirely out of place, but a cliff that looked as if it has existed in that location for ages, striding almost arrogantly into that bowl of death, shaped as a perfect peninsula into that oval pit.
I'm still trying to figure out that aspect – certainly the fact that the landscape is always the same should give me some clue as to where this is and when it might be occurring, but I am continually drawing blanks when I try to ponder it.
The people are always the same, too. The consistencies are unnerving.
Upon the cliff, my friends. All worn, all tired, all bloodied and beaten and looking like they're only a bare centimeter from death. Irvine's long hair stained more ruby than usual, soaked with his blood. Quistis' delicate frame nearly doubled over itself as she pants in exhaustion. Selphie clinging to Irvine's coat, using him to keep herself upright as she holds her abdomen with her free arm, blood streaming down her cheery yellow jumper. Zell barely upright, his face and teeth stained red, his eyes almost unnaturally bright and tainted with adrenaline.
In the pit below, a blond stranger clothed in black jeans and a white t-shirt that I know I've never met, beaten and bruised and glowering with oddly brilliant eyes towards the spire that juts from the ground. A huge sword's hilt is always in that stranger's right hand. Its edge is always upon the ground, the stranger incapable of finding the strength to heft the massive weapon.
A black figure stands atop that spire, covered in shadow and indiscernible to my mind's eye. Squared shoulders suggest male, but it's so slight in build and average in height that it brings that assumption to question. Small and unassuming on that enormous pillar of stone, it's something that would be lost completely if not for the dark spot being prominent among the muted colors of the night that are brought to life by the licks of flame that light the fallen forest.
Finally the remaining figure in this preemptive standoff presents himself, standing in the pit opposite of the first stranger that carries coloration. His stance is haughty and proud as he carries himself before that stranger, a smile twisting long lips under emerald eyes. He's clothed in black, tall and slender yet carries an aura of impossible strength, carrying a sword with his left hand whose blade is as long as his own body. A fall of pale hair flows in a wind that brushes over the decimated land, flapping like a soft, lightly colored flag lit only by sparks of energy that erupt from the newly killed land, flames that dance in those fallen trees.
In every one of those dreams, two spires suddenly shoot into being from that pit even as the two strangers within that pit collide, swords lashing without control. The spire the mysterious figure in black is upon shudders and crumbles, a wave of black dust exploding from it. My companions are scattered as magic (an Ultima spell?) slams into the cliff. I never see what happens to them as they're enveloped in dust and dirt, fogged from sight.
That dark figure lands on top of one spire, its top falling as something long, silver and cumbersome lashes forward and slides it cleanly away.
The opposing spire's top simply disintegrates as a similarly dark form lands atop of it, the new arrival's slender and smaller figure lighting it in stark contrast of that which stood upon the rocky tower that was demolished at the commencement of the strangers' battle.
Sparks light from the dead pit below those two upon their spires, erupting from two massive swords colliding with one another. The battle between the strangers rages, each of them seeming to press towards a spire. Again and again the two meet in my dreams, neither relenting, neither giving, each grinding their teeth and snarling as they attempt to reach their destination and struggle to keep their opponents away from their respective charges.
Suddenly, the slight figure lights up in my dreams. White wings spread, lighting the land, illuminating everything above and below and around the spire upon which it stands. Blue knit fabric flutters in the breeze that carries loosened pristine feathers into the night sky. Pale skin, its soft alabaster sheen highlighted by black skin-tight clothing, shines in the darkness that surrounds it.
Even now, hour upon hour after I awakened, I can still see my dream's imagery in my head.
Rinoa, her wings spread, her kind face twisted in anguish, her doe eyes glowing with some unnatural poison, her hand thrust forward and magic burning her fingers.
The dark figure across from her, the only feature not lit by the magnificent illumination of her pure Sorceress' wings, always lifts a hand, the magic that she hurls careening off an instantly raised Shell spell of unmatched power. The spell she hurls rapes the land around them, blasting into the remains of wood and pit, sending rocks hurtling into the air and flames springing from the dead forest. Every sound is enveloped in every dream I experienced by the powerful explosion as it careens through the planet's atmosphere.
No simple Shell could fend off the spells of a Sorceress. That would have had me writing off my dream as stupid imaginings if not for what always follows….
Wings.
Silver wings bursting from the back of her opponent, soft and long and full and shining as the light cast by Rinoa's presence illuminates them yet failing to cast any light of their own.
A figure in shadow, gunmetal wings stretched, ominously standing before Rinoa with its hand extended towards her.
Magic would envelop my dreams, explosions of what I could only assume were colliding Meltdowns of enormous might blinding me to everything that could be occurring. The clouds would be stripped away. The red eye of the moon would glower upon the land. The stars would hide in the black of the night. The combatants below would continue to strive to reach the two whose magic made the very planet shudder and cry in pain.
I just realized what I am watching in my sleep.
A Sorcery duel between two of Hyne's chosen, their Knights attempting to reach their charge's opponent and put an end to it.
Rinoa cries out in my dreams every time I see this image, her wings folding for a moment before she takes to the air and releases her pinwheel, striking the ground at the feet of her silver-winged opponent and channeling a Tornado spell through it to strike that figure without awareness. Silver feathers fly errantly to blend with white, reflecting the piercing light that those pure feathers cast.
The two swordsmen, both strangers to me, clash violently even as Rinoa and her opponent take to the air, wings beating mightily upon the wind and the moon itself bursting into crimson tears as they draw their power from Hyne himself.
Now it strikes me.
Who is the man defending Rinoa?
Where am I?
Cloud wiped the sweat that marred his brow away with the bare back of his left hand, his right still gripping his ratcheting socket wrench. His eyes narrowed as he looked over the state of his project, taking in all that he had accomplished over the long hours of the day.
Fenrir was complete at long last. It had taken Cloud five long days of continuous work to finally repair every long hour's worth of damage the road had imparted on his trustworthy bike. Every bolt had been tightened, every gasket replaced, every fluid system had been flushed and refilled, every hose replaced and clamp tightened. The bike, a few smears of oil and sweat marring its reflective surface and standing in stark contrast with its restored mechanical perfection, leaned heavily on its kickstand.
Dropping his tool into his toolbox and grabbing a stray white rag, Cloud twisted it between his fingers and sighed as he wiped the grime and oil from his hands. While satisfied that he'd completed his task, he was similarly oddly disappointed that it had been brought to its terminus so quickly.
After all, Fenrir's condition was the primary excuse he was set on utilizing to keep Reeve Tuesti and his demands at bay. If he didn't have a perfectly functioning motorcycle, there was no way he would be sent away from his home to run whatever errand or investigate whatever problem the WRO Commissioner was to set upon him.
Still, the prospect of leaving his faithful companion on the road untouched and silently suffering with its problems had unnerved Cloud more than the prospect of being sent out onto the road for a few weeks to earn some pay and solve Reeve's issues did. It was an affront to him to keep his bike in poor condition simply to accommodate his desire to remain home. And while Tifa would certainly appreciate his continued presence at the Seventh Heaven, he couldn't in good conscious keep a less than perfect bike under the tarp in her alley.
After all, if any reason for him to swiftly depart the warmth of his home arose, he wanted to ensure he could put miles between him and whatever issue had forced his departure without complications. Faint memories of the long and rough ride to the Forgotten City would nag at his mind – if Fenrir had not been prepared for the road, he'd never have been in time to rescue Marlene from the clutches of the remnants that had taken her from her family. There was no guarantee that Vincent would have successfully reclaimed her either, the stalwart gunslinger never answering questions about that night directly and simply alluding to the fact that he'd been tracking those who had interactions with the Turks he seemed to hold odd relations with rather than intending to rescue the kids from their ill fate.
"Once a Turk, always a Turk, eh?" Cloud mused to no one in particular even as he finished cleaning his hands and gave his brow one final once-over to clear himself of sweat and mire. Shaking his head, he lightly gripped his bike's handlebar.
It was time to give Fenrir a rundown, to push his vehicle through its paces and ensure that it was indeed ready to go should any need for it arise.
Straddling his monstrous machine, his loose black jeans comfortably shifting without him having to arrange anything into place, Cloud allowed a small smile to take his lips as he turned the key and listened to the mighty motor rumble to life. A few angry shudders, a profession of dissatisfaction with remaining stagnant for so very long, roared through the motorcycle as it spurt a puff of soft gray exhaust from its curved piping and roared with its accelerated idling revolutions in the calm afternoon air.
Tilting the bike to kick its stand back and out of the way with one boot-clad toe, Cloud set his fingers tightly on the handlebar brakes before lifting one foot to set it lightly upon the clutch. His free fingers pried his sunglasses out of the sagging front pocket of the loose long-sleeved black button-up shirt Tifa had draped across his shoulders when the chill of the desert's evening air had started to whistle through the alley, his black tank top he'd adorned himself with that morning being less than sufficient in the task of keeping chill-derived bumps from racing over his arms.
While those sunglasses wouldn't be necessary for long, the setting sun cast murderously bright rays that reflected off the buildings with an unerring propensity for blinding drivers. Cloud preferred to be able to see, any direction he would have chosen being noteworthy for poor vision – either he would be facing the sunset when he abandoned the alley he normally parked in, or he would be facing the huge shimmering glass skyscrapers of downtown with their mirror finish.
A twist of the throttle, a growl of impatience and a slight easing off the brakes that let the bike sneak towards the promise of open road, Cloud nodded. "Ready, Fenrir?"
Throaty and deep, the bike howled with power and perfection as Cloud finally released the brake and twisted the throttle hard, its front tire lifting momentarily off the ground as it surged towards freedom. Sliding effortlessly through the scant evening traffic, weaving between the few small delivery trucks that used the roads, the privately owned cars only the rich could afford to operate and the expansive foot-traffic that always occupied Edge's asphalt rivers, Cloud chased the setting sun with warm light on his face and cool wind whipping through his loose clothes.
Running smooth and muted, Fenrir's tires snarled along the city streets as it maintained the steady and conservative pace Cloud always attempted to maintain within Edge's limits. The engine growled as it warmed, its revolutions adjusting automatically with its operations.
Then they hit open road.
With an exhilarating turn of the throttle, Cloud crouched low over his bike, his body fitting seamlessly along Fenrir's gently sloped tank. His loose long-sleeved shirt whipped mercilessly along his back as the magnificent machine between his life roared with unfettered joy as its might was finally unleashed and its huge tires chewed miles from the road it traveled over. Blasting past the dusty and forgotten signs that warned of the termination of the paved road, indicating the true edge of civilization was about to be superceded, the bike maintained its grip even as concrete gave way to the stone-hard packed dirt of the desert itself.
Twisting effortlessly along the road that had been swallowed by time, gentle bends taking him between huge stone mountains that thrust from the unforgiving lifeless lands, Cloud lost himself in the exhilaration of pure, unadulterated freedom.
It wasn't until the final rays of the sun struck something mechanical that he brought his ride to a screeching halt, a sudden turn of the handlebar and a lean to his left sliding Fenrir's mass sideways and a hastily dropped foot keeping man and machine from dropping onto their sides on the desert's rapidly cooling ground.
Wrenching his glasses from his eyes, Cloud squinted to sharpen his vision and peered into the sky.
The black helicopter soared overhead, its blades thundering through the light winds that raced between the desert's mountains with ease as its tilt propelled it with impressive speed towards the town Cloud had been unintentionally fleeing.
As it rocketed past him, Cloud felt his eyes widen.
There was no mistaking the red logo that graced the flying machine's tail, easily seen despite the whirl of the helicopter's secondary rotor.
"Looks like our ride's been cut short," Cloud muttered, grabbing the bike's throttle and letting it surge with rage towards the distant town, attempting to race the black stain upon the darkening night sky that had already far outpaced him.
He had no illusory dreams of beating that flying mechanism back to Edge. However, knowing which organization owned it, he wanted to stay as close as possible.
The logo of Shin-Ra Electric Company still drew a quake of distrust and concern from Cloud's heart. While the remnants of that company seemed to be sided with those who would restore the Planet and didn't make any overt motions towards betraying those who, as Cloud thought rather foolishly, imparted trust onto them, Cloud still refused to trust any of them so far as he could throw them. After all, as recently as a year ago, Rufus had been involved with gathering a sliver of Jenova's remains – he was in fact keeping it from the remnants who sought it, who dreamed of completing themselves with the genetic material they were lacking and completing their Reunion with not only Jenova but all who had been infected with her taint through the caress of a sullied Lifestream – but he had brought that container of flesh to Edge, hiding it among the innocent population of the world's largest city and placing all of their lives at risk. Why he'd made such a decision Cloud couldn't begin to fathom, but it had resulted in millions of gil in damages and countless lives lost, traumatized and ruined.
While Deepground's resurrection of Omega Weapon couldn't be attributed directly to the remains of the Shin-Ra Empire, Cloud had always groused over the Shin-Ra heir's lack of assuming responsibility for his company's actions. After all, the man hadn't bothered showing his face, and his infamously diabolical and interfering Turks were nowhere to be seen.
The bike's smooth ride suddenly changed pitch, tires howling as they hit concrete rather than nature's perfect and dusty highway. The helicopter had long since vanished into the night, but Cloud had pegged its trajectory as taking it directly into Edge.
As he finally rounded the last bend that stood between him and home, he nearly dumped his bike as he narrowly avoided careening into a stopped truck. Dropping both feet to the ground, Fenrir dropping into a lazy idle, Cloud stared at the traffic jam that was slowly alleviating itself and the central cause of the slowdown.
A groan of dismay rattled Cloud's lungs as he wiped disbelief from his eyes with night-chilled fingers. He now knew exactly whom he'd been chasing.
After all, no other man would land a helicopter right in front of Seventh Heaven, leaving it as close to the curb as it could get without knocking its massive primary rotor into buildings or lampposts.
Taking a moment to gloomily impart a smidgen of unsolicited respect for the pilot's skill as Cloud observed that bare inches stood between the machine's rotor and the front façade of the bar it was stationed before, he swung Fenrir into a lazy arch and slid into the alley he parked in.
This time, he didn't leave First Tsurugi in the storage compartment that held it when he took to the road. Rather he drew every last segment of his weapon from his vehicle, taking time to snap every superfluous blade into place and ensure the weapon was tightly assembled. Grabbing its massive sheath from the chamber it was normally stored in when he rode, he strapped it onto himself and slid the fully assembled sword into place before pressing the button upon Fenrir's dash to close those storage chambers and withdrew his key to his bike. Stuffing that key into his jeans' front left pocket, he took a stray minute to throw his tarp over his bike and strap it into place before turning his attention to the bar.
It would seem to the uncaring eye to be an ordinary night in Seventh Heaven, the usual suspects in the usual stools and booths drinking the usual drinks despite the fact that a massive helicopter was sitting at the curb right outside of the front door. Shaking his head in complete disbelief, Cloud reflected momentarily on how remarkable it was that people could ignore such chaotic and unordinary events in their day-to-day lives.
In fact, only one person commented on him coming in armed to the teeth with a sword larger and heavier than most of the men who occupied the bar's seats – the only reason the waitress Tifa had hired months ago said anything was that she'd been inadvertently hit with the prominently jutting hilt of the weapon. "Cloud, please watch where you're sticking that thing!" she'd playfully reprimanded before squealing and turning on the man who'd taken her inattention as an opportunity to smack her firmly on her butt.
A disparaged sigh escaped Cloud as he moved past her. Instead of reflecting on the odd patrons to Tifa's establishment, he instead set his focus on the bar's massive counter instead.
He found himself looking straight into crystalline blue eyes that bordered on green in the poor lighting, reflecting the sickly colors that poured from the nearby jukebox. Cloud's frown stood in remarkable contrast to the man at the bar's twisted smile.
Tifa emerged from the back of the bar when Cloud next blinked, her warm eyes surprisingly stern. "Don't you two even think about bringing this to blows," she warned even as she set a plate with a greasy pile of fries in front of the redhead she was serving.
"Wouldn't think of it, zo to," the man stated, his voice slick as snake oil and cold as ice even as he opened the unfettered jacket of his wrinkled suit and drew a massive gun from a previously hidden holster. Placing it on the bar with a loud and resounding thump, he cast her a smirk that sang of cocky assurance. "See? I'm unarmed," he all but laughed.
Walking to the bar, Cloud glowered at the man who'd piloted the helicopter he'd been chasing. Drawing his weapon from its sheath, he leaned it cautiously against the dark wooden counter, keeping it in easy reach.
He knew better than to assume the Turk at his side was completely unarmed. The EMR he was famous for wielding with surprising precision wasn't in plain sight.
"Any particular reason you're here?" Cloud opened, the lack of warmth in his voice reflecting his lack of pleasure in being faced with his unexpected companion at the bar. "Or did you just decide that blocking traffic with your helicopter was a good idea tonight?"
"Got plenty of reasons," Reno replied, his smile seeping from cocky and pleased to manic and sinister even as his eyes narrowed and he dug through his fries with thin fingers. "Only a few pertaining to you, though."
"Reno," Tifa groaned, her hand sliding to her forehead to rub it and fend of exasperation.
"Just get to the point," Cloud gruffly stated, his own eyes narrowing with distrust.
"Yo, what's with the hostility? Not like I've murdered anyone just by walking in here," Reno stated, his teeth gritting behind his grin.
"You don't seem far off from doing just that," Cloud snarled under his breath.
"C'mon. I'm a reformed man." Placing a hand holding fries over his heart, Reno let his eyes close as a seemingly innocent expression took his face. "Ever since the fall of Shin-Ra, I've been a much less despicable person. Hell, I hardly kick Dons off of cliffs for kicks anymore."
"Point, Reno?" Cloud interrupted.
Chuckling softly, the redhead ran his other hand's long fingers through fire-colored hair. "Point is not to be discussed now. It's time to drink beer and enjoy greasy food, Strife. My business with you can wait until closing."
"Must it wait that long?" Tifa inquired, leaning against the bar.
"Afraid so," Reno said with a lazy shrug. "Got something against eavesdroppers, even if it's not company-damaging conversation, zo to."
Cloud drummed his fingers impatiently, glowering as the Turk ignored him and ate his fries.
"Relax, Cloud," Tifa softly muttered into his ear, leaning across the bar and lightly giving his shoulder a squeeze. "He's not going to get away with anything with us right here, you know."
"Right," Cloud replied, his eyes remaining firmly set on the wily man at his side. "Doesn't mean I'm going to lower my guard around him, though."
"He's just a Turk," Tifa stated, her voice bordering on laughter.
Cloud shuddered as he noticed Reno's eyes in the reflecting mirror behind the bottles of liquor that lined the bar's wall opposite of the lobby door, those pale blue irises mocking and sinister and laughing as if reveling in the fact that the notoriety of the organization to which he belonged almost seemed forgotten and irrelevant in the modern world.
Every nerve in Cloud's body was on fire as Reno's every motion was made with precision that spoke of battle-hardened proficiency, every move calculated with the cold, bloodless tactician's perfected techniques. Those fingers gripping fries? Strength moderated, never making an unnecessary motion. Those eyes that almost seemed to be careless as they roved the room? Carefully observing every last motion that took place around them. Those ears that seemed deaf to any objection of his presence? Keeping careful track of Cloud, listening to the barest shift in the fabric he wore to give away any movement he'd make. Those feet tapping errantly on the metal ring at the base of his bar stool? Prepared to immediately burst into motion, excess energy being tapped away to suppress the urge to do whatever it was Reno's twisted mind was suggesting to him.
Tifa may have forgotten, but Cloud never could – the man at his side was a Turk, a murderer contracted by Shin-Ra to silence any and all opposition that would stand against the company, a spy hired to infiltrate any institute that would present itself as a viable threat to Shin-Ra's monopolistic grip on the world's economy, a tactical genius who operated alone to accomplish any goal the leadership of his organization would impart onto him.
While they seemed inept when faced off with all those years ago, Cloud never dropped his caution. Reno had successfully single-handedly faced off with Cloud, Barret and Tifa, surviving despite their efforts to kill him and still successfully dropping Sector 7's support plate regardless of their efforts to stop the event from occurring. He had lead them to Don Corneo, their efforts to rescue Yuffie coinciding with Reno and Rude's decision to get their newest Turk back from the drug lord's grip and making them temporary allies – Cloud had watched the man laugh in the Don's face before stamping his fingers so firmly under his foot that Cloud was certain they'd broken, Reno's smirk and profession that he simply didn't care about the Don's or his own fate chilling. Even when Reno had faced off with Cloud when Rufus had called him to his hiding place in a vain attempt to recruit his assistance, when Cloud had locked Reno out of the room, Reno's subtle words and laughing demeanor hinted of a playful disparity with his boss' goals – Cloud always held a niggling doubt in his heart that Reno and Rufus were seeing eye to eye at that point, and that Reno had simply been playing them both as fools, his boss in his support of his ideals and attempting to quietly subvert Rufus' plans, and Cloud in his acknowledgement of him as a viable opponent, playing with him rather than taking any threat seriously.
All that he'd seen of the Turk coupled with Zack Faire's recollections of how Reno and Rude had all but cleared Sector Eight of all of Shin-Ra's malfunctioning security robots and Genesis Clones, how Reno had laughingly recounted the battles as a game he and Rude were playing and how in retrospect maybe it wasn't as dull and boring as it had seemed in the heat of the moment, kept Cloud's caution at a safely elevated status.
Those hard crystal eyes kept their gaze on Cloud as well, almost seeming dissatisfied that not everyone was writing off the potential threat he presented.
As patrons slowly started filtering out of the bar once last call was announced, Reno finished his fourth tall glass of beer with a long, satisfied draw. "Gotta stay mostly sober, zo to. After all, I need to return the helicopter this morning," he said with a smirk.
"I still don't understand why you couldn't do that before coming to the bar," Tifa stated blandly, glancing over from the opposite end of the counter where she was beginning to gather partially emptied bowls of beer nuts and drained glasses stained by slack lips and loose tongues.
"Because I didn't want to be tasked with anything else before I could have some beer and fries," Reno stated with a casual shrug of his shoulders.
Cloud narrowed his eyes even as Tifa helplessly laughed, her head hanging in disbelief. "You are ridiculous, Reno," she observed with a giggle.
"Maybe, maybe," he replied, his eyes closing and his lips parting with a laugh.
Cloud glowered, watching carefully, knowing how observant those eyes had been right before their lids had drifted shut.
"So Strife, you mind stepping in the back for a few minutes? Got something to discuss with you, after all. Otherwise my happy ass would be making its way back to its nice, warm bed in its nice, warm apartment."
"Sure thing," Cloud cautiously acknowledged, reaching for his sword.
"Don't you dare," Tifa warned.
"He has his EMR," Cloud replied.
"Bullshit!" Reno snorted. "If you wanna do a pat-down, it's fine by me. My weapon's in plain sight on the counter."
"Where is it, then?"
Giving a casual wink, Reno shrugged. "Left it in the helicopter. Stuffed under the pilot seat, zo to. Keeps the seat from rattling and provides spark to the rotor when it stalls out seein' as how the distributor wire's shot – Rufus decided to toss me the keys to the bitchy machine like a dumbass. Thing needs to be serviced badly. Just don't got the time personally to do it, what with the boss running me ragged."
"Right," Cloud huffed, his voice reflecting his disbelief.
"Cloud," Tifa fired off in warning.
Groaning softly, Cloud willed his fingers to release the hilt of First Tsurugi. Keeping his cautious eyes on Reno, he followed the Turk as he rose and playfully stuffed his hands into his pockets, stomping his way to the service door that lead into the establishment behind the bar's proper lobby.
Walking into the kitchen and away from Tifa's sight, Cloud immediately scowled. "Now what is it you want?"
"Woah, chill the rage, Strife," Reno instantly bit, his eyes narrowed and hostile. "I'm not here to pick a fight with you, zo to."
"Then why exactly-"
Reno thrust a finger right into Cloud's face, leaning over slightly as if to emphasis his greater height much to Cloud's annoyance. "If you'd shush, I'd explain. So why don't you just squash all this latent anger and let me get to the point?"
"Fine," Cloud huffed even as he walked to the kitchen's centrally placed dining room table and grabbed a chair. Turning it, he straddled its back and took a seat.
"Alright," Reno breathed softly. "So, you bothered looking north any time within the last week?"
Cloud looked at the Turk blandly.
"I'll take that as a no. Otherwise you might know why I was coming back from that direction, neh?"
"Point?"
"Getting there," Reno huffed even as he seated himself opposite Cloud, pulling a chair and seating himself upon it normally. "So, Strife. Being connected and all to Shin-Ra's darkest little experiments, you been having any problems? Surges of pain? Flashes of Jenova-driven green? Hearing her voice? You know, the usual stuff Tifa tells me you suffer from?"
With a scowl, Cloud grit his teeth.
"C'mon. Serious here."
Crossing his arms across the top of the chair, Cloud ran a hand over soft blond spikes of hair. "Not recently."
"Not in the last six days, I'm willing to bet," Reno observed.
A startled blink and a small, involuntarily released gasp escaped from Cloud before he could mediate his actions.
"Thought so. Coincides with some of the weird readings I got outta North Crater."
"North Crater?" Cloud repeated, his voice quiet.
"Yup. Lots of activity there. There was an explosion six days ago – Rufus sent me to investigate, worried that something was erupting from it again. Hell, last time we got anything on our meters we placed up there, we found a chunk of alien and three bitchy little Sephiroth-remnants."
A worried breath rattled Cloud's lungs as he looked past the Turk to the window behind him. Now that he focused, he noticed something out of the ordinary – beyond the darkness of the desert was a tiny trail of green, nearly lost among the starlight, snaking towards the heavens. "What…?"
"It ain't the Lifestream," Reno hinted with a shrug. "And it ain't stable, either."
"What were you doing there?" Cloud finally asked after a long period of silence past, mako-infused eyes staring into the desert sky outside of Seventh Heaven's back window and crystalline blue eyes watching him with all the compassion and interest of a scientist watching a laboratory animal.
"We got indications of activity immediately after something crashed into North Crater. Energy spikes were going off the charts. Then whatever it was that crashed was immediately sucked back away from the Planet by whatever force that thrust it here in the first place. It seems to have left a bit of a conduit, though, providing a path for energy to seep from our Planet to wherever it is whatever it was went." A careless shrug moved Reno's shoulders as he folded his fingers together, pressing his nose against his entwined firsts. "Rufus sent me to investigate how deep the damage to the Planet is – whether or not it punched straight into the Lifestream, and whether or not the Lifestream is being pulled from the Planet itself. After the whole Omega incident and the revelation that the Weapon would kill the planet by sucking the Lifestream right out of it came to light, he's been rather… how shall we say…"
"Nervous?" Cloud filled in.
"More like paranoid. The boss has invested a lot into repaying civilization for his crimes against the Planet. He doesn't really want to see it destroyed at this point, zo to."
"So… what did you find?"
Leaning back, his hands falling apart and resting casually on the table, Reno snorted. "Punched right through what little opposition there was to directly interfacing with the Lifestream, alright. Hole's damned deep. Thing is, I don't think it's Lifestream that's being pulled – color and energy signal's all wrong."
"Then what is it?" Cloud inquired.
Narrowing his eyes, the Turk set a cool glower on Cloud. "I'd like to know that myself. I can't get the 'copter down there – the winds get too turbulent, and with the energy bursts that flare up from time to time, it's too dangerous to get that persnickety, broken-down piece of shit down there. And be damned if I'm crawling down the side of North Crater – I don't' get paid enough for that shit. To know exactly what's going on down there, we'd need to get some data from the lowest point reachable – I've got portable equipment that I could set up, but I can't get down there."
"You mean you won't go down there."
A sneer turned thin lips. "Maybe."
"So where do I come in to all of this?" Cloud questioned, his voice clipped. "You wouldn't come here unless you wanted something from me."
"Right on, zo to. As said, I ain't goin' down there."
"What makes you think I will?"
Reno smirked. "Because you care about what's going on in North Crater, unlike me. I could give two shits about anything up there. Jenova, pulled from the Lifestream and getting ready to ravage the planet? Fuck if I care. Sephiroth, pulled from the Lifestream and getting ready to use this rock as a space jalopy? Whatever. I don't have anything to lose."
Cloud paled significantly.
"But you do, don't you?" Leaning over in his seat, Reno stared over Cloud's shoulder towards the door that lead to the bar's lobby. He smirked, his expression cold as they both listened to Tifa's voice softly humming even as she tasked herself with cleaning up.
"You-"
"Don't care," Reno interrupted. "You, on the other hand, do. Because if the Calamity of the Sky comes back down to us and drags her perfect 'son' with her, you have everything to lose. Your home, your friends, your family…."
Cloud gulped even as Reno rose from the table, going to the door that segregated the bar and the kitchen during normal business hours and opening it a slight crack. As Tifa walked by, a mop in her hand, the Turk turned and smiled, his expression nauseatingly at ease and chilled.
"Everything."
A slow exhalation escaped Cloud's lungs, a breath he'd not realized he'd been holding shaking itself free of his ribcage.
"I'll see you at the north edge of town tomorrow afternoon 'round two-ish, zo to. Don't bother with the bike – it won't fit in my 'copter."
Cloud offered only silence as Reno rose and let himself out through the establishment's back door.
-to be continued-
BTW, the bit about Reno and Rude clearing Sector Eight comes from Last Order, namely the final bits that actually cross with Crisis Core. They indeed made a game of wiping out Genesis Clones and security bots, pitting speed and agility against sheer strength.
Speed won, by the way. Because Reno is an underappreciated badass. :D Hence why I hate Advent Children – they made him into nothing but comic relief. I like my Reno to be a wicked skeezeball, as cold and calculating as a Turk should be. :P