All for the Love of Chaos

Note: Alright, first FFVII ficky. God bless the public school system! (Translation: Please excuse spelling and grammatical errors) Comments are welcome, send ‘em to A_R_S@hotmail.com if ya don’t mind. Oh, and in reference to the chapters, I more or less just cut it off where ever I happen to pause. Granted, it moves a bit slowly for a while, but give it a chance, please?

Chapter 1

The slums of Midgar were cluttered with trash, living and nonliving. It was here in the shanties and crumbling apartment buildings that people did their best to make do with what little they had. It was dismal, gritty, and unhealthy--an industrial city to the last. Little had changed from the old days when Shinra ran every aspect of these people's lives with an iron fist. No matter how much money you threw at them or how many opportunities were handed to them on a silver platter, you had to trust people to rule their own lives and make their own choices. Funds ran dry and those with good intentions lost interest. There would always be poor folk.

The night was sill and calm with the exception of the low, constant hum of machinery and generators in the distance. The windows are dark and empty, the sleeping occupants shielded by curtains. The sky was off color, tinged a slight green--if only they could see it. To those pale-skinned children who had never left the metropolis; things like the sun and the moon and the stars were imaginary concepts.

It was particularly cold that winter, even preceding the record low of the year before. Midgar would never become a winter wonderland. The snow that fell was painted gray by pollution and half melted by the time it hit the ground under the plate, only to refreeze into large sheets of ice on the unpaved roads.

A rusty old pickup made a wide turn into the narrow lane, the driver being extremely cautious. The rider sitting in the bed, exposed to the frigid air, leans into the turn, stiff and exhausted but still alert enough to keep upright. Leaning back against the rear windows once more, a heavy sigh escaped and a hand groped for a lightly burdened duffel bag. The driver shortly thereafter killed the engine and the vehicle rolled to a stop in front of a prim little house leaning against a section of ancient highway jutting out from the ground.

"This is as far as I go, kid." He said, opening the door and sliding out of his seat to the ground below.

"Yeah, thanks, Mr. Kinnias." Said the passenger and lightly vaulted from the back. She spoke with a slight drawl that was typical from someone of the Western Continent.

"No problem. How far away do you live anyway?"

"A sector over." She said, then gazed all about her. "Things look a lot diff'rent from the ground."

He nodded. "You sure you'll be alright? Lord knows the slums are rough, and at night, whoo boy..."

That earned a shrug and a smile from the old man's former passenger. As if there was a difference between day and night..."I've walked all the way home before, nothin's happened so far. I'll be alright."

The man looked dubious but didn't argue. After they had exchanged their fair wells, the two parted, one figure slipping into his dark house and the other down the narrow lane.

Damn, it's quiet, she thought as she made her way down the road that meandered though the area. Unreliable electric-powered streetlights flickered overhead, casting an infrequent and eerie light. She glared in every direction, cold blue eyes regarding every shadow as a potential assailant. Her suspicions weren't without firm footing--the old driver had used the term 'rough' loosely, it didn't quite pin down the fact that there were more thugs, murders and rapists in the city then rats.

"What's in the sack, Jack?" A voice said behind her. She whirled around to face a man in his late twenties with a lopsided grin. He looked to be fairly decent and was dressed in one of the most expensive suits she had ever seen. She wondered vaguely why he was there at all, but anyone there that had enough money to look as he did was up to no good she had decided.

He looked her over from top to bottom. Her blond hair was cut at the shoulders but at the moment was tied back. She was tall with a slim build, complementing the determinedly set jaw. She wore loose-fitting clothes that consisted of black jeans, boots and a worn-out black leather jacket opened to reveal the white sweater underneath. It was impossible to tell how good her figure was, her clothes too baggy and unrevealing. Twenty at the oldest.

"Hmmm…It’s not every day the likes of you can be found in a dump like this."

"Fuck off," She said, her voice controlled but with dangerous undertones in her voice to match those narrowed eyes. She was finding it very hard to control her clenched fist from sailing directly into that grin of his.

"Hey now, I haven't even said anything to you yet!" He called as she turned to leave. She didn't really feel like arguing or even telling the man off, she was just that tired. "Wait up!" She kept walking, not looking back. She paused only when she heard a very distinctive click.

...This of all nights...

With an exasperated sigh, she turned around slowly.

He was grinning from ear to ear with a cocky glint in his eyes. In his hand was a pistol. Not very powerful, only a .22, but it could still make short work of her.

"That's right, hon. We're not going to have any more of that stuck-up bitchy attitude now will we?"

This is really starting to get old...

"Do you like music?" She asked, rather sweetly, even smiling a little. It caught him completely off-guard. He blinked the gun drooping slightly and arms relaxing noticeably. Dumbly and slowly he realized that he had been asked a question, and quite politely at that.

"...Oh, ummm, yeah there's this one band in sector five that plays in this bar almost every--"

Quicker then the eye could follow her hand whipped out of the jacket pocket, in it a silver flask with the cap unscrewed. She threw its clear liquid content at the man, splashing it right in his eyes. With a yell, he clutched his face, trying to rub a substance that felt like burning acid out of his eyes, but serving only to spread it. Some of it dribbled down into his mouth--it was only then that he recognized the flavor and the odor...

But by then it was too late. Something came down hard on his back and unmerciful serge of electricity racked his body. He fell on the ice without another sound; his eyes rolled upwards and mouth slightly agape. The young woman slipped something back up her sleeve.

He was sill alive, still breathing. She hadn't wanted him to die at her hands. As much as she loathed him (and how much she thought it might have benefited society), she would never have gone as far as to kill him. She even kicked him over with her boot so that he wouldn’t choke on his own tongue. Stepping over him, she checked his pockets for gil. She found very little, perhaps just enough to get some of that nasty food at that restaurant in sector six. Spitting disdainfully at the ground beside him, she turned and left.

...She was the last person to ever see him alive...

***

The PHS by her bedside rang shrilly in the absolute darkness, shattering the somewhat pleasant dream. She twitched then grumbled at the sudden, rude wake-up call. She rolled over to face the noise. When her eyes focused, she looked at the glowing clock face beside the PHS. 5:06 AM. Damn it. She groped for the insistently noisy device but instead knocked something off the low nightstand that landed with a metallic ring as it hit the floor. After a curse or two, she found the PHS and placed it to her ear.

"This had better be good..." She mumbled, her speech slightly slurred and incoherent. A hesitant male voice answered on the other line.

"Yo, Kay, it's Charlie." He said.

"Charlie...Charlie, why the hell are you calling me at four in the mornin'?" The sleep-deprived one growled, obviously disgruntled. And who wouldn't be? She had gotten back around 2AM and had collapsed on her futon, still fully dressed, without any sort of dinner, only to be rudely awakened about three hours later by one of her friends that supposedly knew better.

"Ummmm...Sorry to call you so late but--"

"No, whatever it is I'm not doing it." She said immediately.

"C'mon, Kay, please? John called in sick and I need a co-pilot." He insisted. Kay was loosing patience.

"No, Charlie, no chance in hell. I'm takin' off for the next week to visit my old man. I haven't seen him in four months, the least I can do is show up on his birthday."

There was a pause. "Rocket Town, I presume?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the plane doesn't need to be back till Saturday. I wouldn't mind staying a few days there myself."

"How much?"

"Twelve hundred."

Kay rested back against the wall where the headboard should have been, reconsidering his job. Even though it would be exhausting for sure and cut a few days off her vacation time, she could actually get money going to her dad's. The money wasn't too bad either, more then she was usually paid. Besides, Charlie was a good friend of hers. He was one of the only men on the force that made her feel like just one of the guys, not the odd-end out.

"Alright, I'll do it..."

"Good, thanks Kay. Um, by the way, we leave at seven or so, depending on when you get here, alright?"

"Gotcha."

Before he could say another word, Kay flipped off the PHS. She set it down and rolled back over, closing her eyes and trying to sleep once more, just a few more minutes...

She failed miserably. After fifteen minutes of tossing and turning it was decided that her body was too alert to let sleep take it again. Cursing again, she tossed off her blankets and yanked down on the chain to her bedside lamp. The small room was flooded with the light it created; she squinted as she shoved on her muddy boots. She looked for what had fallen earlier. Finding what she was searching for; she held the black rod to the light to make sure that it hadn't been scuffed.

Her nightstick. It was collapsible, just like a portable radio antenna, the perfect size for slipping up her sleeve or her pant leg, no one would know until it was too late. A rare and unusual choice of armament, not many people favored them over the older, more conventional weapons such as a sword or a gun. They had originally been designed for use as a cattle prod, but were modified for other uses as well. Unlike a sword, gun or spear she could subdue someone without causing serious injury, yet, the flick of the wrist would deliver far enough voltage to stop a man's heart. A mastered lightning materia the size of a gum ball was embedded in one of the slots, nearly tripling the electrical output. A second mastered materia, her 'All' materia accompanied it. Both were worth more gil then most men would see in their lifetime.

Materia was extremely rare. It could no longer be produced in mass quantities, being that all mako reactors had been shut down. Rather, it had to be 'born' from other materia--a very slow and painstaking process. Most had been confiscated anyway. The risk of it falling into the hands of those with ill intent was far too much to chance. Materia was limited to Soldiers and hospitals for medical treatment...Or possessed illegally by people like her.

She had gotten both orbs from her father on her eighteenth birthday, relics from the old days, a very generous gift. And what had she done? Left home.

It was a standard dorm room in the former military academy turned low-income apartment complex; cold, small, hard and lacking the personal touch. There was a stove, a table, a futon, an armchair, a refrigerator, and a dresser--all in the same room (with exception of a small bathroom with a shower stall, toilet and sink). Nothing decorated the whitewashed walls and a threadbare rug did little to cushion ones feet from the concrete floor.

She had lived there a total of three months--longer then she had stayed anywhere in Midgar. She didn't bother to fully unpack; cardboard boxes sealed with electrical tape were strewn about. Considering how things usually went it was best not to even bother. Depending on how work went, she figured that within the next month she'd get reassigned to another room or perhaps even a new sector of Midgar entirely.

She got shakily to her feet and shuffled over to the stove, lit it, then set a teapot on to boil. She flopped down into a chair at the table, resting her elbows on the grainy surface. She glanced at the Midgar Post from yesterday that lay untouched between her arms. Most of it didn't interest her in the least. About sixty percent of the articles were about the upcoming election for President of the Confederate Alliance; the rest was just some incoherent rambling and dry reports full of statistics. But there was one article at the bottom of the front page that drew her utmost attention...

It went on to tell about the abnormalities of the situation. Of how the gun had been fired several times yet no bullets or traces of blood besides his own were discovered. How the rib cage had been cracked like a walnut to have all his internal organs scraped from his body--how the expression and posture suggested he had been still alive when it occurred.

Damn, that's just sick...She thought, feeling oddly detached as she poured the steaming water into a mug and accompanying it with a tea bag.

It gave the address and number of some office in New Corel and that was all. Kay downed her tea, bitter and scalding as it was. The sudden high temperature was sometimes the only thing that could get her going in the morning (Well, aside from whisky, but it was just a tad too early for that). She shuddered and stood up, going to the clapboard dresser and changing into a less-wrinkled version of her previous attire. Satisfied, she packed an extra set of clothes into the duffel bag along with another flask. Kay swung the bag over one shoulder just as before. She was just about to leave but picked up her nightstick from the bed and slipped it up her sleeve. You never know...

Go on to Chapter 2