Philosophising with a hammer

tl;dr: Cloud and the other survivors of a planet-killing apocalypse take off on a roaring rampage of revenge.

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Chapter 2 playlist:

So young, so brazen, so unholy I come to you in painted skies Your broken saint, your ancient story The living challenge to their lies

A wolf alone upon the hillside I live on what they throw away I go to sleep behind the eight ball I live to fight for one more day

—Alice in Chains, "Last Of My Kind"

Two "Drifter"

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It was dusk by the time he reached his destination. "Last Call - Bar & Grill" read the sign hanging above a roadside diner long since forsaken by its proprietors. Next to it, a gas station, the kind that had briefly flourished after being brought back into service following the ban on Mako energy. On the opposite side of the road stood an abandoned flophouse. A few scattered buildings and sheds thronged the highway, all equally deserted. The place was as middle-of-nowhere as it could get. A ghost town absent even of ghosts.

Cloud killed the engine and got off his bike, walked it inside the garage next to the gas station and covered it with a length of tarp before heading into the diner. He had made the place a temporary base of operations for the past few weeks, a safe haven only in its sheer remoteness from civilization and savagery alike. Still, he sensed that it was time to move on at last. Another day's ride to the north until he reached the enclosure that was once Kalm. He just hoped he had enough gas left in the tank to complete the journey.

But first, a few hours of sleep were in order. It was unlikely, he figured, that his equipment might be disturbed by raiders or fiends while he slept. Even so, he could not be completely certain that he'd make it through the night without some calamity making demands on his repose. There were no guarantees in the wasteland. Only chaos, violence, and death. The greater part of humanity's survivors had retreated into safe zones long ago, daring the outside only in the most exigent of circumstances, leaving forays into the unknown to the addled and the foolhardy.

He walked over behind the counter to check for any remaining food or drink. Just about anything edible or otherwise of practical use had already been seized by scavengers. Not that it came as a surprise. Supplies had quickly become scarce after the cataclysm that nearly ended the world. He picked up a dusty beer mug and tried the taps, finding only a sludgy pulque dripping from one of them, barely enough to slake his thirst. Abandoning the idea of a nightcap, he unfurled a simple bedroll on the floor, unsheathing his Fusion Blade and placing it on the ground beside the cot before laying his head down to rest.

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Morning came without incident. Cloud even found that he was decently slept, an uncommon occurrence. He wasted no time checking on Fenrir, relieved to see that it was untouched. He noted, however, that one of the actuators on the blade compartments had begun to stick. "Great…" he muttered. Not as though there was a mechanic to be found for miles, if anywhere. Any parts or equipment for making repairs were similarly scant, snatched up by looters. He sighed, hitting the switch for enclosing the compartments, manually shoving the stuck one into place before heading back to the diner.

A corner of the building had collapsed outwards, providing a niche for him to piece together a makeshift stove while keeping out of the scalding sun. He smashed a couple of bar stools into firewood, lighting the kindling with his last remaining fire materia. A few more casts and it would dissolve into ash, to be returned to the earth from whence it came. With the fire lit, he prepared himself a simple breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. As the percolator warmed his second cup, he went to fetch Dr. Morrow's backpack and began to rummage through it. A set of binders replete with diagrams and mathematical equations. A worn-down pencil. An empty water bottle. Little else of note. He shook his head. Wasted effort, it seemed. All that havoc for nothing, indeed.

He unzipped the front pocket to see if he had missed anything. A pair of old cassette tapes came tumbling out onto the bar counter. The scratched-over label on the first one read "Notes on Geoscourge". The other was left unmarked. To Cloud's dismay, the magnetic tape hung loose from both, frayed and worn. Nevertheless, it was worth a try. He took the pencil, inserting the tip into the spool, carefully rewinding both tapes until they were taut inside their cartridges once more.

He set the tapes aside and marched over to the gas station's garage, going through his bike's satchel to find a small, portable tape player. Back in the diner, he slotted the first cassette into the deck and pressed "play", letting the tape run while he took in his second cup of coffee. A few seconds of schmaltzy, overproduced rock and roll, the type that had dominated the airwaves decades ago, began to play over the tiny speaker, echoing throughout the abandoned diner. Then, it was abruptly cut off by silence, followed by a low, raspy voice. Doctor Morrow, Cloud presumed.

"Crazy. The whole world is. Perhaps it always was. But to ignore a looming threat so large, so vast, so all-encompassing, preferring to believe that it might not exist at all… Not until at last, we were faced with the pitiless, incontrovertible truth. No. 'Madness' is too impoverished a word to convey the totality of avaricious recreancy that permeates Shinra's decision-making regarding a matter so vital. We, as a species, are staring at the face of death, and counting the cost of what it might take to save ourselves."

Cloud took another draft of his morning coffee as Morrow's preamble went on. He stood up, wandering the broken cafe, idly scanning the outside for any unexpected movement as the tape rolled on.

"The president had vouchsafed me his full support, yet he continues to ignore my warnings. But no matter. We hav-"

The tape wound upon itself, skipping and winding ahead.

"December sixth, 2009…"

Cloud paused. December? But that was well after Avalanche's defeat of the Remnants. And two years following Shinra's destruction at nature's hands via the Weapons. Why was he…

"… out of touch. It is no exaggeration to say that the discovery that my team and I have made will alter the course of human destiny. Or rather, that it might, given the necessary resources. The rest lies in the hand of providence, but I assure you that it will make Shinra's Soldier program and its Mako reactors look like mere toys in comparison. It has recently come to my attent-"

The tape skipped again.

"March twenty-seventh, 2010…"

Just after Avalanche's confrontation with Deepground, Cloud noted.

"… failed to take action. Some of Shinra's covert facilities yet remain, but the real q-"

Another jump.

"April seventh, 2012. I have reached a breakthrough at last. But is it too late to avert disaster?"

That last sentence made Cloud stop in his tracks. "Avert?" he thought, looking out at the blighted wasteland beyond. "A little late for that, doc."

"No," Morrow continued, "I must have faith that there is still time. I'm returning to my laboratory in-"

Another tape skip.

"… built in secret without Shinra's knowledge. In addition, I am repurposing two of their blacksites in that same region, the ones they were using to conduct their earliest Soldier trials. That shoul-"

The playback came to an abrupt end. Cloud ejected the cassette and checked it for damage. As he suspected, the tape was badly frayed from wear and tear, nearly unusable. He slipped the cassette back in its case before pocketing it, then resumed his breakfast. Still no closer to an answer, it seemed.

And yet…

He couldn't help but wonder if the doctor had misspoken, or gotten the dates wrong. He'd talked about "averting disaster", as though the world hadn't already ended.

That raised two possibilities: That he was simply mistaken and rambling, or… that he was speaking of a still worse impending catastrophe than the one that had, two years prior, nearly wiped out all life on the planet. All the more reason to seek the man out and pry some answers from him, Cloud thought. If not salvation, then at least an explanation. Humanity deserved that much.

His mind suddenly whirling with conflicting thoughts, both optimistic and cynical, he quickly finished his repast and put his things away in his backpack, heading back outside into the harsh sunlight. He brought Fenrir out from the garage, giving the motorcycle a brief once-over. The fuel tank was close to empty, no doubt due to his pushing the bike to its limits during his earlier run-in with Genesis.

Cloud got up and headed towards the fuel pumps. The mechanisms had ceased to function years ago. No chance of extracting any gasoline that way, assuming it hadn't all evaporated by now. He racked his brain for alternative solutions. The underground tanks beneath the gas station. If only there was a way to shift them above ground…

He dug a gravity materia out of his pocket, aiming for the space just above the ground next to the pumps, and began to focus. The concrete slowly cracked, with silt from underground slipping into the air towards the gravitational anomaly he was generating in the air. Then, the soil beneath started to tremble, racked by increasingly violent tremors. Cloud held firm, mustering every ounce of willpower to concentrate on the still-expanding gravity spell. Soon, the whole area surrounding him vibrated and quaked, saturated with the wild, untamed energy of the invisible, artificial singularity. Yet, the tank beneath did not give way. Cloud shifted his stance, gritting his teeth as he braced against the rapidly-growing gravitational force, willing himself to sustain the turbulent magick for just a moment longer.

Finally, he felt something large and cumbersome begin to shift under him. The concrete bordering the pumps exploded as the metal tank underneath was violently ripped from its resting place beneath the earth, until the upper half was completely exposed above ground. Cloud broke off the spell, pausing to catch his breath, his body and brow slick with perspiration from the sheer effort. Flecks of concrete came raining back down to the ground, smashing into and bouncing off the heavy container. The fiberglass case remained sealed but, in any event, the hard part was over.

Cloud walked back to Fenrir, releasing the compartments containing the disparate parts of his blade, methodically assembling them into their ultimate form. He turned around, raising his sword, eyeing the impenetrable container. He closed his eyes, taking a few, deep breaths as he readied himself mentally. Then, he took off, dashing in a straight line, focusing his attention on the haste materia in his bandolier, exponentially speeding up his approach as he neared the thick metal cylinder. His entire body coursed with energy, becoming incandescent for a split-second as his blade contacted the solid metal. His momentum did not slow down even a fraction as he continued to slice through the bulky container as though it were made of air.

At last, he ground to a halt several meters away from his target, a trail of sand and ash following in his wake. Sheathing his blade, he wandered back to the container, giving the top half a hard kick, instantly separating it from its lower portion. The sickly sweet aroma of benzene suffused the air around him as the cylinder broke apart, releasing the fumes within from their confinement. Cloud mentally uttered an apology to mother nature for the wanton pollution, but desperate times called for desperate measures. As he had suspected, most of the gasoline held inside the container had evaporated, leaving only a few dregs. He swept up a nearby fuel can and scraped it along the bottom of the tank until it was half-full. Not much, but it would have to suffice. He headed back to Fenrir, refuelling his ride, then drew his sword and broke into its constituent parts, slotting the individual blades back into their compartments.

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough/Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife (open polycule)

Characters: Cloud Strife, Tifa Lockhart, Aerith Gainsborough, Barret Wallace, Cissnei, Genesis Rhapsodos, Deepground

Tags: Post-canon, Post-apocalyptic setting, VHS aesthetic, Desert punk, Action/Adventure, Romance, Polyamory, Horror, Graphic violence

Synopsis: Two years have gone by since the world ended, the planet and its population brought low by a cataclysm no-one could have averted. The few humans who survived the apocalypse now remain huddled together in small, scattered sanctuary cities, as roving gangs kill and loot their way across the wastes, and fiends driven mad by the planet's diseased Lifestream make it hazardous to venture outside.

Yet there are those who still seek hope in a hopeless world. A lone wolf, driven by obsession, aims to wrest answers from the visionary madman who foresaw the end of the world. So begins one last, desperate chase across the wasteland...

Preamble: This story marks something of a break with the kind of works I've been writing up until now. Think of it as an experiment. An attempt to enlarge the scope of stories set in the FFVII-verse. To wit, this is grand guignol FFVII, with everything turned up way past 11.

Aside from the first few chapters, it's not planned to the n-th degree. I'll be writing by the seat of my pants here, and will probably go back to edit the earlier chapters into some semblance of cohesion as the story goes on. Think of this as an extensive first draft. (Also, I may have to change the rating from Mature to Explicit at some point.)

The setting is based largely on OG FFVII and the Advent Children / Dirge of Cerberus timeline, not the remake trilogy, although I may borrow elements from there if I think they might fit the overall story.

A mood-setting playlist, which I will update from time to time as I add new material, can be found here. The overall vibe I'm going for is "desert rock", in accordance with the story's setting and themes.

Now, on with the story...

Too much pain and suffering, crying Too many funerals, we know the earth is dying Gatherers, celebrants, in a state of merriment This sickness - cleanse us with fire and music

This tribal antidote, my choice Come to the great assembly - revelry, rejoice Not a concert, show or entertainment A temple, a ritual, a festival of dissent

—Killing Joke, "This Tribal Antidote"

There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.

—Kvothe, "The Name of the Wind"

Sleeping Dragon

One "Scourge"

Paydirt.

Sahir waved his old Deepground comrades over, gesturing to the unearthed, smashed-open cache.

"Got one."

They started to haul the hefty crate back to their fleet, trudging through the desert sand in the boiling midday sun. As they approached, something leapt out from behind a rock column, something dark and heavy. The air was filled with the sound of claws sharp as swords cleaving through meat. Sahir felt the weight of the cache increase as his comrade's freshly-decapitated body sank to the ground. Panicked, he spun around, just as another shadow pounced on the man opposite him, shearing his body in half. He and the others dropped the heavy crate, huddling together as they readied their rifles.

"Fiends!"

Gunfire echoed throughout the gulch as they opened fire on the unseen enemy stalking them. Their unfocused counterattack did little to halt the frenzied onslaught of monsters coming at them, picking them off one by one, until Sahir stood all by himself next to a pile of bloodied corpses. The creatures, resembling nothing so much as giant panthers moulded from writhing, diseased, tentacular flesh, emerged from the shadows, slowly stalking their quarry. The ex-Deepground soldier pulled the trigger of his rifle, only to find his weapon dry.

Surrounded, Sahir backed away, ejecting the spent magazine while fumbling for a fresh one. The fiends slowly crept up on him, predators eyeing their defenceless prey, preparing to leap. Sahir dropped the clip, his hands sweating and shaking. He bent down to pick it up again, struggling to shove it back into the receiver. He brought his rifle up, hoping to stave off the advancing monsters, but it was too late. The six of them bolted straight at him, and he fell on his back, raising his arms in a helpless gesture as they descended upon him.

A flash. Fresh blood spilled across Sahir's face. The fiends collapsed one after the other as a figure clad in crimson vestments methodically cut them down, until only a pair remained, growling as they backed away.

"... Lord Genesis," Sahir gasped.

"The others?" Genesis inquired without turning to look at the soldier.

"I... I'm all that's left," Sahir stammered.

Genesis nodded, waving over another phalanx of Deepground soldiers. He gestured towards the crate. "Finish loading our stores. We're out of time," he said, scanning the horizon for further threats. Fiends rarely hunted in such small numbers. "The wasteland thirsts for blood," he added as he and his cohorts departed the valley.

Sahir and the others hurriedly removed the cache along with the other scattered pieces of technology recovered from the underground reactor, carting them on board the fleet's primary hovercraft. Before long, the entire convoy was off the ground, floating just above the desert's surface.

"Good haul today, sir?" one of the men inquired.

Genesis stared out across the desert through one of the craft's great, open windows, arms crossed. "We'll see," he replied, then turned and strode to the centre of the craft, taking an inventory of their salvage. These desert raids were becoming increasingly risky, what with the encroachment of fiends, both deadlier and harder to kill than any he had encountered before. If only...

A loud explosion rocked the exterior of the vehicle as something crashed into its side. Another, smaller hovercraft, sailing at the head of the fleet, had been upended, sending it smashing against the larger transport, bursting into flames before flying to pieces altogether.

"Damn it," Genesis said. "More of those things."

He drew his blade, and he and his men gathered by the windows on either side of the craft to see the entire convoy engulfed by the dark fiends.

"Open fire!" Sahir called. He and his fellow mercenaries let loose upon the blighted monstrosities laying siege to their floating caravan. But as much firepower as they expended on their assailants, the black swarm showed no signs of slowing down or even halting its attack.

Then came a resounding, ear-splitting howl, as of a great god-wolf roaring in the forlorn desert. From out of nowhere, a shadow, emerging from between the dunes, began to give chase. The fiends stormed the solitary pursuer, only to be wiped out by one clean sword stroke after another, as the umbrous visage spun around in a cyclonic manoeuvre, dispatching them as if they were nothing.

The blackened marauder sped through the carnage, hell-bent on pursuing the convoy. Genesis, despite the hopeless situation, couldn't help a wry smirk. It could only be...

The lone apparition revved the overworked engines of its motorcycle, continuing to gain on them as scattershot gunfire and explosive ordnance rained on its position, skillfully weaving past the fiends and hovercrafts in its path, dead set on one particular goal, aiming for a naturally-formed ramp situated amongst the innumerable mounds of desert rock.

"Brace yourselves," Genesis cautioned, backing away.

"For wh-" Sahir replied, before being knocked down to the floor as the blackened spectre sailed through the hovercraft's wide windows.

Genesis whirled around, picking himself up off the hovercraft's floor just in time to see the dreaded wraith land a perfect pivot inside the ship's fuselage. The figure in black revved the engine of his motorcycle with abandon, its metallic screaming sounding nothing like the shrieks of the damned as it spun around, encircling the craft's floor before anyone could gather their senses, crashing into and disarming every last soldier.

The whirlwind finally subsided as the motorcycle's rider vaulted backwards off the chaotic machinery, launching it directly into a disordered group of once-faithful Deepground turncoats, causing them to scramble in every direction. The stranger stood tall amidst the disorganized group of mercenaries crowding him.

Genesis brought himself back on his feet, eyeing the new threat.

"... Strife."

Cloud Strife turned to face his old enemy. Genesis, though rattled, could not help but laugh at his wild misfortune. "Of all the ghosts of the past that might have come back to haunt me, it had to be you."

Cloud narrowed his eyes, watching his enemy carefully as he spoke, his hand slowly reaching for the grip of his Fusion Blade. Genesis marched from one side of the hover-platform's floor to the other. "So, it truly is you. Our proverbial ghost in the machine. The 'Wolf of Nibelheim'. I'd expect no less."

"What's so amusing?" Cloud replied. His words were not a question, but a threat.

"This. You," Genesis remarked, regaining some semblance of his old, theatrical self as he sauntered across the hovercraft's floor. "You may not believe it, but I remember you. Oh, yes... since old times."

Cloud said nothing, eyeing his target as a hawk would its prey as Genesis moved about.

"One has to savour the irony," Genesis said. "I recall your time with Shinra. How you failed to make it into Soldier. How everyone treated you as though you were naught but the runt of the litter... when in truth you were a dragon's egg placed among mere fowl."

Cloud drew his Fusion Blade, eyes locked on his enemy's movements. "Poetic. Rehearsing your last words?"

Genesis paused, an amused look on his face. "Hardly." The former Shinra operative brought up his own sword, assuming a battle stance. "Sephiroth and the others underestimated you. I won't make the same mistake."

He charged forth, sending sparks flashing from their swords as he locked blades with Nibelheim's champion. "The will of the gods is but naught as compared to those who dare to defy their creeds," he boasted as he pressed onwards, pushing Cloud back. "And even dragons can be slain."

Cloud gritted his teeth as Genesis pushed on, turning sideways to use his own momentum against him. Genesis stumbled for a second, then rushed at Cloud once more, locking blades with him again. The ex-Deepground soldiers surrounding them, still recuperating from Cloud's initial blitz, watched as the two combatants swung haphazardly at one another, each strike forceful enough to cleave the average fighter in half. A few of them brought their rifles up, but Genesis warned them not to interfere. "He's mine!"

The two continued to square off, trading blows and shifting their positions about the narrow arena within the hovercraft while the confused soldiery looked on. Genesis lunged at Cloud, blade aloft, in a feint calculated to get his opponent of balance. Cloud simply dodged the attack, then struck back with a mid-swing that sent the former Soldier flying, crashing into the far wall with enough force to send dust flying everywhere.

"Enough of this!" Genesis growled, readying his counteroffensive. The interior of the craft swelled with a sudden wave of heat as he launched a massive fireball across the arena. Cloud remained unfazed, calmly raising his Fusion Blade as the burning missile approached before splitting it in twain with a carefully aimed blade beam.

Genesis grew visibly frustrated, leaping into the air, preparing his ultimate attack. His black wings burst out from behind his crimson coat, sending him soaring further still into the air as he drew the apocalyptic signage of the ultimate end, the prismatic symbols overwhelming the common soldiers below, forcing them to avert their eyes. He regarded Cloud with a mad grimace of a smile, before launching the fatal sigils at his nemesis.

To his dismay, the avatar of Fenrir, steadfast within the centre of their arena, never wavered as the sigil-daggers shot towards him by the multitude. He stood his ground, slicing through them with an alacrity that bordered on the impossible. Genesis braced himself amidst the flurry of burning lights, raising his blade, descending rapidly towards his target, intent on catching him unaware as he fought off the ceaseless cascade of luminous arrows.

It was all for naught, as Cloud spun around, carving a path of pure energy through the onslaught of magickal attacks to contact Genesis's blade head on with unparalleled force. The inhuman strength of his counterattack sent Genesis reeling, wings flailing ineffectually as he tumbled backwards, skidding across the floor until he hit a dead stop. Before he could shift his position and get back on his feet, he found Cloud's sword pointed directly underneath his chin.

"Had enough?"

Cloud looked down upon his vanquished foe with a gaze as cold as steel. A look that told Genesis he would find no quarter within his opponent. And yet, he did not appear to be readying a finishing blow.

"I take it you're not here to kill me?" Genesis rasped, sucking in air, still recovering from Cloud's vicious assault. His men stood ready at the edges of their battlefield, weapons trained upon the interloper in their midst. Cloud glanced at them, shooting them a derisive look that made them waver. The edge of his blade remained firmly pointed at Genesis's throat.

"You have something I need."

Genesis looked up at him, puzzled. "The materia cache?"

"No," Cloud replied. "That," he added, indicating a metal container in the corner of the cargo hold with a subtle shift of his head.

Something in Genesis's expression changed, as if to say "That's all?"

"Hand it over, and you and your men can walk," Cloud said.

Genesis flashed him an insincere smile. "Very well. We have an accord."

Cloud withdrew his sword at last, allowing Genesis to stagger back to his feet and dust himself off. "Weapons down," he ordered his men, before turning back to Cloud. "All this havoc for a dead man's possessions?" he asked. "You truly are out of your mind."

Cloud ignored his comment, sheathing his blade before marching over to Fenrir, righting his motorcycle while Genesis unsealed the container and withdrew a single item from it. A drab, grey backpack, with the name "S. Morrow" scrawled across its name tag. He handed off the backpack to Cloud while his soldiers opened the rear hatch of the hovercraft, exposing the inside of the still-moving vehicle to strong gusts of wind and the harsh desert sun.

"He's still out there, you know," Genesis said.

"I'm counting on it," Cloud said as he slung the backpack around his shoulder while mounting Fenrir.

"No," Genesis replied. "Not him."

"Who, then?" Cloud asked, growing impatient with Genesis's veiled comments.

"I'm sure you can guess," Genesis said, another cold smile playing across his features.

Cloud glared at him for a moment, before turning his attention back to the desert that lay ahead. "What do I care?" he said. "Don't have time for small fry."

Genesis headed towards the back of the hovercraft to retrieve his sword before speaking up again. "Fair warning, Strife. You may be the victor today, but should our paths cross a second time..."

"Make sure they don't," Cloud cut him off, regarding Genesis over his shoulder with a look of withering scorn. "... and stay out of Sanctuary."

No sooner had he spoken the words than he revved up Fenrir, the roar of his motorcycle's engine reaching such ear-splitting volumes within the confined space that Genesis and his men were forced to cover their ears. Cloud took off down the ramp, kicking up a heavy trail of dust in his wake as the tyres of his motorcycle contacted the ground below. Fenrir's sheer cacophony continued to build as it shifted into overdrive, echoing throughout the valley like the war cry of the legendary beast whose name it bore.

"... Who was that?" Sahir asked, turning to Genesis.

Genesis looked on as Cloud Strife vanished beyond the wasteland's horizon, gone as quickly as he had appeared. In spite of being routed, a strangely amused look graced his countenance.

"Dead Space"

"Lang created one of the unforgettable original places in the cinema. 'Metropolis' (1927) fixed for countless later films the image of a futuristic city as a hell of material progress and human despair. From this film, in various ways, descended not only 'Dark City' but 'Blade Runner', 'The Fifth Element', 'Alphaville', 'Escape From L.A.', 'Gattaca' and Batman's Gotham City… 'Metropolis' does what many great films do, creating a time, place and characters so striking that they become part of our arsenal of images for imagining the world."

"That guy has seen some shit, and he's looking right through you."

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