Crisis: The Final Fantasy 7 Novel

Chapter 1 - Lowcity

Under the Plate, there is no light. Falseflare falls from halogen gel-lamps affixed to a durasteel sky, crushed beneath the vast enormity of Midgar City's floating surface-layer. Here dark communities wend their way in culminated clutches of poverty, working to exhaustion in thermal reactors and regrouping in dingy cash-only dive-bars. Everyone did what they could, what they had to, to survive.

He was no exception, seated on his stolen Ducati G-Bike atop North Hill that overlooked the wasteland metropolis, like he always did whenever a route ran long. Something happened here once, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember what. For now, at least, he was content to contemplate in his gunmetal-black fatigues with a ball-bashing Buster Sword on his back. He stood a cursed prophet, a dark warrior, rending rays of lunar light through a shag of blonde spikes and piercing cyan eyes. A SOLDIER, but not anymore.

His phone rang. He whipped it out like a switch blade.

"NEW SEAMLESS ORDER."

He threw on his red delivery vest, kicked his bike into fifth gear, and rode the clutch down toward the Hell that was home.

"Welcome CLOUD STRIFE, SOLDIER 1st CLASS," his bike-computer scanned his heat signature.

Down the Interstate onto the Expressway, he weaved through inner-city traffic against the shadow of the Shinra Headquarters Building, towering like a colossus of failed industrial theory. Exit for Bedford-Nostrand Ave, and he descended into the slums of lowcity under the Plate.

The riverbed was a shortcut. He cut into the divider and rode along the dried concrete bottom. He realized his mistake too late as a chain pulled taught across his path, sending him flying from his bike. The symbol of three trilateral lattices flared in spray-paint on the ground.

Triads.

The rival gang members converged on a fallen Cloud, drawing swords, battle lances, halberds, glaives, and firearms. Cloud popped to his feet into combat-mode, and that big Buster Sword flew from his back to his hands.

They ran in with weapons swinging, and Cloud slashed in a beautiful elliptical arc to send the first three flying back against the riverbed wall. A split-second after, a tall and aggressive thug came right in on Cloud, stabbing his saber in a brutal thrust designed for a quick kill.Cloud's sword spun up in front of him, driving the weapon's tip harmlessly above the striking line of its wielder's shoulder. A strong kick to the solarplexus and that guy was out of the fight-circle.

Two more halberds charged in on him. He spun to the side and launched a blinding uppercut slice, deflecting both attacks. Then he reversed his body's momentum, dropped to one knee, back in line with his opponents, and thrust in low with a snap of his outstretched arms. His jabbing blunt-sided blade caught the first, and the second, squarely in the groin.

They dropped their weapons in unison, clutched their bruised parts, and slumped to their knees. Cloud leaped up before them, ready for any who would come next. He dived into a roll through a break in the circle, came up quickly, escaping the ring of assailants. He scrambled to pick his bike up, hopped back on and gunned it out of the riverbed. Triads territory had expanded, an act of war. He'd take note and let someone who cared deal with it.

His route ran through a scuzzy neighborhood near a community college. He huffed it up to the dorms with the luckily still-hot food and rang the bell.

"Delivery!"

The customer came out—some chick—grabbed the bag and slammed the door. No tip. Cloud was half an hour late after all, but man, he fought for his life to get that food to her! But this next delivery was one he couldn't be late for. The next delivery was special, slung over the seat in his red hotlayered bag. He burned tire-tread down to the rendezvous point.