The black monstrosity purred its way up the road. He had to be careful, swift and silent. He couldn't afford to screw this up, not with the incredible amount of gil on the line, he had to support his affluent way of life anyway. Scanning the target horizon he shifted a little, perched on the seat, fully alert. Glancing at his watch he noted the time, 12.50 a.m. Ten minutes to go. The dark figure ripped his goggles off, his eyes, unusually needing no time adjust to the surrounding darkness glowed an ethereal blue, piercing the night. This was his favourite time of day…or night, whichever you prefer.
Flicking a switch on the beast silenced it, and another opened its wings. The array of assorted sword pieces looked almost beautiful as each carefully crafted segment glistened softly in the moonlight, however beauty was no excuse for the amount of lives each piece had taken, and how they reeked of death. The rider knew this wasn't going to be a particularly bloody night, however, precautions didn't hurt anyone. Well not him, yet, anyway. Slipping the largest of the segments behind him so it rested against his back, he checked his watch one final time.
To this date, Cloud Strife had never been late.
Tonight of all nights Seventh Heaven was practically deserted, in fact it was, bar the lone woman who was tending to the glasses. Sighing, she glared ruefully at a water stain which would just not come off. She scrubbed harder, her knuckles white from the pressure she was applying, washing off the soap she looked to see whether it had gone. Still there. She shut her eyes and opened them quickly, hoping that this, useless a method as it was, would help her cause. Well what do you know, still there. Exasperated, she flung the glass back into the sink, surprised it didn't break. Why did Barret pick today to go to Corel? It's not like we need more wine!
"Gargh!" she groaned, a low guttural sound emptied from her diaphragm. Not one of the more attractive sounds that ever left her mouth.
What to do, what to do, what to do…
By this time she had already wiped down the bar five times, and checked, rechecked and rechecked the second check, the bottles of alcohol in the storeroom, there was actually nothing more she could do. Bored as hell, she had reverted to cleaning the water stains off the glasses which she had washed earlier, but neglected to dry. Yet even that mission had ended prematurely. God, wringing my own neck would be more fun than this. She yawned for the hundredth time that night and collapsed onto a bar stool, recounting the orders which Barret, her boss, had given her before he left.
Tidy the place up: vague, but check.
Clean the glasses: Check…twice.
Wipe the bar down: Check…five times.
Clean the toilets, she remembered he emphasised to do both sets: Don't think I'll ever be bored enough for that, love.
Her smirk quickly vanished, and she flopped her head on the table, her dark hair cascading around her frame. No more…please, someone end this godforsaken misery. And as if by some divine intervention, her prayer was answered. She didn't even hear the bar door open, nor catch the sound of the intruder's footsteps. Her only indication that someone had entered the bar was when it was only too late, and the sharp prick of cold metal was against the back of her neck.
She didn't need a warning to know that she shouldn't move a muscle, yet it came.
"You move, you die, Lockhart."
Well talk about melodramatic. "I wasn't going to." She murmured.
His sharp ears caught her retort, however there was no need for a verbal counter, as his reply of placing more pressure onto the back of her neck, got its deserved sentence.
"You either can make this easy, or difficult for yourself, I suggest you choose the prior."
"Gosh, you're really one for originality, huh!" she quipped. Great, first customer of the night, ends up being a pretentious psycho. This guys a joke. She couldn't help herself, she always had a loose tongue, and a horrifyingly quick wit. Nonetheless, she had to be careful, she didn't want to end up dead. Wringing my neck, is that more or less painful than being impaled to death?
His brows knotted and lips pursed. She had the nerve…His anger was fuelled by her quick replies, he knew that if he didn't tidy this up soon, she would make it messy for herself. Did she not know who he was? Truth was she couldn't, she had not even seen his face yet, and inevitably wouldn't know who he was once she did. No one like her knew he existed, even then, not many people like him did either. Associates and acquired friends were the only people in his life. He didn't need anymore than that, he couldn't afford to. Living was the last thing on his agenda.
In a flash, he whipped her around on her stool, and now the cold blade edge was pressed firmly against her neck, her back painfully driven against the bar. And for the first time, blue met red. His eyes briefly scanned her face. Yes, she was the one. She looked slightly older than what was on the picture he was provided with, but the same person nevertheless.
Only when she was turned she realised it wasn't a small knife that the man was wielding, it was everything but small. The blade was long and thick, strangely hollow in some places. Now, Tifa knew a good amount of information about weapons and their origins, however this, she couldn't place. The crafting was alien in her eyes. Peculiar…Tifa Lockhart was not feeble, years of training under Zangan had made her sharp, however even she knew when defeat was staring her in the eyes. In this case, when a humungous sword is practically slicing my throat. His eyes though, icy blue, had an eerie luminescence glow to them. Woah…
And his eyes did all the talking. She could not take hers off them, they were just too alluring, she didn't even notice the sword being slipped away from her neck, neither did she detect the twist of his arm and the hilt flying towards the side of her head.
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