T H E J E N O V A P R O J E C T

Book I

The Mercenary

Chapter 1

Assault on Sector 1

The world lay in ruin.

Shinra Incorporated had overrun all of the old governments. It had crept towards power with almost no warning. The towns and castles and ways of old crumbled and burned and from their ashes, like a phoenix, arose Midgar.

Chaos ruled the Planet below, but in the floating city, shielded in a dome of smoke and propped fifty metres above the scorched earth, its workers lived a pantomime of tranquility and peace, given to them by the lies of the great conglomerate.

There was a comforting constant noise throughout Midgar – a hum that seemed to pacify any doubters of its majesty. It was the sticky dragging sound of car tires rolling over blackbrick roads, and the eternal clumping of distant feet at all hours of the day. It was the gentle buzzing of fluorescent lights illuminating the buildings and boulevards. And, of course, the eight reactors, surrounding the circular city like the points of an octagon.

The Sector 1 train station, in the afternoon's emptiness, was still lulled to a droning serenity as the street lights shone down to it. The station itself was lower than street level, cutting through Sector 1 like a rectangular canyon. All was quiet; the afternoon was dark as always in Midgar. The two Shinra guards stood patiently on the platform. It would not be long now. They looked at each other, dressed in their crimson combatant armour, and matching crimson hats. In their arms they each cradled a semi-automatic machine gun, just in case.

Even with the gentle noise of the city permeating the air from afar, it still felt quiet. Muted. One of the guards shifted his feet, his metal boots scraping the iron tiled platform for a moment; just enough to break the silence. A real, tangible noise with a direct sound source – that was rare. The other gave him a lazy sidelong glace. Silence was nothing in the station, there was no roof above the tracks and the air was static, thick as usual. The sky, which glowed green from the reactor's smoke, stood eerily still.

The scraping noise of the guard's feet ceased bouncing off of the metal walls on either side of the tracks, and their attention turned toward that sky. It seemed a little too calm now, as if it was getting ready to reach down with lightning and smite them both. They knew it was the pollution, and no storm. It never rained in Midgar. They had never known any other sky.

In the distance, they heard the familiar whistling of the 12:15 train. Their heads swivelled to watch its ascent onto the plate. As it neared the platform, its large headlight blinded them both for the split second that it shone directly at them. The gears, pipes and other machinery winded about the basic metal shell of the mako-powered engine. The station was now filled with noise, the constant chugging of the mako 'Big-One' cylinder inside the engine. The brakes engaged, and orange sparks flew onto the platform, scattering about their feet. The locomotive slowed to a stop.

This was a cargo train. It had ascended from the ground level onto the upper plate, carrying large crates that were to be transported to the Sector 1 reactor. The crew was small, a routine of eight men who – every Thursday – would unload the crates, wheel them down the platform, use a pulley to lift the crates from the platform to the streets of Sector 1, and then directly into the Shinra-only area of the sector, where the rail guards had never been. To the transporters, their weekly ritual seemed like nothing less than dreary. To the rail guards, their life seemed adventurous. The Shinra-only areas of each sector were amazing enough, but the cargo came from down there – the near-mythical Planet underneath Midgar.

If it weren't for the slumlings who rode the trains up every day to work in the factories, it would have been assumed that survival outside Midgar's upper plate was impossible. To the denizens of 'Upper' Midgar (as it was sometimes called), the proof that the rest of the world was habitable did not bring comfort. Rather, it validated the horror stories about down below – how it was filled with thieves, knaves and nightmare-creatures, all of whom were a simple train-ride away. It was a blessing to them that the Sector 1 station was used primarily for cargo transportation, and rarely did the guards deal with anyone other than Shinra officials.

The screeching of the train died out in the thick air. The body of the locomotive was now in front of the clock on the far wall, and it sent tiny shivers up the spines of the guards. They had been looking at the clock every few minutes, a habit everyone had started at a young age. It had been 12:11 the last time they checked, the hands pointing to XII and II, respectively. Thursday, January fourth – with only the slightest winter bite in the air – it was more refreshing than cold.

On this particular Thursday, the metal doors of the train slid open, and the rail guards looked into the train. It was a surprise to see a woman standing in the doorway. She was average height, clad in army green with her hair tied back in a ponytail. It was more of a surprise to the guards when she ran up to one of them and grabbed his head.

With a slight jerk, his neck snapped and he fell into a heap on the ground. Dead.

The other guard stood in absolute shock. The woman turned to him, and then seemed to look past him. He began to turn but was grabbed from behind. The next sensation he felt was a slight tingling in his stomach as he was thrown through the air. His attacker quickly continued as he collided with the steel of the train. As his vision faded to black he felt the warm ooze of blood fill his eye cavity. He passed out.

The second attacker, a fat man in a backwards red cap waved to the woman in green, who ran towards him. The third member of their party exited the train, another man. The three of them surveyed the empty platform then ran towards the north end of the station. It was then that the team leader, a monstrously tall and bulky black man, barrelled out of the front car of the train. He looked around for the mercenary.

It wasn't long before the mercenary came leaping off the roof of the train, flipping in the air. He was a blur of the blues and purples of his clothing, and the bright yellow of his spiky mess of hair. He landed theatrically in front of the team leader, in a squat position with his gloved hand lightly keeping balance. When he stood, he smirked at the team leader – as if expecting him to be impressed by the display of acrobatics.

"C'mon, newcomer," the leader huffed, unfazed. "Follow me!"

With that, the leader turned and lumbered off towards the staircase.

The mercenary dusted off his blue turtleneck sweater-vest casually. It was thick, to ward off the stale Midgar cold, and to support the lone iron pauldron on his left shoulder, just above a single vambrace. His hands were hidden inside leather gloves, and he sported leather boots that looked worn, as if he had travelled the world on foot.

He walked past the dead guard, and approached the one who had been thrown against the train. He was clinging onto life, but too much blood had escaped his forehead, his face was barely visible under the bright red mask. The mercenary knelt down, and with a gentle hand, plucked the flask of potion out of the guards hand and clipped it to his own belt.

When he stood again, he turned towards the staircase. His attack squad was nowhere to be seen. In their stead there stood two Shinra Military Police officers, dressed in blue, each pointing their guns at him.

"Hey you!" one of them shouted.

He walked towards them, not paying any attention. It was only when they fired upon him that he appeared to make note of them. He turned to the side, the bullets bouncing harmlessly off his pauldron.

It was then that he reached over his right shoulder, and drew his sword.

There was a split second where the firing stopped. The very introduction of a melee weapon in a gunfight filled the MPs with a myriad of reactions. What foolishness, what cockiness! What was the gain? A sword was a gentleman's weapon, they knew. Members of SOLDIER could make do with a blade on the battlefield, but this scrawny gamin? He wasn't one of them. His deterring of their first volley of bullets could have been a fluke.

In the split second before they fired again, they both clearly saw the eerie glow in the mercenary's blue eyes and ignored it. The very thought that a SOLDIER had gone rogue had to be pushed out of their minds immediately for them to act. If it was true, there was no use thinking about it – they were both already dead.

They unleashed another spray of bullets at the attacker and faster than they could see he lifted his blade and blocked every bullet. This looked like no gentleman's sword. The blade was as thick as the handle – a brutish looking thirty centimetres. It came down, single-edged and straight like a rectangle. At the tip, it angled sharply like an enormous kitchen knife.

The mercenary swung the massive weapon around again like it weighed little more than a feather, and he glared into their eyes with his own – bright blue and glowing unnaturally. When he saw the recognition in their face, he came upon them.

By the time they knew for certain that they were facing a member of SOLDIER, the blade had already sliced neatly through one of them and was descending upon the other. The ash-grey metal on the exterior of the train car was splattered with blood as the MPs fell apart.

With an ease that was unnatural for a man of his size, the mercenary lifted the blade over his head and slammed its broad side against his back. The metal locked into place in its magnetic hold. He was alone on the platform, save the bodies lying in pieces behind him. He made for the staircase.

The top of the staircase saw the streets of Sector 1. He stood on blackbrick cobblestone and streetlights lined the sidewalk. There was no blaring of klaxons, no commotion. To his left were the rebel team AVALANCHE, huddled around the large iron doorway that led to their destination. He approached them, looking at each member, sizing them up.

The MPs who had assaulted him on the platform had rushed right past the rest of the group and had gone right for him. The mercenary had immediately assumed that they had been felled, and that his mission was over before it began. He saw that was not the case. Wedge – the portly one in the backwards red cap – smiled at him with a sincere, unintelligent vacancy in his eyes. None of the grenades on the bandolier across his torso had been used. Either the mercenary had underestimated AVALANCHE's stealth capabilities, or the MPs hadn't seen him as a threat. He assumed the latter.

Biggs, the cocky looking, green-clad man with the mangy mop of brown hair looked more suitable for battle but his guns were still in their holsters. He still looked worn like Wedge – not battle worn, just rough. Impoverished. He smirked at the newcomer, "Wow, you used to be in SOLDIER all right." Apparently, he had seen the display of power on the platform.

Jessie, the only woman in the group, had been busy standing with her back to the mercenary. She was fiddling with the entrance code to a gate in the wall. She suddenly stopped and turned towards him, her eyes filling with fear. "SOLDIER?" she asked. The name of Shinra's elite shock troops was all too familiar with her. "What's he—"

Biggs raised his hand to silence her. "He was in SOLDIER. But he quit and now he's one of us."

To the notion that he was on their side, on anybody's side, the mercenary rolled his eyes and held his tongue. Biggs turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. When they had met in the bar, he had given a nod of acknowledgement, but they had never spoken before this moment. "Didn't catch your name."

"Cloud" the mercenary said coldly.

"Cloud, eh? I'm—"

"I don't care what your names are." Cloud interrupted, "Once this job's over, I'm outta here." It didn't matter that Cloud already knew their names and several rudimentary facts about them. Anything less would be unbefitting of a SOLDIER – even an ex-SOLDIER. He wouldn't bother telling them that. Peasants wouldn't understand.

What was important was that they knew who he was.

Lumbering towards them from down the street was the team leader. Enormous, near-cartoonish muscles framed a small, square head with a buzz-cut and heedless stubble. His black leather jacket had been ripped into a vest to make way for his bulging shoulder muscles, which were riddled with tattoos of skulls breathing fire, and in all capitals, the word "AVALANCHE". He wore no shirt under his open leather vest, only a plain iron culet.

Barret's most distinguishing feature, Cloud noted, was his hand. His left hand was massive, almost twice as big as his head. His right hand did not exist. Or rather, it did not exist anymore. Starting just past the elbow, his forearm seemed to be the victim of a doctor's sick joke; he had a Gatling gun grafted onto where his arm had been.

"The hell you doin?" Barret yelled as he ran toward them. "I thought I told you never to move in a group! Meet at the bridge in front of the reactor!" His crude, gruff voice implied commoner – knave. It was clear that he was foreign – his dimensions implied mountain folk – from the outside world. His skin tone implied plenty of scorching sun. Cloud threw this data into the back of his mind. When the time was right, he would let his instincts make the judgement call.

Jessie, who had returned to her work, had hacked the security code to the Shinra-only area of Sector 1. The gate slid open with an all-too-loud creak, and the three underlings ran inside and out of sight.

Barret looked Cloud up and down with his dark-rimmed, aging eyes. Thirty-five or so, Cloud surmised, but the years weren't kind to him. "Ex-SOLDIER, huh?" Barret scoffed. "Still don't trust ya."

Barret turned his back on Cloud and clumped inside. The mercenary surveyed the territory before running in. The mako reactor was in the distance, the billowing green smoke rose to the skies in furious light.