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

Book I

The Mercenary

"There are no vacations for heroes. The world will never stop needing them." - Sephiroth

Chapter 1

Sector 1

At ten past noon, Midgar was dark.

The clouds hadn't lifted for half a century – too thick for errant sunbeams, too vast for silver linings. People living near the reactors along the rim called the cloud formation the Green Roof. At the centre of the metropolis it was referred to as the Blanket. Depending on the Sector, it was known as the Silent Storm or the Ceiling. It had a hundred names, but the only name universally understood was the Shield. It reminded the citizens that Midgar was a sanctuary. That despite the dark and the noise, the city was protected, the city was safe.

Midgar itself had plenty of nicknames. The Eight Cities was used, although not often, since all eight bled together to form one huge urban expanse. The Floating City was popular, although not accurate – pillars held the metropolis fifty metres above ground, it did not float. Humourists called it the Black Pie, after the way the eight sectors were organized in a circular procession, wedged altogether towards the centre. A clinical term used was the Plate, especially when comparing it to the ruined world below.

Sector 1 was quieter than the others. It still had the din of car engines, and tires on the blackbrick roads, and the twenty-four hour pedestrian traffic, and the thrum of its designated reactor. But it lacked the industrial clatter of Sector 6, and the tourist crowd of its neighbouring Sector 8, and the construction racket of Sector 3. There was nothing novel about Sector 1. To the Shinra train station guards, Sector 1 was a joyless cavity of boredom. To the Shinra Military Police who patrolled the streets, it was worse.

The Northern sector patrol was made up of two MPs, and they spent most of their time watching the station guards because they were the only other people around. The train station itself was lower than street level, cutting through the sector like a trench. It gave the MPs a good vantage point from the street to eavesdrop on the station guards. The MPs always guffawed at the crimson uniform and cap designated to non-military personnel, its ear-flaps made them chuckle. The MPs were outfitted with full-faced masks and blue garb. They fancied themselves sleek, and, with semi-automatics instead of batons, more authoritative.

Across the trench, the steam clock gasped out a last puff, an echo from its noon-time whistle. One of the MPs leaned against a gaslight, while the other glanced down at the station guards whenever they sniffled. They sniffled often. Winters were wet before Midgar was born, and the damp air pervaded even though the Shield never let the rain through.

The distant train whistled. The first MP stopped leaning and walked up to the edge of the trench. The second moved his gaze towards the tunnel entrance. They both came every day for the train arrival – it was less dull than their usual patrol down Cripshay Avenue. They liked watching the train slide onto the Plate from beneath. They liked how the dust exploded out of the tunnel with it – as if the world underneath the Plate was trying to follow the train to safety.

It came with its blinding headlight angled up towards the Shield, curving onto the flat track along the trench. Exhaust pipes wound around the exterior of the train, and the top of the cars were obscured by the steam it coughed up. The train came without fail at 12:15 every Thursday carrying cargo from below up to the Plate. The MPs would have thought the world under the Plate was uninhabitable, but the trains had to come from somewhere. Knowing that people lived underneath Midgar wasn't a particularly comforting thought, but it was fascinating as hell.

The bulking steel vessel slid towards the end of the trench with the screeching of brakes and a scattering of orange sparks. It hissed to a stop just as the minute hand on the clock across the trench snapped to III.

From here, it would be a routine unloading of cargo. Loud, bawdy workers, and rattling crates. There was nothing left to see here. One of the MPs turned to go, but the other grabbed his arm.

With the full mask on, it was impossible to read the other MPs face, but he gestured towards the train.

The steam was slowly dissipating around the station, but it was clear now that there was movement on top of the train. The MPs strained to see what the guards could not, but by then it was too late – the first attacker had leapt from the top of the train onto the platform.

The attacker grabbed a guard and threw him over his shoulder. The guard crumpled against the side of the train.

The MPs looked down in horror. There was more movement on the top of the train, and people were running out from inside the cars, all in red bandanas.

The MPs were already running towards the staircase. They fumbled with their semi-auts on the way down, making sure they were loaded.

They MPs barely made it to the South end of the platform, just in time to see the first of the attackers leave through the North exit. The station guards were both slumped against the train. A giant black-skinned man was charging out of the train. Nobody had noticed their arrival.

The last man didn't just leap from the top of the train – he cartwheeled. When he landed, it was in a squat position with one gloved hand on the platform. He wasn't wearing a bandana, and on his back was a huge sword.

For a moment, the MPs were relieved. A sword was a gentleman's weapon. Only Shinra SOLDIERs still used them in the field. The cavalry was here.

"C'mon, newcomer," the giant said to the SOLDIER. "Follow me!"

The giant took off North, and the SOLDIER got up – his back to the MPs. The first MP stammered out, "Wait!"

The besworded man didn't even turn around. He was almost strutting down the platform away from them. The first MP gaped with a kind of wonder at the sword. This looked like no gentleman's weapon. The blade was as thick as the weapon's crossguard – a brutish looking thirty centimetres. Single-edged and straight like a rectangle, it looked more like an oversized kitchen knife than a sword. It seemed too heavy to wield.

The second MP fired a warning shot at his feet. "Stop right there," he ordered.

The man with the sword turned around slowly. He was pale, with a spiky thicket of yellow hair. His arms were bare but for a vambrace on his left wrist and a pauldron on his left shoulder. All Shinra-made armour. The real tell, however, was his eyes. The blue glow around his pupils was a mark only belonging to Shinra's elite troops.

But SOLDIERs did not go rogue – could not go rogue.

It must be a trick of the light.

The first MP unleased a spray of bullets at the man. The rogue turned to the side and the bullets bounced off his pauldron. Not a one had hit. The rogue was pulling his sword over his shoulder by the time the second MP fired. Faster than they could see, he swung his blade around himself in a flurry of glinting steel and sparks. The bullets ricocheted into the side of the train and the two corpses of the station guards slumped against it.

The MP stopped firing, his fingers frozen in shock.

The rogue twirled the sword in his hands with the ease of a twig. The thick blade blinded them with the reflection of the gaslight above the trench, and before they could react, the ex-SOLDIER was upon them.