Venus Gospel

By Princess Artemis

All Square stuff © copyright Square, all Tolkien stuff (Ancalagon the Black, mithril, etc.) © copyright Tolkien Estate.

Everything else © copyright S.D. Green, 1998

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Prologos

"That's an interesting weapon you have there," commented a stranger as he walked up to the owner of the spear.

Cid Highwind stopped and shrugged. He took one last drag off his cigarette then flicked the fag end to the ground. "It's a bit colorful I guess." The night was dark, but his spear glowed of its own light, faint, but clear enough to see the gold and blue blade, the crimson hand guard and the mostly green haft. Something about the colors more closely resembled light than the hues on more ordinary objects; it was as if light reflected through the richness of color rather than off it. This weapon was not one made by human hands; it, along with the Ultima Weapon, had been created by the Planet, formed of Mako and Spirit energy. All the other special weapons had been made either by humans or Ancients, with the exception of the Limited Moon, which was made from the Planet's Luna Raptor by humans. Those weapons could be used by anyone for the most part (assuming one knew how to damage an enemy with a megaphone). But these small weapons of the Planet had been made solely for Cid and Cloud, and though they were just a sword and a spear, they both seemed to have a life-force of their own.

The stranger nodded. "Does it have a name? Weapons like that always seem to have a name."

"Yeah. Venus Gospel. Silly-@$# name." He clicked the end of the strange weapon on the ground, then began walking again. Unique it was, but it was a good spear.

The stranger followed. "Good news of love? You're right, that is a silly name. Never got anything but trouble in love," the man commented.

Cid grunted in response. He stopped again, thoughtful. He pulled another cigarette out of the pack and placed it in his mouth. He patted at the pockets of his blue flight jacket, then at his dark green pants. "$%#@," he muttered under his breath. "Got a light?" he asked the stranger.

"Sorry," the stranger replied. He shrugged his shoulders. "Nope, never heard any gospel in love. Speaking of which, I must return home before the ol' wife misses me. See ya around." The stranger waved goodbye and began walking toward the outskirts of Rocket Town.

Cid continued on his way. Talking about, or even hearing, or even thinking about hearing the word "love" never failed to put him in a bad mood. Though he hardly dared even think he had one, he knew his love life hadn't been anything but trouble. His foul humor deepened. He mentally cursed the stranger for bringing up the subject in the first place.

He reached his house and threw open the door. He stormed in, slamming the door behind him. The Venus Gospel was unceremoniously tossed into a corner of the front room as Cid stomped into his room. The door closed with a reverberating crash.

Sitting heavily in his chair, Cid yanked his leather gloves off and threw them across the room. As he had many, many times before, he completely ignored the presence in his house of the woman he lived with. He cursed again, wondering for the umpteenth time why he lived with her in the first place. Hell, she wasn't even his girlfriend. He vaguely remembered it being some matter of convenience for late-night engineering, but that had ended long ago. With the exception of a handful of occasions, which he got the chills just thinking about, he and Shera had had no romantic contact whatsoever.

He sank back in his chair, suddenly pensive. He knew why it was he still lived with Shera. He grumbled deeply then grabbed his lighter off the nightstand. After a few fumbled attempts, he finally got his cigarette lit. He groaned inwardly trying very hard not to think about what should have been very obvious and even welcome. He yanked off one shoe and half-heartedly tossed it over to where his gloves lay, then rubbed at his right ear. It still hurt a bit. No, he thought, I never had any good news in love.

* * *

The stranger looked back over his shoulder, watching the retreating pilot. Angry, guilty, in denial, but not torn up about it. He would be perfect. The stranger returned to his walk, ready to inform his master.


End Prologos