"Will you hurry up?"

"Patience, young Eastwood – you can't build up three Dollars in a day."

"I'd rather bag three thousand munny in an evening, thanks."

There was a dry laugh and no more. The two men were side by side on the flattop roof of the Hollowed Out: one was down on one knee, and he was inspecting the building across the dirt road through a pair of binoculars. Next to him, his accomplice was parked quite comfortably on his rump, one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee, and he was humming an upbeat tune to himself as he fiddled with his weapon.

"Explain this to me again," the watcher requested. "Why do you need an overcompensating gun that is made out of six otherwise regular guns?"

"It's convenient," the answer came simply, accompanied by a "click".

"Says the man who has been trying to find his 'sniper' setting for the past two hours... I still don't get how any situation – at all – requires you to hike that complicated thing around, anyway."

"Think of it as having five men in a suitcase-" and then the gun fell apart and clattered to the floor, revealing itself to be comprised of two handguns, two shotguns, a carbine, and the sniper rifle that the man was still holding, "-and one on a stick."

"You're depraved," his partner mumbled, not taking his train of sight from the opposite building. The man beside him simply smiled knowingly as he turned a few more knobs, and examined his field of vision through the scope.

"What about you? You're the one carrying a razor blade on your revolver."

"It's called a bayonet," the watcher retorted evenly. "Better to have both a knife and gun for whichever fight comes your way."

"Translation: 'my marksmanship sucks, so I need to shave a pair of hairy legs to get my point across'." At last satisfied that everything checked out, the man let his comments slide off his tongue with oily ease. "And people tell me I have problems with self-image."

"Here he comes."

And the banter ended right there. The long sniper rifle came up, and rested over the edge of the roof as the man behind it sighted down the scope.

"Mark it," the sniper hissed. His voice was void of its previous humor – of any emotion at all. It was time for business, and they both knew it. Next to him, the watcher did not move as he answered in short, clipped sentences.

"He's on the right by the table. Receding hairline, horn-rimmed glasses. There's a cigar between his teeth. He's reaching for his lighter now."

Nimble hands swept with practiced flair over the sleek weapon, adjusting everything. All had to be perfect, without a single hitch. They had just one shot – one single, powerful and hopefully fatal shot – and it had to count.

"Call it," came the single, sharp order again.

"Wait..." the watcher muttered. "... Wait..."

Through the scope, the man moved. The sniper did not take the shot, listening quietly as his watcher continued to hold him back with the single repeated word.

"... Wait... Wait..."

The man moved right into the center of the scope, and then left it almost immediately as he walked across to his associates. The sniper remained where he was, flat on his stomach with his eye to the scope. He regarded the proceedings with a calm patience, and the watcher continued to bid him to wait. He heeded the call, trusting in those keen eyes and predator's instinct that had never failed him even once.

"... Wait..." The man moved again, just a little to the left of the scope. The man behind the binoculars tensed slightly.

The man stepped right into the center mark.

"Now."

There was a single crack of thunder in the air. Barely a second later, with the ringing yet to fade, there was a loud, strangled cry of pain. The sniper shifted, his arm still stinging from the recoil, and spotted the unimpressed look on the watcher's face.

"... Well?"

"Nice going, Lone Ranger," the watcher quipped dryly. "You hit our Dr. Jones in his little Indiana."

The sniper's response was a whistle of amusement, even as hands swiftly moved to reassemble all the individual firearms back on to the rifle with steady "clicks". "Too bad about that, eh Tonto?"

"Him no more pee standing up, Kemo Sabe," came the dry retort. "Lousy shot."

"That's why I have you, don't I?" the sniper countered. His fully-assembled gun was ready, faster in its assembly than it had been in dis-assembly earlier. "... Griever."

And the watcher lowered his binoculars, hand moving to hover over a holster. He never looked back at his partner, but there it was in those silver eyes: that hint of anticipation. The eagerness for the hunt.

"...make them bleed."

And in a blur of dark color, the watcher was gone. A second shot rang out – this time from the drawn revolver – and there was the sound of glass shattering everywhere. The sniper could hear panicked shouts, more gunfire... and through it all he could hear the sound of a fine, razor-sharp blade slicing smooth and slick as a hot knife through butter.

The gunman rose from his place, his huge firearm now an effective shield as their target's many guards fired desperately at him. He took a step up onto the ledge, and then leaped off the side of the roof. The locked doors of the Hollowed Out rattled as he landed easily on the dirt road. His hand moved, and the gun came up. In a whirl of rumbling thunder, it fired upon the door. Wood tore like fabric as the barrier was ripped right off its hinges from the force.

His access was granted, and the gunman made his way in.

"He's no Fenrir," Cloud grunted, staring with underlying contempt through the barred window that separated him from the one that was contained. "I have no use for him."

"You have a job to do, Mr. Strife," his handler drawled. Cloud glared at the single eye that looked so... smug. "If you want your money, you'll be a little less picky."

"I told you, Xigbar," the blond fighter uttered, disregarding anymore tact or courtesy, "I refuse to work with anything that can't meet my standards. It's either a Fenrir or nothing."

"Don't be such a hasty judge, my boy," and the handler had a glint in that lone eye as he leered openly at the agent before him. "He's no Fenrir, sure..."

"Then I don't want him."

"He's a Griever."

"...and what in Hellfire," Cloud growled, irate and impatient with where this conversation was going, "is a Griever supposed to be?"

His handler shrugged deliberately, but his smug grin widened.

"Nothing... but the best."

There was nothing to stand against the violent and oppressive shots that continued to pelt out of the large weapon, and its wielder had no need for pause. He had six guns in one, after all – that was six guns' worth of bullets: More than enough to take out the whole building.

It was barely a minute upon his entry before he reached the stairs. He looked up them, heard the sounds of battle echoing from the floors above – at least two floors above, if he gauged it right. His watcher was moving quickly, indeed.

His hand idly came up, and the gun's hard surface smacked into an attacker from behind with a resounding "crack". The would-be assailant fell, and the gunman made his way up the stairs.

Even as there was so little obstruction – the gun's own weight of no hindrance to him – he did not catch up with his accomplice. They were moving at an equal pace forward, and the gunman's road was cleared for him. Each of every one of those more-than-sufficient bullets were being saved, conserved for the right moment.

And still the gunman walked on, through the massacre that was fallen guards and destroyed furniture. There was a shattered picture frame here, a trail of blood there. There were both dead and unconscious at his feet, neither of which would be of any more trouble to them until the two partners were finished with their business.

A gunshot, a single almost inaudible grunt, and his eyes narrowed. So much for smooth sailing on a top-rank job like this one... Then again, if the job did not entail some challenge, the payout was just not worth it. He heard some confusion, and moved quickly to meet the two guards that were just now turning the corner. One swift strike against the blunt heavy metal to the head, one powerful bone-breaking punch to the left, and both dropped like dead-weights to the floor.

The gunman stepped over the fallen forms and looked down the hallway that was peppered with bullet holes. A pungent, metallic scent burned in his nostrils, and he found the dark copper patch on the carpet. He brought a gloved finger to it, dabbed up a bit of the still fresh, sticky substance, and sniffed at it inquisitively.

Satisfied, he let his hand drop, a stain trailing along the wall where he wiped his gloves clean. As he walked, he bypassed the broken window without giving it so much as a second glance. They were getting close now, the both of them. The target was but a few doors away now.

So close...

The man was seated silently on the single chair that had been provided. He was leaning forward, elbows perched just above his knees. His hands were clasped together and his head was bowed, chin pillowed on interlocking fingers. His eyes were closed in quiet, restful meditation, and remained closed as the door opened with noisy announcement.

It shut with equal ruckus – as did all these high security lock doors – and then there was a brief reprieve of silence. Still, the man did not move – saw no reason to. He knew very well that he was no longer alone in the room, and yet he remained as he was: silent and still.

Cloud glowered at the man that was before him, his back leaning against the thick metal door. At last, he spoke:

"So... you're a Griever. A brand new one, too."

The man's eyes cracked open a bare fraction, and Cloud caught a glimpse of sharp, brilliant silver – the result of prolonged junction of a monster's power into a human's psyche. Then those eyes fell shut again with blatant disinterest. Cloud quirked a brow, and felt the tiny hint of amusement playing at his skepticism. He continued to talk to the other.

"For a fresh, you seem to have a pretty good backing as is... nice, hefty resume." Still the man was ignoring him, and still he talked. "I've heard praises after shameless praises about your powers. Nothing short of impressive, aren't you?"

Again, there was no answer. Cloud was not expecting one, anyway; at least, not a verbal one. At last, he straightened and crossed the room. He now stood before the man, where they were but a bare few inches apart.

At the tell-tale chime of metal, the man finally reacted. Those silver eyes opened halfway and slowly regarded, with the barest hint of interest, the bit of bent steel wire in Cloud's gloved hand. And there on the wire did those eyes focus, watching in silence as the blond drove it into a keyhole.

A few skillful twists, a single "click", and the heavy manacles that had fettered the man's wrists only moments ago fell to the floor with a dull "clang". There was a pause, and at last the man's hands came down. He straightened, silver eyes staring quietly up into those fiery blue orbs that beheld a challenge to him.

"Go on, Griever," Cloud prompted, a small smirk making its way up his face. "Impress me."

For a while the man did not move. Slowly, a bare shadow of a smile flickered on his face, and those silver eyes sparkled just once.

That was the only warning ever given before everything exploded in a whirl of swift motion.

The door shuddered at the first strike. Then it was shattered by the blunt force of the huge gun in the gloved hands. The gunman stepped through the mess of splintered wood and entered the room.

The one he had fired upon was curled up on the floor, a bleeding, writhing, whimpering mess all on his own. It was a pathetic sight to behold, and the gunman turned away.

This man was a double – a scapegoat for their real target. It was all clear to see now that the target had known they were coming.

He found the next door, and took a step toward it. His gun came up immediately as that door was thrown open, and a brilliant rattle of gunfire exploded out like burning rain. The injured man in the corner barely had time to save himself before he went screaming to his death, and the gunman hissed as he felt one stray shot get pass his shield to nick him in the thigh. Still, he kept the barrier up, and held his ground, the persistent thundering of rapid gunfire assaulting his ears.

At last, there was a cease, followed quickly by a loud panicked curse. The gunman lowered his shield and watched the target retreat backward into the room in a fluster. The now useless bulk of black metal was in the way, and the gunman growled irritably as he sent it flying back into the room with a swift kick. He was bleeding from all those shots that had managed to graze him, and it stung as he moved.

As the machine gun crashed into a corner with a loud clatter, he bore down on the target. His own gun was coming up, pointing right at that bespectacled, semi-bald head. He was aiming, ready to just blow that sweating head off...

And then the target was holding something up, and he paused.

The target sneered. He knew he was the one at the advantage now, and was rather gleeful about it. "You know what this is, don't you, dog?"

"… You've rigged this place to blow," the gunman identified. "Only you would be so insane to pull something like this."

"Back off, dog," the target spat. "I know you mongrels value your lives more than money. You're not the one to take me alive, I'm afraid. Not this day."

At last, the gunman looked up from the dangerous box with its red button. He looked right into the eyes of his target, staring with a piercing gaze that made the other fidget. Then he looked past the target's back at the shut window, the sweaty man's only escape route out of this place.

And as he took this all in, the gunman only smiled.

"... I don't have to."

The chaos that was barely contained within the room caused the very walls to tremble. Outside, Cloud's handler only stood waiting, his smile as confident and cocky as ever.

Inside, the two men continued to strike at each other. One moment, they were using fists. Another moment, they were using anything that they could find. The next, it was back to fists again. They fought like a pair of animals, each mad for the other's blood.

Each was the predator as much as the prey, and as long as there was but one slip from either of them, the scales would be tipped with finality.

Cloud was strong, stronger than any man in the business. He had to be, in order to wield his weapon of choice with ease. The other was an enhanced being, a voluntary guinea pig for the unorthodox experimentation that was slowly decaying his memories and his sanity, turning him into this snarling, half-savage beast.

The man looked so much more like the monster he had formed a junction with now: the bronze mane, the pure intent for the kill in those sharp eyes, and the single, furious scar that slashed across that face.

So this was the Griever.

They both struck out at once – as Cloud drove a sharp sliver of wood from the broken chair into the man's abdomen, a hand wrapped itself around his neck in a crushing grip. The two of them stood there, eyes burning, teeth bared... waiting. That sharp, shiv-like bit of wood pressed harder, just as the fingers curled tighter.

Both could feel the danger drawing in with each breath, and still they stared fearlessly at each other. Just as Cloud felt his breath suddenly cut off, he also felt the warm trickle of blood make its way past the wood and down his hand, his force strong enough to have broken through skin.

Finally, he smirked again. Before him, the silver eyes sparkled once more, and this time, there was a true smile on the man's face.

They separated again. Cloud barely suppressed the urge to draw in a deep, urgent breath as his neck throbbed painfully from that bruising hold. He felt some satisfaction of his own, as the man before him still bled from where the wood had stabbed him. It was a draw, for now... Perhaps they would settle this properly, some other day. Perhaps... on a much better battleground.

The man looked up again, and his face was once more a blank. Quietly he raised his hands, and looked to Cloud with an unspoken expectation.

Cloud stared down at those hands, and then he turned and found the manacles where they had been discarded on the ground. He scooped them up, holding them in one hand, and looked once more at the man who was waiting for him.

With a disgusted snort, he tossed the manacles over his shoulder, and they clattered nosily as they slid across the floor. The man watched him with a level of intrigue.

"You won't need those," he stated simply.

Glass exploded into the room as a hand punched right through the window. Without pausing, that same hand found the target's neck, fingers wrapping swiftly around it in an instant. There was a strangled choke, and the target was forcefully hauled through the jagged hole. The small remote flew through the air, and the gunman caught it easily before it could hit the ground.

He could hear screaming behind him – screaming that he ignored – as he settled that box onto the dresser in the corner. As he left it at a neat angle in the small table's center, there was a dull "crack", a gurgle, and the target came flying back in. The gunman looked down at the figure that now sagged at his feet.

A black market arms dealer, dead by a broken neck. How delightfully quaint.

His hand found the phone on the table, and he picked up the receiver as his finger spun the dial to a memorized number.

"... Zexion: We've done our job. It's time for you to do yours."

The metal door opened with its annoying drone, and Cloud stepped through before it was swung shut once more. There, Xigbar stood with his annoying grin.

"So," he piped up. "What do you think?"

Cloud turned to look through the barred windows again at the man who now sat on the floor in quiet, restful meditation. The man that seemed so oblivious to the destruction that he was sitting in the middle of, as much as to the drying blood on his once white shirt. The man that was smiling to himself right now.

"...he's no Fenrir," Cloud admitted, "but he'll do."

"Give me your hand."

They were now at least a few blocks away from the scene, as Organization XIII now went to work covering up the act. It was all routine, part of a day's work to one and all. As far as the unknowing public was concerned, there was nothing worth any state of alarm.

The watcher sat with his back to the wall, watching in silence as the gunman finally tugged the bullet free from where it went up his arm. Gauze was pressed tightly to the streaming flow of dark, coppery blood, and then it was bound up methodically. In a few days, that wound would heal and leave no more than yet another scar on the man's body.

"Nice to be a Griever, isn't it?" The gunman mused wistfully. "All the pain, none of the mortality."

"You'd be surprised what you live through, sometimes," the watcher muttered back with a disgruntled air.

A hand to the top of his large gun, the gunman pushed himself up to his feet, and extended the other hand to the seated watcher. "Come on – let's go get a drink."

The watcher did not hesitate, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Side by side, the two walked down the dirt road, toward the direction of the saloon.

Tomorrow would be yet another day.

"Guess it's you and me from now on, eh?"

The man huffed, shrugging apathetically. Cloud shouldered his large weapon, and – pausing to think about it for a moment – extended his hand.

"Strife," he introduced himself. "Got a name, Griever?"

The man paused as well, and then he took the hand and shook it as he replied.

"It's Leon."