Disclamation! Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

A/N! This first one's more of an introductory chapter, just to sort of give you the layout of things and introduce our main characters—don't worry, everyone will make an appearance and play a role in this story. And I do mean everyone.

THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto

The Messenger

Chapter Zero :: The Lull Before the Squall

Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring—click.

"Hey, what's up? …Uh-huh. …Yeah. …Hey, hold that thought, I'm not actually here right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P. so we can continue this wonderful conversation! Thanks!" Beep.

"God, Bartz, on any other day I'd yell at you for that stupid answering message…fools me every time…but…I dunno… Something's not right, man, I don't…I don't know what it is, but there's definitely something weird going on in town. It's like there's this…there's this thickness in the air, like it's going to rain, but it's still summer.

"So…um, call me back and don't call the house phone, call my cell. Kuja's back and answering the home phone every time it rings, it's kinda horrible. Kuja… Kuja's different, too…" Click.

The wind ran its fingers through Bartz's hair as he pedaled down a self-made dirt path that snaked through the woods. It wasn't really so much a wood as it was a smattering of trees near the edge of town that separated the apartment complex where Zidane lived alone—compliments of his never-present older sibling—and the small, single-story cottage that Bartz had inherited from his late father. There were plenty of streets that Bartz could have taken, but the little dirt path was faster and more peaceful. Bartz usually didn't mind the trees, they sang when the wind blew through them and cast patterns of light and shadow across the earth, but somehow today was different. The more he thought back on the message Zidane had left on his phone, the more he came to realize that Zidane was absolutely right.

The usually dry summer air was thick and heavy, like a black veil hanging over town, and everything just felt…off. Even the trees along the path were different; Bartz felt like they were staring at him, waiting for something to happen. It was unnatural.

It was a relief when he cleared the trees and entered the short stretch of sidewalk that led to the front entrance of the apartment complex. He chained his bike to the offered bike rack and bounced up the front door, buzzing in Zidane's apartment. Someone unfamiliar answered.

"Well, hello, who is this?" crooned a velvety voice, crackling over the intercom.

"It's Bartz…?"

"Bartz? Hm, I don't know any 'Bartz.' Go away."

Very faintly in the background, Bartz could make out Zidane's voice yelling, "C'mon Kuja! Just let him in!"

There was a scuffling sound, an aggravated yell, and then Zidane's voice came over the speaker with more clarity, "Come on in, Bartz."

The lock on the door clicked and Bartz let himself inside; he scampered to the elevator and rode it to the third floor. On the outside, the complex looked dull and plain, the walls were beige and it lacked any sort of defining trim, the roof was flat and only accessible to the janitor and superintendant, and most of the windows were filled with the same crème colored curtains. On the inside, however, the complex was vibrant and pleasant; it was filled with live plants in tasteful pots and geometric paintings that always seem to have gained new shapes whenever Bartz saw them. The flooring was hardwood, but blanketed by thick blue rugs with straight black lines along the edges. The whole place had a very high-class museum-like feel to it, though Bartz knew for a fact that it was a rather inexpensive place as far as apartment complexes went.

He skipped his way down the left hall, all the way to the last room, the one that made up a corner of the building and had a marvelous second window that every other non-corner room woefully lacked. Zidane had once mentioned that his older sibling, who he never really spoke about, was a big spender and always had to have the best things. Any other room would have been unacceptable despite Kuja's college career and rare presence in the apartment, leaving Zidane to be its only inhabitant. Fortunately for Zidane, Kuja seemed to be the one who paid the rent because Bartz had never heard his young friend complain about money problems.

Bartz twirled to a stop at the last door in the hall and pattered his knuckles across its face; he was bouncing on his heels as he waited for the door to open, part of him was thrilled to finally meet this infamous older sibling and part of him was anxious to find out what Zidane had meant in his phone message.

There was a muffled thud and Zidane yelled, "Kuja! What the hell!" And then the door swung open to reveal a tall, slender person with waist-length silver hair tipped in lavender; the girl—Bartz wasn't entirely sure, but this person was incredibly feminine—stood like a feline waiting to pounce, she stared predatorily down at Bartz with half-lidded silvery-blue eyes painted with purple makeup and then smiled slowly.

There was a long stretch of silence—stunned on Bartz's part, horrified on Zidane's, and coolly composed on Kuja's—while Bartz took in the tight jeans and skull-buckled belt and tall boots and the skin-tight t-shirt that hugged a remarkably flat chest. A long, slim silver tail curled around the ankle of Kuja's left boot and perfectly manicured nails colored like blood curved over the door handle. The more Bartz looked, the more he came to realize that—holy crud!—Kuja was a boy!

"Well, well," purred Kuja in a voice that, while it was quite effeminate, was much manlier than Bartz expected, "what a brave little mouse we have here."

Zidane flailed as he picked himself up off the floor and launched himself at Kuja. Kuja tactfully sidestepped the attack and Zidane tumbled into the unsuspecting Bartz; Kuja released a laugh like tinkling bells and, before slamming the door shut, said: "Have fun on your date, Zidane. Don't stay out too late, now."

"Bitch," Zidane muttered at the door, heaved himself off of Bartz, and then helped his brunet friend onto his feet.

Bartz brushed himself off, straightened his shirt, and then grinned beatifically at Zidane. The blond was immediately wary; Bartz only grinned like that when he had something cheeky to say.

"What?" squawked Zidane, his voice squeaking in a combination of defensiveness and puberty and Bartz was reminded of how young Zidane was—only sixteen! The blond had a knack for seeming older and more mature than he actually was.

"So," said Bartz, grinning slyly, "you have a 'sister'?"

"Man, shut up, you're almost as girly as he is."

Bartz sniffed as he set off down the hall, purposely exaggerating his casual walk into an extravagant strut. "At least I don't wear makeup and boots to my thighs."

"Neither did Kuja," mumbled Zidane, quickening his pace to keep up with Bartz's longer strides, "until he went to college."

Bartz halted abruptly and stared at Zidane, wide-eyed with astonishment. "Your brother went to college normal and came back...like…like that? Oh boy, now I'm reconsidering…"

"No, no," said Zidane, still walking and Bartz started up after him, this time slowing his pace to match Zidane's. "Kuja was never normal, he's always had this weird thing for girls' clothing and Sephora eye-shadow… But he didn't used to lay it on so thick…and the boots are new, too. He's different, Bartz, I can't really explain it… It's more than the boots and the makeup; it's the way he's behaving… He's just…different."

Bartz puckered his lips in thought as he jabbed the down button on the elevator more times than ultimately necessary.

"D'you think, maybe…he didn't go to college…?"

"If he didn't go to college, then where did he go?"

They both stood in silence as the elevator sunk to the lobby, chewing over the presented question and wondering if there could possibly be an inkling of truth to it. Bartz stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, wrinkling his nose as his mousy brown hair tickled his face and puffing it out of his eyes. Zidane fidgeted with the hem of his shirt and his tail twitched and curled around his ankle. The air hanging over them had somehow become tense and bordered on discomfort.

The elevator pinged and the Bartz started forward at the same time as Zidane, they bumped shoulders and stumbled and then it was an awkward-contest to see who would take initiative and exit the elevator first. Finally, Bartz just grabbed Zidane's shoulder and pushed the younger boy out of the elevator before him.

Zidane grit his teeth. "Man, this is what I was talking about! We're never this awkward!"

"Yeah," agreed Bartz, stuffing his hands back into his sweatshirt pockets, "I'm beginning to see what you mean. On the way here, I kept feeling like the trees were gonna eat me or something. Crazy, huh?"

Zidane grinned cheekily. "Crazier than usual."

"Ha-ha, you're so funny." Bartz unchained his bike and re-wrapped the chain around the post under the seat. "So, where're we off to now that we've been so graciously kicked out of your place?"

Zidane shrugged, "I dunno, your house? Or we could into to town, there's apparently a new coffee shop. It got Kuja's approval so it must be a fairly decent place."

"Sure, why not?"

Bartz swung his leg over his bike and stood over it to hold it steady while Zidane settled himself on the handlebars, wrapping his tail around Bartz's waist for balance and security. The two of them set off into town; Bartz wobbled a little as he got used to Zidane's additional weight and then they were zooming down the sidewalk. Bartz grinned as the wind hit his face and raked through his hair.

For a moment, everything was normal again.

They hit a more populated part of town and Bartz automatically slowed down to avoid crashing into pedestrians. Except…there were no pedestrians.

Zidane turned his head, giving Bartz a profile view of his face, and spoke over the wind's whispering. "Where is everyone? It's nearly five o'clock, this place should be packed!"

The streets were emptier than Bartz had ever seen them; people were far and few in between and the shops they passed were virtually vacant. That heavy feeling and thickness in the air returned full force and Bartz's hands shuddered on the handlebars; the bike wobbled, the wheel caught in a crack in the sidewalk, and both boys went sprawling across the pavement.

"O-ow." Bartz flopped onto his back after having absorbed most of the fall on his shoulder and he could now feel a bump forming on the side of his head. The brunet carefully propped himself up onto his elbows and pulled his feet free of his bicycle; it wasn't damaged fortunately. "Man…I never crash my bike!"

Zidane sat up and cupped a hand over the sluggishly bleeding scrape on his elbow. He glared at Bartz until the other boy realized that he was lying on Zidane's tail and rolled off of it.

"I'm telling you," said Zidane, feeling like a broken record. "Something weird is going on."

"Hey, you guys alright?"

They looked up simultaneously to find the source of the unfamiliar voice: a lean brunet in a leather jacket lined in white fur with a rather bored expression that matched the bored tone of his voice. He stood over them as if someone else had guilted him into checking on them rather than doing it out of his own kindness, though a quick scan of the area told Bartz that there was no one else nearby.

"Yeah, we're good," Bartz cheerfully assured him as he picked up his bike and held out a hand to Zidane. The blond accepted the hand and hauled himself up; he pulled his tail around to smooth out the golden fur that had been ruffled uncomfortably during the fall and the boy in leather raised an eyebrow, though he didn't say a word. Then he nodded, grunted his noncommittal acknowledgement to Bartz's response, and turned and started to walk away.

"Thanks for caring!" Zidane called irritably after him and the boy waved a hand carelessly over his shoulder. "Alright, Bartz, let's go…get a latte or something."

"You hate lattes," said Bartz.

"Yeah," Zidane shrugged, "but I figure this day is already really bizarre, so I might as well just go with it."

They walked the rest of the way to the coffee shop, walking Bartz's bike between them, and found that they were uncharacteristically strained for conversation. Bartz was not liking this inexplicable change in atmosphere one little bit, it made everything awkward and not-fun-anymore.

The coffee shop—called the Cosmos Café—was barren when Bartz and Zidane arrived, though that wasn't anything truly remarkable, and the air still smelled fresh and new. The lack of coffee-smell permeating the air was a testament to the café's newness; with an ironic snort, Bartz noted that the shop had opened up just in time for a massive lull in town activity.

"Oh, it's you guys again."

The boy with the bored voice and bored face was standing rather boringly behind the counter and looking very bored. He had taken off his leather jacket and now sported a boring white shirt under a boring brown apron.

"Oh," said Bartz, mimicking the boy's bored tone, "yeah, it's us again."

The boy looked at Bartz with a glimmer of irritation in his bored gray eyes and his mouth stretched from its bored line to a mildly agitated frown. "Wow, you're hilarious."

"I know," deadpanned Bartz.

The boy sighed, sounding incredibly bored, and stared at the boring black register sitting dully in front of him. "So, do you guys want anything?"

"Um…is there a bathroom somewhere?" asked Zidane, pointedly lifting his elbow to draw attention to the fact that it was still bleeding sluggishly.

"Yeah, in the back, should be marked," said the boy no longer in leather and Zidane nodded his thanks as he slipped around the counter and vanished through a swinging door. The boy looked at Bartz and quirked an eyebrow at the shoulder the brunet was absently messaging. "What about you?"

"Oh, uh, I hit my shoulder…on the pavement…" said Bartz, wincing as his fingers pressed a sensitive spot. "I might've scratched it, but it's okay. Can I just have some hot chocolate, please?"

"Hm." The boy turned and, with a bored, I-could-be-doing-a-million-better-things-right-now expression he set about putting together the requested mug of chocolate beverage.

"Sooo," said Bartz, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin in his palms, he wiggled his eyebrows at the boy no longer in leather. "What's your name?"

"I'm not sure I should tell you that, kid."

"Kid?" Bartz scoffed. "I bet I'm older than you."

"I bet you're not," said the boring barista. "You look like you're fifteen. And a girl."

Bartz pouted. "That's the second time I've been called girly today."

The boring barista no longer in leather had an I'm-not-surprised look on his face as he placed a maroon mug filled to the brim with warm, brown liquid. "Do you want whipped cream, miss?" he asked flatly.

Bartz stuck his tongue out. "Yes, I do want whipped cream, thank you very much. So, how about this: I prove I'm older than you and you tell me your name, huh?"

The boy picked up a stainless steel canister and upended it over the mug, building a small mountain of whipped cream over the hot beverage. He was quiet for a moment as he nudged the mug closer to Bartz and put the canister on the counter behind him. Then he fixed Bartz with a flat stare and shrugged.

"Sure, whatever."

Bartz straightened up triumphantly and dug his wallet out of his back pocket; it was old and worn out and more duct tape than its original leather and had been doodled on extensively with Sharpies. Bartz pulled out the driver's license that permitted him to drive a car he no longer owned and couldn't afford to replace; he presented it to the boy with a grand flourish and a brilliant smile. The boring barista no longer in leather squinted at the card momentarily and then leaned back with an almost impressed sort of frown.

"Wow, twenty, I would've never guessed…Bartz Klauser."

"Hey, don't make fun of my name, you gotta tell me yours now." Bartz picked up the mug and cradled in his palms, letting the heat coming off the porcelain cup warm his hands. He sipped it carefully, testing the scalding liquid and accidentally smearing whipped cream across his nose. He hummed appreciatively; it was good hot chocolate.

"Fine. Squall."

Bartz sniggered into his next sip and further layered his nose in whipped cream. "Squall? Wow, and I thought my parents had a weird taste in names!"

The boring barista, Squall, rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

Zidane trotted out from the back room, a big band-aid decorated with the Justice League heroes slapped over his wounded elbow and a massive sugar cookie in hand. He sidled up beside Bartz with a grin, clearly in a much better mood, and took a large bite of cookie.

"There's this guy in the back, Laguna," said Zidane, swallowing heavily, "he gave me a band-aid and a cookie, fresh from the oven, even told me not to worry about paying for it. This is, like, the best cookie I've ever had!"

Squall sighed heavily and drummed his fingers on the counter, staring expectantly at Bartz who was scrubbing the cream from his face. It took Bartz a moment to notice and then a moment more to figure out what Squall was waiting for.

"Oh yeah, how much is this?"

"Two-fifty."

"Right-o, here ya go, Squallter!" Bartz slid the bills and a pair of quarters from his wallet before replacing it in his back pocket and then resumed his hold on the still-steaming mug. Bartz and Zidane then retreated to a table in the corner to enjoy their individual treats and brainstorm ways to keep themselves busy for the rest of the day. Boring barista Squall stood behind his boring cash register and counted the straws in the dispenser, pretending not to be listening to the only customers in the café.

When he finished his hot chocolate, Bartz collected a fistful of napkins and began to shred them with conviction—Zidane watched curiously while Squall looked on with mild pain in his eyes; he would have to clean up this mess once the boys left. Bartz paid them no mind; he was lacking a good pen and he didn't want to ask Squall for one lest he ruin the surprise. And besides, this way, he would definitely be remembered and that was always a big plus.

With the napkins thoroughly decimated and meticulously organized, Bartz sat back to revel in his hard work and admire the finished product. He was so proud of it that he felt it necessary to take a picture of it on his camera phone to forever preserve its glory. Spelled out across the face of the table in strips of napkin was a series of seven digits and two words: 'Call me.'

"Nice," laughed Zidane, nodding appreciatively to Bartz's message as the two of them took their leave from the Cosmos Café.

"I thought so," said Bartz, glancing over his shoulder to wink at the bored barista before stepping out the door. Squall just stared back at him with a remarkably bored expression on his face.

That was when it started to rain.

Note: It's almost the end of summer vacation for me so I can't promise timely updates and since this is multi-chaptered, you're really gonna have to harass me if you want more. I have 5 chapters done so far and I love writing this story, but my attention span isn't the greatest.

I hope you liked this first chapter and please review!