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Descendants of the Mundane	By : wickedorin Category: Final Fantasy VIII > Het - Male/Female Views: 699 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VIII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
Descendants of the Mundane and the general overall concept of Descendants
of the Mundane is entirely copyright Orin Drake 2003-2004, as are the
characters Kyrie (Almasy Leonhart Kinneas), Rodger Kinneas, and John Sparda.
Obviously everyone else has been taken from various Final Fantasy games
and Devil May Cry, and other people own those. But you ought to know
that by now, right?

        Background: It was
a stupid idea I came up with while playing Devil May Cry. I mean,
come on. Daughter of Squall meets son of Dante. It sounded
so rediculously funny that I just had to. So I did. In the
beginning, this wasn't meant to be serious, or even to actually exist in
Kyrie's universe at all. It was just too weird not to play with,
y'know? But it grew on me. Damn you, Ky. I guess it's
set more or less a couple of years after the end of Retribution Nor
Redemption. Enjoy, I hope. Do not read, however,
if you've got a really narrow view of relationships or sexuality (keep
the other two stories in mind, in other words--Kyrie and Rodger have been
together for a long time and they're very secure in one another).
You might get warped. Heh heh.

        Also Note: In the interest
of... well, myself, really, this is written under the theory that "demon"
is a term that incorporates all hellspawn--"devil" is used specifically
for a humanoid, intelligent, "higher demon". So all devils are demons,
but demons are not devils. Just in case there's any confusion.

Descendants of the Mundane

Chapter 13

by Orin Drake
        Time moved differently when
one moved through dimensions. To the rest of the world, they'd been
gone for a whole week. No wonder everyone worried.

        Regardless, when Rodger
had initially stumbled through the gateway, he didn't make immediate moves
to call for anyone. Or to travel. Laying Kyrie down in the
sandy soil, it certainly looked like they were somewhere in Esthar.
Chances were, soldiers would find them soon. Hopefully of the friendly
variety.

        Even as she woke up at twilight,
they stayed. No need to voice their desire to wait, they just laughed
about pretending to be camping. Conversations about the creepy shit
in Hell was the majority of the talk... before discussions of food.
And even into the night... they just didn't want to leave.

        Finally, right before dawn,
it was Vincent who managed to find them with a single military vehicle
and a couple of familiar guards from the Presidential Estate. Surprise,
surprise. Maybe he'd just known where to look. He hadn't needed
much of an explanation, and he didn't ask for one; he only took them to
the train station with the promise that everyone would be informed that
they were safe. They wouldn't need to seek the outside world until
they were ready. It just... seemed the step to take after merely
looking at them, really.

        They went home in silence.
The kind of silence one found themselves comfortable in when they'd been
around each other for a long time. But even then... the walk from
the station and back to the house in the dark seemed... less than whole.

        It wasn't that they weren't
complete without him, in themselves... but that didn't really stop the
feeling of incompleteness with him left behind. Oblivion, that's
what it was. And it... was not so pleasant. Unfinished business...
and a friend they had no idea if they'd ever see again. In one respect,
sleep came easily... but in another, it just wasn't soon enough.

        Adjusting to the odd idea
of day and night was somehow a little harder than it seemed it should be.
That might have been because they'd slept well into the afternoon for several
days, but... even then.

        At least they were nestled
together, safe and sound, rotting their brains out with television in the
living room for the third night in a row. The couch felt extra glorious
after all of... "that"... But just as they were settling in to another
somewhat decent sitcom, the distinct sound of the doorbell jarred them
out of their pleasant entertainment coma.

        Rodger looked over at the
door quizzically. "Expecting anyone?"

        She shook her head.
"Vincent isn't supposed to get here until tonight. And no one else
was invited." She grinned slightly, getting off the couch and walking
over. "Maybe it's pizza even before we called. Wouldn't that
be nice?" She joked, looking through the tiny window.

        Her breath stopped.
Even her heart seemed to have waited out the pause. Certainly her
brain had ceased functioning properly. Not quite believing, she switched
the locks. With a slow, tense motion, she turned the knob and pulled
it toward her... then leapt on top of the visitor.

        Wordlessly, John returned
the hug. "Hey, babe." He whispered, grinning.

        Rodger appeared behind her,
looking quite happy about the whole thing. Regardless, his greeting
consisted of, "What the hell took you so long?"

        He seemed kind of... different.
Not in a bad way, and not like a whole other person or anything.
But... different. It wasn't in a way that actually came through his
motions, his laughter, his eyes... but it was there, just the same.
They'd gathered around him at the kitchen table as though he were a sage
and storyteller, eager to get the details.

        In all honesty, he had very
little to say. It wasn't because nothing had happened, of course...
but it didn't seem the sort of conversation to have at the moment.
He described the Chamber of Souls, gave them the gist of what happened...
and that's all that was needed. Moments later, pizza was called for.
They'd all earned a damn good meal.

        As they waited, Kyrie started
the more probing questions. "How the fuck did you get out?"

        "I... I don't know."
He answered honestly, sitting back and relaxing. "One minute, I was
falling... and the next, I was in the middle of 'Esthar'," he pronounced
the word to the best of his ability, "With a seriously full bladder and
a bunch of bruises."

        Rodger laughed quietly.
"And how'd you find your way here?"

        "Pure stupid luck."
John admitted. "I just kept walking until I saw a town. Resren,
I think it was."

        Kyrie nodded. "You
mean a gas station and a grocery store, not a town."

        "Yeah." He agreed,
grinning. "The owner of the store pointed me toward the station.
Said there wasn't a bus until the end of the week, so I walked until I
found a damn train."

        She smirked. "You
must still be tired." Good thing replenishing food was on the way.

        There was a comforting sort
of regularity in the evening at last. Pizza, cola, nudges and jokes...
It was good. Really, very, good. But, frankly, the three of
them were exhausted--John from having come a damn far ways, and the spouses
for having felt like, in a sense, they'd lived through the same thing.

        Kyrie glanced at the clock,
noting that it was plenty late enough to go to bed... but wondering, for
a moment, just where the hell Vincent had gotten to. Probably just
found an excuse to stay at work to keep an eye on some dull thing or another.
She found herself yawning even before she was aware she was tired enough
to do so.

        "Me, too." Rodger
commented, stifling an answering yawn for as long as he could.

        There was a look of mild
curiosity in the bright blue eyes on the other side of the table.
He actually felt a little... satisfied, in his own way. Smiling brilliantly
at his silent onlookers, he merely leaned back, hands behind his head,
and felt the sweet relief of... being. Somehow that seemed very important.

        "You're not thinking of
taking off on us again anytime soon, are ya?" Kyrie did her absolute best
not to sound like she were concerned. Or desperate.

        "You're not getting rid
of me that easily." He let loose that all too apparent charm.
"Unless you would rather have your space, in which case--"

        "We have an extra room."
She interrupted.

        Rodger looked too pleased
about that one to really question whether or not he was in on this decision.
And why the hell not--one more person to entertain Kyrie wasn't a bad idea.

        "Well then." The devil-hunter
hardly wanted to wait to hit an actual mattress again. "Shall we?"

        It was... a good feeling,
she acknowledged with an amused smile. "Actually... I was sort of
thinking I'd stay here for a few minutes before I join... well, one of
you."

        Rodger grinned. Yeah,
he understood... every once in a while, she just needed a few moments to
herself. He equated it to a certain kind of reflection. Pushing
his chair back, he stood and walked over to hug her good-night. "Just
be up soon, alright?"

        "I'm too tired to stay up
all night." She assured, returning the affection.

        "'Night, Ky. I love
you." He whispered.

        "I love you too."
She responded, sealing the words with a kiss. After catching his
joking tumbs-up just as he disappeared to the stairs, she turned to the
grinning "other" across the table.

        "And where should I sleep?"
he ventured.

        "Anywhere but my spot."
She responded without a pause.

        He shook his head, glad
to be back. "Well, the possibilities are almost endless, then."
In a quick motion, he darted up from the chair and then behind her, feeling
exceptionally playful in his tired state. Hey, he wanted a hug before
bed, too.

        She was glad to return it,
in fact. Even sneaking a... somewhat chaste kiss. Hey, he'd
earned it. "Good night, John."

        "'Night, Kyrie." He
released her, walking toward the doorway... and paused there, wondering...
But it wasn't like that. And they all knew it. There were no
hopelessly romantic things about it, nothing to be taken any deeper than
it was actually meant. "Love you."

        "Love you too." She
returned. After the last footstep disappeared from the top of the
steps, she leaned back and stared blankly at the wall. Hm.
A hell of a lot had happened in the past couple of weeks. And nothing...
too dramatically had changed... had it?

        A sound startled her out
of her pondering--a rather strange one. Quiet, but... knocking?
At the door? Not quite of the sort that would draw a lot of attention,
normally. How very... odd. With quiet steps, she made her way
over, taking note of the number of weapons on the wall behind her, then
quickly peeking through the window at the door.

        Ah. Of course.
It could be no other, really... Taking care to be very quiet, she
turned the locks and carefully pulled the door open. "Vincent."
She wasn't sure why she was surprised, exactly; he'd been invited, after
all. For some reason, though, it just seemed like tonight of all
nights, he may not have come.

        He stepped inside with a
nod, as if everything were supposed to be professional. When the
door was closed and locked behind him, he waited to be "escorted" to the
kitchen before he began a conversation. "I heard that a 'strange
kid with white hair and creepy eyes' boarded a train to Trabia tonight.
I get those kinds of annoying reports, you know."

        She couldn't hold back the
appreciative grin springing to her face at his comment. "I don't
suppose you'd have anything to do with rearranging the train schedule."

        His bluff was perfect.
"What do you mean?"

        She wasted no time in revealing
what she'd come to realize. "He shouldn't have made it here for another
couple of hours due to train repairs. Don't think I don't pay attention
to your agitated ramblings once in a while."

        He chose to avoid the subject
altogether. "And where are your playthings?" he asked with the dullest
hint of humor.

        "Upstairs." She responded,
a mild grin on her face. "It's a brooding mood, tonight. I
think they both know to stay clear."

        He nodded, understanding
completely. "Mind if I join you for a moment, then?"

        "No." She simplified,
bringing a half bottle of Quistis' favorite spiced rum out of the fridge
and a shot glass from the cabinet, placing them both at her place at the
table. "I imagine you've won prizes for brooding."

        He smirked, then turned
his attention to the bottle. It was just a thought, spoken for the
sake of understanding it for himself. "I haven't had a drink in...
well, centuries, I suppose."

        She really couldn't admit
to being surprised. "Care to take a swing, then?" she offered half
seriously

        To her surprise, he looked
to be honestly weighing the possibilities. It took several seconds
to happen, but at last he pulled the chair next to hers from the table
and sat, looking ready for just about anything.

        She shrugged wordlessly,
getting another shot glass. Placing it in front of him, she sat and
poured him a nicely sized drink. Not quite a "full" shot, but close
enough.

        He looked at the amber liquid
quizzically, as if pondering his choice again. "The last time I drank...
I really needed it." Was all he offered, taking the glass delicately
in his flesh hand to inspect in the dim light.

        She had a pretty good idea
to what he was referring. How, exactly, was a mystery--but things
like that often happened between the two of them. She remembered,
almost too clearly, the vision of a younger, naked and recently transformed
Turk assassin, tied to a bed, through the eyes of a psychopath... "I bet."
Herself, she wasn't one to do shots unless it was "competitive", like with
her aunt. Even then she'd never go that far, knowing Quisty had limitless
potential that her meager niece could never live up to. Shot glass
or no, she took small swallows and let the dichotomy of the cold liquid
and the burning alcohol wash all the way down.

        The former Turk grinned
at her behavior, recognizing his own youthful indulgences--but she didn't
need to know that. On some level, he was pretty certain that she
already did. Taking a chance, he took the full shot--almost recoiling
with the sting. It had been a long time. He realized
very quickly that the taste honestly sucked.

        Kyrie was clearly amused
by the look on his face. It certainly had been a long time.
She had assumed that would be that, but he thumped the glass down right
in front of her with no indications that he was through just yet.
Interesting... she obeyed the silent request by pouring another.

        Alright, a full shot was
too much. Maybe he'd cut it into two and that way he'd be less likely
to taste it. Trying his method, he found that it was actually worse
that way--he was still presented with a half full shot glass, promising
just as much burning and bad taste as he'd just swallowed. Hence
the very design of the shot glass, he supposed. He thoughtfully placed
the half shot back on the table for a moment, preparing himself.
The burn was already moving through him--as was the effect of the alcohol.
A pleasant buzz, but the promise of so much more... he downed the rest
of the shot quickly, returning the empty glass in front of "the barkeep"
once more.

        She gave it pause, this
time. Hoping terribly that she wasn't just creating an alcoholic,
she poured once more for him, then filled her own almost empty glass.

        "Outsider." He said
aloud, holding his glass between his outstretched fingers like a gazing
ball, merely staring at it.

        That hadn't seemed like...
well, like anything. Her eyes narrowed, waiting for a better explanation.
He wasn't drunk enough to be hurling poor insults.

        "My old rifle." He
admitted quietly. "Is called Outsider."

        "It fits." She grinned
softly.

        He nodded, but left no more
comment. This time, he was slow. It proved better to be forced
to taste the shit--it'd remind you what you were really doing to your own
body.

        Her request was absolutely
out of the blue, softly spoken but explosive. "Don't leave."

        He took a last slow swallow
of his drink, then carefully placed the glass off to the side as though
she hadn't said anything. Only then did he react, meeting her eyes
with a completely serious sincerity. His voice was quiet, rather
than accusatory. "Why do you assume I would?"

        She smiled at that ever
so slightly, diverting her eyes for a moment. "Just thought I'd make
sure." There had been a worry. A very deep, very real worry
there. It was completely unrealistic to think that he'd have left
no matter how many people were living in the house, regardless of the fact
Cloud was still around, but... she knew sometimes that unrealistic fears
had very real bases. He was one to run away, once. She knew
that. "Once" did not mean "still", but...

        He pulled away, leaning
against the back of the chair with his arms crossed. It was a thoughtful
sort of position; one that he held to silently until she made eye contact
again. "The nightmares rarely come, anymore."

        It was her turn to wait
in silence for a short time, taking that information in. That was
good, very good--and meaningful on a whole other level, perhaps.

        "And I think..." he continued,
just as thoughtfully, "That if I were to leave, that much would no longer
be the case."

        "So insomnia keeps you here?"
she teased.

        He smiled at that, just
buzzed enough not to give a fuck what emotions surfaced. "Yes.
And that is all."

        Yeah, it'd been a joke.
But she gave him a Squall-esque look of death anyway.

        Vincent chuckled softly,
taking the glass in his hand again, but not drawing it to his lips. "You've
been through a lot, you know."

        What a fucking understatement.
"Yes, I am aware."

        "And you keep coming back."
He let the smile through again, albeit a bit more devious this time.

        She watched that smile like
a hungry predator over wounded prey. She never would have believed
it, but there was... something to it. Honestly and truly, he was...
he was giving her a signal "Did I wear you down, old man?"

        "No." He denied, watching
her hopeful look perish with a well drawn out pause. "The liquor
did."

        More to come... I didn't
think there ever would be, when I finished this story. But there
is. Oh boy is there.
- 12
- 13
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Descendants of the Mundane