Fuck, I'm not putting a disclaimer here. (F1) and any things like that that follow mean there will be a footnote at the end of the chapter.
That wasn't a disclaimer, was it?
--STORY START--
"Right, Knights of the Round, Mimic, Mimic...seriously, why'd they even put that Materia IN the game..."
Thomas Statford had beaten FF7 for, if he was counting, the 132nd time. However, the sheer tedium of the game had gotten to the point where he was most assuredly convinced he had slain Sephiroth a grand total of four hundred and twenty three times. The teenager whom had so overly beaten the Squaresoft creation was of a particularly unamazing build, with short brown hair styled in a mushroom cut, the particular cut being quite the style back in the 80's. He wore a slightly tattered shirt stained by countless hours spent in one's room consistently playing the same game, wishing one had a job so that Final Fantasy Seven was not the only video game in one's collection. He had in his possession, at one point, Final Fantasy Ten, until he had realized that he did not own a Playstation 2. The lack of such made owning that particular bit of the Soviet Conspiracy (Such had been proven just a scant month ago. He'd figured such, naturally.) hardly worthwhile, so he had sold it for approximately thirty dollars. That thirty dollars had gone towards pizza not 15 minutes ago. His house, unfortunately, was approximately fifteen feet from the delivery limit of the closest pizza shop. Therefore, he had to order takeout.
The house he lived in shared several qualities with American prisons. The food made was generally low quality, the part of town he lived in required that he have slightly above-average locks on his door, and the occasional visitor. Occasionally, the mold in his sink would cause riots.(F1) This was not conducive to him leaving the house. It would be particularly difficult to describe the method Thomas used to extricate himself from his home when necessary, but suffice to say, rubber duckies were not meant to be used in that manner, nor sticks in those particular holes. However, he had forgotten to remove the Final Fantasy Seven manual from his jeans pocket. This will, as you may have ascertained by reading the summary of this fanfic, most likely be important later. There may be a test.
Thomas threw the rubber duck through his door, promptly closing it soon after. It was best not to let the mold know there was an outside world. His surrounding neighbourhood was something to the effect of a suburban ghetto. If this mental image is difficult for you to comphrehend, picture Pleasantville in a post semi-apocalyptic setting. As he walked towards the place of pizza purveyance, a particularly good friend of his tapped him on the shoulder. Thomas leapt roughly 4 inches above the ground, quickly spinning to deliver a spinning backfist at the unknown assailant. However, two classes of Karate do not a master make, and Thomas instead did a sort of spinning top manuever, falling flat on his arse. His friend, Lyle Carciat, stared down at the fallen Statford.
"Right, I'm coming along," Lyle said. He was all about keeping his personal appearance tops at all times. His habit of procrastination, however, interfered with this. Therefore, he generally wore a well ironed T-shirt, and a pair of jeans consistently attempting to fray into a pair of shorts. "wherever the hell it is you're going. I'm bored."
Thomas gleefully gave his friend a secret hand symbol. To anyone else, it would mean 'Fuck you'. Between them, it meant 'Fuck you, please slide down a razor covered in iodine into a barrel of vinegar.' "I'm out to get pizza. If you wanna come along, you can, I guess." He dusted himself off, gradually standing up.
Lyle nodded, and patted Thomas's back as they began towards the pizza shop. It was, after all, over a mile away. A bloody ridiculous walk, but when you need pizza, you need pizza. And they'd arrive just in time for it to be made. However, this was one of those particular days when the laws of physics are off getting drunk somewhere with the law of averages and the fabric of reality. So one of the sidewalk panels was, instead of being a sidewalk panel, instead a square sort of concretey thing as they generally are, a square sort of mesh of impossible colors. Thomas and Lyle happened upon this particular panel, and looked down into it.
"Right, Lyle, what do you suppose that thing is?" Thomas scratched the back of his neck, peering down into the rift between worlds.
His friend took a look. "Looks kinda like a dimensional portal, I'd say. It's got the swirling impossible colors and everything." He looked about and picked a bit of lint of his pocket, dropping it into the purply thing. "...Yep, my best guess."
Thomas nodded, and hmmed. "So, what do you suppose we do? Step around it?" He waved his hand over the dimensional rip. It was, after all, maybe two feet square. And there was -pizza- to be had.
Lyle looked up, and then down. "Well, don't these things generally return you to the exact same time you left? We could probably pick up something neat in there while we're at it." He plunked a few pennies into it while they were making their decision.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "...Where, exactly, did you get all this information about something that generally doesn't happen unless the laws of averages are off getting drunk somewhere with the law of physics and the fabric of reality?"
"Walmart." Lyle nodded sagely, holding his foot over the panel.
Thomas blinked. Sure, it was a perfectly nonsensical explanation. Then again, this was a totally nonsensical thing as it was. So maybe it worked out. "...Well, might as well, then. I haven't technically -paid- for the pizza, after all. But you go first. "
Lyle stepped into the portal, falling through into infinity. Infinity, for the record, looks sort of like a purplish green. Thomas chuckled, and turned around. "Well, that solved that problem. Now to go get the pizza." He patted his back pocket. ...And noticed something was missing. Namely, his wallet.
And thus, through the very depths of space and time, one phrase rang out through the dimensions through that hole in reality. "YOU -SOD-!"
Thomas made a leap towards where his friend had gone, closing his eyes. And started falling...
Falling..
Falling..
THWACK.
He opened his eyes gradually, peering about. Oddly enough, it looked exactly like his old dimension. Then he turned around. And realized what had happened. He'd overjumped the bloody portal and landed flat on his face on the sidewalk.
Thomas slapped his forehead, and just stepped into the bloody thing. Right.
-End of Chapter One-
Footnote one: Thomas had accidentally elevated mold growth to an art. The sink mold was his own personal penicillin strain, which had successfully fought off three bouts of pneumonia and meningitis. Not to say, of course, that Mr.Statford only grew mold for medicinal purposes. Most certainly not. There was a fine strain of Gamercia in the cheeto under the left couch cushion, which was discovered five years later to be remarkably good at Soul Calibur 2. <p><Chat> <Matto says, "What's up?"
<Chat> <Prince_Herb says, "Angst."
<Chat> <Prince_Herb says, "Drama."
<Chat> <Prince_Herb says, "Betrayal."
<Chat> <Prince_Herb says, "Plushies."</p>Edited by: [url=http://pub30.ezboard.com/brpgww60462.showUserPublicProfile?gid=banjooie>Banjooie</A] at: 8/26/03 5:33 pm