She's fourteen. On her back is her pack; in her hand is her shruiken. Clutching it tighter, she swivels to face him and meets his gaze. Derision curls his mouth (she remembers a time when he only had smiles for her, but that time is long since passed) and he asks, "And where are you going?"
"To bring honor back," she gives the answer she has practiced without hesitation.
Anger draws his brows together and he folds his arms across his chest, watching her with an expression she knows all too well. He doesn't believe her—doesn't believe in her. She juts her chin out and his mouth tightens into a thin line. Now she has really made him angry. "Oh?" his voice is calm and solid like a mountain, but with the brimstone of a volcano lurking beneath. "And how would you do that, daughter?"
Yuffie draws herself to her full height and replies, "I'll bring a way to fight back to our people."
"Ah. So you intend to abandon Wutai, then."
She does not flinch, does not let any of the hurt show on her face. All she does is tighten her fingers around her shruiken and say, "I will do what you refuse to do, father."
It's then that she turns to leave, shoulders and jaw set against adversity, and her father calls after her spitefully, "You'll be back," he laughs, "Daughter, you're a sentimental fool."
As always, he underestimates her, but she'll show him. All of them. She will save Wutai; she will bring glory back.
She's fourteen, nearly fifteen. They call this place Rocket Town for the tall, leaning, mossy mass of metal that wastes in the center of it. People begin watching her the second she walks into town.
Her gaze scans the town until she finds the store and she puts a hand to her pocket, where the stolen gil is, and she moves to it carefully, her other hand twitching toward her shruiken. Other people's hands jump to their weapons and she hears their murmured "Wutai flea" from feet away. Yuffie tries not to snarl.
"Bread, please," she tells the shopkeeper; the young woman narrows her eyes.
"Twenty gil," the woman snaps, "No less."
It's overpriced but Yuffie needs to eat. "Fine."
Yuffie pays and the woman hands over the oldest bread she can find, hard like a rock, too. Homesickness washes over Yuffie like salt-water, harsh and stinging, and she shakes her head and runs off with her prize.
She's fifteen. The trees rise up on all sides, protecting her from the sight of travelers. Stealing is much easier when no one can see you coming. Yuffie crouches on a branch, watching with vision that has gotten sharper since she came to this particular forest.
All three men are young and fit, laughing, too loud for this place. Foreign fools. They probably think with their hearts too. Yuffie feels that predator's smirk cross her face and she takes a flying leap and neatly lands. She runs out of some bushes, yelping as she collides with one of them. Her scream makes them look around in alarm. "Help me," she cries, reaching deftly into his pocket as he puts a hand on her head.
The other two pull out weapons—amateur's weapons, obviously cheap—watching for monsters, and she quickly pockets the first man's materia. Yuffie pulls away from him and moves to hide behind the two other men. "It was a giant monster," she sniffles. "It was over there."
Sword in hand, the first man goes crashing through the bushes. Yuffie quickly snags the materia from these two and sneaks away before either of them notice. Foreigners—they know nothing of strength or silence.
She's sixteen. Cid is on her left, Vincent on her right. Well, what used to be Vincent. He's Galian Beast now, snarling and fighting. Magic crackles at Cid's fingertips, fire scorching the enemy and the scent of burning flesh drives the demon mad, lashing out.
One enemy glows green, and, for a moment, Yuffie fears it's going to heal itself; she throws her shruiken, but it's too late. The magic settles like a fine layer of dust over Galian Beast and from where she's at, she can see its eyes cloud and its bloodthirsty gaze turns from the enemy to Cid. A string of Wutain curses leaves her mouth. "Cid, you deal with the enemy, I got Vince."
"You sure, brat?" Cid half-turns to look at her.
"Aw, you worried?" she asks, grinning. "Don't worry, old man. I got this."
He nods, once, and gives a battle-cry and throws himself at the enemy with a ferocity she can almost respect. Yuffie turns back to Galian Beast and neatly dodges the first slash of claws. "Vincent, wake up!" she tries.
Some part of her really doesn't want to hurt the man beneath the demon—her fingers tighten around her weapon—but she will, if she must. The demon snarls, turning its gaze to Cid and lunges, and Yuffie throws herself at Galian Beast, catching the blow on her upper arm and she snarls. Galian Beast howls triumph and Yuffie narrows her eyes. She knows how this works. Her shruiken comes up, then she launches forward, shouting, and he tears her right open, but she hits, and Galian Beast blinks, the confusion melting away and then it howls and licks her blood-stained hands, gently, and attacks the enemy with renewed vigor.
Yuffie shoots a crooked grin at Cid, vision blurring. "See? 'm tougher than I look" and she giggles, and sits down on the ground, hard.
Curse Vincent and the fact that he's the one with the Restore Materia. Brilliant idea, giving the man who turns into a demon the ability to heal. Nothing to do but wait and try guzzling potions. One, two, three, four, five, the world starts to tilt on its axis at six, and by the time she's to eleven (or maybe sixteen), Cid stops her from putting another one to her lips. "Easy, kid," he says and she giggles.
There's a brilliant streak of red in her line of vision, and then Vincent's fingers are cool on her forehead, and Yuffie grins up at him. Healing magic courses through her and she blinks, her vision clearing. "Thanks. Feeling better, Vince?"
Vincent nods, once, and they both watch her for a moment, and if they think she's incompetent now, she'll fucking scream, because—
"Thank you, Yuffie."
"Yep, brat," Cid tells her, "You did good. Just don't get whacked around so much next time."
And Yuffie beams.
She's sixteen, nowhere near seventeen, and they all keep asking her if she's okay. "Yup," she always answers and they never believe her.
So she cried. Everyone needs a good cry now and again. But it's not like she's never lost anything before. She has a whole country's worth of loss, a whole lifetime of loss. Aeris is just one more thing to add to the tarnished shelf of the past. Yuffie knows—you can't ever expect to hold onto something, especially if it's important. So losing Aeris wasn't a big surprise—because Aeris was pretty special, and you always lose the things you want the most.
Tifa approaches her, face tear-stained and hands shaking. "Yuffie," she croaks, "If you need more time—"
"We don't have more time. We need to move... Now," Yuffie says flatly.
Everyone looks at her and she sighs. "Sephiroth isn't going to stop just because she's gone. We have to get moving."
Cloud watches her for a few moments, blinking, and then he nods, once. "She's right," he says, "We have to stop Sephiroth."
And Yuffie nearly sighs in relief, because the only thing worse than loss is grief, and she's so tired of watching people mope about, miserable, longing. It was why she left Wutai; she couldn't handle watching her father grieve with that redeeming anger simmering so far beneath the surface, smothering the last remnants of his pride. Yuffie lifts her shruiken and sets out into the snow.
Either they'll follow her, or they'll rot in their own grief. She'll have no part of it.
She's seventeen. Her back is straight, her jaw is set, and she says, "Godo, I'm doing this my way, as is my right as Leviathan's bearer."
His mouth tightens to a straight line (and how wonderful those two years without this man were) and he turns away. "Do as you will, daughter," he snaps, "You know what is best for Wutai, of course, considering you have not lived here in years."
Yuffie tries to keep her hands from tightening into fists and bares her teeth instead. After everything, he is still sore about her not bringing back the materia, though she has brought something better back—herself. She has experience now, of the world, of true abject misery, of fear, of joy, of honor. The red materia in her pocket warms and she feels it through her shorts—even if Leviathan is the only one who approves of her actions, she can live with that. Because she will do right by Wutai. No matter what.
She's eighteen. The school is empty, the floor littered with abandoned shruiken and sai, and she kneels to pick one up. Its end is coated in blood, long since dried.
Loss hits her like a gaping wound. All of the kids—just gone. For a moment, she bows her head, shaking, and grasping the weapon tight in her hand, like maybe it will grant her salvation, except it won't, because she is Yuffie Kisaragi and the day the world gives her a break will be the day she dies.
With a grimace, she drops it and then walks out. Time to find them—time to show these fucking kidnappers what happens to people who mess with Wutai.
Yuffie leaves without telling anyone she's going. It's not like they'll care, anyway.
She's nineteen. Yuffie slams her hand down hard on Reeve's desk. "I can do this," she snaps. "Better than sending a whole battalion and having them wiped out. Reeve—fuck—this is what ninja are for! Don't waste lives on this just because you're worried I can't handle myself."
He meets her gaze, searching for something. "Yuffie—if I send you down there alone—"
"I stand a better chance than anyone else you can send. We need information first, Reeve. I can do that. I can manage myself," Yuffie reaches out and grabs his wrist.
Reeve averts his gaze, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he reaches his other hand up and places it over hers. "Come back in one piece," he tells her, "Or I will seriously have to reconsider whether or not I keep you as head of intelligence."
She winks. "Sure thing, Reeve," and practically bounces out the door before he can stop her.
She's nineteen, and pretty sure that she has all her fingers and toes. Bloods trickles down her in trails and she thinks that maybe getting caught was a royally bad idea. As it turns out, these Deep Ground fuckers are pretty damn hardcore.
Yuffie peeks around the corner, doesn't see anyone coming, and runs as fast as she can, considering that she spent a week and a half (or at least that's what she's guessing, she wasn't exactly conscious the entire time) being tortured. Pain rushes over her in waves but she's been planning her escape since she was caught. There is no way that she's backing down now.
Nearly stumbling, she makes it to the door and unlocks it with the key she stole from her guard yesterday, and freedom tastes like fresh air.
Once she gets far enough away, she leans against a building, breathing heavy, and pulls out her PHS, which thankfully has a signal now. "Reeve," she croaks voice hoarse from screaming, "I'm alive. Come pick me up. It's worse than we thought."
"I'll be right there," he says, and Yuffie grins.
Because he believes in her.
She's twenty-four. Carefully, she squeezes her father's hand and blinks away the threat of tears.
Godo looks up at her and opens his mouth and she can see apology in his eyes, and that's not what she wants or needs from her father. Not really. Yuffie shakes her head once. "Relax. Rest easy," she tells him.
With a heavy sigh, his eyes flutter closed again, and Yuffie looks up to the ceiling. She will not cry. Not again. Not again for this man.
Yuffie tightens her grip on her father's hand.
She's twenty-four and Empress. This used to be her father's room, her father's seat, her father's shoes.
But they're hers now—and isn't this what she wanted, to rule Wutai unfettered? To return Wutai to its former glory and then some? Emptiness claws at her (or maybe just loneliness) and sometimes, she still remembers how her father smiled when she returned.
Mostly, she focuses on showing her people why she is fit to rule. Most of them don't believe in her yet, but they will.
They'll have to. Wutai has nothing left to believe in, and Yuffie Kisaragi has always been more than herself. She flexes her hand, feels the calluses, and grins. No time for melancholy—there's work to do.