the sunshine never comes

before

You can only get so low before you decide to just lie down and die. I guess that's why I'm writing this, so that you'll have an idea of why I did what I did. Why I became who I am.

I used to be a very different person.

I used to sit on the park bench in the fall, early in the morning, and watch the passersby. I'd make up stories about where they were going, what they were doing, who they were. It was just a way to pass time, but it was one I was fond of. The days were easy, pleasant, and I did not know sadness.

I used to be bright and cheery. I used to smile, sing, dance; I used to laugh too long, too loudly, and too often. I never worried about money; I never worried about where my next meal would come from. I was ignorant, blissfully so, and peaceful. My life wasn't perfect, but I didn't know the difference; I didn't know what I was missing, and more importantly, I didn't care. I had freedom. I had a roof over my head, a precious friend, and a life that nothing could touch. So I thought.

I used to be whole. I used to be unblemished, naïve and innocent. I used to think my biggest problem was my father's men chasing me—even that was a distant and vague worry. Wutai was so far away; my father was so far away. His anger, his hate and his disappointment could no longer touch me. The ghost of my mother would no longer haunt me.

I used to be a real girl, with a working heart and limbs that weren't spider-thin and shaking. I used to smile openly and love freely. I used to sleep through the night; I used to have sweet dreams. I used think that nightmares would be forgotten when I woke in the morning.

I never thought they could chase me into my waking hours.

I never thought it would come to this.

I stand in front of a picturesque farm, holding the reins of my passenger bird loosely in my hands. My feet touch foreign soil for the first time in my life and I shiver from cold and from fear, yet it is the excitement pounding through my veins that makes me giddy.

I am so, so alive.

It feels like I've done the impossible—yet impossible it is not, because here I am, only seventeen years old and finally free. Free from my father and his stern lectures on what an heiress should be, free from the responsibility of making him proud as I strove daily to do the impossible. Free from the haunting of my absent mother, from the fading memories of her fading caresses. Free.

I can help Wutai better by not being there, I tell myself. I can help her from afar. This is something I need.

I can't stop the grin from stealing my face as lovely implications rise to mind. I realize I can sleep as late as I want and stay up as late as I want. I can eat what I want, when I want, where I want. I can speak common or Wutaian, whatever strikes my fancy.

I am young, free, and so, so alive.

The September air is warm and welcoming; a pleasant breeze caresses me as I wait for the breeder to finish his examination of the passenger bird. I know I have ridden him possibly too hard and too fast, but though the journey here was strenuous, I am sure my buyer will find the steed to be in workable shape. Passenger birds—Chocobos, as they are better known—are sturdy beasts.

I had intended to dispose of my Chocobo almost immediately at the stables outside of city of Midgar and then enter the city at once; however, the examination of my bird has taken up a good deal of my morning. I can't really say I mind. It gives my body a pleasant rest, my mind a chance to wander. The grasses are green and the skies blue. At high noon now, the sunshine is beating down on the backs of my uncovered shoulders and legs. Wearing a tank top and shorts now seems like a wise decision, rather than the last minute choice it really was.

Choco Billy, I think he is called, finally straightens. He looks maybe ten years older than me—ridiculously young to own his own ranch, or even to go by the name of Choco Billy. I was honestly disappointed not to see a gruff rancher with a graying beard and eyebrows so bushy they deserve of a paddock of their own. Nevertheless, gray beard or not, he seems to be knowledgeable of his trade. He paces over to me, exuding the same calm demeanor I assume he uses to settle restless beasts, but with a disapproving tilt to his eyebrow.

"You certainly drove him hard." He tells me, a gentle scolding in his voice.

I brazenly ignore it and tell him, evenly, "I did what I had to."

"'What you had to?' And what was that? Run him like every guard hound in Midgar was after him?"

I remain silent, but mentally retort, no, it was just the Palace guard of the Pagoda, one very angry couple who's sunny yellow Chocobo just went missing, and anyone else my father could send after me. For someone he hates—someone he wants dead—he certainly put a great deal of effort into stopping my departure.

He shakes his head at my lack of response but says, "I'll give you fifteen for him."

I honestly stumble backwards and balk, staring at the man in extreme consternation and panic. "Fif-fifteen?" I can hear my plans crashing to the ground around me in a magnificent show of failure. There is no way I can survive in Midgar on that amount.

He looks askance at me, obviously wondering where this ignorant rube came from. (This, I must say, is a bit rich coming from a guy named Billy.) "Fifteen thousand."

"Oh." I awkwardly scratch the back of my now sunburned shoulders. Chances of regaining negotiating edge? "Uh. Well. That's different." Zero.

Somewhere in Wutai, my diplomacy and negotiations tutor has rolled over in his bed.

As I enter the city, I waste a moment to count the coin in my hand and mourn the color of my bird's yellow feathers, and thus how cheaply they were sold. Fifteen thousand Midgar coins may sound like a goodly amount, but it is not the large sum I was hoping for. Still, I am crafty if nothing else and I am sure I will find a way to make it work.

Of course my father, with all his airs and honor and glory, would have scoffed and scorned the thought of the heiress of Wutai riding a common yellow Chocobo. I didn't think much of it, however—that particular bird was the easiest to steal, and I've never cared much for finery. No gold or silver Chocobos for me, please; a sturdy yellow steed is all I need.

Besides, I've always felt that the yellow variety is the most pleasant and agreeable of all those hulking birds. Greens are too flighty for my taste, their legs to slim, their feathers always shifting. Blues are too aloof—they so dislike being told what to do—and our personalities are quite too dominant not to clash. No, yellows are the breed for me.

I allow myself a smile at the nonsensical thoughts, but acknowledge that I'm running away with myself. There are still things to be done—while the extra coin clinking in my pocket is a relief, it will do me no good if I can't find an inn. Spending my first night in Lower Midgar on the streets is definitely not what I had in mind when I set out.

I am in Sector Six of Lower Midgar, and the streets are lined with bustling shops. Ambient glow from the stores' neon lights illuminates the street, so intense it provides mimicry of daytime in the ever-constant dark. It takes everything in my power not to submit to the brightly lit allures that are so desirously arranged in their windows. It is only through supreme strength of will that I pull my eyes from their delights; I find myself walking up to the door of the first inn that catches my hard-to-gain attention. It is large, brightly lit, and pleasing to the eye; it will do nicely, I decide.

There is a sign by the entrance, decorated with a flying blue bird, which proclaims it is the Bird in Hand Inn. I think it's a funny name for an inn, but enter regardless. The main room is abuzz with life and energy and laughter. It is as much an inn as a bar or tavern, I realize, but this doesn't bother me. It reminds me of the Turtle's Paradise, a bar back in Wutai, and I decide I will feel quite at home here.

The man behind the counter, old enough to be my father, has a friendly smile and it becomes friendlier still at the sight of coin in my hand.

"What can I do for the miss?" The greeting is pleasant. I manage a brave smile up at him. I have never been timid by nature, but I find the thought of this daunting. It is my first real encounter with a citizen of Midgar—the man I sold the Chocobo to was outside the city limits; technicalities always matter.

"A room, please, if you have any free—and dinner too, if you can manage it." To my surprise, my voice is as strong as I would like it. The realization puts a bit more confidence into my speech and manner.

"That I can. We have a room overlooking the street—a decent view for a traveler like yourself. Would that please the miss?"

"It would, very much so."

The room, once shown, proves itself to be quite a nice little space; it is airy and open, clean and uncluttered. "The miss" is quite pleased. The simple yet sturdy furniture welcomes a long stay, and the notion is quite appealing to me. Unlike most inns—from what I've heard, at least—this room has its own private, if very tiny, bathroom, equipped with a standing shower, a sink, and a toilet. All the necessities are in place. I thank the man, pay a somewhat large sum to rent the room for a week's time, and place my bag on the bed. I am informed that dinner will be downstairs in the main room and I am free to join the other boarders in the meal. If that is not to my taste, I may take my meal in the solitude of my new room.

The long ride here has worn me out a considerable degree and I don't feel up to taking a meal in the hustle and bustle of a busy common room, so I regretfully but gratefully accept the latter offer. He bows himself out, shutting the door behind him, and I turn my attentions to moving in.

However, there is not much to do. I have barely any belongings. I look at my knapsack, tossed on the bed, and haughtily decide the endeavor is not worth my time or the effort required. I turn my gaze to the window.

Dinner soon arrives—or so it seems, as I have been fully occupied watching the passersby on the streets below through my window—and I settle myself down at the small table. The fare is hearty, some sort of stew. The source of the meat is a mystery to me, but I do recognize some of the chunky vegetables. For a girl raised on exotic seafood and other delicacies, it is not the sort of meal I am used to, but its novelty is enough to guarantee it an agreeable remembrance.

The meal finished, I open my knapsack. My pitifully meager belongings tumble onto the bed: five of my sharp and shiny kunai, a change of clothes (which aren't so much "a change" as identical duplicates to the tank top and shorts I'm currently wearing), my small wooden takka flute, and the pile of Midgar coins—gil, I think they're called—I was given when I sold the Chocobo. Along with the gil tumbles out two pamphlets I've been hoarding for five years. One gives some bland, black-and-white information on Midgar, and the other is focused on the city's main tourist attraction: Sector Eight. It's a pitifully small amount of information to go off of, but again and again I have read them. I know them by heart now.

No, really.

"Construction of Midgar started in '76. The main purpose behind its construction was to house the base of the ShinRa Electric Power Company. Governed as a police state, the city is home to some of the richest and most powerful men and women on the planet, who run most of the city's affairs from the towering ShinRa Building which dominates the landscape from its central position in the city. Among these important people are the ShinRa executives, the de facto world leader and CEO of ShinRa Electric Power Company, President Rufus Shinra, and the figurehead city leader, Mayor Domino.

"It is the first of its kind: a city built and powered using only Mako energy, generated by eight reactors. It is a city built specifically to keep the rabble in its place and the affluent in their deserved lofty positions. On top of the structure lies the city proper, divided into nine sectors, each marked with a Mako reactor. Underneath the plate of Upper Midgar, on the ground, lies a large slum created by the city's unfortunate and downtrodden. The upper plate is home to the wealthy and the fortunate; there, life is good.

"Sectors One through Eight refer to the eight districts of the city, with Sector Zero being the central district which holds the main headquarters of Shinra. The ShinRa Headquarters dominates the Midgar skyline from its central position. It acts as the company headquarters and it is the base of operations for nearly all of Shinra's scientific research. Mayor Domino works in the building's upper floors. The topmost floor of the Shinra building houses the company president's personal office. The Shinra Headquarters consists of no fewer than 70 floors with all floors above 59 requiring special clearance in the form of keycards. Generally only Shinra employees are permitted on the elevator to floors higher than the entrance level.

"Sectors Three and Four make up the business districts, and the skyline is dominated by office buildings and skyscrapers. Sectors Five, Six, and Seven are the residential districts. Neighborhoods and apartment complexes make up the vast majority of these sectors. There is only one sector worthy of detailed note: Sector Eight.

"Sector Eight is home to LOVELESS Avenue, the main entertainment area in Midgar. LOVELESS Avenue is the hub of recreational business and art in the city. There the notable establishments like Genesis Club and Diamond Theater are located and performances of the ancient epic LOVELESS, the play for which the Avenue is named, take place. Sector Eight hums with life and energy; it is the main reason for any fun-lover to visit the city of Midgar. However, the city does boast many other wonders; Eastern Continental Museum, for instance, and…"

I could go on, but I believe my point has been made.

The idea of staying in an inn is a quaint one. In Upper Midgar, there are towering hotels and shiny skyscrapers; I could stay in luxury befitting my true station, Daughter of the Mighty Emperor of Wutai. But I would rather abide amongst the poor and the working folk down below the upper plate of Midgar. There's simplicity to their way of life down here that I find very attractive. And my purse, choked by necessary frugality, does not allow for extravagances like hotel rooms and taxi cabs; yet I don't mind it. Traveling on Chocobo, staying at inns—it's all so incredibly new to me. I think the novelty of it will not soon be lost.

There is a very definite break in my life. There is the Before, and there is the After.

Before, there was naiveté and vanity; there was blindness and ignorance.

Blindness I had in full, and a good measure of ignorance to help it along. I flattered myself by thinking that I could see around the elusive, metaphysical corner; I believed myself capable of dealing with all that was necessity. Nothing could ruffle me—I was fully intent on living my life exactly the way I wished: in willful and apparent defiance of every principle I had been brought up to esteem. It was in this rebellion that I found so much joy—a life of unwilling subservience had all but perfectly primed me for my escape.

And escape it was. I went from absolute routine, absolute outside control over my every action, to suddenly being the governor of my own, very free, person. I was driven excessively wild with ecstasy over the smallest of liberties—waking up and going to sleep on my own time, taking as much or as little time as I wanted to bathe.

Looking back, I am not ashamed of my youth, innocence or ignorance. At least, I feel, I enjoyed myself while I had the chance.

The first order of business upon waking is showering. The trip to Midgar has been long and hard and, most distressingly, without indoor showers. I savor the ten minutes of warm water I am given, and then quickly make do with much cooler water for the remainder of my bathing. While I wash my hair for the first time in over a week and a half, I contemplate what I'll do next. Though I've just arrived, I feel the itch in my feet that tells me I won't be satisfied until I've explored my new hunting grounds. It's a large city and I won't be happy until I know, if not every inch of it, then at least a good deal of it.

That decides it. The next week I will entirely devote to frivolous exploration; I will wander the streets and try to get lost. I don't know if I will succeed, but it will be a good attempt. I will people-watch, I will window shop, and I will wear myself out until I fall into my bed each night, exhausted and content.

I finish quickly and exit the cascade of cold water as soon as I can. Feeling human once more, I redress with haste and exit the bathroom. After I'm sure I have no prized possessions sitting in the open—it being a pointless endeavor; I have no prized possessions—I leave my room at the Bird In Hand. Having studied several maps (and realizing I can't read maps) I have found that the Bird In Hand is located rather close to the entrance of Sector Five—definitely within walking distance. After grabbing a bite to eat down the street at a coffee shop, I head over to Sector Five, cheerily whistling.

The difference is astounding. There are no bright and cheery shops in Sector Five, only dark and cramped homes, wary citizens, and ugly streets. I see few inns, fewer stores, and no recreational locations. The people I do see are either hurrying past with their heads down, or packed into groups. They eye me like the outsider I am. I do not tarry there.

I am not whistling anymore. I am silent during the short train ride that takes me to Sector Seven. Exploring Sector Seven eases my heart a bit; however it is still distressingly impoverished. Dank is really the first word that comes to mind. Still, I firmly tell myself that now that I'm here, I'd better explore the dang place. I buck up and do just that.

There are several interesting bars near here, I'm pleased to find. A general store supplies the many residents with food and other necessities. It's not a terrible place, but I wouldn't want to live here.

I step into the Gold Saucer Diner for an early lunch, and decide to call it a day from there. Sector Six is large enough to contain my desire to wander; I have no want to stay here longer than necessary.

There is a definite break to town, I realize. When I first arrived in Lower Midgar, I assumed all the sectors were like Sector Six—flashy and fun and flagrantly fluorescent. Exploring the surrounding Sectors—Seven and Five—made me realize that Sector Six may as well be the upper plate for its affluence.

Now, thinking of the wealth and flagrantly wasteful lifestyles of those who live above the slums makes my blood boil. How can they go about their frivolous lives and not spare a thought for the people living and dying beneath their feet? How can they do nothing to help them?

I consider the people living in the slums. I consider ShinRa's construction, the large city above our heads, and the purpose behind it. Barriers have two purposes: to keep things out, or to keep things in. What does it mean, then, to put a plate over people's heads?

The first and most noticeable effect of the plate is that's always dark. Any one of the citizens of Lower Midgar will likely go years, decades, possibly their whole life without seeing something as normal as a sunrise, or feeling rainfall on their face—something everyone else would take for granted. When the people of the slums look up, the only skyscape they're allowed is the ceiling that ShinRa cemented over their heads. Those that live in the slums are constantly reminded that as surely as the plate is affixed, so too is their fate, their social standing. They have no hope of joining the privileged few who reside like the ruling caste above their heads. Those who are forced to reside in the slums have no hope of change. They cannot see the sun, their world will not be one of light, no; theirs will be an endlessly unchanging world of artificial lights, unchanging views, and constant boundaries.

If the walls do not keep threats out, then, they only serve keep the people trapped within. What started as a corral for the working-class rabble has now become a city-wide cage.

The thought makes my blood run cold. Who could do this? Who could banish a whole city, generations of people, to an underground existence?

Yet, I feel some admiration for the tenacity of those exiled to the slums. Where there were cobbled streets and broken machinery, they eked out a way of life in perfect cohesion with the natural ebb and flow of any true city. Theirs may not be an elegant way of life, but simplicity and necessity have married to create a rough mimicry of a normal existence. The day to day of the slums leaves little thought for social standing or social niceties; it is a coarse life, but the grit suits them. They are survivors, and survival is fundamental, imperative, to the very definition of life. To survive, it seems, one must become.

With the tenacity and stubbornness that characterizes all life, the people of the slums have held on. They have gritted their teeth and clenched their fists; they found a breach in the wall and dug their roots in deep. And they endure. Perhaps it is only through willful ignorance or blindness to their situation that allows them to continue to live in the conditions they do. However, they survive. They have become the unexpected sight of green leaves between the cracks of the sidewalk. They have become confirmation of what every living thing innately knows.

Truly, life will find a way.

The first week of my freedom passes quickly, and all too soon I'm packing what meager belongings I have brought and leaving. I could rent the room again, I know, but there are yet more sights to see and I don't want to get too comfortable too soon. So, with goodbyes said and fees paid, I leave the Bird in the Hand.

After some wandering, I find a decent working-class inn, nestled directly between the good side and bad side of Sector Six, and therein a decent room for a decent sum for another week's time. I pay immediately, preferring to have all my affairs in order should I wish to leave on my own time.

I do not venture to Upper Midgar. The coarse sights of the aphotic slums are much more affecting, and therefore that much more interesting to me. But there is no denying that the atmosphere above the plate would be much more agreeable than the one down here. However, there is a quaint little park in Sector Six, ironically dubbed Green Park, and I like to sit and watch the people go by.

It is early morning in October and the air is turning cold. I'm not quite used to cold temperatures—Wutai is very temperate; our winters are weak and our summers pleasant. I know that I need get some warmer clothing—besides undergarments, my shorts and my tank top are the only articles of clothing I brought.

The thought is stirring and as I see a clothing shop across the street, I impulsively decide to deal with the issue now. My determination will not be shaken. I shall conquer this problem.

Sadly, I've never been one for shopping. Within a quarter of an hour, I end up getting so bored and frustrated that I leave only with an oversized, stretchy black wrap that engulfs my tiny frame. I'm halfway down the street when I realize that I haven't addressed the pants issue. I let it go, however—I'm too impatient about the upcoming day to worry about clothing when the temperatures aren't freezing.

There is nothing particularly new or exciting that I have chosen to do—wandering, simply put, is the aim of the morning. I perform superbly on that end, managing to wind up miles away from what are quickly becoming my usual haunts. The true night is coming soon—they come so early in winter—and I find myself ducking into bar to escape the even stronger chill that has settled in the air.

I say bar, but it's more like a restaurant—no, more of a tavern, actually. There is a main bar area and a warm fire and a good deal of seats. All are taken. There is a raised area, like a stage, with a light shining, but it is devoid of any performer. The noise strikes me the moment I set foot inside; rowdy laughter, boisterous regaling of yarns and tall tales, and noisy conversations surround me. The talk is loud and cheerful, and drinks are served freely. I am not checked as I enter, but I'm used to this as it happens quite often at home. Not only does being the heiress of Wutai have its perks, but our laws are much different. I've noticed that Midgar is much less lenient with such matters—well, frankly, with all matters—but this particular establishment seems to have no qualms serving me liquor, should I wish it. I don't, however. I'm a fair bit away from my rented room, and I'm not willing to trust my safe return to some inebriated stranger. I'm not stupid, after all.

I wander up to the bar, and observe the woman behind the counter. She gives the impression of being large—in movement and manner—but on closer observation, I see that she isn't really. Her hair is not quite white—some streaks of dark brown remain—and pulled up in a no-nonsense bun. Her face, if not her hair, betrays her age; wrinkles and lines traverse her features like roads that lead to that many fascinating memories. The lines around her eyes and lips (and the way she's heartily joking with a patron) tell me that she's good-natured and quick to smile, and I immediately take a liking to her.

Her merry manner and mischievous eyes are already enough to recommend her to me. I did not expect to be addressed, but when she sees me, her smile widens. She bids the man she was joking with goodbye and turns her attentions to me. "You must be from Wutai!" Are the first words she speaks to me, amended quickly with, "Such features are hard to mistake." I am well aware of how my short, thick, dark hair sticks out amid the lighter, thinner hair of the Eastern people. My narrow eyes, round face and olive skin don't help the matter. "You're a long way from home, girl! What brings you to the wrong side of the world on a balmy October eve?" Balmy? It's freezing out.

I reply airily, "Oh, the world has always called to me," waving my hand in a gesture that I immediately feel is overdramatic. Suddenly awkward, I try to explain earnestly, "I've always known that I was meant to travel." This is true, yet it sounds pretentious. I give it up for a lost cause, and continue with, "and I'm not a 'girl'; I've lived on this earth for full seventeen—near eighteen—years, and I've made my own way for the past five." This is mostly true.

The woman regards me with the wise eye of someone who has seen much and knows even more, but is kind enough to leave the young and inexperienced to their ignorance. The thought strikes me that she may have traveled herself and I must immediately have my curiosity sated. I settle at the bar, cocking a keen eye at her. "Have you traveled much?"

"That I have." I lean forward unconsciously, waiting for the exciting and vivid stories that surely must follow. "But I prefer to keep my adventures to myself." She softens the chiding of my nosiness with a wink. I sink back with disappointment, but it is short-lived.

"What is a Highwind?" I ask, noticing the drink menu sitting on the bar next to me. I take it, intent on perusing its offers.

"Something that will leave a slip of a girl like you out cold on the street outside for the next twelve hours." She responds wryly. I wisely put the menu back in its place.

"Nevermind then." I chirp. She is distracted momentarily with by the entrance of another patron, and I cock my head at her again and make a decision. As soon as her eyes turn back to me, she glances down at the hand I offer her in amusement as I state, "Yuffie Kisaragi, pleased to meet your acquaintance." I am fairly sure the royal surname of the current Wutaian dynasty won't cause much of a stir here—if anyone even recognizes it, which I doubt they will.

"Well… Yuffie, hm…" the syllables are unfamiliar on her tongue, and she frowns slightly as she tastes them. It's short-lived, though, and she soon smiles at me. "Yes," she says, as if in agreement to an unstated question. "Well, they call me Birdie. I think we'll get along fine."

We do. Though I wander the underground city like it's my own industrial playground, Birdie's friendly greetings and affable conversation inevitably draw me back.

It is now my eighth week in Midgar and I feel like I've finally gotten my feet firmly under me. I'm back in the Honey Bee, chatting with Birdie. She's been telling me some pretty fantastic stories that I'm relatively sure are just that: stories. There's no way anyone could've crossed the Western Continent on foot in under a day.

Nevertheless, I am sitting in rapt fascination, my attention firmly focused on her. Tall tales or not, they are truly interesting stories, and it makes for a pleasant evening.

I hadn't even heard the door open, but I'm shaken from my concentration by someone firmly sitting themselves at the bar next to me. I notice two things in quick succession: Birdie's face darkens as the newcomer asks for their "usual" and, as I turn to observe the newcomer, Leviathan! he's a pretty one. He glances over at me.

Honey-gold hair, curling lazily, frames his face. His features are pleasantly good-natured, with something of aloofness in the slant of his eyes tilt of his chin. However, the effect is slightly more secretive than arrogant, and the way his eyes are crinkled in a smile makes me feel as if he is quietly laughing at a joke shared between us. There is a lack of judgment in his voice as he tilts his head at me. "Well, you're new."

The words are spoken moderately and in a pleasant tone. I raise an eyebrow at him. "Yes, I am. Though I don't suppose you would be the final authority on all things new in this city." I realize I've reverted back to the prim and proper manner of speech that my father and various tutors had attempted to instill in me years ago. The thought brings a good deal of annoyance with it, but I struggle not to let it affect my current demeanor.

"True, I'm not much of an authority on new things in this city. However, in this inn, I really am master. I grew up here."

"Master, hm?" I query, putting every ounce of unaffected disinterest in my voice that I can manage.

He chuckles. His smile suits the prettiness of his face. "My father owns the inn."

My eyebrows must shoot up in shock and I glance very quickly at Birdie. She's no longer attending us, however; her attention has been taken by one of the barmaids. Their conversation seems serious, judging from the knitting of her eyebrows, so I leave her be. I turn my attention back to the man. "Does he? I'm sure that's afforded you many benefits." Mentally scolding myself at my stiff manner of speech, I finish lamely with, "That's… cool."

"Cool?" He asks, with a snort. "I guess so. Where do you come from?"

"Wutai." I answer simply and hope to leave the matter be. "I had always assumed that Birdie owned The Honey Bee. What sort of owner leaves the running of his establishment to someone else?"

"The sort who has a lot of other buildings he has to look after." He takes a gulp of his drink—some amber liquid of an unknown variety.

I consider his words. I didn't think such people existed in Lower Midgar. I don't appreciate the unspoken implication of "my father is rich," however. From someone whose father is ruler of a country, a businessman/landowner can hardly be impressive. I open my mouth to question him further, but he cuts me off. "Where in Wutai do you come from?"

"The village." I answer shortly. "The Northern Peninsula." He finally seems to pick up on my abruptness, and changes the topic.

"What is your name," is the next query. I have the feeling he's attempting to turn up the charm. Surprisingly, contrary to its usual result, I feel flattered from the attention. It's hard not to, when it comes from someone so affable. I smile. "Yuffie. Yours?"

"Daniel. Pleased to meet you." I give his hand a small shake.

We chat for a two hours, the topics staying firmly on the frivolous. I eventually remember myself; I remember where I am and what time it is and regretfully tell Daniel I have to leave. I bid Birdie goodbye and she tells me that she looks forward to talking to me soon. There's a certain weight in those words, a distinct meaning that goes over my head, and I give her a blithely ignorant smile and a wave.

My new acquaintance eagerly offers to walk me home, but I politely decline. I have some semblance of caution about me; he is a stranger, after all, and I wouldn't feel comfortable with him knowing where I am staying for the next week or so.

Goodbyes said, I leave The Honey Bee.

While I fully enjoyed myself last time I was there, lately—a full two weeks later—certain worries have driven any thoughts of a pleasurable outing from my mind. I don't have the inclination to journey to the somewhat seedier side of town where The Honey Bee in is located.

My purse has grown distressingly light these past weeks. It is a complication I did not predict; I am ashamed to admit that I assumed I would be using my varied, if somewhat legally questionable talents to make a living in Midgar. Plainly put, I planned on stealing the necessary coin (or, I suppose, gil) from the unwary citizens of Midgar. Two unforeseen issues have obstructed the completion of this plan.

Firstly, the citizens of Midgar are anything but unwary, at least those who reside in the Under City, as it's sometimes called. They keep a watchful eye on their purses, and an even closer eye on those who come within grabbing distance of said purse. I'm not sure if I've even had a chance to grab someone's purse.

And I'm not sure I would want to. Which brings me to unpredicted thing number two: I actually care about these people, this motley crew of the friendly and unfriendly, the young and the old. I can't bring myself to harm them; I know that they need their money more than I do.

Which leaves me in a precarious position. I am a young woman, unaccompanied and underage, in an unfamiliar city with no way to support myself. Inns, though cheaper than their Upper counterparts, are too expensive for full-time living. My purse is shedding weight ever faster and I have no way to fatten it up.

I am sitting in the bed of my latest room, counting, counting, and re-counting the amount of coins clutched in my trembling hands. I am praying for the number to change, praying for a miracle.

It does not come.

This was my first taste of my utter ignorance coming back to bite me, and certainly not the last. It was a wonder I had lasted so many weeks on my own—almost two-and-a-half months. In a way, it was almost an accomplishment. In another, it was an utter failure.

It dredged up the bitter story of my estrangement. It dredged up every wound, every insult ever inflicted by my father in the heat of anger; it all came back to haunt me. Every degrading, humiliating accusation my father had made of my character, I bitterly told myself, was true. I was a spendthrift, I was irresponsible, I was irreverent. I had no care for anyone other than myself, I had no other love than myself, I would never truly be able to take care of myself. I was a failure. I had failed him as a queen, as an heir, as a citizen. I had failed him as a soldier, as a spy, and wholly, entirely, utterly as a daughter. I had failed my king, my country, and, he had hissed, eyes mad with the fatal intent to injure, I had failed every memory of my mother that had ever made my existence bearable.

The last straw. My last memory of him. At the time, I could almost hear the sound of my heart—not breaking, but hardening into a shell. In that moment, in that pain, I assiduously severed every emotional tie that had ever held me to him. I was not his daughter; he had said so. Be gone from my sight, Nameless One, he said. When I had screamed how I hated him, when I screamed obscenities, cursed him in Leviathan's name, swore I'd never forgive him for this, he said only this, "Be gone from my sight, or Leviathan help me, I will strike you where you stand."

Driven out from the only home I had ever known, I ran. Seventeen years old, on my own for not the first time, but for the last time, I swore. Childishly, I promised to never let another into my heart. I would never allow someone to hurt me, to crush me as thoroughly as I had been. I would recover, I told myself in a pitiful façade of bravery. I would do fine without him.

The memories were a bitter drink, but I downed them as if parched. I wallowed in despair and remembrance for some time; I allowed myself to lose precious days to self-pity. And my remaining funds continued to dwindle.