AUTHOR'S NOTE: My first Final Fantasy fanfic (actually it started out as a post for a roleplay) and it centers around the turks. The plot of the roleplay was that the life stream starts to revolt and people start to come back to life. Not sure if I want to keep that guideline, or stray away.

If you enjoy it, please review!

Falsities

"Don't know . . . . Don't care . . . . This is stu- "

She paused, the tip of her pen suspended mid-stroke, ready to make a small X.


"Wait a second . . . "

She placed the back of then pen to her lips and bit down, her head unconsciously leaning towards the paper as if her eyes couldn't be trusted to read correctly. Sheets of paper lay carelessly strewn about her small, substitute desk, each one with nearly identical headers: Is Shin-Ra going too far?'.

How the hell am I supposed to know? She thought indifferently, This isn't even my job! I should be off assassinating some runaway Soldier, or prying someone for important information! No. I was here, in this cramped little office doing the work for some kind of secretary. A secretary! Years of training waisted so I could sit at a desk?

Her eyes scanned the sheet of paper that she gripped loosely in her hand, her conscience reeling over the contents of the paragraph. A moment later, her mind was back to fuming.

And let's not forget who's fault this whole situation is. four letters: R-E-N-O. If that little bastard hadn't come back after being hurt, I would be off in his place probably interrogating some kind of rich tycoon!

Once again, she read the article. It's contents just didn't make sense. Why would someone write an article that she knew was so blatantly false? Her mouth moved in unison with the words her brain was trying desperately to comprehend.

Rufus Shinra . . . dead?

Fingers pressed against her lips as she tried to hold back a chuckle. This was such a joke! She knew very well that Rufus Shinra was sitting in his office across the hall at this very moment, probably in some kind of meeting. The nerve of some people!
She continued on, her smiled being slowly replaced with a scowl.

This is some scary shit these people are writing about. The life stream revolting, people dropping dead for no reason. She froze in the middle of the sentence.
The dead coming back . . . Swallowing a lump that was ascending up her throat, she continued to read on.
To life?

The article tightened in her grasp, accompanied by small sound escaping from her lips. A gasp?
She shook her head in an attempt to regain composure.

There's freaking zombies running around Midgar?

This must be a lie; it had to be! Zombies? At least, she hoped it was a lie.
To be sure that this article would reach Shinra, she placed it in a separate pile on the far end of her desk.

" . . . no . . . no . . . haven't the slightest clue . . ."

She continued to check each article for significance, every 'no' accompanied by the flick of her wrist near the bottom of the paper. But she was slower, more deliberate than she had been when she started. Was she really that scared?
Out of the corner of her eye noticed the pile of ''be sure to show Shinra'' growing considerably larger. Should she risk interrupting him and see him immediately? Or wait until it could be too late?

I'm sure he already is aware of this problem . . . She tried to reassure herself, But . . . I can't just sit back and risk that.

The chair swiveled under her as she lifted herself, her hands propelling her up enthusiastically from the desk. Not the best idea, because her mug of coffee managed to spill itself all over her now-empty seat. That's right, it spilled itself. Elena had absolutely nothing to do with it. Besides, she was a Turk, and Turks don't clean (well, except Rude . . . he seems to like cleaning. Or, maybe it was because he would doing anything one of his comrades told him?) She dismissed the spilled coffee and danced to the other side of the desk to collect the pile of documents, the papers barely skimming the puddle of brown liquid as she tried to gather them.


"Wheres Rude when you need him?"She murmured through gritted teeth.

Giving the papers a quick shake down, she managed to press them against her chest and make her way out the door and into the white hallway. This bland hallway reminded her that 'hey, at least you're office doesn't look like this.'
Her hand brushed against the smooth concrete of the door as she silently counted each number.

"447 . . . 448 . . . 449 . . . here it is, 450."

She cleared her throat, her face almost touching the cool metal door of office № 450.

"Sir," She gave barely a moments pause before continuing, "By any chance, are you dead?"