Her slim, tanned hands wrapped around the shaft of the naginata, the carefully polished wood slotting easily into the calluses on her palms.  She hefted it, gave it an experimental whirl; the thin blade projecting from one end of the staff was long than she would have liked, but the weighted knob on the opposite end balanced it nicely.

            The padded floor of the practice room was slick under her bare feet.  She shifted her weight and leaned her head back, testing its purchase under the guise of adjusting her wild blond ponytail.  She knew there was no real need for such caution, but it did not to do acquire bad habits.  An equally surreptitious survey of the room revealed nothing out of the ordinary.  As satisfied with the situation as she could be, she planted the butt of the naginata on the floor before her, arranged herself in a crisply relaxed parade rest stance, and waited.

            "You may begin, Scarlet."

            The amplified voice drifting down from the gallery released her from her practiced stasis.  Hoisting the weapon above her head, she bounded forward, landing on the balls of her feet with languid precision.  Dipping the bladed end in salute, she flowed into the ancient familiarity of the First kata.

            Movement bled into movement as she glided around the room, arms cutting the air with artful delicacy.  She had practiced the sixteen katas, progressing to the next only after having mastered the one before, for years before being allowed to handle a real weapon.  The forms and gestures were not second nature to her; they were her nature.

            Parry.  Thrust.  Slash.  Block.  Slash.  An artful spin to impress the unseen audience.  Leap.  Stomp.  Chop.  Parry.

            She scrutinized the walls through slitted eyes as she performed, watching for slots to reveal themselves.  She highly doubted she had been called upon merely to demonstrate the forms; were this a real exercise, the first skeet should appear right

about--now.

            The ceramic disc shattered against the flat of the blade, showering her with powdery fragments.  She heard the second launch and was able to thrust the naginata to full extension, smashing it almost before it left the chute.  Two this time, from opposite directions; she was able to crush them almost simultaneously with a showy whirl of the staff.

            So it went: dodging, spinning, feinting, striking, she resumed her circuit of the room, the flying skeets now her dance partners.  They shot past in various numbers, directions, and frequency, but she was well acquainted with this tune, and was able to shatter more than she let slip past her.  The discs themselves were unimportant.  All that mattered was the next arch of her foot, the next twist of her waist, the next flex of her bicep.  Even the naginata did not matter; it was merely a convenient extension of her will.

            Brightening lights alerted her to the next phase of the exercise; tucking the weapon into the crook of her arm she vaulted upwards, snatching one of the bars that crisscrossed the ceiling and hoisting herself aloft.

            Legend had it that the original training room had simply been unfinished, the pipes and the electrical wires left exposed; but the instructors found them so useful they insisted the design be duplicated in all subsequent facilities.  The aerial truss was certainly not designed for ease of use; the thin bars bit uncomfortably into her flesh as she vaulted herself onto her knees.  Getting one foot braced, she began to rise when a skeet whizzed towards her head.

            Moving without thought, she arched backwards, her shoulder blades brushing the soles of her feet; the butt of the naginata came up to catch the projectile mostly out of luck.  Nasty, she thought with a thread of surprise.  Swiveling cautiously, she rolled onto her belly, rose into a crouch, and sprang for the broadest of the central bars.

            The onslaught did not cease.  Leaping from bar to bar, sliding down and scrambling up the bundled cables, she wove her slim form through a fusillade of discs.  For the first time in ages, she was hard-pressed simply to keep from being struck; most of the shattered skeets were happy accidents, more the result of her failing to get the weapon out of the way than any conscious move to attack them.  She hadn't known the training rooms were even capable of producing such a barrage.

            It was exhilarating.

            She reached firmly inside of herself for inner stillness, finding the eye of her personal storm.  Something she found there enabled her to move from defense to offense; she was once again a warrior, not a target.  The naginata whirled and flashed anew; her palms burned with the friction of the staff.

            Parry.  Thrust.  Block.  Slash.

            She didn't realize she had begun to laugh.

            The bars, former enemies, were now her loyal subjects; the cables, her causeways.  She glided along the truss, fifteen feet above the floor, dancing and striking and leaping and smiting.  It was bliss.  It was what she was for.

            She was bitterly disappointed when the lights snapped off, leaving the room a black cavern.  I was just getting the hang of it!  Biting off a frustrated snarl, she tucked the staff back under her arm and dropped lightly to the floor below.

            The doors slid open as she straightened; she quickly planted her staff and assumed stance, eyes downcast.  It had been a long time since anyone had directly addressed her after a session.  This was all new; perhaps they were testing an addition to the training program.  Perhaps she was being tested.  Perhaps she had failed.

            Two pairs of footsteps entered the room.  One set shuffled and slid; she knew who that had to be.  The others were firm and assured; a SOLDIER, probably, from the way the heels struck the floor--they never stopped marching.  Both were abruptly muffled as they crossed onto the mats.

            "So, what do you think?"

            The dreamy, slow voice was a faint echo of the one that had commanded her to begin; Dr. Hojo only sounded impressive through a loudspeaker.  She opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off before she could speak.

            "She's good at breaking plates.  And?"

            She scowled fiercely, nearly choking on an angry retort.  The doctor sighed resignedly.  "I think I was hoping for a more professional opinion."

            "Alright, she's excellent at breaking plates--or would be, if she'd stop playing to the crowd.  So are plenty of others; you don't expect me to come running to issue a 'professional' opinion on them."

            "But… don't you find her unusually so?  Could one of your men do what she just did?"

            "Anyone can look spectacular in a training room--anyone, as they allow the trainee to become practiced at the exercise.  When you get right down to it--well, look."

            She looked up, blinded by the glare of the hallway lights.  She registered the swirl of black and brought the naginata up, preparing to check the blow so as not to break another of the President's toy army men--

            --and was shocked when he grabbed the shaft and nearly wrenched it out of her hands.

            It hurt. 

            Following through on his initial lunge, he spun inside her guard and rammed his shoulder into her chest.  She staggered, breath knocked out of her, and nearly dropped to one knee; but she managed to shift her weight and through the staff between his ankles.  He stepped over it deftly, but had to release his grip; she darted away, choked up on the shaft, and swung a punishing chop at his midsection.

            There was no satisfying thunk when the blade stopped.  He stood facing her, the haft pressed neatly between his palms.

            She gritted her teeth and leaned harder; there was no way he could hold it much longer.  The green gleam of his eyes confirmed him as a SOLDIER, but even they weren't that good.  Her shoulders bunched, straining to finish the arc of her swing and wipe that damn smirk off his face.

            But he simply stood, regarding her with faint amusement.  She tried to yank the staff back, and he folded his hands around it, assuming a nearly prayerful attitude.  She dug in her heels, preparing to pull her hardest--

            --and he let go.  The sudden lack of resistance was too much; she tumbling backwards, landing roughly on her elbows.

            He paced forward, bending slightly to examine her more closely.  She seethed with rage.  "Mmmhmm," he said knowingly, turning around to face the doctor.  She started to rise, but he raised a perfunctory hand.  She froze instinctively.

            "When you get right down to it, that is was happens to training room starlets," he said indolently.

            "Mmm, point," Hojo conceded, nodding slowly.  "But that was partially why I--"

            You damn punk, she thought viciously, her hands trembling with the need to wrap around his neck.  Coming in here and going for me unawares and making me look like crap--  Her wrist twinged, its throbbing ache evidence that there had been more at work for him than surprise.  She shoved the thought aside as she eyed the long, light hair that spilled down his back.  Let's see how you like it--

            Lunging forward, she seized a hank of it, wrapping it around her fist and hauling for all she was worth.  He snarled, staggering backwards.

            "Scarlet, stop it!" Dr. Hojo rapped, but she was beyond listening.  Continuing to pull him backwards, she stuck a foot out to trip him.  He stumbled, but managed to plant his feet somehow--now her leg was trapped, and he had an arm around her waist--and he slammed her to the ground, the impact brutally hard even through the padding.  She gasped, trying to get her legs under her, when his boot hammered down on the back of her neck.

            The sensation was too enormous for pain.  She gagged, pulse pounding in her eyeballs, and scrabbled desperately for purchase, liquid grace stolen by the frenzied need to escape the terrible pressure.  She writhed frantically, and nearly managed to dislodge him; he simply leaned forward, crushing her all the more cruelly into the mat.

            "Is this what you bright me for?" he hissed at the doctor.  "So your new pet could test its mettle against me?"

            "Nonsense, she's three days older than you," Hojo snapped.  "And I most certainly did not.  You're both behaving like idiots; let her up."

            She wheezed, struggling to suck breath through teeth she could not unclench.  Gray hazes filled the edges of her vision.

            "And let her have another go at me?  I think not."

            "She won't do it again if she knows what's good for her--as you'll do as I say if you know what's good for you."

            She ceased resisting, save for involuntary twitches; it was becoming a burden merely to think.  Perhaps he was standing on one of the large veins in her neck; the entire situation had taken on a dreamy unreality.

            "Why?  So she can try garroting me?"

            "Because you'll do as you're told."

            Garroting with his own hair, she thought fuzzily.  That's a good idea.  It's so long I could use my forearm as the fulcrum-- and immediately the pressure was eased.  She inhaled a deep, greedy lungful of air, and wrackingly coughed it out.  Spots danced before her eyes, and her heartbeat roared in her ears like cannon fire.

            "I hope you realize you'll be held responsible if she's suffered damage from this."

            "You ought to keep her on a leash if you can't trust her to behave."

            "That's precisely what I intend to do," the doctor said waspishly.  "Scarlet, are--"

            "Fine," she gasped, chest heaving.  She meant to stand, but settled for rising to her hands and knees; her limbs trembled with oxygen debt.  "I'm fine," she repeated.  The SOLDIER snorted derisively. 

            "Good.  Then you can apologize to Sephiroth for your outburst."

            Her head snapped up.  My outburst? Her lips pressed into a thin line as she glared at the man.  He stood causally, regarding her with that same smug look, not a hair out of place.  Rage and shame scoured her.  The fact that this strange freak could stroll into her training room, humiliate her in front of the doctor, and then stand there and smirk at her was unbearable.  "I'm sorry I lost," she grated.  "It won't happen again."

            Hojo's face drew down into an angry scowl, but before he could rebuke her, Sephiroth began to laugh.  Surprisingly, there was no mockery in it; just simple amusement, as if he understood exactly where her remark had come from.  That presumption angered her anew; and yet it was nothing like the offended bluster she had expected to provoke.  Ridiculously, she found herself wanting to grin back.  Jackass.  That's the light-headedness talking.

            He grinned for her. "I shall have to look forward to the next time, then."

            "Your funeral."

            The doctor looked back and forth between them suspiciously, uncertain of the direction this encounter had taken; but it was obvious that neither of the two were about to attack again, so he capitalized on it.  "You are both abominable, and I never want to hear of something like this happening again," he said reprovingly.  "Started by either of you.  Is that clear?"

            Without waiting for an answer, he barreled on.  "But I'm glad to see you've both managed to restrain your stupidity.  I had hoped to introduce the two of you like civilized individuals; but I should have realized that it was impossible, and now we're out of time."  He glanced between them again, wearing a faint grimace of distaste.  "Before we go, Sephiroth, have you any advice to offer Scarlet?"

            "Advice?"  Raising his pale eyebrows, he again smirked at her; but this time it was a knowing one.  "Shoot straight, watch your back, and never cut a deal with a scientist."

            Hojo snorted in disgust and shook his head.  "Get out, Sephiroth."  Without further acknowledgement the SOLDIER turned and strode into the hall, beginning to whistle a jaunty tune as he went.  Hojo watched him go for a moment, then shook himself again and turned to Scarlet.  "You clean up here and return to your room.  Use the autodoc, have yourself scanned."

            "I said I'm fine."

            "And you'll have yourself scanned nonetheless.  I'll want to see you again this afternoon.  Do it, Scarlet."  Stooped as he was, he had to glare up at her; that did not diminish the threat his gaze carried.  She quickly dropped her eyes.

            "Fine.  Yes, sir," she mumbled sullenly.

            "Good.  Carry on, then." 

She waited until his shuffling footsteps receded from her hearing before she rose and glanced about, looking for the naginata.  For once, caring for a weapon did not seem nearly as important as wondering what the hell had just happened.