Summary: "You thought you'd seen the last of me, hadn't you? This has been a long time coming, old man..." Victims should always get the chance to confront their tormentors. Even if that was more than two decades ago... OC, ties in with AmazonTurk's O:A.

Disclaimer: I'm sure you all know the drill by now.

Queen's Quornor: It's been awhile since I've been on here, mainly because my muses refuse to cooperate when I want them to. I'm still trying to decide how to get from Point A to Point B (or rather, from Somewhere in the Middle of Nowhere to Junon) on WMHB, but it's coming. Anyway, this fic is sort of a way for me to get back into fanfic writing more than anything; it's been floating around in pieces on my computer for a year now. Some time ago, I wrote a oneshot where Akalara spent some time considering her parents and what she thought of them. Now, I've got more family stuff coming up in WMHB, so I thought that I should resolve some of her family issues in the original, mostly-canon timeline before I start into the AU deviation. So, Ak's going to get some therapy here, of the cathartic variety. This probably won't be more than a two-shot, but I might expand it a little further. We'll see.

Unfinished Business

It had been a quiet day in the Shinra building. No urgent meetings to attend. No anti-Shinra terrorist activity. No scream-matches between PMS-ing women. No accusations of improper sexual harassment. No wild circus sex in the IT room. No childish or potentially life-threatening pranks. He hadn't even heard any questionable moans, groans, or shrieks emanating from any of the offices. For once, most of his Turks were too preoccupied with paperwork or training to bother with their usual antics.

Tseng sighed in contentment and sipped his coffee. A quiet day indeed.

From down the hall came a rapid staccato of clicks, the unmistakable sign that one of his female Turks was about to interrupt his most-welcome, much-needed quiet day. He sighed again as the door to his office banged open, revealing a certain green-haired woman of petite stature. "Yes, Akalara?" he asked evenly, setting his coffee mug aside and folding his hands. He was in a forgiving mood; no need for his usual intimidation today.

She kicked the door shut and stormed up to his desk, slamming a crumpled sheet of paper down before him. Tseng glanced at the paper and then leveled his gaze back at the fuming woman in silent demand of an explanation.

"Why did you assign this to Kai?" she demanded.

Tseng picked up the paper and smoothed it out. It was an assignment, a mission calling for the permanent cessation of the activities of a man involved in a weapons smuggling ring known to scavenge from the old Shinra facilities. The paper provided his known haunts, physical description, and personal habits. Standard material required for an assassination to take place. This was a fairly normal mission, easy for a woman of Kai's talents. "She has no current assignment, and this does not require any specialized skills apart from stealth. Why are you so interested in it?"

"Did you look at the target's name?"

Tseng did, and hid a wince when he realized why Akalara was so upset. "You have a personal interest in this now, correct?"

"You're damn right I do!" She leaned over the desk, cranberry eyes bright and narrow. "I want this mission, Tseng. I owe him this."

The Wutaian considered her, mulled over what he knew of Akalara's past involvement with this man. She certainly did owe him, and evidently she was willing to confront him now. It was only right that she got the chance to face him, even though it had been so long since she had last seen him. "All right, Akalara. If you can dispose of him, he's yours," he told her, offering the wrinkled mission.

She nodded curtly, whirled, and swept out of the office with the paper clenched tightly in her hand. Tseng waited until the clicking of her heels faded away before pulling out his phone and hitting a number on the speed-dial.

"So you heard that? Yes, you have a part in this. I want you to follow her. Make sure she can actually finish the job." He listened to the question from the receiver, then hid a chuckle when he realized that there was no knowledge of past events at all here. "You'll have to ask her that, assuming she'll tell you. All I can say is that Akalara has a personal interest in this man, and there is a chance she might not be able to complete the mission. If she is unable, you must eliminate the subject yourself."

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Akalara sneered at the rundown, filthy duplex across the street. It was hard to believe the place was still standing, that he still lived there. By all rights it should have fallen down atop him years ago. Any building inspector would have condemned it. She smirked; perhaps that was a method she could utilize to cover her tracks, once her mission was completed.

She sneered again and swiftly crossed the street, hoping that it was dark enough to hide her distinctive hair color. Chances were that few people living here remembered the terrified little girl she once had been, but as a Turk she did get some media attention whenever President Rufus made a public appearance. Her hoodie was an effective cover, but people were suspicious of newcomers down here. They'd remember a short woman with dark green hair, if they caught a glimpse of it.

After slinking into some shadows, she made her way to the window at the back of the duplex and crouched in the darkness. Her gloved fingers reached up and tested the pane, and a wicked half-grin creased her lips. Twenty-five years, and he still left that back window unlocked. She hadn't been able to reach the glass when last she had been here, but many had been the times when she'd watched a slender woman with black hair and crimson eyes slip through the window during the night and early morning.

Following that long-ago example, Akalara slowly lifted the window and poked her head inside. Seeing no signs of movement or any lights, she climbed inside and lowed the pane soundlessly behind her. A quick glance at her watch told her that her target wasn't expected home for at least another three hours, giving her plenty of time to plot his welcome.

Swallowing the bile that crept into her throat as memories arose, Akalara went to find the fuse-box.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Cel cursed as he dropped his key in the dust. Carefully setting down his Swiller Hi-Life, he slowly bent down and brushed around until he found it. He groaned on his way back up, swearing at his painfully arthritic knees for refusing to obey his command. Beer in hand, he continued on his slow way down the road.

Business had been good today, he reflected. Salvaging old mechs and equipment from the ruined, former Shinra building and repairing them brought better gil than he had ever made before, enough to purchase all the beer he wanted, and more women than he had ever dreamed. Cel had even been able to buy the entire duplex where he'd live since...

He scratched his head. How long had he lived there, anyway? Long before Meteorfall, definitely. Most of his life. It wasn't much of a building, but for the slums of Old Midgar a duplex was practically a palace. There were only five rooms in all, and the place wouldn't pass any building inspections, but it was his. And because it looked like it should be condemned, nobody thought it was worth breaking into. He could hammer his mechanical finds back into something resembling their original working order, cart the working parts over to the train graveyard, and assemble the mechs without fear of discovery or robbery.

He smiled, thinking about the trashed Scorpion mech he had found today. A few repairs, a new engine, and it would be as good as new. Considering how much the little security bots went for overseas, this prize would set him up for life.

"Celebration tonight!" he croaked, smiling down at the twelve-pack he carried. A few beers, and he'd go see what sort of parts he had that would fit the mech.

He unlocked his front door and nudged it open, reaching inside for the light-switch. His gap-toothed grin faltered when the darkness did not lessen, despite the click that told him the lights should have come on. Cel shrugged and fumbled his way deeper into the room. So what if the lights were out? He didn't need light to drink. His feet remembered the way to his favorite chair and he settled in it comfortably, setting the twelve-pack down beside his feet. He selected one, popped the tab, and drained half the can with a happy sigh. Life was good.

Something crashed in the other room.

Cel started, but nothing moved in the gloom. "Damned cans. Prob'ly fell over again." Ignoring his misgivings, he reached back down. More beer, and he was certain it was nothing.

He heard a skittering noise next, but convinced himself it was nothing more than rats and downed another can. This old building was in bad shape long before Meteorfall, and it made a lot of noise. Nothing to worry about.

Then something else banged upstairs. Cel, tired of odd noises and wanting his drunken stupor, decided to go see what had made this noise. He started to heave himself up from his chair.

His eyes bulged when he realized he couldn't get up. Lurching forward hurt his skin, but didn't tear it free. "The fuck?"

"Comfortable, sir?" a throaty female voice purred from the darkness. "I hope you are. You won't be getting up anytime soon."

Cel stared into the gloom, desperately trying to pick out the unexpected visitor. "Who are you? What the fuck are you fucking doing in my fucking home!"

He heard a mocking chuckle. "Where's your famous vocabulary? I recall you using far more colorful words than 'fuck'."

"Fuck you, bitch!" He fought the leather, but to no avail. "What the fuck did you do to this chair?"

"Oh, just a little concoction of mine. It's body heat-activated, and will only loosen when it gets cold." The laughter rang again, sending a chill down Cel's spine. "Too bad for you."

He fought down the wave of panic that rose then, feeling goosebumps raising on his arms. "Tell me what you want. Gil? I can pay you!"

"Oh, I'm not after gil. I make plenty on my own." He heard a clicking sound, and felt sweat bead on his forehead as he recognized it as the sound of a gun being loaded. "This is another sort of payment, long overdue."

"Why are you doing this?" he shrieked, fighting to break free of the chair. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Do you remember ever having a daughter?"

Cel started at the unexpected question. Why would this bitch want to know about that? "If you're from some fucking orphanage or a shit-brained social worker, you're pretty fucking late. I ain't seen that little cunt in years."

Something moved in the shadows, and he fought the urge to hyperventilate as he noticed two red orbs, glowing dimly in the dark. "And you never thought to try and look for her. Your own daughter."

"My cunt of a girlfriend left her out on the streets! Little bitch was too fucking stupid to drag her skinny ass back here. She prob'ly died in the gutters, like the filthy little whore she was!"

A shot rang out, and Cel sat absolutely still, too frightened to even acknowledge the stinging pain from where the bullet had grazed his ear. "You haven't change a bit," the unseen woman hissed. "It's been twenty-five years, and you're still too fucking stupid to figure out the obvious."

His pulse was suddenly going into overtime, hammering at the base of his throat. "What...?"

From out of the gloom stepped a shapely, petite woman with long hair, the owner of the glowing red eyes. In the light streaming through the cracked windows, his terrified mind registered a flash of green as she pulled back the hood of her sweatshirt. Her beautiful face, the face of a woman he hadn't seen in nearly two decades, was full of hatred and loathing. "Hello, Daddy."