A/N: Canon says that Zack died in late September, 0007; I'm making the exact date be Sept. 24.

Night of September 26, 0007

Mako blue eyes narrowed as they stared at the computer screen. Classified information was never wrong. Well, not never, but very rarely. There was further documentation to go with the initial report, collected from various sources. They couldn't all be wrong. He didn't need to look at any more to know the heartbreaking truth. His friend was dead. Zack Fair was dead.

Kunsel turned away from the screen, taking off his helmet so he could brush a hand across his face. The second-class SOLDIER stared at his hand for a long moment, not understanding why it was blurry. He hadn't felt emotion this strong, not in a long time. He'd never cried before. But he'd never had anyone this close to him before, either. His friend. Zack, always cheerful, bouncy, always with a smart comment. If Angeal had been the heart of SOLDIER, Zack had been the soul. He could bring life into a room just by walking in. And now he was gone.

Kunsel resisted the urge to break something. This was not happening! It couldn't happen! Not to him, not to Zack! His hand slammed down on the desk next to the keyboard, crumpling the metal. The ever-analytical side of his brain berated him for being so careless, but the emotional part, the part that seldom came to the front, was in control. Let them see, he thought. Let them come. I'll put up a fight, just like Zack did.

He hadn't missed the part of the report where all but three members of an entire squad had been killed by the First. Amid his unshed tears, he had smiled halfheartedly, knowing that Zack's last stand, wherever it had been, would not soon be forgotten by Shinra.

Now, he wanted to track down those three survivors, heroes as they must have been to their comrades, and slaughter them. Had they not known what they were doing? Did they not care? Kunsel felt blindly for his sword, ready to start on a killing rampage instantly, but it wasn't there. He seldom wore it while in the Tower - he felt safe there. Or, he had. But if Shinra would sent troops out against one of their own...

A growl tremored through the silent room and the SOLDIER jumped before he realized it had come from his own throat. He glanced back at the screen, trying not to look at the photograph of Zack with "KIA" flashing over it.

His usually steady hands were shaking as he closed down the files on the computer and methodically erased every evidence of his presence. He wasn't sure exactly what the punishment was for hacking classified computers, but he didn't want to find out. If anyone came for him at this time, he was sure he would explode then and there and start killing.

Four years! How had he gone four years without even thinking to check up on Zack? He could kill himself right now, blazing with anger, cursing himself for being so trusting of Shinra. Since when had he trusted anyone but himself? Had all these years, had his new-found strength, made him become so complaisant?

He could blame no one but himself for his friend's death. Yes, it was Shinra that had actually sent the orders, but he should have intercepted them first, warned Zack, gone to him, taken on the troops himself ... done something! Come to think of it - his rational side was gaining control again - why had Shinra even killed Zack in the first place? SOLDIERs were valuable assets; more than that, they were valuable, period. The SOLDIER program ate up more gil than any other of the Company's endeavors. The mako in them alone...

Kunsel growled again, knowing he didn't have any answers to the multiplying questions. It would be another while before he could get back at these computers, and for once, he told himself, that was all right. He just wished his analytical side would go to sleep for a while and let him grieve.

His keen hearing picked up footsteps approaching from far down the hall outside the office he was currently using - the night patrol was finally coming back around on his lengthy tour.

He punched the computer's power button, remembering only at the last instant not to use all his strength, and tried his best to straighten the crumpled desktop, hoping that no one would recognize the mark as being from a SOLDIER. Shaking his head violently to clear his vision - which kept blurring - he stood up and moved quickly, quietly, to the door, pulling on his helmet as he went. A glance showed him that the guard had gotten distracted by the ajar door several yards down the corridor from the office Kunsel was in, and the SOLDIER took the opportunity to race across the hall and be gone down a side-corridor before the guard even looked up.

He slipped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 2nds' floor, nearly a dozen stories down. As the car began to move gently, he leaned back against the wall and slowly sank to the floor, knees drawn up to his chest and his head bowed. Still, he did not weep; he stared glassy-eyed at the metal grating beneath his boots, seeing instead the ecstatically proud smile on Zack's face when he'd made 2nd. Seeing, instead, every emotion, every expression, that had ever crossed his friend's face. He could hear his laugh, high and throaty, his voice. He could imagine him right there, standing over him, arms crossed, a perplexed expression on his face and a heart ready to do whatever was needed to comfort him.

Kunsel gasped, quickly stifling the noise, and pressed his forehead against his knees. A drop of moisture slid down his face, beaded on his chin, and fell to the floor between his boots. He stared at the small wet puddle without emotion. It totally took him by surprise that, when he raised his hands to his face, they came away wet. Silent tears were pouring down his cheeks.

The elevator doors opened long before he wanted them to. Keeping one hand on the wall for guidance and support, he staggered down the dimly-lit corridor to his quarters. He stopped outside the door, scowling at the light that showed around the frame. His bunkmates must still be up. On impulse, he spun away, retreating back toward the elevator bank faster than he had come.

There was no way he could face anyone else now, not his friends, not anyone. He didn't want sympathy, or pity, or anyone to talk to. He wanted his friend back. Returning to the safety of the car, he hesitated, staring at the glowing button panel. He slowly reached out, his right hand almost feeling for the uppermost number.

He could be alone on the roof. No one would know, or care.

The smog-filled wind whipped around the building like a living thing, trying to sweep him off, deter him. He wasn't having it.

The roof of the Shinra Tower was rather small, for a building of its size, just a square a dozen yards on a side, with a flimsy railing overlooking Midgar hundreds of feet below. The helipad was on a sort of balcony on the next tier down, where the Tower was wider. Up here, it was like the top of the world - and as desolate.

Kunsel walked to the very edge, leaned over the railing and looked down at the Plate, and beneath that, the slums, the city. It all looked so tiny from up here - yet at the same time, he felt tiny and insignificant; for the people below, life went on without even realizing his existence. His crisis meant nothing to them. They meant nothing to him.

His gaze fell on Sector 6. There the Plate was still under construction, leaving the thriving area underneath open to the sky. He stared there for a long minute, at the ground under Midgar that he so seldom saw, yet had used to be so familiar with. How had he come this far from what he used to be? He never used to care for or about anyone but himself. In the last six years, though, so much had changed that he barely recognized himself any more. He now had the closest thing he had ever had to a family, and friends, and a best friend...who was now dead.

A loud yell echoed off the rooftop, a scream of grief and anger and pain that shrieked to the gray sky above. He screamed again and again, finally finding release from all the emotions that had been building for four years. Just because no one ever saw his pain did not mean that he didn't suffer.

Above him, far above the Tower, it began to rain, bitter tears falling from the ashen sky and burning slightly when they struck skin. Everything in Midgar was poisoned. Kunsel flinched and looked up, letting the burning rain wash over him, wishing that his sorrow would dissolve away. But that could never happen. He would never forget. But he would avenge.

"Good night, Zack."

It was very early in the morning to be starting on a mission, but Cissnei was anxious for this particular mission to be over with as quickly as possible. She was on the helipad, waiting impatiently for Rude to appear so they could be off. Reno had come up with some last-minute excuse about being unfit for duty that early, so he had been replaced by his usually silent partner. Cissnei was glad of the change. While Reno could easily lighten any atmosphere, it would be irreverent to crack jokes now. Besides, although Cissnei was sure Reno had some emotions in that red head of his, Rude had always seemed a bit more sympathetic, a bit more...perhaps human was the word. To the extent any of them could be human. They were Turks. They killed for a living.

She shook her head, chestnut locks whipping in the wind. She was glad Rude would be with her. That was all. To get her mind off her job, the mission, her part in it, the whole horrid business, she checked her watch, aware that it was the fifth time in the last three minutes. It was with great relief that she heard the door behind her open and Rude's heavy footsteps approached across the concrete.

He stopped in front of her and raised an eyebrow, a clear question.

"I'm ready," she said, although her heart dreaded the task before her. "Let's go."

Rude nodded acknowledgment and strode toward the waiting chopper. Cissnei hesitated a moment, looking up to the sky in a brief prayer to a goddess she didn't believe in. Please...let us be too late. Far too late.

Then she was hurrying after the other Turk, her legs taking two steps to each of his one. Upon reaching the helicopter, Rude turned and waited for her, offering his hand to help her up. She had to smile at him - it was a gesture no one else, except perhaps Tseng, would have offered; although she had fought hard to win the other Turks' respect as an equal, she appreciated being treated as a woman every once in a while. And today...she'd be willing to take anything to get her mind off the task at hand.

Climbing into the pilot's seat, she waited for Rude to be seated beside her before starting the blades. She let them warm up for a minute, listening as the roar drowned out all thoughts. She let the noise obliterate the memory of a friend, a SOLDIER, a face so cheerful, compassionate, alive. And Hojo wanted them to see if there were any samples left. Her stomach churned. Of all the people who could have been captured, it had had to be him. One of the few people she had learned to care about.

There was a slight pressure against her left elbow and she jumped, looking aside to see Rude nudging her. He nodded toward the control stick and she realized that the engine had been warming for plenty long. Her face a stolid mask, she promptly took the controls and lifted the chopper into the early morning sky, still misty from last night's rain.

Rude watched disinterestedly out the window as they rose vertically, clearing the top of the Shinra Tower.

"Stop!" Suddenly he leaned forward, jolting against his seatbelt as Cissnei brought the chopper to an abrupt standstill, hovering in midair. On the roof, huddled in a corner between the railing and the sentry-box that covered the stairwell, sat a figure dressed in the deep purple of SOLDIER Seconds. He was apparently asleep, although he was more or less upright and still wearing his helmet.

Cissnei shook her head. "Nothing important," she muttered. "Probably had a rough night, got kicked out of his bunkroom." What could some soldier possible have to feel bad about? Dumped by his girlfriend, laughed at by his roommates? Something comparatively stupid, no doubt. How she would like to be able to curl up all alone somewhere... Come to think of it, the roof would be a good place for that; it was one of the few places in the entire building where she was fairly sure there were no security measures. But apparently it was already too popular for her needs.

She gunned the chopper upward with a vengeance, pushing the engine toward its limits as they soared northward. Rude didn't say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her as she kept her attention focussed on the instruments in front of her.

"Let's get this over with quickly," she said, feeling she should try to explain her behavior, to herself if not to him.

Rude, however, nodded and replied, "I agree. It's times like this that I regret -"

He stopped and looked aside, expression unreadable behind his dark glasses. Cissnei stared forward out the windshield. Regret...what? Being a Turk? Going on this mission? Killing for a living?

Not being able to have a conscience.

She had been friends with him, that black-haired SOLDIER. She had helped him, given him the keys to escape. Why had he not taken the chance? He could have gone anywhere, gone underground, and never have been heard from again. She would not have liked that, but it would have been far better than the mission she was on now, to look for pieces of him to present to Hojo. What had driven him to come back to the dragon's den, to come to Midgar's very doorstep, with the half-dead infantryman in tow? What suicide mission had he set himself...?

That was part of what killed her about her job. Turks couldn't ask questions; she had learned that very early. Once they started looking at targets as actual people, human beings, the missions became impossible. And when that happened, one couldn't simply resign from being a Turk... If she hadn't known Zack and sympathized with him, made his fight hers, become one of his family even, then this mission would be like any other - a simple recon and retrieval. Now, though, she would be desecrating a hero's grave if she disturbed his rest.

Please, please let there be no trace. Let the Lifestream have taken everything. Please.

The sun was above the horizon now, glinting across the pale sand of the wastelands and glaring on the windshield. Cissnei was reaching for her sunglasses when Rude pointed with his chin to the barren ground before them.

"There."

The chopper slowly spiraled down, searching the surrounding area from the air, two pairs of eyes looking for bodies, marks of the fight, equipment. There was only one place where the ground was churned up and dark with old blood; they landed near it, on the clifftop, and Cissnei climbed out, Rude behind her.

It was with great relief that they saw that there were few traces left of the battle: even the bodies of the ninety-seven infantry were gone, leaving only shattered helmets and broken swords on the field. They scoured the area for over an hour, but the only item of interest was a scattering of large white feathers around a promontory that looked out over the distant city.

Rude looked at them uncertainly.

"I suppose Hojo -"

"Hojo can go to hell," Cissnei said, cursing herself for speaking so freely but she couldn't keep silent any longer, couldn't keep on as if nothing was wrong. "It's not our place to disturb his rest. I'm not worthy to touch them," she added in a whisper, but Rude heard anyway.

"They look like they could have come from that other target, the one rumored to have been the director of SOLDIER. They're nothing supernatural." Nevertheless, his voice was heavy with uncertainty.

"Except that that target has been deceased for a month or so - more, if you mean the original target, the SOLDIER operative," Cissnei added quietly. "They're angel's feathers. Don't touch them. Hojo...doesn't have to know; he couldn't use them anyway."

Rude nodded finally; part of the Turk job description included knowing what evidence superiors needed to see, and what could be "forgotten" and dismissed. This fell under the category of unimportant to superiors.

"There's nothing here, then," he said, turning away as if he'd never seen the feathers. "I can fly us back."

"Thanks. Just...give me a minute."

Rude didn't question, just walked back toward the chopper, hands tense at his sides. He hadn't known the target. Cissnei had, and it was clearly affecting her judgment, just as it had affected Tseng's when he had ordered them to find the targets, alive, before the army did. Rude didn't care much for whether the targets had lived or died - or at least, so he told himself - but failing a mission, that was unacceptable.

One couldn't work in the Turks for long without developing a coping mechanism; their line of work was hard, taking a toll on both body and spirit. Rude viewed each mission as its own entity. He wasn't completely insensitive to emotion, but he knew well when to keep it hidden. Which was most of the time.

But long ago he'd made a distinction: some people were humans, others were missions. It was recognizing that distinction that kept Rude functioning.

He stopped at the foot of the small cliff on which the chopper was landed, and turned back to glance at Cissnei. She was still standing by the feathers, gazing out toward Midgar. Even at this distance, he could see that her eyes were closed.

Probably crying, he thought to himself. Then: no, she's a Turk. She knew the mission. More likely...reminiscing. That word sat better with him. For someone whose life depended almost daily on Cissnei and the others, Rude had the utmost confidence in their abilities. He knew how stressful their lives were, and was willing to cut her some slack when she needed it. Just so long as they didn't stay here too long.

He stopped, the trained part of his mind taking control before conscious thought recognized what he was looking at. Footprints, in an unsteady track leading away from the battlefield. Beside them was a slot cut in the ground, the mark of a heavy blade being dragged. He knelt by the side of the tracks, examining them more closely. Someone small - probably shorter, and definitely lighter than Rude himself - had staggered this way a while ago, several days at least, judging from the way dust and sand had already partially filled the prints.

Rising, he absently brushed off his knee and followed the track with his eyes, until he was unintentionally staring at Cissnei's straight back. Whoever had survived had headed off to Midgar.

Feeling eyes on her, the chestnut-haired girl turned, looking straight back at him.

"There are footprints," he said, motioning with his head but not breaking eye contact.

She raised her eyebrows and came over to him, treading softly and watching the ground before her. When she reached his side she stared down at the tracks, her eyes barely moving.

"There was the infantryman with him..." Rude began. Cissnei shook her head, staring at the ground.

"No. He died here as well. Tseng talked to the surviving troops; they killed the SOLDIER and left the other for dead. He was in a coma at the time. If he didn't get killed by stray fire, some wandering creature must have gotten him by now."

"Then who did this?" Rude asked. "A third member?"

"No. One of the army. Either a survivor, staggering away tired, or someone mortally injured. See how they were dragging their sword." She turned away, the conversation over.

But Rude was well aware of the fine line between duty and morals, and this fell right on that slender thread.

"Shuriken." She stopped abruptly, turning and facing him with her head high. When any of the Turks addressed her by her code name instead of her given one, she knew protocol was on the line.

Rude continued, "Are you sure no one survived? This could be a breach of security. If someone with SOLDIER strength gets loose in Midgar... And if we could have stopped it and didn't..."

"No one survived. No one is going to make it to Midgar. No one, Rude." Cissnei spoke with a conviction she rarely expressed, and Rude didn't know what to make of it. There was a distinct possibility someone survived, yet how could she be so sure no one had? She knew as well as he that a lot more than their jobs - and therefore their lives - were at stake. Why was she so willing to take the risk?

"We'll fly back along the trail, just to make sure," he replied, his voice final. He didn't want to antagonize her, but this was his mission too and he was going to do it completely. There was a distinction between respect shown to a fallen friend and blatant omission that could jeopardize everything. Rude did nothing in halves.

"Are you ready to go?"

Cissnei sighed, glancing back once more at the scattering of feathers, now reflecting the sun like they were made of diamond. There was a whispering as of wind and a faint mist clouded the promontory and was gone. So were the feathers.

"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

She didn't look back once as she climbed into the chopper - Rude did not offer his hand this time - and settled herself in the co-pilot's seat. They flew back in silence, following the faint trail, although out of the corner of his eye, Rude could see that his partner's eyes were not very often on the ground ahead. It didn't make any difference, anyway, as the prints faded away within a few hundred yards. Perhaps a ground team could follow them farther, but Rude didn't see the point. Whoever had made the tracks was long gone, either dead or already in the city. Not a comforting thought, for someone who could walk away unassisted from a confrontation with an army was not someone to disregard lightly. Tseng would receive some word of this, however vague the report may turn out to be.

When they passed over the Tower's roof on the way to the pad, Cissnei glanced down half-heartedly to see if the SOLDIER was still there. Of course he wasn't.

She soon forgot about him over the course of the rest of the day. Too much to do, too many papers to file, reports to write, and the briefing with Tseng. Rude had, thankfully, been brief - "Nothing living, sir, although we found old tracks leading toward the city. Could be an infantryman." - and Cissnei herself had had little to say. The Turk leader had sensed her unhappiness with the mission and had kept her afterward.

"Cissnei, I need to know you can get past this. What's done is done. This mission is a closed book."

"Yes, sir. I know."

"You volunteered yourself for this recon."

"I know that, too. I didn't like the thought of someone else, someone...uncaring...doing it. It's over now."

"Good. I know I can count on you. However, the stress has been getting to us all lately. I advise taking some company leave. It's none of my business, but you need a break."

"I can't do that, sir.

"No?"

"I don't want free time right now. Maybe...in a few weeks."

"The offer will stand, then."

Free time! The last thing she wanted right now was quality time alone with her thoughts. She didn't want to be alone. She needed something else to think about. Reno had been quick to suggest that she write up his reports for him for the last four weeks, but she declined and went instead to the Turk Lounge, hoping there would be someone there to talk to. Not to sympathize with - Turks, even in their private time, couldn't let their emotions surface long for fear of it becoming habit. To talk to. To joke with, play cards, drink, anything.

The room was empty. She checked the cabinets, but there was no liquor in evidence, and the coffee maker was cold. Briefly toying with the idea of going out on the town and losing herself for a night, she quickly discarded that idea. Being a Turk placed severe limitations on that sort of thing. There wasn't much they could do, besides reports, meetings, and missions.

She settled for the next-best thing she could think of: she went to her small quarters, turned up the radio, and started a cup of hot chocolate for herself. She even used the chocolate mix she had bought for herself last Christmas, which was reserved for special occasions only, hoping it would drive away some of the cold inside. Sighing, as she waited for the water to boil, she sat down at her little real wood desk and opened the drawer.

Crisp white stationary - the only paper she had without the Shinra name on it - and a pen came out and were laid carefully on top. She stared at them for a while, shifting them slightly, lining the edge of the paper up with the woodgrain, avoiding the task she had set herself.

She stared at the paper, willing words to appear, but nothing came to mind. When the chocolate was ready, she welcomed the brief distraction and actually enjoyed the first several sips, but eventually she could avoid the letter no longer and resignedly picked up her pen.

Mr. and Mrs. Fair:

I have to offer my sincerest condolences...

A/N: They both - Kunsel especially - came out pretty emotional in here. I'll have them on a more even keel by next chapter.

Let me know what you think!