Author's Note: So, over ten years ago, I posted a story with the same title here at f-f-dot-net. It was the first thing I ever wrote. It got one great review, which inspired me to keep writing. Last year, I "retired" the story by taking it down, and promptly lost it in a hard drive crash. Probably just as well, it was terrible. I mean, this was over ten years ago. Anyway, it's taken me this long to revisit FFVII, and I'm not surprised to find the Turks in my sights once again.

Now, I aint played Crisis Core or any of them other games, so canon is strictly FFVII. This isn't AU per se; it implies connections between characters that aren't mentioned in the game, but hopefully explains them in time. Contains a few OCs, more familiar faces, and hopefully a moderate dose of entertainment. Enjoy!

Tseng stared down in disgust.

"I just bought these shoes."

The soles of his leather brogues were sunk in half an inch of black, congealed blood. He had taken two steps into the room, and the imprint of the first step remained, like a gelatin mold.

"Sir," said Rude.

Tseng looked at him.

"I wasn't making an observation. That was a wry comment."

"Well…what did you want me to say?"

"I don't know, give a dry chuckle or something."

"With all due respect, sir…I think the shoes are the least of our worries right now."

"That's the point. It's funny. Well, sort of, at least."

"Apologies, sir."

Tseng gave a deep sigh. "For god's sake, we need to identify Valentine's replacement. I haven't had a damn two-sided conversation in six months." Then he gagged. "Go open the vent or something. This place stinks. I can forgive HQ for getting these kids slaughtered, but not for putting me through this shit."

"Shouldn't we secure Red Bird first?"

"No…" Tseng briefly shut his eyes. "They got him in the end. I can sense it. His aura is weak. There's no way out of this place, so he must be dead, or too badly hurt to move."

"Or waiting in ambush?"

"That's not Red Bird's style."

The apartment they stood in was located in the Sixth Sector, commonly known as The Graveyard after an ironworks had forced most of its residential quarter underground. These one-room apartments were very much like graves, or the drawers in a morgue, arranged along endless, featureless corridors bored deep into the earth. It had become a grave that day. Twenty-six men and women, two divisions of Shinra military police, had gone in to apprehend the fugitive Wu-Tai assassin Red Bird. Tseng had insisted they wait for Turk backup. He had been overruled.

In green-tinted light from an old, sick bulb, the bodies were strewn around the room like a child's toys. Some might still be revived, but one boy, no older than nineteen, was impaled on a steel pipe torn out of the wall. Tseng reached out, expressionless, and pulled down his eyelids.

"The power of the Limit Break," he said quietly. "You can't make them understand til they've seen it. By then, it's too late."

Rude moved to the bathroom door, his boots squelching. He threw it open, pointed his rifle left, right.

"Clear!"

"That leaves one place."

Tseng advanced on the closet door, stepping over a damp red futon, between two motionless bodies. He called out in a language Rude didn't understand. It was the mother tongue of Wu-Tai.

"Red Bird!"

Then they both heard the sound of a ragged breath drawn in the closet. A cough.

"Tseng," came a voice. It sounded tired.

"I'm opening this door," said Tseng, "and if you want to shoot me in the head, fine, but you're wasting your time."

"I know. Open the door." Another cough. "I won't fight anymore. I…want to see your face."

Still, Tseng raised his pistol in one hand before sliding the door open with the other.

Red Bird was crouched there on the futon bedding. A small man. He had Tseng's dark complexion, and the same style of beard; a thin, wispy goatee. There were only a few specks of blood on his dark suit. They hadn't landed one blow. But he was finished. All his strength was used up.

When he saw Tseng, he smiled. Tseng didn't. He leveled his pistol, the arm completely straight.

"I suppose…I should spit in your face…call you a traitor," said Red Bird.

"You can do what you like."

They still spoke Wu-Tai, and Rude kept silent, his weapon likewise trained on Red Bird.

"Nothing I could say…would make any difference. You're dead, Tseng."

"You have an interesting way of assessing life and death."

"You can kill my body. My soul will go to heaven. Yours…Tseng…when you broke your oath…you might as well have spit on the Emperor's face, dug up your ancestors, and consumed their flesh. Your soul is dead."

"That make you happy?"

"No," said Red Bird, still smiling. "I don't bear you any grudge…not anymore. But what's done, is done."

Tseng bent closer, his long bangs falling loose. He addressed Red Bird by a different name.

"Listen, Zhang. Don't you know the words of the Sage…'in times of chaos, the sage seeks only to preserve his own life?'"

Red Bird gave a single, pained laugh.

"Are you a sage now, Tseng?"

"Maybe. All I know is, countries come and go. My allegiance is to the Nation of the Living. Zhang…life is all there is. You shouldn't give it up for something you can't see."

"But I can see my country. Even now. I see the mountains, and I smell the maple bark, and the cold spring water in fall. And when I die…I'll go there…but you, Tseng, you'll never be there again…"

Tseng stepped back. He raised the pistol.

"Any preference?"

Red Bird understood. He shut his eyes.

"The heart."

Tseng nodded, then aimed carefully.

Later, at the bar, Rude asked his supervisor the first direct, personal question Tseng could remember in the year they'd known each other.

"What did he say to you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I just…I was curious. I couldn't understand what you were saying. I wondered what he said to you."

Tseng gazed at Rude over the rim of his glass. Half the big man's face appeared submerged in whisky. There was a certain naiveté about him, after all. The thought never seemed to cross his mind that what had passed between Tseng and Red Bird had been confidential. Rude wasn't curious about much, it seemed, but when so, he expected his curiosity satisfied.

The low-rent bar was filled with Shinra employees, mostly security and maintenance workers. Both Tseng and Rude preferred their company to that of the suits. They were all too drunk to hear a word, downing beers, playing games of quarters. The chocobo racing was on the TV behind the bar, the brightly-colored birds barely showing through the grime.

Tseng lit a cigarette.

"Rude," he said, "you served in the war, am I correct?"

"Twenty-seventh rifles. Sir."

"See much combat?"

"Five tours."

Now that Tseng thought about it, how in hell hadn't he known that? It must have been in Rude's personnel file, but he'd forgotten the details. Rude certainly hadn't bothered to remind him. Had something happened to make him such a quiet bastard, or was he born that way? He'd come to the Turks with the nickname; Tseng suspected it was ironic.

"Anyway," he said, through the nimbus of smoke growing around his head, "ever heard of the Four Guardians?"

"Some kind of elite special forces," said Rude.

"Correct. The elite of the elite. Wu-Tai spent as much money training them as a whole division of regular army. Named after sacred animals. Blue Dragon. Red Bird. White Tiger. Black Tortoise."

Rude's face slackened. Tseng imagined it was surprise, but then, it was hard to tell past the shades.

"What, didn't you look up Red Bird when you heard we'd be going after him?"

Rude shook his head. "Not my job."

"Listen to this guy. Fucking choirboy. Not my job. You're real grade-A material, my friend. I bet old man Shinra wishes every grunt were as spineless as you.-Sorry. You're not spineless. You're just…Rude."

Rude shrugged. He drank, then Tseng did. Tseng went on:

"Well, Blue Dragon, they say he was a master of disguise. Died on a deep-cover mission. They say he almost wiped out the Shinra brass. White Tiger? He went down with the Honor Guard outside the Emperor's palace. Blaze of glory, all that. Probably took down a couple helicopters. Red Bird…well. You know that story."

"Yes, sir."

There was a long pause. The phony voice of the chocobo race announcer; drunken cheers, curses. Tseng sipped his whiskey. Rude watched him, expectantly, from behind the shades.

"What?"

"Well…what about the fourth, sir? What about Black Tortoise?"

"What about that fucker?"

"What…happened to him? Do we know?"

For some reason, Tseng laughed. It was a low chuckle, barely audible, like a sediment of mirth.

"Why are you so interested?"

"Sir, if he's out there, he's a war criminal like Red Bird. He could be a threat to public safety…"

"Him? Oh…I doubt it." Tseng leaned back, blew smoke in the air, and emptied his cup with a quick, violent motion. "The tortoise," he said, "is not an aggressive animal. It watches. It waits. It probably adjusts itself to suit…ah, screw it, I'm drunk. Suit the convenience of the times. If that old turtle's still alive, he's probably sitting in a bar somewhere, getting wrecked on cheap whiskey, having a smoke, all in the company of a former enemy. Yes, sir. I'd say that would be just his style."

Rude nodded.

"They taught him the Art of War," said Tseng, faintly. "They had only themselves to blame when he practiced it…and ditched a lost cause for the only game in town." Then he snuffed out his cigarette, watching the last plumes of smoke float upwards in the moist darkness. "Hell. I can't stand that flashy country music they play at the races."

Rude glanced at the TV screen. "Hey. Don't you have a bird in that race?"

"I never watch." Tseng shrugged. "My bookie'll tell me if I win."

"That's an honest bookie."

"He knows it's better than a dead bookie.-Anyway, enough of the history lessons. Now this case is off our plate, we can get down to business. We need a new senior man."

"What about Kotch?"

"Kotch is a cowboy. So he's a good shot. Who cares? It takes more than that to be a Turk. Honestly, I'd like a new senior man, and a new young gun to replace Kotch. But I'd settle for one or the other.-C'mon, let's get out of this shithole, it's sad and boring."

Obediently, Rude downed the rest of his drink; stood. Tseng got to his feet a moment later, brushing his suit flat.

"Sir?" Rude asked quietly.

"What?"

"I mean…what you just told me. Well. Is it supposed to be a secret?"

The huge, scarred face, underneath the bald dome, was sincere. Staring at it, Tseng gaped in amused disbelief.

"Of course it's no secret," he said. "Everyone knows. I can't believe you didn't."

"Well, it…"

"Wasn't your business? Yeah. Yeah."

"I just wanted to say, if…it was a secret…well, you could trust me to keep it. Sir."

Tseng pounded Rude on the shoulder, then laughed helplessly.

"You're a good guy," he said, steering him towards the door. "I like you, you silent son of a bitch. Let's go someplace classier. I'll get a few more drinks in you before the sun comes up…"