Author's Notes: What a vaguely interesting idea, to write a sequel to Theatre. I expect great things from myself, but the best thing is to just 'write'. It's the most wonderful experience, to have this power of words...

Anyways... this is a working first chapter... be honest, no matter what.

- - - -

The taste of copper filled his nostrils as the powder caught with fire, while the gun he carried sent a death messenger into the cold air and heating it with the cutting smell of fresh metal and gunpowder. He did not expect the scent to catch him off guard, but he pondered over it while the bullet buried itself in the hip-joint of his immediate enemy, the man with the ice blue eyes. He was an opponent worth fighting; it gave the gunfighter something to distract his mind with. The dark figure who had shot the blue-eyed man was bleeding freely from a few wounds himself. These wounds he endured silently, for pain was the clear (in fact, the only) path to his redemption.

He fired another tiny missile into the man's forehead before the string of curses as a result of his pain could flow forth like a stream of verbal vomit. The man fell face first into the dirt; he was the very last to fall, and Vincent was neither pleased nor relieved. Neither was he unhappy or untroubled.

In the narrow alley where he stood in the littered remnants of Midgar, Vincent Valentine had been ambushed for the price on his head. He was responsible for countless murders, and where he had hoped to avoid the distant past, it came haunting him again. His life as a Turk would never let him rest. When he was finished helping Cloud reclaim the world and return it back to a somewhat workable order, he had retired to his coffin once more to ruminate over the sins he had atoned for - and ones that still remained.

These men claimed that he had killed many of their brethren during his battles with Cloud. They were thugs, and honor-sworn to avenge their brothers. They smelled of sweat, death, sex, and even drugs. Many did not care one whit for the men they had lost and had tagged along to see death. Well...

They saw, and many fled. Vincent spared the cowards. If they had any convictions, they may have changed now that he's shown them the very value of their existence. Their families would not be without brothers, fathers, or sons or husbands now. The last man standing was the very leader himself, the one who spoke the most and had a big mouth but not much brains. But he was a fast shooter despite being slow of mind.

Vincent turned away from the carnage as he calmly reloaded all of his weapons. He limped into the bright daylight, trembling as he leaned on one leg and found that he probably wouldn't walk far. Regardless, he moved onward with his teeth set against each other, grinding, grinding away against the pain. It would have to wait until he returned to his hotel.

An hour passed. As he passed from the gang-like atmosphere of the East side and into the West partitioned section of the fallen city of Midgar, he saw less of young men with guns and more young children running around playing. He stayed on the other side of the street for their sake. They ignored him and chased each other with water balloons, splashing each other and shrieking with delight across the sun-baked earth. It was hottest in Midgar. The shanties were lined up in neat rows now and families were beginning to call their children in for lunch.

When it struck noon, the gunman stopped to rest against the side of an old apartment building that had fallen thousands of feet above to crumble like a paper bag into the ground below. The structure was compromised with cracks and pieces missing from the top. Small weeds and grasses grew near the bottom and the rubble bowled out where the rest had fallen in melancholy pieces. He leaned against the wall there, his head bent as he kept his breath in control. The daylight didn't pierce the shadows, but the unbearable heat still made the sweat crawl over his flesh. It felt like insects. Insects that all began to hiss like cicadas in the heat of day. Slow, agonizing pulses of unsynchronized sound. Swelling and falling away like waves.

The agony was catching up with him. To give himself a break, he rested against the wall, the gunman lowering his head to keep the rising sun out of his eyes. His remedy was a bed that was still several blocks away; making it in time would be a miracle before the beast that lay dormant in his soul clawed its way from his body.

Through a blurred succession of fast-paced images, snapshots of places that he'd been, reshuffled to fit in no particular order at all, the last image fell into place before his blurred eyes. He was lying in the hotel room, safe and sound, half-naked, a cold sweat leeching his warmth away through the wetness between his shoulders.

By the look of the skyline outside, it was well past night and edging on morning. He found his clothes on the floor, thrown from him in hither-thither method, scattering the floor like obscure mountain ranges of black and red.

He stood up, swiping his locks from his face. In the bathroom, as he gazed into the mirror after washing his face. His pallid, gaunt face peered back at him with that same paralyzing intensity that left his enemies trembling. Set in that face ... two brilliant rubies, glinting with the only hint of life left in him.

He showered, hoping that the hot water would bring some color back into his body. It was a correct surmise, and he left the hotel feeling somewhat refreshed, in clean clothes that were washed after his shower by the service.

The cashier stopped him at the door. "This came for you," she said, sliding an envelope across the counter.

Vincent blinked, and took it outside. Someone had printed his name on the front; the neat white paper inside had another name that, when read, caused Vincent to nearly drop it into the puddle.

- - - -

Luciel's office, its homey decor almost giving the illusion of a second home, had a peaceful quiet that was obliterated when a certain blonde man charged into it, throwing his jacket into his chair and falling into a small loveseat that was next to the huge bay window, giving full panoramic view of Kalm's river, that spilled freely into the ocean. The sunlight turned the water gold, a body of honey that flowed from some unknowable source.

Luciel was not necessarily in a honey-like mood. In fact, he was suffused with a terrible furor unlike anything he'd known in his life. In the time it took to run outside and jump into his car, drive to the schoolyard only to see that it was empty of children but full of police, he had answered a phone call that the officer was already dialing.

The lieutenant policeman, a gray-headed handsome fellow with sharp, steely blue eyes had informed him that someone had kidnapped a number of children from the schoolyard right in front of the teacher's eyes. "Your daughter was one of them," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. We got the license plate, which is helpful but... it also links the vehicle to some very uncanny characters."

Which meant that the police could do only so much to satisfy the worries of the parents, give them reason to believe that the investigation was going somewhere. Luciel wasn't buying it.

Saph was his only kid, a light in the darkness of his life that seemed so monotonous. Aside from his bustling arms business, which generated an alarming amount of revenue, his life was empty and drastically close to becoming unbearable. When he adopted Saph, an orphan from Midgar, things seemed easier to bear. She had an attitude, which was charming and frustrating at the same time. But her love was clear and crystal; she may had have her days, but never failed to be grateful to him for taking her in.

So he'd written a detailed letter, included a picture, and sent several messengers to track down the only man he ever trusted. Unfortunately, that man moved around so much that it would not be clear until Vincent Valentine, the man in red, showed up at his doorstep or in his office later on that week.

So Luciel was stuck at that moment in his office, too angry to be hopeful, too worried to work. He raked a hand through his tousled blonde hair, which through many style experiments, refused to be tamed. Then he sat down behind his desk and opened one of the drawers with a key. He extracted a small folded sheet of yellowed paper. He opened it gingerly, and stroked the words on the page. It was old, and through many musings and much caressing, it had developed holds in the folds where two folds intersected.

He folded it up once more and replaced it, locking the drawer with a small key he wore around his neck. Aside from that, the one thing he always carried with him nowadays was a gun. It was an investment that had saved his skin a few times. And he realized that once he'd traveled with Vincent so long ago, the ability to shoot never really faded. It was an instinct, more than a skill... although Vincent would always have the better bullet hit percentage.

Nervous, he rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, trying to press the tension away from behind his eyes. A message came through the intercom.

"Luke, another box of flowers came from your supporters."

"Who is it from this time?"

"Mr. Wallace. He says he understands and wishes you the best and hopes your daughter will be returned."

"Thank you. I mean, tell him thanks for me, willya, Laurie?"

Maybe he was wrong; maybe Vincent wouldn't come at all. He had no guarantee other than their shared past that the ex-Turk would come at all. About the only thing he knew was the group of people who had kidnapped the kids, and not a clue about where they were hiding them. It had to have been in Midgar, because Kalm was too small a town to be smuggling children.

"I'm screwed," he said softly to himself. "I'm never going to find her alone!" He smacked his desk, making his pencil cup jump and spill its contents across a dull wooden landscape.