My past few years of employment had seen the ceiling of my alcohol tolerance significantly raised, but, as one of my ex-partners always used to remind me, driving while intoxicated was one of those things that frequently led to uncomfortable situations. Either you crashed, or you got yourself lost, or what have you: no matter what, you ended up talking to the wrong person at the wrong time and spilling your secrets. Never accept a ride home from a bar for the same reason. If the company couldn't get someone to pick you up, walk, he'd tell me. Walk fast, walk with a purpose, but walk. Since I couldn't walk, I drove, very slowly, to the Borough, taking the streets I knew would be devoid of most people.

The upshot was that I had only a slim chance of getting into an accident. The downside was that I got to see the streets that most people avoided altogether, and in slow motion.

By that, I mean the streets where all the people, particularly the orphans, with Geostigma came to die. Either they were kicked out of their homes or they left in fear of infecting others: in the end, it didn't matter how they'd left. They came to the back alleys and the gutters, the places where the water was stagnant and the roaches reigned king, to die. There was a hospital to the south of Midgar, close to the Mythril Mines, that took patients with Geostigma, but few could bear to go too far from home, and fewer still could make the long journey. Nowhere was safe.

When I got to the hotel, I parked my motorcycle myself and checked the locks twice. Crime in Edge was high, as always, and vehicle theft was one of the most common infractions. I wondered what my old boss would have said about the turbulent state of affairs the world had found itself in after the fall of ShinRa. I had to smile when I thought about it: he probably would have been too busy laughing at the idiocy of it all to make a comment.

I took everything I'd brought, and, stepping inside, approached the receptionist's desk immediately. "Excuse me," I said, "I'd like to book a room."

The woman behind the counter raised her head sluggishly. Her eyes were bloodshot and wet. I noticed the same ribbon on her arm as had been on Tifa's.

"I'm going to be staying for a few days," I said, filling in the silence. "Four, at the most. Can I book a room for that long?"

The woman nodded slowly, then averted her eyes. She mumbled something incoherent.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you," I said.

Speaking at a whisper, she said, "It's one hundred gil a night."

"Fine," I said. "Here's payment for tonight." I slid the gil over the desk. She didn't move to take the gil, but she also didn't say anything as I reached behind the desk to take a room key.

The key was engraved with the room number, and that number just so happened to be nine, the only room on the top floor, and, if I had to guess, the smallest one. I collapsed on the single bed and stared at the sloping ceiling. Maybe I should have given the receptionist a little something to cheer her up. I had brought in the stash of medicine I kept in my bike for emergency use: just the standard, over-the-counter stuff, nothing fancy. I had a couple of Hypers in there. Maybe I could have given her a hand.

I put my hands over my face as if to smother my thoughts. "No," I said out loud. "No, no, no. You can't help everyone. Stay on track."

But, I thought, if you can't even think to help a woman like that, how can you ever help anyone else? You never know; she might be the one to wipe the margins clean.

I rolled over and shoved my face in the pillow. It was late, it was raining, and I was wet; I was in a city I didn't know, with only a few cards linked to a bank account it wasn't safe to use anymore, a wallet full of gil, a phone, a few vials of medicine, and a motorcycle. No clothes, no toiletries, nothing to make it livable. The last thing I needed was my own mind trying to bring me down.

The blankets and pillows smelled like bleach, and I wondered who the last inhabitant of the room had been. No one, I supposed bitterly, who'd lived too long.

I wasn't afraid of infection. That wasn't it. It was just the smell, that horrible, hospital stench, that made me strip all of the sheets off the bed and shove them in the closet. There was nothing else in that little alcove except a safe that wouldn't lock and a couple of bent hangars. I blocked the closet door with a chair and sat down on the mattress.

Geostigma. Sickness. Plague. Poverty. Death. Geostigma.

"This," I said out loud, staring at my hands, "is our legacy, isn't it?" I moved to look out the window. The barkeeper, the receptionist, the kids in the street-they were all paying the price for something they didn't do.

I laid my head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. If that was the case, so be it. I'd give the woman a Hyper the next time I saw her. I'd go out, early in the morning, and start searching for answers. With those thoughts in mind, I pulled my jacket tightly around my body and tried to sleep.

I awoke at six-thirty sharp the next morning. I checked myself in the mirror and tried to fix my hair. I stank, but I didn't trust the hotel enough to brave a shower or even a quick hand wash. I slicked my hair back with saliva and put it back up into a ponytail. I looked like a mess, but for the moment, I had to deal with it.

Putting my room key in my pocket, I headed downstairs. A man I didn't recognize was working the receptionist's desk.

"Excuse me," I said, "the female receptionist who was here yesterday; is she in today?"

The man regarded me for a few moments before shaking his head. "I'm afraid yesterday constituted her last shift."

"Oh," I said. "Do you know where I can find her? I have something to give her."

"Ma'am, I don't know how else to tell you this, but the woman you spoke with died last night. She was taken to the crematorium earlier this morning."

The crematorium was where they took all of the bodies that had been infected with Geostigma. It was standard procedure.

I stared at the spot just between the man's eyes. As part of my training many years ago, I learned how to conceal emotions: rage, happiness, and sorrow all got in the way of the job. Seeming to make eye contact without actually doing so was one way to avoid emotional engagement while in person.

"Well then. That's a shame," I said. "Well, I told her, but I'll tell you now. I'm going to be staying in the area for a few more days-three more nights, at most. I paid for last night already, and I've got my key. Would you rather I pay for the next three up front?"

"Yes, please," the man said, extending his hand.

I handed him the three hundred gil. "I'm staying in room nine," I replied. "If anyone calls and asks for me, call this number and tell me who it was. I'll contact them if it's important. I'll make it worth your while." I made a show to glance at the gil I'd handed over.

The man's eyes narrowed as he took the number. "If someone does attempt to contact you here, how would they refer to you, Miss…?"

I smiled. "Don't be ridiculous. You know as well as I do that I'm the only person in this hotel. I doubt there'll be much room for error."

Edge may have been a sprawling city, but I drove fast and reached the outskirts in a matter of minutes. When I started seeing the signs, I took the derelict highway that still connected Edge to Sector Four of the old Midgar.

The streets were, miraculously enough, mostly clear. The survivors who had built Edge had done so with the scraps of Midgar, using any debris and wreckage they could find.

I hooked a turn into Sector Five, the ShinRa Residential District, and parked my motorcycle. All of the so-called "residences" looked more like ghost attractions than anything else. In the harsh light of day, they were pigsties: rotten, corroded piles of rubble in their own right.

Too soon, I thought. I came too soon. I can't do this now.

I could see the old church a little ways down. It looked worse for wear, but at least it was still standing. The people had wanted to tear it down so that it could be used to construct Edge, but I'd heard that Reeve Tuesti hadn't allowed them to touch the building. Some stones still went missing, as was expected, but the main body of the structure remained intact.

I started walking toward it, then stopped. "Too soon," I said out loud. Then I laughed. Pathetic. Pathetic coward, afraid of a gutted old building.

When my phone rang, I nearly screamed. My ringtone was loud and obnoxious, and only then did I realize just how silent the ruins of Midgar were. It wasn't anything like it used to be. The old city was dead.

"Hello?" I answered, flicking the phone open.

"Miss," I heard on the other end of the line. It took me a moment to recognize the speaker as the male receptionist. "A call came in for you a few minutes ago."

"Who was it?" I asked, leaning on my bike. A picture of Tifa the barkeeper came to mind.

"He didn't leave his name," the receptionist replied. "Only a message: 'The president is looking for friends. Meet at Sector Six.' Does that mean anything to you, Miss?"

I grimaced and shut my eyes. "Yes, yes it does. Thank you kindly. You'll be compensated, I assure you."

"Miss."

"Yes?"

There was a pause on the other end before the man spoke. "You can't 'compensate' me if you die. Be careful." A click told me that the line was dead.

Author's Note: Here ends chapter two. Since I didn't do so before, I wanted to make a few notes about this story. First and foremost, this story starts just before the beginning of the film, Advent Children. I've tried to make as few deviations as possible from the actual events, but certain things, such as the cremation of the bodies, I've added for a sense of morbidity and realism.

Please bear with me while the story gets under way. The real action begins with chapter three.

As always, thank you for reading!