An agreement? What was that supposed to mean?

Cristobel tripped when she turned to follow her parents into the kitchen.

They were standing there, heads together, her father talking rapidly as he rubbed Mom's back, Mom nodding. Their heads snapped up on her entrance, and then Mom quickly left.

"Cris," Dad said, but she interrupted him.

"What's going on?"

"It'll be okay," he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Everything's fine. Your mother and I are fine."

"How can this be fine? There is a Turk in our living room!" she snapped. Revulsion bubbled in her stomach as she looked at this man she called Dad. This small, weak, terrified man, squeaking in the light like a rat.

The young Turk walked in behind Cristobel. "If the Inn takes her, Don Corneo will pay your debt in full, Mr. Coleridge. You will be permitted to retain your position with Shin-Ra Inc. However, you are not permitted to leave this house until payment has reached the President. I will leave a pair of men here, to see to your needs. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," Dad said. "Thank you."

"What inn?" Cristobel glared at her father (thank you?), and then at the Turk. "Who is Don Corneo? You're not talking about me, are you?"

"We are," the Turk said coolly. "You should be honored, girl. You've saved your father's life."

"I've got her things here, Mr. Tseng," Mom said from the hallway, and the Turk turned. His name sounded like sung, the way her mother said it. A foreign name in Midgar, brought all the way from Wutai to tear their family apart.

"Mom, what are you doing with my stuff?" Cristobel exploded. She didn't like people touching her stuff.

The Turk, Tseng, took her backpack from her mother's steady hands. Cristobel almost gagged.

"It's just a change of clothes, dear, and some of your things," Mom said, averting her eyes.

"Wait a minute." In utter disbelief, Cristobel stared at the three adults surrounding her. "You didn't. You sold me off? Are you kidding me?"

Nobody answered her.

"What is this, the Coal Ages?" she shrieked. "What about school, Dad? What about cheerleading practice? Mom, what about Matt? What are you going to tell him when I don't show up for class?"

"For God's sake, Cristobel," Mom said, chucking the dishcloth on the table. "You aren't being shipped off to Icicle Village. You'll still be able to call."

"We should be on our way," Tseng said.

Cristobel backed into the sink. "There is no way in hell I'm going with you."

"Cristobel! Watch your mouth," her mother scolded.

"It'll be all right," Dad repeated as though he'd lost the ability to say anything else. Now who was the mannequin? Her parents stood shoulder to shoulder, alienating her on the other side of the kitchen. As if trying on their new role as a childless couple.

"Are you insane?" she shouted. "You can't make me go!"

With that, she snatched a bowl out of the sudsy water in the sink and hurled it like a Frisbee. Her parents ducked. The bowl shattered against the wall.

"I hate you! How could you do this to me?" A cup went next, spewing water like a sick kid on a roller coaster. "I'm your child, not a used car! I'm a person! What's wrong with you?"

She didn't hear the gun, but suddenly, its muzzle dug painfully into her temple. She gasped, staggering sideways.

"Don't make a scene," Tseng said. "If you're damaged, Corneo won't buy you, and your father here will have to pay with his life."

"I don't care," she said fiercely, with burning, dry eyes. She'd never been so far from crying in her life. She was so angry she wanted the chance to hurt her parents herself, to take that gun from the Turk and . . . and . . . Look at them, standing there, staring at her as if they didn't know her! All they cared about was saving their own lives!

She heard a soft chuckle. The gun withdrew. Instinctively, she turned her head to see where it had gone. It crashed into the side of her face with enough force to send her sprawling on the wet linoleum floor.

Stunned, she lay there while her brain compiled a damage report. Teeth, check. Ears, check; ringing in the right. Blood? A little in her mouth. Eyeballs? One for sure – it felt like the other had popped. But no, she blinked, and the linoleum and Tseng's hyper-shined shoes swam into focus.

A soft click. Cristobel squinted upward. The Turk had closed his flip phone. A PHS, her shaken mind informed her unhelpfully. New model. Her bag dangled from his gloved hand.

Several men in blue military uniforms and full-face helmets surged into the house. Tseng consigned Cristobel's backpack to one, and two more hauled her to her feet. She struggled, yelling and kicking, but Tseng clapped a hand over her mouth. His thumb ground into her cheek, where he'd hit her with the gun, and she yelped into his palm, eyes filling.

"Don't make a scene," he repeated, "or I will kill you."

Up close, his eyes were brown. Cristobel stared into them, believed him, and went limp. The soldiers frog-marched her to the door.

"If I need anything further from you, Mr. Coleridge, I'll call."

"Yes, of course."

It was the last thing she heard her father say. No goodbye. No, I love you.

No, Thank you for taking the fall, Cris. You're a good girl.

Outside, one of the helmeted infantrymen put a hand on top of her head, bowing her into the waiting car. Her backpack sailed in after her. The door slammed, nearly taking her fingers off at the second knuckle. They'd done this a time or two, apparently, and weren't taking any chances with her.

All the windows, and between the back seat and the front, were caged off, so she was surprised and none too pleased when the other door opened and the Turk slid in next to her. The locks, which neither of them could reach, engaged after the blue soldiers got in the front. One of them turned around. The three red lenses at the top of his masked helmet made him look like a deep-sea insect.

"To the station, sir?"

Tseng, busy with his buzzing PHS, murmured, "Yes."

Cristobel drew her legs into her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and buried her face in her knees, so she didn't see when the car pulled out of her driveway. She concentrated on breathing, slow and deep and even, and how one side of her face was swelling hotly.

As kids, she and her friends had told horror stories to each other of monsters, the slums, and the Turks. The Turks, they whispered and giggled, were more than bodyguards for the President. They were scouts for potential SOLDIERs. They were kidnappers. Murderers.

It looked as if the stories were true.