They charged. He couldn't believe it. These three men with broadswords were charging an unarmed man. That was low. Very low. He'd never seen anything so…LOW!

As the swords swung, Zidane dropped down low onto the cold marble of the floor and rolled through the legs of one of his attackers. The man swung around again, but Zidane had drawn his daggers and could fight again. Beyond the three bodyguards the window lay open; inviting escape, teasing him. Blank and Marcus were long gone. They would have lowered the mosaic out to Cinna on the ground, and with any luck they were halfway back to the ship already. Zidane on the other hand, had more pressing matters as one of the swords came down a matter of inches from lopping a foot off his tail. Zidane blocked and ducked and leaped buy he got backed closer and closer to the wall, until there was no where left to retreat. When his back hit the surface he had his first doubts. Could these men really kill him? Would they? That certainly seemed to be their intention. By now his daggers were no more than white flashes as he flung them left, right, up, down, up again; just to block the barrage of strikes that were raining down on him. The bodyguards were well trained as well. Their broadswords were large, and it was difficult for three men to swing them at one target in such close quarters. Zidane was hoping they'd take each other out, but the men would doge each others strikes with ease, ducking down, stepping to the side and so on, without their own strike rate decreasing.

Zidane's hands were starting to ache. He couldn't keep this up forever. He had to start thinking outside the box. The trouble was, all his energies were concentrating on keeping those swords off him. But he was out of time. If he didn't do something now, he wouldn't be leaving the building alive. With his left hand he reached abve his head and dug his blade deep into the wall. For a moment that just made matters worse, as suddenly he was fighting with one hand. But a moment later he jumped up, and pulled himself up with his left hand. The swords swung at him, but he parried them as his feet planted themselves on the embedded weapon. In the same movement he bent his legs again and leapt forwards, over the tips of the reaching swords, and over the heads of the bodyguards. He rolled as he hit the ground and was halfway to the window before they were moving. He risked a glance over his shoulder. They wern't chasing him! The bodyguards had given up, and were running over to Fortescue to make sure he was alright. In a moment of pure glee he hurdled the window ledge, and was almost out of the alley onto the main street when he realised his mistake.

The men wern't running towards him.

They were running towards Fortescue.

Fortescue was next to the door.

The door which led to the street.

It was too late to stop. Zidane's momentum was going to take him past the last few bricks of cover the wall was offering. So he dived forwards again, as steel flashed and three broadsword blades came out of nowhere, like chicken wire ready to slice him up. One blade was low, one was waist height and the other was neck height. Zidane's jump was between the top two. He felt the cold press of metal on his back and his front as he squeezed between them, and the feel of concrete under his hand as he went into his roll was relief. He heard the guardsbehind giving chase, but Zidane had momentum, and he knew how quick he was. It was a straight dash to the Treno gates and then a few hundred yards to the Prima Vista; but he had escaped.

The grand theatre ship pulled up into the mist once more. Blank, Marcus, and Cinna had locked the treasure away in the storage room. Cinna came over with a mug of steaming coffee. "Here," he said, "This'll give you some energy back." Zidane gulped the piping hot liquid gratefully. Immediately he felt better, although he wished he hadn't poured so much boiling water down his throat at onece. "You just wait 'till I get some hands on some proper coffee! The nobles back there in Treno have some good stuff."

"Shut up, Cinna," said an exhausted Zidane. "So," he added, "Where's this mosaic going to? Our hideout?"

"Nah," said Blank, "This baby's gonna make us a lot of gil. There's an artist in Lindblum who'll pay a lot for this."

"Artist…Lowell?"

Blank laughed. "Lowell's the actor. Protentious git, we'd never nick anything for him. The artist we're giving this to has a studio in the theatre district."

Zidane nodded and layed down on his back. He was tired. It was one hell of a job and he was lucky to be alive. But he was. No point in worrying about the past. Where was the fun without a bit of risk? Some time later his worries were gone. He stood on the deck of the Prima Vista and laughed as he retold his story to the others, and enjoyed the poorly disguised awe on the other's faces. Falcon's gate loomed in the distance as he laughed, and opened wide, to greet the travellers home.