Tainted Blood Chapter 4: The Shit Hits the Fan, a final fantasy vii fanfic

Pyro's Notes: Twinkling toilets in Timbuktu, Batman! This is one packed chapter! Action-packed, drama-packed... it's like everything just happens at once! I'll keep this short and sweet then: it's a long read, so take your time. Visit as often as you need to. But most importantly, I hope you like it. I wish you love it. But no need to be my star, because I'm supposed to be yours! Oui? (Okay, that was pretty corny. Anybody else got comments? I'd love to read them.)

Disclaimer: FFVII is pwned by Square Enix. ...wait, that's not right. Or is it? Property + owned?

Tainted Blood

Chapter Four: The Shit Hits the Fan

"Why won't these goddamn phones stop ringing!?" No matter how hard Cid Highwind slammed the receiver in its proper holder, the sound refused to die. When one call ended, another came through. And they just... wouldn't... stop...

"Christ!" The voice of someone passing by the open door; a foot soldier—Jim. He paused in the doorway. "Busy day today, huh?"

Cid nodded without looking at him, since his hands were occupied in holding his head up. He resisted the urge to crack his forehead open on the desk. "Why the hell did Cloud have to take today off? Of all days, he had to choose the busiest!"

"It's not his fault," Jim tried in Cloud's defense. "He didn't know today would be busy. Saturdays usually aren't."

His attempts failed; Cid wasn't buying it. "He had this planned, I know it!"

"Just pick up the goddamn phone!" someone from down the hall screamed, and in reflex Cid did so, Jim laughing at his skittish reaction.

"You really wouldn't make a very good permanent consigliere, y'know. The poor Don wouldn't be able to get anything done!"

Cid mumbled something Jim couldn't hear and waved him out. For the sake of Cid's sanity, Jim left without a word, tacky grin glued to his face. No, Cid wouldn't make the best counselor. That was why he was just the Donette. Second-in-command? Not really. Honorary and beloved member, yes. Mrs. Don.

Hey, that was kinda catchy. But only kinda. And only catchy. He'd never want somebody to address him that way; the teasing he got from the other guys was bad enough. Ever since that nude poker kidnapping incident...

The caller was getting impatient with him, however; what was worse was the voice sounded familiar. Cid dragged himself out of memory lane. "Yuffie? The hell do you want? Where the hell are you?"

She huffed at him at the other end, the line surprisingly free of static. "I'm two blocks away from the Umbra Company. Cid, you have to tell Vincent—Hey, what are you doing on Cloud's phone, anyway? I thought he was right-hand man."

"He is, but he went on a 'date' today with some chick that's not Tifa."

"A date?! Ohmygod, really? What's her—"

"It's not important, kid. Just tell me what you were going to say."

"Right. Well, I was just chasing after these guys like I was supposed to, lost sight of them, and somehow I ended up near Umbra, where they were bringing in this other guy who looked exactly like Sephiroth! They said they were gonna do experiments and he was yelling and threatening to kill them and he looked really powerful and—"

"Exactly like Sephiroth, you say?"

"Uh-huh. Exactly."

Cid wasn't sure what to make of this. "Okay, well, I guess I'll go ask Vincent about it, if you think it's worth investigating."

"Cid..." Yuffie's tone became uncharacteristically serious. "Trust me. It's worth investigating."

Vincent dwelled in his office, a passive action that had grown to be his worst habit as of late. When the organization began, he seldom spent this much time at his desk, talking to captains, Cloud, and managing finances. He was always a more "do-it-himself" kind of guy. Yet now, in his undeniably older age, he spent an increasing amount of time directing the action rather than being a part of it. It was a significant change on him. And in many ways, he hated it. He was tired of hearing the rain beat down on the roof. But, considering his health, it wasn't like he had much choice.

He placed his pen at the top of Cloud's latest report on the progress of the rookie foot soldiers and flexed his hand. The muscles were stiff throughout the palm. It was almost like he'd spent the entire day writing. Yet at most he'd spent fifteen minutes on it. The rest of the time he'd been reading, and even holding a book was difficult. He had to lay it on the desk after two pages, or else his wrist would shake. His fingers remained fully functional for the time being; a few joints stung if he bent them too much, but the doctor told him that would be expected with his condition. It would spread.

This was all very depressing. He'd rather not live like this. He didn't want to be the Don who reigned for a total of two years before he couldn't move anymore. He didn't have an "heir" yet. He hadn't trained anyone to take his place. He thought he would be able to do this on his own for much longer. Maybe... Maybe it was time to look, then. Maybe he ought to find someone to take his place...

Cid entered the office, with a ticked off expression, and offered a handset to Vincent. Vincent took it in his left hand. "Yes?"

"Vincent? It's Yuffie. You know how I was supposed to be tracking those guys who killed those men by the warehouse?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I kinda got lost and—"

"I'm not your GPS system."

"I know! I wasn't asking for directions! I—"

"What happened to your cell phone? Where are you calling from?"

She growled in frustration. "Will you listen for a minute?! I'm in a department store—my cell phone broke when I fell and lost the car... But anyway, I was going to say that your friend President Goodman is up to something."

"When isn't he?"

"I don't know, but it's bad. He's storing a Sephiroth-lookalike in his laboratory. I heard them say something about materia, and running experiments on him, and looking for Jenova, and—"

"So you're saying there's a possibility of Sephiroth's return."

"Yes."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

"I don't know! I just thought... I just thought you might want to take control of it. So Sephiroth doesn't happen again. Prevent another Meteor."

Vincent thought about this. While he wasn't fully convinced that Umbra had Sephiroth on their hands, he didn't want to ignore it and become the cause of another Meteor, as Yuffie mentioned. He glanced at Cid, then at the wall. "Alright. Give me your exact location. I'll send someone to help you bring that Sephiroth lookalike to me."

Oh, yes, they were sneaky bastards. Incredibly sneaky. Or maybe the people President Goodman hired were just too stupid to notice. Whatever the case may be, the Company had three uninvited guests lurking in their frequently waxed corridors.

Kadaj took the lead, tiptoeing in the shadows down the hall, stopping every now and then at a corner or behind a plant to check for sentries. Yazoo followed at a lag of three paces, hand hovering above the stun gun at her hip. Kadaj had a way of being cautious, but he also had a way of being unconscious of the way he took out his enemies. If she could take out the guards before he had a chance to draw attention to them, all the better. However, Loz was an entirely different story. He was what slowed their progress the most, straggling farther and farther from them and blubbering to himself all the way. Sometimes, Yazoo pitied him. Other times, she wanted to rip his throat out just to shut him up.

Shame that would spill too much blood.

This expedition seemed almost too easy, by the way the three managed to slither into the laboratories without much hassle. Not many guards around, and in the midst of the afternoon no less. Kadaj had told Mother it wouldn't be easy at this time of day, but now that he thought back on it... maybe she knew something about Umbra that he did not. Something no one bothered to inform him about. Like just maybe they wanted the trio here. They wanted Lynx to come and take the Sephiroth-like-thing away from them. But then why bother setting up this equipment?

No; it was more likely that the hallways were empty because of a business meeting, or a lunch break, or some distraction by lower-ranked Lynx scouts.

The mercury rose to an unfair number in too little time. Shouldn't they keep this place cool? Metal was a harsh conductor, and Seeker had the misfortune to be contained in it. Sweat dripped from his forehead, creating puddles at his feet. But all he could see was the single fluorescent lightbulb dangling over his face. It created a heat of its own that threatened to burn his eyes 'til they bled. But just as he seriously considered melting his way to freedom, Mack entered through the programmed door to his right, sweating mightily himself and carrying a mid-sized cooler.

"Thank the gods," Seeker moaned. "The Angel of Death hath come."

"Not quite," Mack replied, and set the cooler down, eyeing the sweat puddle with mild distaste. "But close." Upon lifting the lid, hot air assaulted the ice, creating steam and a soft sizzling sound. Mack took a can of Coke from the bottom, opened it with a kink and a hiss, and handed it to the prisoner, who drank as though he'd traversed the desert twice over. That made the Umbra serviceman laugh. "If you like that, wait 'til you see the rest." He proceeded to take cold cuts, lettuce, tomatoes, and bread from a corner of that blessedly chilled box and put them together. Seeker watched him intently, mouth taking a cue from the pores of his skin.

They settled into their lunch, eating in silence and appreciating the existence of ice. Between sandwiches, Mack explained that their air conditioning had been damaged ("The techs say a squirrel chewed the wiring, though how it got in there without getting chopped by the fans, I don't know."). They were working on a solution before the lab equipment burned out—already sent guys to install the spare AC. Seeker thanked the gods a second time, but before he could imagine the luxury of a running AC, the door to his right opened again, and three people stepped in.

Reeve Tuesti was having a marvelous day. The weather didn't bother him in the least. In fact, he embraced it. He breathed in the fresh air and smiled in the sunlight as he made his way down the streets of Edge. He had a message to deliver to Vincent, but first, he thought he might stop for a drink. Maybe even check in on his "business." While Reeve didn't necessarily approve, he thought the girls were nice. Er... not that he utilized their services. They only talked. Really. And maybe he slipped them a few gil for the sake of aiding Vincent. But nothing more than that. Honestly. He had a reputation to keep, you know.

He recognized the Cerberus emblem on the building and stopped before it. Despite that he'd been here plenty of times before (solely to check up with his friends!), something about the brothel didn't feel right. Nothing was damaged; the windows were fine. No one had driven by... Then he heard it, a faint sound that made his skin crawl. Was that a... woman's voice? Well, of course it was! It came from inside... and inside there were whores. That shouldn't be unusual (the sex here was supposed to be fabulous), but for some reason, the women's voices disturbed him. Acting as an innocent, concerned citizen, he decided to see what was happening.

When Vincent created these establishments, he intended to instill a sense of order, cleanliness, and relaxation in his design. When Reeve entered the lobby, these feelings were replaced by panic, chaos, and... infestation. The women were everywhere, many of them covering their mouths, holding each other, or shrieking. Some cried. The secretary had the phone attached to her ear, her gaze fixed on the floor beyond her desk. But Reeve was more concerned about the ceiling; above him, light came through where there should a been a white surface on one side and a plush rug on the other. Why hadn't he noticed this from the outside? He followed the beam of light to find what broke through. And just about threw up his lunch.

It wasn't a bathtub, but may have originated from one. Globs of bright red flesh adorned the carpet in what appeared to have once been a human shape. Bits of bone stuck out in places, but looked almost eaten away. Burned off. Reeve lifted his eyes to meet the secretary's. "What happened here...?"

"It just... fell!" she said, voice shaking as much as the hand holding the phone to her ear. She pointed toward one of the couches, where a girl sat wrapped in a blanket. Her legs were coated in red juice. Her hair clung to her head in moist clumps. "Adria said she found a corpse in her bathtub, and was trying to remove it, and then it just... fell!"

"And she fell with it?" The girl nodded when Reeve looked at her. "I see. We'll have to report this. May I borrow your phone?"

The secretary, who hadn't had much luck in her attempts, nodded and ended the current call without warning whoever was on the other line. As she handed the phone to Reeve, she made one more speculation: "I think... someone's trying to frame Mr. Valentine."

No more time to waste, Vincent said. No more bullshit. He was in a bad enough mood that Yuffie failed her first mission. Deciding he couldn't risk her out on her own, he sent Barret and Jim to go with her on the search for the Sephiroth lookalike.

Just one mistake after another.

"OwowowowowowOW!" Yuffie hopped on one foot, tried to walk with the other, and nearly tumbled reverting back to the hop. Jim and Barret waited at the end of the hall.

"Not so loud," Jim warned. "You might wake the neighbors."

"I can't help it!" she whined. "You should have told me the laser was there!"

"You should'a looked for the fuckin' lights." But as displeased as he sounded, Barret turned away with a smile. His stomach twisted with excitement; as soon as they found the Sephiroth clone, he was gonna clock 'em and toss 'em and beat 'em 'til no one could tell if it was Sephiroth or some phony. Hell, he didn't care. The last "Sephiroth lookalikes" caused enough trouble of their own to warrant such a smackdown. As for the noise Yuffie made, he wasn't worried about attracting attention. They'd already gotten three-fourths of the personnel off this floor by screwing up the air conditioning. And the likelihood of anyone else paying attention to Yuffie was slim to null.

Once Yuffie caught up, she leaned against the wall to examine her foot, tossing shoe and sock at Jim, who backed off immediately. Fierce red marks ran down her leg, the skin dried, shiny, and crinkly. Without the shoe, it was possible a few toes may have fallen off. Instead, the heel of her foot was blistered and the arch burned.

"Stepped right on top of it, huh?" Barret said.

"Yeah!" Yuffie sniffed. "And it's all your fault!"

"Sure it is."

Jim shook his head, trying not to laugh at her pain, and examined the keypad by the door. Then he took a torn corner, apparently from an important document, from his pocket and searched its contents. Finally, he returned to the keypad and punched in the code. The door opened before Yuffie got her sock back on.

Seeker saw the group from Cosa Nostra enter first. He didn't realize it then, but he would soon become the reincarnation of Helen. Beside him, Mack stood slowly, half-eaten sandwich forgotten in his hand. It dropped to the floor with a messy plop. Barret and Jim raised their weapons. Yuffie struggled with her shoe. Across the room, a second door slid open, and the trio from Lynx stepped in. This caught the attention of the others, and for a full, awkward five seconds, they stared at each other in silence.

Until Mack said, "Hey, you're not a allo—" Which reminded the groups they had missions to accomplish. Kadaj and Yuffie slid to the midst of the floor, wet with humidity, in attempts to grab Seeker before the other. They clashed into a tug-of-war battle; in unison, they released the mechanics of the shackles on his arms, and with nothing to bind him and kidnappers at his sides, all the were-dragon had to fight with were his legs. He thrashed in protest, but neither assailant gave in.

"What the hell is this?! Who are you people?!" But the cries were ignored.

"Didn't expect to see you bastards again," Barret said. He moved forward, pinning Mack into a corner. Yazoo stood opposite him, armed and wary.

She replied with a sneer: "I'd been hoping we wouldn't have to look at your ugly mugs again, either."

"I think my face is actually pretty gorgeous," said Jim. "But I don't know these people. Who are they?"

"They're remnants of Sephiroth," Barret explained. "Slimy motherfuckers who like manipulating children."

"Ah." Jim stepped closer to Loz, who welcomed the encounter with a blast to the foot soldier's shoulder. Jim stumbled back, shooting at Loz's foot as he went down, but the remnant leaped over the other man's head before anything could hit. He grasped his shoulder as Loz's shadow engulfed him. "So... Sephiroth left mementos. And he's one of them?" Jim nodded toward Seeker. Loz jammed his gun beneath Jim's chin.

"We're not sure." Mack spoke for the first time since the interruption. He held his hands up and stared downward in surrender. "We found him only a few days ago. There haven't been enough tests to determine if he's a part of Jenova. At least, I don't think so. I'm just a guard; they don't tell me anything worth shit."

"But he sure looks like it, don't he?" Barret went to Jim's aid, prompting Loz to unveil a second gun. Barret walked in a semi-circle to Jim's unoccupied side.

"I don't even know what that is!" the Sephiroth-lookalike cried. "I don't even know who Sephiroth is!"

"We didn't either," said Yazoo. "Not at first. But once we learned of our origins..."

"Everything fell into place." Kadaj lunged and hit Yuffie hard on the head. She fell back, then pounced despite her bad leg. Kadaj dodged her attack and unsheathed a rapier. "Leave. This is our brother."

Yuffie stared at the rapier, went cross-eyed, blinked and glared at Kadaj. "Did your mommy tell you that?!"

Just the mention of Mother stung Kadaj's heart. These fools thought she was dead, but he knew better. And she would show them. She would make them pay for mocking her in such an indignant fashion. He lashed out; the ninja cartwheeled backwards, and tossed three small shuriken in his direction. Kadaj fell to the floor for the safety, allowing the first to glide over his head. It pierced Mack's arm and stuck into the wall. The second cut into Loz's wrist, forcing him to drop the gun he aimed at Jim, who took the opportunity to punch his would-be captor in the teeth. At that time, they heard a disturbing squish. Seven heads turned to Seeker to find the last shuriken lodged in his cheek; blood bubbled over the silver edge and streamed into his collar, staining his clothes. Yuffie, stunned by both her lack of aim and the danger she put on their mission objective, tried desperately to pull the shuriken out before Kadaj recovered.

It was then that Seeker's eyes took on a funny look.

Late in the afternoon, the sky glowed a soft pink-orange that, in contrast with the tall gray buildings of Edge, could not look more magnificent and natural. The one thing left unaltered by man: the sunset. And how surprising was that? Man liked to reserve beauty; it just happened that the one thing that didn't need human help was the sun.

At this time, the Cosa Nostra headquarters was nearly empty. The night shifters would arrive when the day shifters dwindled. Cid Highwind finished organizing papers and laid his head on the desk to rest. Filling in for Cloud had been exhausting. He expected to hang around Vincent all day and discuss decisions, but on top of that was a lot of paperwork from their businesses to sort through. He had to use his best judgement and consult with Vincent constantly on how to run things. It made the work especially slow and tedious. Not to mention he sucked at it. Worse than his wife sucked at sucking.

Yet as much as his back cried, as much as his muscles whined, and as much as his brain complained, in the midst of it, his heart said yes. Yes, we do this for Vincent. Yes, we do this and we do it good and we make Vincent happy. He really cared about that guy. He couldn't help it. Since the beginning... they may not have had much in common, but they got along. They got along great. Better than friends. Better than brothers. Better than... well, better than he got along with Shera sometimes. She was a sweet lady. He didn't hate her, certainly not. He never would have married her if he hated her that much. But at the same time, he never felt the kind of guilt that you were supposed to feel when you cheated. He never felt the regret. Or the fear of getting caught. He never worried about it. Didn't lose sleep over it. In a way, it worked out well for both of them; Shera didn't like sex. Cid didn't like sex with Shera. So instead of bothering his wife about it, instead of hanging around Vincent's brothels, he used Vincent as an outlet. That was what adultery was about, right? Finding someone outside your home, someone you knew pretty well from work or from a friend, someone you saw often, and using that someone as an intimate who would take your pain away, make you feel better about life, about yourself, about your decisions. Someone who could relieve you of the stress for a little while.

Most people felt bad afterwards. More stressed. Paranoid. Ashamed. Cid didn't get any of that. He felt great afterwards. Refreshed. Younger. Like it was meant to be. Like the only reason he married Shera instead of Vincent was because gay marriage was illegal. Well, that, and the little fact that Vincent wasn't housewife material. Shera kept his house clean and cooked his food. He appreciated that. And he supposed he loved her in a certain way. But Vincent he loved... like the sweetheart he'd awaited all his life. Like the missing link between joy and ecstasy. He would do anything to make that sullen man happy. Anything to keep him alive. He made every excuse to be there beside him... and now that the day was almost over, he ought to make use of that time before heading home to Shera.

Cid paused outside the office door. He didn't hear anything from inside. For a moment, he panicked. Then he heard what sounded like the scratching of a pen on paper and relaxed. Vincent was fine. The pilot adjusted his pants and opened the door. "Well, I'm checking out," he announced. "Don't wait on me; I got business elsewhere."

"What sort of business is this?" asked Vincent, without looking up from his papers.

"Oh, you know..." Cid sauntered up to the desk and let his elbows rest there, grinning at Vincent in attempt to get his attention. "Whatever business you wanna give me."

The pen clattered on the wood as the hand holding it began to shake. Vincent grasped that hand with the other, the one that wasn't dying on him, and lowered it beneath the desk. It was easier to get the shaking to stop when he couldn't see it. "I don't need anything, thank you."

Cid stepped back; the grin vanished. "You sure? 'Cuz if you need some kinda... pain reliever, I can get it for ya."

Vincent shook his head. "Thank you, Cid. But no. I don't need anything." His breathing thinned and his face contorted into a grimace as he struggled with the uncontrollable shaking. He didn't know what caused it. If it was muscle tension... or stress... or if something terrible was happening inside him. He imagined his immune system, clean white spheres in his bloodstream, battling against sloppy, sickly green intruders causing inflammation in his flesh. And the white spheres were losing. It made him want to die.

Being the friend that he happened to be, Cid slipped behind the desk—Vincent was a little too preoccupied to tell him to stop—and put his arms around him. For a few minutes, Cid held on, feeling Vincent's whole body shake under him, and then it stilled. When this happened, it hurt him inside, pierced his soul sometimes; it hurt worse that his best friend wouldn't look at him afterwards. "Is that medicine workin'?" Vincent wouldn't talk to him, either. He kept his head bowed. His skin looked ashy. "I'm guessin' not. Fuckin' prescription shit ain't what it used to be. Don't help ya none. What good's a drug if it don't do the job?" He sighed, loosening his grip around Vincent's shoulders and kissed his cheek. "I'll getcha somethin' better." He backed off and headed for the door.

Behind him, Vincent laid his head on the desk, folding his hands in front of him. "I don't think there's anything that can make this go away..."

Cid pretended not to hear him. He left the building as quickly as his legs would allow, finding himself in the pharmacy around the corner before five minutes passed. He scoured the shelves. Of course, if prescriptions didn't work, why would this over-the-counter stuff do any good? He bombarded the pharmacist with questions. What's the best thing for muscle pain? How do you stop shaking? Loosen stiff joints? Have they found a cure for arthritis yet? Well, they better, or somebody's gonna have an angry airship pilot to deal with.

He left the building disgruntled, infuriated, and depressed, with few helpful answers and no way to buy the useful stuff without a script. He tried calling the doctor, but he was out. That left him with only one option: since he definitely couldn't risk leaving Vincent to suffer, he had to go home and get supplies to make him comfortable. Hell, he might even bring Vincent back to his house. It'd be easier to watch him that way. Shera wouldn't mind. It'd be better than staying out all night at the base. She'd get pissy about that. Boy, did he hate it when Shera got pissy. He didn't think it was possible when he first met her, but once they settled down, her moods became increasingly bold.

Sometimes he feared she was pregnant.

But that never turned out to be the case, so why worry? He decided he wouldn't, and as soon as he reached his modest home in his modest town, discovering his modest wife asleep on the couch, he slipped into the kitchen and began gathering everything he believed would cure Vincent of his internal crazies. He packed lotions, creams for cool relief, pills for joint pain. Not beer, but whiskey, because alcohol was a depressant, which slowed the nervous system, and whiskey was stronger than beer. He packed cloths, blankets, and pillows. Ace bandages, a first aid kit (though he'd be surprised if the base didn't have one on hand, he wanted to bring his own because he knew what was in it), several bottles of water. Next to that he stuffed food and a few medical books, hoping that one of them may contain something that would help.

Praying these provisions were enough, Cid started for the door again, slumping his bag of supplies over one shoulder. It was then that his other shoulder was assaulted by a cold, bony hand. Or at least, in his alert state and the darkness of his home, it felt that way.

"Captain?" Shera's voice was heavy and low, mangled with the drug our brains put out when put to sleep. Cid turned slowly, letting the bag slide down his arm. "Where are you going? Didn't you just—" She yawned, covering her mouth and almost trying to suppress it. "—come home?"

"Er, yeah," her husband replied. "But I just came for a few things. Still got a lotta work to do. Heh heh."

"Oh." Shera backed off, and Cid thought he found a way out without any trouble. But he was wrong. She didn't stop him. She didn't protest. She merely stated the truth. "You're going to see Vincent."

He couldn't disagree. Neither could he leave. She cast some sort of... force field around him with that gloomy tone of hers. It wouldn't let him move. But why was seeing Vincent such a bad thing? They were friends. People saw their friends at night all the time. Right? Unfortunately, this logic killed his voice. It didn't require an explanation. She ought to have known that. Friends see each other. That's what made them friends.

His wife, seeing how her words paralyzed him in that strange way, continued. "You've been seeing him a lot, haven't you? You see him every day... and then you sneak out of your own house to see him some more."

Why did that feel like an accusation? Because he knew they weren't just hanging out? Because... she knew they weren't just hanging out? How would she know?! Then Cid spotted the answer, the horrid thing that planted such an idea in Shera's head: 101 Ways to Tell Your Man is Cheating lying on the coffee table. A good 200-300 pages. Hardcover. A picture of a man with a woman on the front. And another woman watching skeptically from the side. Cid felt his throat tighten and the sweat begin to emerge from the pores on his forehead. She had him cornered. In his own house. Like an ant about to be squished and whisked away with a broom.

Shera saw the caught expression on his face and gradually broke down. The closer she got to him, the farther apart their relationship tore. Tears dripped from her eyelashes. He wished she wouldn't stare at him. He wished she'd go away, or just go back to sleep. Anything but stare at him like that. Now he felt the shame. The guilt of the adulterer. Yet he still lacked the regret. Probably because... well, he was doing this for Vincent. And Vincent just may be worth his marriage. He knew he wouldn't go this far for Shera.

He may as well let it go now. Cid relaxed. He dropped the bag on the floor and hugged his wife for what he believed might be the last time. "Sorry. It wasn't because of you. I can't say I always loved ya, but I also can't say I never did. But ya caught me. It's gonna be alright. Don't cry; I'll let ya stay here long as ya want." It provided little comfort and he knew it. Her sobs grew stronger and more desperate. When he walked away and picked his bag up again, she screamed.

"I can't believe you, Cid! All this time! With Vincent! With a man! What kind of Captain are you?! What kind of Captain walks away from his wife?! WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU, CID?!"

But it was a long ways before Cid answered her. By that time, he was already back in Edge and she had cried herself to sleep. He stood outside of the Cosa Nostra base, staring up at the one window that remained lit. He smiled. "The kind that flies, honey. The kind that flies away... to his true home."

Someone, somewhere, pressed the pause button. Thick smoke hid Seeker from view; where it came from or how it had been created was anyone's guess. To Yuffie, it looked like Seeker created it himself, sort of like how Vincent would be locked within a sphere of energy whenever he changed. Did that mean Seeker could change, too? That must have been the case, for rising over the gray fumes, she saw magnificent silver spikes—three of them—sitting atop an almost metallic skin. The silver-haired siblings stayed low to the ground, wary of the shift in advantage. Barret and Jim remained at a distance, their expressions stoic. Yuffie was the only one who didn't back away. She watched, still as a stone, until the smoke dispersed.

If not for the light reflecting off his platinum scales, she would have thought he was a ghost. The Seeker-Dragon barely fit within the height of the room. His width took up roughly a quarter. Yuffie still didn't move; the others moved farther back. Barret called to her once, but she found herself lost under the dragon's shadow, found it impossible to look away from his horned snout and protruding bottom fangs, or his green, pupil-less eyes. His wings, four times the length of his legs, were folded back at first. But when Yuffie dared to take one step closer, they unfurled with the speed of a cannon. The wind it created forced her back and made her eyes water. The Seeker-Dragon, his cheek marred by the shuriken's presence, bellowed his fury for the entire building to hear. His tail whipped around and struck Yuffie in the stomach, sending her to the wall. Barret began firing. Jim went to the ninja's aid. Meanwhile, Kadaj latched onto the beast's side and started climbing. Yazoo ran frantically about the dragon, searching for a weak point. Loz and Mack disappeared. Just as Kadaj was thrown to the floor and landed on his sister, Barret ran out of ammo, Yuffie woke up, and Loz and Mack returned, carrying several cords of long, thick, hairy rope. They tossed one end to Kadaj and Yazoo, who together attempted to climb the Seeker-Dragon a second time. As they wrapped the rope around his neck, the beast bucked and hit his head against the ceiling, getting his spikes stuck tight. He struggled, causing the siblings to lose their balance. Yazoo clung to the scales of his belly while Kadaj held onto her.

"Get to its eyes!" Mack screamed over the dragon's deep-throated complaints. "TAKE OUT ITS FUCKING EYES!" He and Loz had since retreated to the very back of room. Chunks of the ceiling fell around them.

"Let's get out of here," Jim said as he picked Yuffie off the floor. "Mission aborted."

"No, we can't!" the white rose of Wutai groaned. "We have to bring him back!" She jumped from Jim's arms, sending him backwards, and half-walked, half-crawled toward the dragon. Barret blocked her path.

"Don't be an idiot, Yuffie! We can't bring him back alive, not like this! And Vincent don't want no corpses stinkin' up his goddamn place!" But Yuffie crawled between his legs. She spotted something shiny near Loz's feet, but for whatever reason, Loz and Mack hadn't taken notice. They were busy holding onto the rope, trying to bring the dragon to a slouch. Yazoo made her way to the eyes, her brother following behind. She rummaged for her dagger. Yuffie dashed for the shining object. Loz, thinking she meant to harm him, let go of the rope and tackled her. Mack fell forward as the dragon overcame their effort. By that time, Yazoo had found her dagger. However, the beast came free, his spikes proving stronger than the construction, and both Yazoo and her dagger became lost in the rubble beneath. Kadaj climbed over the dragon's shoulder, determined to do what his sister could not. Yuffie kicked Loz hard in the shin. He dropped her, which gave her the opportunity to throw the glowing turquoise materia at the dragon's head.

It hit him square on the temple. The dragon held still, wide-eyed and silent, as the glow grew brighter. There came a rumble, then a crash. The building fell on top of them. When the dust cleared, Kadaj, Loz, and Mack crawled from beneath the plaster. They saw little but sky and broken equipment. Yazoo couldn't be seen. And the Cosa Nostra group had made off with Seeker and the materia.

Shelke Rui didn't play a huge role in Cosa Nostra's expeditions. But she was useful for certain missions, and if she had the interest, she joined in. This evening it had been a matter of lacking—no one else of sufficient experience was available at this time to investigate the warehouses, a trip previously interrupted by murderous rivals. The fact that those people personally came to dispose of the investigators proved that something of great importance was hidden here, and Vincent be damned if he wasn't going to find it. So as Shelke preferred to go unseen and felt it would be easier to take out any opposition while the city slept, she set out at dusk and waited until not a soul could be detected within the area.

Yet there was something.

Intuition told her to venture cautiously. Whether it be the secret in the warehouses or a watchful nighttime guard, she moved slowly and carefully between the buildings, pausing every few seconds to listen. It was this way that she snuck behind a guard and zapped him to unconsciousness. Normally she would have simply killed the man, but that was the way of Deepground, and Vincent advised her not to stoop as low as their enemies. She saw the sense that regression would only do her more harm than good, but at the same time she didn't see how this method of doing things did them any good at all. Perhaps she'd been brainwashed more than she realized. Or maybe there was a flaw in Vincent's procedure. Either way, the guard wasn't a problem now. She started for the door.

Out of nowhere, something hit her in the back, slamming her against the entrance to the warehouse. She stood there, paralyzed, until she noticed the warm, wet sensation of blood dripping down her back. She turned to see nothing but red. And then black.

Rosso licked the blade clean, finding the mixture of copper and mako... enticing. She didn't expect to discover this one, of all of them, here, but fate had a way of entwining people together—from their first meeting to their death. The Transparent wasn't dead yet, though if the bleeding didn't stop she might be soon. However, that wasn't the idea. Her death would come soon, but not until the torture passed. That's what the fat man told Rosso, anyway.

She held the syringe toward the moon, gazing at the violet liquid for a long time before injecting it into Shelke's neck. She didn't know exactly what it was supposed to do, had never heard of the disease before, but apparently it was worth study. What a better subject than one who's already been in several studies? This would be nothing new to Shelke. But for Rosso, it would spark a new breed of entertainment.

Leaving the body in front of the warehouse, the Crimson retracted her weapon and slithered away. It would be up to the Turks to decide what to do with her next.