A/N: Because revenge is always a struggle in a hero's life…

This chapter takes place two days after the last one.

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Pied Flycatcher, a great writer and my diligent reviewer.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It is very much appreciated.

Flashbacks are in italics...

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Part 7 – The Idea of Revenge

"You know, you're special, Denzel."

"Huh?" His head was leaning on the car window, hands pressed against his temples. He fought to open his eyes against his headache and glanced at his mother next to him. She lifted a hand from the steering wheel, touching him with doe gray eyes briefly as her fingertips grazed his forehead.

"You're not like the other children."

Why did she want to remind him? "I don't wanna be sick anymore," he said with a small and sullen voice. "Why can't they fix me?" 'Just want the pain to stop,' he thought. 'Please make it stop. No more doctors. No more large hands and cold tools. No more missing moments. Please.'

"It's not something to be fixed, baby. You'll see. When you grow out of the seizures it will be better."

"I hate it," and the words were almost a sob.

"You're special, don't ever forget. You're too young to understand, but one day you will. My special Denzel."

Denzel moaned pitifully against the window as his body rejected him again with a strike of pain that reverberated through his body.

Too young.

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Denzel blinks and stares at his overflowing suitcase, rubbing his chin and pushing the memories out of his head. This is a problem.

Last time he had packed for a trip had been when he was five, and he hadn't actually packed, his mom had. He'd been sick a lot and they had decided to take a vacation to Costa De Sol for a few days to cheer him up. That was also the last time he'd even owned a suitcase. Cloud and Tifa didn't take vacations. They worked too much.

Alright Denzel, you've got this. He rubs his hands against his knees and readies his body in a lunge. Then he dives at the suitcase. Round one! Denzel verses the Bag of Destruction!

Round one goes to the suitcase. So does round two and three.

Huffing and snorting through his nose, Denzel jumps on the bag for the forth time. When he finally gets the zipper shut he falls backwards on his bed, panting. His eyes catch on the family portrait sitting on his nightstand. It's like their family crest or something. The same picture is in Marlene's room and in Cloud and Tifa's room. It's the picture they took right after he was healed of geostigma.

And here he'd thought he'd packed everything. He lifts his head and looks down at the bag under his sprawled-out legs. No way is he opening that again. Grunting, he sits up and carefully takes the picture out of the frame, sticking it in his back pocket.

Okay, he is ready. Right. Just need to bring the bag downstairs and—right… He sighs at the huge bulging mass sinking into his mattress and mutters, "Ah, hell," as he grabs the handle to begin the work of dragging the thing out of his room and down the stairs.

By the time he gets to the steps, he is gasping desperately, and he is sure he is going to fall down them and break every bone in his body before he even makes it to HHI (Holding Hands International) Headquarters. Grunting, he eases the oversized suitcase down another stair, wishing, as usual, that he were stronger.

From below, he hears everyone else talking in the living room. He concentrates on their voices. Light at the end of the tunnel. Another stair, another grunt. Just keep moving.

"Barrett called," he hears Tifa say.

"I got to talk to him!"

Marlene, sedatives, Denzel thinks in response to her voice.

"Yeah?" That's Cloud. "How is he? Is he still booming his way to terrorist fame?"

"That pun was hooorrible."

A chuckle. "Sorry, Marlene."

Tifa: "He says they took down another three mako mines yesterday."

Cloud: "Really? He may actually get the stuff off our streets after all." A pause. "Hey, Marlene. Blowing things up is still bad, okay? Very, very bad."

"Okay!" she says with such sugary enthusiasm that Denzel can picture the honey-sweet smile-of-terror that goes with it.

He sniggers/curses as he stumbles down the last step with his suitcase, remembering the time he and Marlene had exploded Cloud's sock drawer using a homemade bomb Cid taught them to make. He also remembers how imposing Cloud had seemed as he stood over him and Marlene, arms crossed over his chest, a scowl on his face, and his feet bare.

With one last audible heave, Denzel yanks his bag into the living room, catching the sight of them lounging on the couch before he gets caught on the doorjamb and tumbles across the rug, the rectangular hard-shelled suitcase thudding against the floor behind him. Ouch, he thinks, and then decides it's worth saying out loud. "Ouch." He's flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. He's never really looked at the ceiling this way before. It's actually kinda nice, with an overhead fan hanging down made of scrap metal that is quite skillfully crafted—

"Denzel!"

I repeat, sedatives Marlene.

"Denzel!" she yells again as she kneels down beside him, shaking his shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm dead." He squints up at her as she leans back on her haunches, sticking her lips out in a pout.

"Well, you don't have to be so mean about it. I'm just showing concern for my brother before he goes away and leaves us for a month."

A year ago, Marlene had decided that he was going to be her brother no matter what he said, and that it didn't matter if their blood or their parents weren't the same. He'd given up protesting. "Mean rhymes with Marlene, not Denzel," he says. "'Sides, what if I really am dead?"

"Then I guess you can't go to camp," comes Tifa's nonchalant response.

"Hey! Look at that, I'm fine! It's a miracle!" Denzel sits up quickly and waves his hands in the air, seeing Tifa laugh and Cloud's slight smile. He smiles too. "Can we go now?"

"Not before you get your hugs." Tifa stands, a hand on her hip, long brownish black hair swaying behind her as she shifts her weight and arches her eyebrows evilly. "Right, Marlene?"

"Yeah!"

This is gonna be bad, he thinks, trying to scramble to his feet so he can run away, but Tifa is too fast and Marlene is right beside him. They tackle him back onto the floor, tickling him and snuggling him and hugging him and kissing him. Mushifying me. Horror like this can only be described with a made up word. Mushifying. "Cloud," he barely shouts through his own laughter/tears. "Help… me."

"You're on your own," he hears the deep voice reply. Then Cloud is walking past him, reaching down to ruffle his hair through the attack of the killer females, and continuing on to grab the suitcase. Cloud lifts it (with pitiful ease) and heads toward the front door. "See you outside, Denz." Denzel catches slivers of Cloud's face through the curtain of Marlene's hair (she's clutching his throat like he is her favorite plushy) as the blond-spiked head nods once and he walks outside. "Good luck," Denzel hears, with amusement tinting the tone of Cloud's voice, and then the door slams shut.

"We'll miss youuuuuuuuuu Denzel!"

Oh, I'm gonna need a lot more than luck. And he vows, that at some point on his heroic journey, he will buy a tranquilizer gun.

But when they finally stop tickling him and both sit back on their knees, he looks up at their faces still gasping on the floor and feels something strange in his chest. They look like they could really be related, with matching grins and crescent-shaped eyes, and he thinks that he wants to remember this moment. He wants to remember how some of Marlene's hair is caught in her mouth and the red rug burns on Tifa's knees. He wants to remember the pain in his sides from laughing and the lingering tingle from their fingers on his skin. He wants to remember the euphoria that makes him dizzy and the softening of Marlene's gaze on him as she says, "What's wrong, Denzel?"

He shakes his head, blinking at the hair in his eyes. "Nothing."

Then she leans down and gives him one last hug, whispering in his ear, and this embrace means more than all the ones before. He records every detail in his mind because he thinks, for some reason, that this might be very important.

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They see the HHI Headquarters miles before they reach it, the huge block building of light-gray concrete rising out of the empty plains like a mountain. It isn't particularly tall, maybe only three or four stories, but it is wide. It's intimidating to look at, standing there boldly reflecting sunlight off the almost continuous stretch of windows around what Denzel takes to be the top floor. The bottom half of the structure is featureless and he wonders what's inside. What is such a secret that it must be isolated from the outside world? Maybe there's a fighting arena, with cages of monsters that he'll learn to defeat, and the reason the place is 45 minutes from any town is to protect people in case the monsters escape. There's the scent of sweat—of battle (or what he imagines battle to be like)—and he realizes that it's him. Is he that nervous? He clenches and unclenches his fists, envisioning a sword in them. He glances sidelong at Cloud, who, as usual, looks completely lost in his own thoughts. Does he feel bad for lying to him? For lying to Tifa and Marlene? He's not sure. They wouldn't understand.

Sighing, Denzel leans back further into the cushioned seat of the family truck, listening to the monotonous rumble of the engine. They are driving fast down the dirt road, kicking up puffs of dust that sprinkle the windows, but it still seems too slow. He shifts in his seat a little, the fabric of his jeans and t-shirt rustling. "Why couldn't we have taken Fenrir?"

Cloud blinks, shakes his head, and seems to remember than he is driving with Denzel beside him. "Didn't you ask me that already?"

"Yeah, but I'm bored. Fenrir is so much cooler. You coulda tied my suitcase to the back or something."

"Nobody is tying anything to the back of my bike. Fenrir wouldn't like that."

"It's not like Fenrir can talk."

Cloud glances at him briefly, expression sober. "He talks to me." And his voice is exceptionally deep and dramatic.

Denzel snorts, trying not to laugh at Cloud's fake seriousness, but then he realizes that it might be real seriousness and he scrunches his eyebrows up suspiciously. That's when he notices the corners of Cloud's lips are slightly upturned. Phew… He starts laughing again.

When his laughter subsides he settles back in his seat, staring at the growing building ahead of them. It's the only feature of note in the landscape, and even though he's tired of looking at it, his eyes are hypnotically drawn to the large windows of the upper floor. Is someone behind that glass watching them approach? Will he be standing there soon, looking out at the rear of Cloud's truck as Cloud drives toward the horizon without him? I won't be the same when you come back, Cloud. I'll be better. I'll be a hero.

"You nervous?"

Denzel realizes Cloud is looking at him, and wonders how he manages to do that while staying on the road. "No." Riiiiight. He looks down at his hands, starts cracking his knuckles, rubs them against his jeans because his palms are wet.

"Don't worry, you don't have to lie about it. It's normal to be worried. You've never been to camp before."

Denzel gives a timid smile. "Thanks, Cloud." And then he looks quickly out the side window, because it's easier to hide that way.

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Cloud gazes up at the building, chin tilted upwards and eyes squinting in the sun. His hair almost seems to glow in the light. "I wonder where people get the money to build things like this," he says, and Denzel thinks he is probably talking to himself. "Half of Midgar is in poverty and there are still people with the money to make ridiculously large buildings." After a pause, he shakes his head and looks down at Denzel, smiling shyly. "Sorry, let's go Denz."

They walk into the lobby of the HHI Headquarters together, pushing through a large glass door into a room without windows. The walls are a creamy sort of yellow, the kind of color that people use when they are attempting to force happiness into a place. There's a low coffee table in one corner, with painfully bright red couches around it, which is countered by a staircase at the other end of the room. In the center, is a white semi-circle secretary's desk. It's a desk that demands a knockout girl behind it, but instead there is a burly man with red hair and a long beard. He throws the entire room off.

"Hey kids!" the man's voice is like an amplified grumble, and as he stands, Denzel sees the Hawaiian shirt he is wearing with huge orange and blue flowers on it. The pattern suits the chipper color scheme of the room.

Cloud drops the suitcase loudly, his face expressionless, but Denzel can tell that he is annoyed. He's standing in that superhero stance of his, legs spread apart and knees bent so slightly under the loose black pants that it's almost impossible to see. "I'm here for the camp."

"A mite old for a kid's camp, eh?"

Cloud blinks and Denzel is sure he hears his teeth grinding. "For Denzel. I called to register him last week."

Cloud called? He hadn't even known that. A twinge of extra nervousness twists something in his stomach. He glances up at Cloud, who is wearing the "tough guy" face that he saves for people he doesn't particularly like. It matches the superhero stance perfectly and consists of lowered brows, a thin hard line for a mouth, and an intense glare. But it calms Denzel a little because he's sure it means Cloud doesn't suspect anything. Ren had promised that it would be impossible to tell the "summer camp" front was only a cover, as long as Denzel didn't give it away.

"Haha, man, I know," Mr. Red Hair is saying. "Just a little joke. I remember you from that time you came to visit. We've been expecting the little sprite."

Sprite? What the hell was a sprite? And Cloud had already visited the place? His palms start sweating on overdrive and he rubs them on his pants (for the fiftieth time today), wondering if this is such a good idea after all. A month with this nutcase. Was becoming a hero really that important?

The red-headed cuckoo is coming toward them with a huge toothy grin showing through the bush of hair on the lower half of his face. Denzel smells cigarette smoke. "Come here kid, let's go meet the others."

I'm not a kid either, freak.

He looks at Cloud and rolls his eyes, to which Cloud replies with an amused smile before he shrugs. "He seems pretty harmless. Can't be that bad. Just talks a lot. Jenkins, right?"

"Yeah man, you remembered. Don't worry, I'm a nice guy." He waggles his eyebrows.

"What do you think, Denzel?"

He takes a deep breath and shrugs nonchalantly. "It's okay, Cloud. I'll be fine."

Cloud nods once and gives Jenkins a final glare. "I'd just like you to know that I have a very large sword."

Jenkins grins and winks. "Yeah, I remember. You were lugging it on your back last time." His voice is level—well, level like a straight gravel road is level.

"Yeah, but it's really, really big."

Waving a hand, Jenkins nods, "Okay, okay. I got it, man. I'll take care of your kid. Don't be such a mother. The boy'll be fine."

Cloud grunts, nods once, and finally breaks the tension, wrapping an arm around Denzel to give him a hug. Denzel looks up and smiles. "See ya, Cloud," and he almost forgets to say it because he is distracted by the strange look in Cloud's eyes, a sort of sparkle that he's never seen before. It's familiar somehow, and he tries to place the look.

He remembers. His dad looked at him that way on his first day of school—how many years ago?

Swallowing, Denzel glances at the tiled floor, and then back at Jenkins, listening to the swishing of Cloud's pants as he walks away and then the silence that follows when Cloud is gone. It is just the two of them together in this big, fake, happy-looking room. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and thinks that this is the first moment of something new. With an even stare, he says, "Not many people can see Cloud's sword, face his look-of-terror, and not cringe."

Even under all the hair, Denzel can detect the solid set of Jenkins' jaw. "I ain't many people." He reaches over and picks up Denzel's suitcase where Cloud had left it, throwing a, "Let's go, kid!" over his shoulder as he heads towards the stairs.

Denzel follows, still remembering that last look in Cloud's eyes. He clenches his fists and runs a few steps to catch up. Time to become a man.

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Jenkins leaves him in a room that looks like it is meant to be a cafeteria, long tables with attached benches forming rows. But there is no food. Just a handful of kids sitting around waiting. Most of them aren't talking to each other… just waiting…

"What am I supposed to do?" Denzel asks.

Jenkins shrugs. "I dunno. Meet people or something. I'll take your bag to your room."

Denzel gives him an unsatisfied look.

"Just wait for Ren!" And then Jenkins is turning and walking away, Denzel's suitcase swinging casually at his side.

Denzel peruses the room through squinted eyes. They are only on the second floor so there are no windows, just more happy yellow walls. The place smells sterile and clean. He takes in the kids there, all looking about his age. Some glare at him when they catch him staring, and he lets his eyes drift away, continuing to scope across his surroundings.

He stops when he sees her.

Not just his eyes, but everything stops. The air stops cycling through his lungs, his fingers stop fiddling with the zipper on his jacket, his mind stops sizing up all the guys in the room and trying to figure out how many of them he can beat in a fight.

And then, everything starts again and he is sizing her up instead, taking in the light green of her eyes and the black of her hair that traces the line of her chin, and the way her nose turns up just a bit and the slightly rosy tinge of her cheeks. She's leaning against the wall, casually, hands in the pockets of a pink jumpsuit, and he realizes that she is tall—probably as tall as he is. About that time, he also notices that she is looking at him. He smiles.

She rolls her eyes and looks away, expression bored.

Well, she's got an attitude. Frowning, he decides that her nose is too big and her cheeks are too hollow anyway. He's about to turn away and find someone who doesn't look scary to introduce himself to, but he pauses with one hand gripping his bangs out of his eyes and his slotted sideways glance still lingering on the girl. He'd promised himself when he came here that he would be strong. What are you gonna do Denzel? You gonna run away and hide from a girl cuz she gave you a mean look?

Hell no. He isn't a wimp. He is here to learn to fight monsters and protect the world. Picturing himself chopping off the head of a giant lizard (with a nose that's too big and cheeks that are too hollow), wielding a sword as big as Cloud's (with ease because he is super buff), Denzel takes swift, purposeful steps and stops in front of the girl. "Hi," he says, and it sounds like a command rather than a greeting. "My name is Denzel." He extends a hand.

She stares at it, black hair falling around her eyes. She's wearing a bright pink headband that matches the jumpsuit, but the color does nothing to make her jaded expression softer.

He waits.

She stares.

"Hey. Are you going to shake my hand or what?"

Shrugging, she tilts her head. "Why?"

"Because I'm holding it out to you!" he grits out between clenched teeth.

"That was a risk you took."

He blinks at her, and it's not because of what she's said but because her eyes look so empty. It's familiar. "Hey, what's your name?" He doesn't know why, but his anger is suddenly gone. His extended hand falls back to his side.

Arching a thin eyebrow, she ignores his question and responds with: "You're still here?" She sounds genuinely perplexed.

Shrugging, he lifts his hands behind his head. "I'm a bored masochist. What's your name?" he asks again, a little more forcefully. That's right Denz, play it cool. You're tough. You're strong. You're colder than her.

"Acadia. Like the spider."

How fitting. "Where are you from?"

For the first time, she looks directly at him and her eyes aren't empty anymore. There is something dark and hard in them that he can't name but understands. "Sector Seven," she says, and he's not sure if he knew what her words would be before she spoke them or if it was just a trick of his mind. But it fits. Everything seems to fit.

His eyes widen. "Just like me." He feels stupid for how awestruck his words sound.

"Of course."

"What?"

"Everyone here is from Sector Seven."

Everyone? He looks over his shoulder at the rest of the kids in the room and hears her laughing. It's a dark sort of giggle that sounds contradictory and misplaced. His gaze snaps back to her pale face. "Why?"

"Ren picked us that way. Maybe he figured that since we've all been through so much, we'll be good fighters for his little army. I don't care about all that though." She sighs and casts her gaze to the side, returning to the disinterested demeanor she started with.

His fists are clenched (when did that happen?), and he's wondering how many of the people in this room lost their parents too. He takes a sudden breath, refilling starved lungs. "What do you care about?"

Her eyes narrow but she doesn't look at him. "Revenge."

Revenge? He hadn't thought of that. Who would he even take revenge on? ShinRa for planting the bomb? Avalanche for provoking them and not stopping it? Himself for not saving his parents?

"What's wrong?"

She's looking at him with this expression on her face that's a mixture of confusion and suspicion. He closes his eyes because it feels like she is trying to dive through them to see his thoughts. He wishes he had sunglasses. "I…"

He's saved from trying to figure out what to say next because that's when Ren enters the room, lips curved in a perfectly parabolic smile and saying, "Welcome Everyone!" with a voice strained by forceful projection. He is dressed immaculately, in brown pants with pressed seams and a tan dress shirt that is a tamed-down version of the paint on the walls. "Welcome!" he says again, spreading his hands dramatically. The rest of his body maintains perfect, rigid posture.

Then, a woman steps out from behind him. She is wearing a dark blue, collared tank-top that dips low into her cleavage and tight black pants. Her short blond hair is pulled up, strands of it falling loose, and her alert hazel eyes traverse the room. Denzel knows her… why does he know her? It hits him in a flash of memory—a night almost a year ago, when all the Turks were gathered at Seventh Heaven to assure an angry Cloud and Tifa that the new ShinRa would be nothing like the old one. Denzel had gone downstairs for a glass of water, rubbing blearily at tired eyes. She had been sitting there, at the edge of the group at the bar, and she'd looked at him and smiled. She was dressed differently then, but it is definitely her now.

Their eyes lock, and she seems a little surprised. She remembers me too…

"I want you all to meet my assistant Elena, who will be our combat expert," Ren is continuing.

"But you're a Turk!" Denzel shouts. The sound of his own voice surprises him. Where did this anger come from? It feels like his muscles are trying to break through his skin. He hears Acadia gasp next to him.

"Not anymore. I quit the Turks and joined Ren." Her smile is brilliant white and her voice does fake happiness better than the paint on the walls.

"Bossuru! Die ShinRa scum!"

Denzel turns in time to see the wild look in Acadia's eyes and the swing of her arm as she flings a knife through the air, her mouth open to release a vicious shriek as the metal tip spirals towards Elena's heart—

And embeds itself in the wall behind the place where Elena had been standing. Elena rises slowly from her crouched dodge. How did she move so fast? Denzel wonders. He'd barely had time to register what was happening before it was over.

"It's not polite to throw knives at your teacher," Elena says testily. "I told you. I don't work for ShinRa anymore. I work for Ren."

Ren nods slowly, a shocked expression freezing his features.

"I don't care! The Turks destroyed Sector Seven! You don't get to just walk away from that!" Acadia takes a step, leaning forward, arms straight and fists clenched. There is the buzz of muttered agreements around the room and Denzel notices that Acadia's fists aren't the only ones clenched. Some of the kids that were sitting earlier have gotten up.

"I wasn't even a Turk then. I wasn't involved with that at all!"

But it doesn't matter, the tension in the room is escalating with each new person that stands up, an angry glare on all their faces. And Denzel feels something stirring inside of himself. He looks at Elena, at the defensive, almost innocent expression, and narrows his eyes. His legs spread into the fighting stance Cloud taught him. Acadia's voice rings in his ears… "Revenge."

"Enough."

Denzel shifts his glare to Ren.

"Enough!" Ren shouts again. "This will stop now. I brought you all here to do some good. You are the future of our world. You have a chance to bring peace and take away the fear in people's hearts. This is NOT the way to bring peace. I chose only survivors of Sector Seven because I thought you, of all people, would know how important it is not to misuse power. I thought you could handle what I'm going to give you responsibly because you understand."

"Understand what?" Acadia says in tones of melted glass.

"You understand what it means to lose everything. You can have compassion on those hurting in this world."

Acadia erupts in tainted, dark giggles.

"Perhaps you were a mistake," Ren says.

Acadia stops laughing. "No," and her voice is dead serious. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer." She looks pointedly at Elena. "I'll stay and I'll learn what she has to teach me."

Ren stares at her for a long moment and then says, "Fine. Then it's time to sleep." He reaches into his pocket and takes out a small glass vile. Turning to leave the room with Elena following, he throws it over his shoulder.

It crashes to the floor in the center of the room, swirls of white fog billowing out from between the shards of broken glass. Denzel barely manages to say, "What?" before the tendrils of smoke twist around his neck and choke him into unconsciousness.

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Somewhere in semi-unconsciousness, Denzel gets the strange sensation that he is being lifted into the air. He feels arms underneath him that are too thick to be Cloud's, but for some reason he doesn't care. His awareness sinks into deeper sleep.

Sometime later, through the hazy attentiveness of a dream, he opens his eyes and thinks he sees a needle in his arm but can't feel the prick of its point. And as he tries to follow the hand that holds it he gets lost (where is he?), because the neon-green liquid in that needle is everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.

And something is beginning, something he doesn't understand (what's happening?), but it is like a flood that washes him away—

He was sitting on his bed, in his room, in his Sector Seven home. His mom was standing in the doorway, backlit from the hallway, tapping her foot with her hands on her hips as he clutched his chocobo blanket and tried not to look so guilty.

"Why did you do it, Denzel?" she asked in molten tones.

He stared at his knees and shrugged. "Dunno."

"You have to know." Her foot continued tapping and he thought each sound of her toe against the ground was like a whip from his dad's belt.

With a barely audible voice, he said, "I guess I just wanted to be smart. Like Dad."

"Breaking your father's computer isn't smart, Denzel. You're too young to play with adult things."

Too young—

He feels like he is cresting the top of a wave in his mind and he sees the flesh of his arm again, a red pucker-mark where he remembers the needle being, but he doesn't get to yell out like he wants to, doesn't get to ask what is happening, because the wave has passed and he is falling, falling—

Denzel had never met his grandmother (either of them), but he thought that Mrs. Levy was exactly what a grandmother should be, and he liked to imagine sometimes, as he was sweeping the front steps with an old broom, that they were related. He tried to figure out who's side of the family she would be on, but after the first unexpected tears, he decided it was a detail better left ambiguous.

She opened the front door and he quickly dropped the broom, desperately wiping his eyes so she wouldn't see the water overflowing onto his cheeks. She smiled gently and opened her arms to give him a hug. "Oh child, you're too young to have to face so much pain."

Too young—

Again he breaks from the memory, frozen in place and viewing veiled surroundings—where is he?—what's happening?—why does he keep—

He was sitting in a pile of debris and he thought that he had never looked so disgraceful in his life, surrounded by the natives from the slums and blending in perfectly. The people walked around him like zombies. There was a man a few feet away yelling, "Sector Seven has fallen, has fallen!" He looked crazed, with wide black eyes and wild gray hair. Denzel shivered and held his knees closer to his chest. Something metal gleamed under a pile of scattered papers beside him.

Extending a tiny, shaking hand, he pulled it out, gasping and dropping it immediately. A gun. It was a gun. He glanced around frantically, afraid someone had seen him.

But no one had. They didn't care. They were desperately trying to save themselves and they would trample each other to do it. Like that girl with geostigma in the tunnel. Everyone had been afraid to touch her, but they weren't afraid to watch her die.

He reached out for the gun again, closing each finger over it slowly and deliberately. He was alone. He couldn't be too young anymore—

He takes another breath of air at the surface of reality, and there is the brief feeling of cold metal under his back, a featureless face bent over his, and then he goes under once more. But this time it is different, this time the place isn't his—

They are standing in a clearing, surrounded by a circle of trees and there is a hooded man in front of him, tall and solid like a mountain, like he has grown out of the ground itself and cannot be moved. "Denzel," he says, and his voice seems to echo through both the cold night air and his mind. "It didn't have to happen."

"Who are you?" Denzel feels frantic, terrified, and he doesn't know why.

The man takes a heavy step forward, and the earth shakes with the impact. His thick brown robes hide his form but Denzel thinks he sees the briefest glint of metal over his shoulder.

"Denzel. It didn't have to happen."

"Who are you?!" His voice is a desperate shriek.

The man speaks again. It feels like the polished metal of a sword sliding broadside against his mind. "Denzel. Who's to blame?"

Denzel grabs his head and tries to back away, but he can't move.

"Who is to blame, brother? I'll give you a clue. It isn't ShinRa."

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Then everything is fading, and there isn't the tide of another memory coming in or the briefest image of a white room or a needle in his arm; there is only darkness.

In that darkness, Denzel cowers, shivering with the cold of confusion, a directionless, unexplainable, need for revenge, and a feeling that "too young" will never be an excuse again.

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A/N: The reference to Cloud having met Jenkins previously is in chapter one, just in case anyone was wondering.

Bossuru is romaji (Romanized Japanese) for "die."

This chapter was so incredibly difficult to write. I rewrote many parts many times, which is why it took so long. I really had to rip it out of myself. A chapter like this is where I might normally give up for a while, but I'm just too attached to this story. I'm determined to finish. Most of the set-up work is finally done, so things should be speeding up now.