"Loyalty to one's compatriots comes above all. If loyalty requires the sacrifice of all else, even the disbanding of the order, then so be it. This is the way of the Turks – the undying devotion to its members that keeps it alive and flourishing."
Three weeks laterA tall man with spiky black hair ambled slowly along the sidewalk. Dark brows angled downward over bright blue eyes. He wore leather gloves and heavy boots with a gray jumpsuit.
The tall man was Vincent.
He'd thought it best to disguise himself for the time being. Letting go of his former identity had been hard. Countless little things connected him to the old life. Vincent had to consciously remind himself to slouch a little and quit scanning the area like everything was a threat. In short, he had to stop carrying himself as a Turk and melt into the everyday lives of so many others.
For seven days now, Vincent had uncurled from his makeshift bed near the generator on a rooftop, slid down the drainpipe, and walked the streets of the bustling city until nightfall. Following the same route every day, he would walk past the fabric cart with a polite nod for the small girl sitting bundled up in her shawl. He would stop in at the tiny cafe wedged between two corporate buildings for a bite to eat and a cup of tea. And then he would make a large, roundabout circle of inner Edge, passing the bar with the big wooden sign, the laundry run by the redheaded, freckle-faced lady, the dusty bookstore with the rocking chair on the steps.
Vincent remembered the day when the owner of the café had spotted him on the street and grabbed his arm, calling, "Zack! Come, sit with an old friend for a while!" He had had no idea who the old man thought he was. But Vincent had followed the wizened old man to the single table under the green awning, where he had been plied with tea and cakes and caught up on all the "news." While listening to the old man rattle on about this and that, Vincent had mulled over the name. Zack. It was as good as any to start a new life…again.
Sometimes he would trace his steps back to the ancient stone church where he'd spent the first night on his own. He would stand before the towering wooden doors for a few minutes and then leave, never actually going in. The familiar building provided Vincent with a sense of comfort.
Often he found himself thinking of the plucky young woman who had saved his life weeks before. Those lively green eyes were frequently at the front of his mind. When Vincent made his rounds of the city, he realized that he was unconsciously looking for a certain smiling face. He wondered why she had made such an impact on him. And then he would find himself wondering if he had made an equal impact on her.
x-x-x
Aerith sat moodily on the window seat in the upstairs of Seventh Heaven. Pale sun shone through the glass, illuminating the dust rings and dried rain flecks on the surface. Sighing, she pulled shut the white curtains and sat down at her desk. Picking up a pencil, Aerith pulled out a sheet of white paper and began to sketch mindlessly in an attempt to distract herself.
Somehow she wasn't surprised when, twenty minutes later, the drawing ended up as a man with long hair, claws, and a red cape. She studied the finished product, frowned, and pulled out a stick of red chalk. Aerith attacked the paper once more. Finally she stood up, smoothing her dress. A pair of crimson eyes looked up at her.
Aerith smiled wanly and went to lean against the windowsill, leaving the drawing on her desk. Surely Vincent never thought of her. Why would he? Still, she admitted, she knew that somewhere he was looking at the same sky that she saw out the window. And she couldn't help but hope that, just maybe, he would remember her fondly.
x-x-x
Hojo paced back and forth. "Where is he?" the scientist demanded. None of the four Turks in front of him moved a muscle. Rufus Shinra sat impassively off to the side. Hojo rolled his eyes. Really, these overrated assassins were as spoiled and bratty as the President's son himself.
Finally Tseng stepped forward. "Sir," he said, managing to convey a sense of disdain behind the polite honorific, "the Turks request immediate removal from their assigned mission to forcibly retrieve said individual." He stepped back into the line with such precision that Hojo was left to wonder why he didn't merely snap in half. Rufus rolled forward in his wheelchair and opened his mouth to speak, but Hojo cut him off.
"Absolutely not!" he barked, face turning red. "This mission is of utmost criticality. You will fulfill your mandate or I shall find some suitable way to punish you for insubordination!" Abruptly he was calm again. Rufus rolled forward until he was mere feet away from the scientist.
"Just ignore him for now," Rufus said, speaking to the Turks and pretending not to notice Hojo working up into another tirade. "All commands come from me, not him, no matter how he'd like to think differently. I hereby order you to continue the search, but…" and here he held up a finger, "…I shall decide how you are to be punished if you fail. Understood?"
The Turks snapped their hands up into two-fingered salute. "Understood!" they said vigorously, if not enthusiastically. Turning as one, they exited the room, shutting the door behind them.
"See?" Rufus said, turning to the fuming Hojo. "Nothing at all to worry about. They'll do their job." Almost to himself, he added, "It's the way of the Turks. And they'll follow it to the death."
