It was baffling. Nothing about the situation made sense. Cid simply couldn't understand why such an expensive hotel with such fancy rooms and silly frills all over the place had such a disappointing bar. He couldn't get comfortable on the stool. The barkeep was all dressed up in a shirt and tie and was all respectable when he got you your drinks. The place was half-empty with no good conversations to eavesdrop on, and his drinking buddy was missing in action.

What a waste of a vacation.

And then there was a cat.

Cait Sith hauled himself up onto the bar with a flop, readjusting his crown with a huff. "Cid," he said.

Cid blinked at the new arrival. "Hey. You're alive again. Thought you'd get the new model to us faster'n this."

"Well, there were a wee bit o'complications." The small creature admitted with a sigh. "Got a lil'lost in transit. An'we're nae inexpensive, ye know! But tha's nae the point." He shook his head. "I got a message ta take tae Vin. What room is 'e in?"

Cid frowned, lightly tapping against the bar with one hand as he used the other to lift his cigarette to his lips, taking a drag before he responded. "214-B, next t'my room. No idea where 'e is, though. Been out all afternoon I think."

Somehow, through closed eyes and kitty features, the robot managed to look incredulous. "But I was AT 214-B! Some laddie I dinnae know tol'me I was at the wrong spot!"

Cid grunted in reply. "S'his room alright. Maybe he's playin' tricks on ya."

Cait Sith gave the pilot wide, hurt eyes. "Vin?"

"He's kinna slippery sometimes. Maybe jus' wanted some time alone."

"...I thought I heard two people in there..."

The pilot narrowed an eye suspiciously. "Onna them sound like a lady?"

"Aye."

Cid tapped his chin in thought. "He an' Lyla've been holin' up to have a lotta private chats lately."

"Lyla?" Cait Sith grabbed at his tail compulsively.

"Yeah, they get along good, looks like. What're you all nervous 'bout, cat?"

"Ye don' think they're makin' eyes, do ye?"

The blond let out a long, slow whistle by way of a response. "So many eyes, cat. So many eyes."

"So... 'e lied tae me?"

"Looks like it."

Cait Sith looked hurt.

"Don' cry, Cait, you're gonna rust. An' with your bran' new body an' everything."

"Yer right," he sniffed, rubbing at one closed eye with his tail-tip. "But, where's the trust, Cid! I thought there was trust."

"The trust is gone, I'm afraid. Bet they haven't gone far, y'could still catch 'im," the pilot offered.

"Aye!" The little cat leapt to his feet, giving a haphazard salute before jumping down from the bar and skittering off.

"If they're not there," Cid called after him, smirking to himself, "She's in 312-A."

Lyla, by some strange miracle, had begun to doze, forcing herself to admit that the afternoon's events had taken a lot more out of her than she had let on. The pain had subsided, but weariness had settled in. Her eyelids were at half-mast when her phone rang, causing her to startle as she fumbled for it, groping her way across the top of the nightstand until her fingers closed around its familiar shape. She did not answer, only studied the display as "Dad" flashed desperately.

Vincent looked over from his seat at the window, lofting a brow curiously. He had been there for the past hour or so, watching the waves. Trying to reconcile a course of action and his conscience. Games settled, Sephiroth's face had returned to the front of his mind. So much confusion, and so much rage. Was there any hope in redeeming him, somehow? Or was that another delusion he had forced himself to believe?

Lyla glanced in his direction only briefly, looking back to the phone's display before shoving it beneath her pillow rather than answering. "Later," she murmured, though guilt had finally begun to prick at her. She wondered if enough time had passed. She didn't feel ready to talk to her father, not yet, but it wasn't right to leave him hanging. Wondering. He was worrying, wasn't he? He always worried.

The gunman looked back out the window, eyes silvered by the rising moon. "Tell him you're busy," he suggested. "But tell him you're alright."

"I should," Lyla conceded, recovering her phone from its pillowy grave, though it had gone silent. "That should be enough for now, right? ... if I promise him we'll talk later." As though the man in question had heard her, the phone began to ring again; she paused to study it a second time, hesitant, forcing herself to answer a moment later. "Hi, Dad. I'm busy at the moment, but I'm- Charles?" Something unseen seemed to cause all signs of drowsiness to disappear; suddenly she was awake and alert, sitting upright.

Across the room, Vincent rose to his feet, attention drawn to the girl on the bed. Charles? He frowned.

Charles Ingram.

The look on her face had twisted, gone from surprised to angry instead, dark eyebrows knit together as she pressed a button on the outside of her phone. A man's voice filtered into the room, calm and even, almost cheerful, but not quite. There was nothing friendly about it. Only taunting.

"- in the same hotel. If you force me to come to your room and get you myself, I will, but please, let's handle this business transaction like civilized people. Give me the files you took on Pandora, my dear, and we'll discuss the return of your father. That much will earn you his body in a closed casket. If you would like him alive and in one piece, then I would very much like to cut a deal with you."

"Bastard," Lyla all but spat into the phone, unable to articulate more than that.

"Come now, such language doesn't become you. What did I say about civilized?"

"What do you want, Ingram." Vincent cut in, his low, rough voice as even and unemotional as it had always been. "Get to the point."

"Ah, Mr. Valentine is there, too. How convenient," the man on the other end of the line remarked, though there was a strange edge to his voice for a moment. It passed as he continued. "I would like to arrange a trade. One of you for your Dr. Caraway. Either will do. I'm a reasonable man who can resign myself to just one."

"You've got to be kidding me," Lyla began, but Ingram cut her off, unseen, before she could continue.

"Let's not play with your father's life, Lyla. If I recall, you played the role of doting daughter quite well, for what you turned out to be. I'm aware that it would ruin you if any harm were to come to him. Consider that your inspiration. You're more than welcome to throw Mr. Valentine under the bus... though if you come yourself, and do so quietly, I promised to sew you back up when I've finished." Perhaps was horrified her most was the absolute lack of malice in his tone.

Vincent grit his teeth. And he had been to see the doctor the night before. It had never occurred to him that he might be in danger. Why? Why the fuck hadn't that option been laid out on the obvious table.

"Please don't hurt him," she pressed, painfully aware of the fact that her voice had broken on the first word, fumbling reach the edge of the bed and get to her feet. Privately, she cursed herself for not thinking to contact him earlier, for not telling him to run. Why hadn't she thought of this? Why hadn't she been able to beat Ingram to the punch?

Because she had been too busy being angry... that was why.

"That's entirely up to you," Ingram informed her. "I'll allow you an hour to decide. I'll be waiting in room 412-B. Your father is elsewhere, but don't worry. I'll take you to see him, even let you watch as he's released. No tricks. I would like to do this legitimately. If you're not here within the hour, I'll empty an entire clip into his head. Are we clear, love?"

"Crystal," she said through clenched teeth, the color having long since drained from her face.

Vincent waited until the phone clicked off to flex his fingers until the bones cracked. "I'll go." He said quietly. "We need to tell the others, and decide on a plan."

"You can't," Lyla informed him brusquely, even as she tugged one boot on over her right foot. "You shouldn't have to, he's not yours to save. This is my problem."

"This is every one's problem." He told her in a tone far calmer than he felt. "Ingram can't get what he wants."

"He won't, because I'm going to kill him."

"I can't let you, Lyla."

She looked up from fastening one boot, reaching for the other. "I can't let -you- go, you've suffered enough. Do you think I can't bring myself to do it? I can."

Vincent watched her as she fussed with the clasps, his expression unreadable. "You're too eager. This is personal for you."

"It was already personal," she pointed out, drawing back up to her full height. "He just went and made it more so."

"And now you're angry. He needs your guard down, Lyla. And he's going to get it, like this."

"He has my father," she said firmly, though she did pause in moving towards the door, stopping to fold her arms instead. "He has to come out of this okay."

"Yes." the gunman agreed.

"How do you propose we do that other than the exchange? You can't trick him."

"I'll go." He said again.

"He'll tear you apart," she told him. "No."

"It wouldn't be the first time." Vincent countered. "Or the last."

"It could be the last," she corrected him. "You can't do this. At least if I go, he might... put me back together."

"Your father will appreciate that, I'm sure."

"He'll be alive," she said sharply. "We're wasting time."

"We have an hour to walk up a floor." Vincent corrected her with a frown.

She frowned in reply, using her folded arms as a discreet cover for hugging herself a moment later, shifting uncomfortably. "Whatever he does to you, I don't want that blood on my hands. I don't want you to go."

"I don't intend to roll over, Lyla. I've done that enough. Your father can't have your blood on his hands, either."

"Then what is it you plan to do?" she asked evenly, appraising him.

"Whatever I have to."

"You might not come back."

Vincent lowered his head enough to match their eyes evenly. "I'm harder to kill than that. So are you."

"Alright," she conceded finally, though her frown had deepened, clearly displeased. "Whatever we have to do. ... you have to come back."

The gunman nodded.

She sighed as she reached into her computer bag, groping for something until she resurfaced a moment later with a flash drive. "Glad I made a copy of this."

"He won't have it for long."

She glanced up. "You planning to take it back?"

Vincent tipped his head. "You planning to let him keep it?"

"No," she admitted, "But I hadn't thought very far ahead yet."

"Neither have I." he admitted, pulling his cloak on with practiced ease. "We need to let the others know."

She reached for her jacket instinctively; deciding it was too warm only after she had grabbed it and opting to tie it around her waist instead, covering the stretch of stomach that her shirt would have shown otherwise. "Yeah. Let's fill them in, figure out the rest on the way. Cid is probably in the bar. ... come to think of it, everyone else probably is, too."

The gunman made a soft, affirmative grunt as he opened the door-

And nearly stepped on the small, robotic cat.

"VIN," it said with some indignance. "Ye lied tae me!"

"What?" He blinked.

Lyla stopped suddenly in an attempt to avoid a collision, only bumping into Vincent's backside very gently instead. "Cait?"

"Were ye in 214-B all th'time, Vin? I heard someone say yae weren', but-"

"Don't know what you mean." Vincent shook his head, reaching down to pick the robot up. "Come on. We have to hurry."

"Tae what now?"

"Ingram is here," Lyla supplied, slipping past Vincent and into the hallway and starting towards the stairs, immediately setting an urgent pace. "We need to deal with him."

"Naw ol'melty mouth?" Cait Sith asked in horror, clinging to Vincent's collar as he started after her.

"The very same," she said sharply without looking back, though there was an edge to her voice that hadn't been there before, an injured tone. She gripped the banister with one hand as they reached the top of the stairs, using it for support as she took them down two at a time. "He has my dad."

"Doc Caraway?" The cat asked in horror, clinging a little tighter. "Th'mingin!" How howled, waving a fist. "What'er we waitin' for? Les gi'im!"

"I'd like to take a scalpel to him before all this is over," Lyla hissed through clenched teeth, hitting the bottom of the stairs and taking a sharp turn towards the bar.

"We're getting him." Vincent muttered, following her round the bend.

Cid looked up from his drink as he heard angry footsteps approaching, Reno doing the same two stools down. "What's goin' on, kids?"

Rude paused mid-shot to look over, setting the glass down curiously. "...?"

"I foun'im." Cait Sith announced helpfully.

"I see that," Cid noted, giving Vincent a curious look. Past Reno and Rude, Rufus leaned back from his place at the bar in order to see around the rest of the group, a martini glass in hand.

"Has something happened?" the president asked, arching a fine, pale brow in question as he appraised the new arrivals.

"Ingram is in this hotel," Lyla told him and all assembled, forgetting the incident with Sephiroth in her panic, despite his voice ringing in her ears. "He has my father. He wants the files on the Pandora project and a guinea pig in return for his safety."

"He says he isn't here." Vincent added evenly. "We have roughly 45 minutes."

"Shit," Reno exhaled, squinting one eye, annoyed, as he slid off his barstool. "So what're we gonna do?"

"What he wants. For the moment."

"Yer not really gonna give him someone," Cid accused, also getting to his feet. "We can beat up one little scientist, c'mon now."

"Vincent has offered to go," Lyla informed him, a strange hitch rising in her voice. "He'll come back."

"You remember Hojo." The gunman frowned, reaching to remove Cait Sith from his shoulders.

"Bampot's larger'n life, now, Cid!" The robot illustrated with a flail of his arms. "All melty mouthed an'orrible!"

Reno vaguely held a hand out to Cait Sith, wordlessly offering him assistance should he wish to climb. "So've you got a plan for once you're out of our care? That guy healed right up after anything we did to him."

"Haven't gotten that far." He admitted.

Cait Sith made a face as he scrambled up Reno's arm. "Who're you, now, Cloud?"

"Let's be fair, Cloud may have liked to do things big and brash and without thinking," Rufus began, "but at least he went in swinging a giant sword around. There aren't many adversaries who would run into -that- face-first. Shifting didn't work so well last time. Any other tricks, Valentine?"

"...I have a few." The gunman looked up. "We don't have time to argue. Our first priority should be Caraway. When he's safe, contact me."

"I'm going with him," Lyla added, "... for the trade. When my father and I return here safely, then we'll come up with a plan to deal with Ingram. Brainstorm in the meantime."

"That's all well and good and self-sacrificial and all, Vin," Cid began, "But how're we supposed to contact you? Y'don't have a phone."

"It's only sacrifice when you're giving something up." He arched a brow. "Think of something. You're inventive."

"What are we inventing, now?" Asked a light, feminine voice from their left. Clarise was leaning against one of the tables there, something long and thin, and distinctly bazooka-like slung over her shoulder.

Lyla paused even as she had begun to turn away from the bar. "Is that a bazooka?"

Rufus tilted his head in Clarise's direction, arching a second brow to match the first. "Nice."

"Neat, isn't it?" She offered, laying it out on the table, and wiping her hand along the small, blue dress she wore. "Won it off a guy in poker."

Rude blinked.

"We could blow Ingram in half," Rufus suggested a moment later, turning his attention to the pair at the end of the bar. "That might take him awhile to heal up at least."

Cid snapped a finger. "Hello, Vin? No phone."

"Maybe you should just storm the gate then. I'll take care of myself." Vincent checked over his shoulder, as if drawn by a noise. "Doubt I'd be able to answer a phone, anyway."

"Half an hour," Lyla reminded him quietly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, hands clenched into fists at her sides, white-knuckled and anxious. They had half an hour to go up four floors now. It was more than enough time, but she had no interest in cutting things close. Maybe Ingram would get tired of waiting.

"Alrigh' then, you go. If you get yourself killed, though, be prepared for me t'beat the shit out of you at the pearly gates," Cid told them, surly.

"No one I'd rather be shitkicked by." Vincent promised, turning on his heel. "But still. I'd rather keep what I can in tact. Don't worry."

Rufus had turns his attention back to Clarise's firearm. "So. Poker. Really?"

Clarise smiled. "Twirl your hair and wear a low enough cut shirt and no one thinks you know what a poker face -is-, boss."

Rufus snorted, a sound that may have been a laugh somewhere along the way. "Alright, touche."

"I'm torn between never wanting to play with you, and -really- wanting to play with you," Reno added with a smirk, downing the last of his beer. The smirk didn't quite reach his eyes as he glanced in the other direction, past Cid.

Lyla had turned to follow the darkhaired man from the bar, discreetly reaching to let her fingers catch against his at their side as they walked. "Thank you for this."

Vincent nodded. "It isn't just you, anymore."

Lyla allowed her hand to fall back to her side, running the other along the banister as they began to climb the stairs. "I know. ... I just want everyone to come out of this safely. ... this part is my fault."

The gunman didn't spare her a glance, frowning slightly. "How do you figure."

"I helped Ingram get as far as he has," she reminded him. "I facilitated it. And I didn't think to warn my father that Ingram might be coming for him. I should have known. I was too busy being pissed off, couldn't even bring myself to take his calls - if I had talked to him, I would have remembered. Told him to get elsewhere." She, too, frowned as they ascended to the next floor. "... who know what's been done to him. It seems naive to think he'd be left unharmed. ... especially because he would have fought."

"He was injured. Ingram might have gotten the drop on him." He supplied darkly, taking another three steps before he added, "And this is my fault, too."

"No, you don't need another thing to blame yourself for," Lyla told him, though she spared him another glance as they went. "... I guess it doesn't matter whose fault it is, anyway, doesn't fix anything."

For a moment it looked as though Vincent might say more, but in the end he did not. Only took the stairs two at a time in long, even strides.

Clarise followed the redhead's gaze serenely. "They're about to do something really stupid, aren't they." She commented.

"And how," Reno snorted, leaning one elbow against the bar. "Which is weird, cause, y'know. Generally better with the plans than this."

Clarise waved a hand in a fluttery gesture. "Emotion. Always slaps a big Sense Hunting Season sign on everything."

"Bah," Cid grunted, unable to bring himself to slide back onto his stool, pacing the length of a few seats and back. "Storm the gates, eh? Sounds fool-proof."

"Guess we're about to test that theory, h-uh?" Clarise tipped her head. "Should I bring the bazooka?"

"Yeah," Cid told the ginger, "It'll make a pretty big hole. We want big holes right now. Ingram just healed up the little one's last time."

"It was gross," Reno supplied. "But I would say scattered limbs will be a little harder to put back together. Think we got time for another drink before they get back?" he went on, though the smile on his lips didn't reach his eyes, bloodred eyebrows knit together with concern as he swiveled his seat back towards the bar. Things were only going to get worse from here on out, he was sure of that.