1 CHAPTER 3

"...and now a weather report from our weather girl, Siobhan Anders!" announced the radio DJ.

"Sure thing, Todd! Well, today there's gonna be cloudy skies in the morning, with a 50% chance of acid rain. Be sure to wear your asbestos suit when you leave work!"

"Gotcha! Anyhow, here's the latest from the Vlakoradoses-"

Cloud's hand hammered the Snooze button on his clock radio. So far, it was a routine day. He got out of bed wearing nothing but his boxers and strolled into the kitchen for some food.

Opening the cabinet, he retrieved a box of Mako Crisps from the shelf and poured himself a bowl. Retrieving a bottle of Chocobo Milk from the fridge, he lavishly poured it over the Mako-Based cereal. The cereal's gimmick was that it glowed like Mako when milk was poured on. The green glow lit up the kitchen like a lantern.

Cloud walked into his small, sparsely furnished living room and flopped down on the couch. The old, rusted springs creaked loudly but still supported Cloud's weight.

He turned on the TV.

"...Hey there, I'm Ron Popeil!" Cloud mashed the button on his remote control.

The screen changed to a picture of two fishers. "Say, Bubba... I love you." Said the man on the left, idly tapping his fingers on his rod.

Cloud zapped the TV a second time. The image switched to a shot of the exterior of a hospital building.

"We have just gotten word that the infamous criminal mastermind, Mikhail Sephiroski, has just gotten out of his coma, which he has been in for about a year now." Said the news anchor.

Cloud stared at the screen in horror. All the memories flooded back in an avalanche. He remembered the hospital... watching the surgeons operate on the comatose Russian that had killed Zack less than an hour before. Cloud remembered all the pent-up hatred for that man dissolving like an Alka-Seltzer in a bottle of Coca-Cola. The illusion of security was there; Cloud was sure that his nemesis couldn't ever dream of escaping from God's prison: Sleep.

"The hospital authorities are moving Sephiroski to Corel Prison where he will await his hearing, scheduled for next Monday." The scene switched to a live feed of a squadron of police and doctors escorting a man on a wheelchair to a police car. The camera zoomed in on the face of the man in the wheelchair. It all came back to Cloud. Silver hair, bright, green eyes...

A reporter ran up in front of Sephiroski. "Excuse me, sir! Are you optimistic about your hearing?"

The Russian looked up at a police officer, who Cloud immediately recognized to be Sergeant Cid Highwind. Cid nodded his head as approval for something. Sephiroski spoke clearly into the microphone:

"Yes, I am looking forward to it. I hope the judge isn't biased against me like the other judges were..."

Another reporter barked, "Sephiroski! I seem to recall that all the judges in your previous trials granted you guilty verdicts and soon died execution-style deaths."

"No comment." Said Sephiroski. "However, I can say that if Cloud Strife is watching this, he'd better know that I'll be after him soon... and that I enjoyed killing every one of those people in the hospital-"

"That's enough." Said Cid. "He refuses to comment anymore." He was placed inside the police car just as the image cut away to the TV newsroom.

"There you have it, folks. Mikhail Sephiroski is indeed alive. Now for a stock report..."

Cloud threw his bowl of cereal at the TV screen and buried his face in his hands. Why did he have to wake up? Why couldn't he be a vegetable until I retire from the police force? I bet everyone at the P.D.'s gonna be worried about what he said. That animal.

The phone rang beside the sofa. Cloud reached over and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Did you see that, Cloud? My God! That bastard's insane!" It was Cid.

"Where are you calling from?"

"Oh, there's this new thing called car phones...I just plug the piece of shit into the cigarette lighter and I can call you from the car. I'm in the cruiser ahead of the one that Seph's inside. We're heading for Corel now."

"Should I report to HQ today? I feel like taking the day off. I heard that threat against me on TV."

"That wasn't a threat!" laughed Cid. "That was a challenge!"

"You're a pretentious bastard." Growled Cloud. "You're a pompous jackass who doesn't deserve to be on the police force, let alone the sergeant of one."

"Sorry, but the reception on this phone is shit. What did you say?"

"Nothing..." smiled Cloud, wanting to do that for a long time.

"Okay, report to HQ at 8. Regular time."

"Understood." Said Cloud, hanging up.

After cleaning up the mess left from the shattered cereal bowl colliding with the TV, he got dressed and walked into the bathroom. There he made his fashion statement every morning.

Cloud retrieved his hair gel from the medicine cabinet and dumped the entire jar over his scalp. From there, he laboriously slathered the stuff across his head, spiking the locks to look like someone had given him a fierce electrical shock.

He never knew why he did it, but he did. Satisfied, he took his sword in hand--his

new weapon of choice since that fateful night in Kalm a year ago. Strapping it to his back, he opened the door and strolled out into the dank, malodorous hallway, shutting the door after him.

It was a cloudy day, as usual. Cloud ambled out of his Sector 6 apartment out to the street, where a sign on a lamppost announced a stop for the bus. Getting out his bus pass, he waited for his means of transportation to arrive.

Not five minutes later, it came. Lurching to a stop, the bus driver opened the doors to get on.

"Oh, it's you. Put the sword on the rack; you know the rules." The bus driver gestured to the front of the bus.

Cloud strolled over and put the large sword between the two metal slots and slid the lock over them. Snapping it closed, he walked into the bus, depositing his fare into the cash box beside the driver, who sighed as he closed the doors.

"Look! Spike-head don't have his sword any more!" said a man on the back of the bus, who wore a black leather jacket.

One of his friends, a similarly-clad street punk, cracked his knuckles menacingly. "Yeah, let's kick his ass!"

There was another punk with the two of them, he looked exactly like the others with their studded leather, dyed hair and their brass knuckles worn like rings.

Cloud noticed the three thugs in the back of the bus; he paid no attention to them. They appeared to have something else in mind...something far more devious. Cloud took a seat behind a smoking man with a small child. The father wore a factory worker's uniform, standard for all Shinra employees to wear outside their homes.

The thugs walked down the aisle, their eyes fixed on Cloud, who sat in his seat peacefully, looking out the window. The bus accelerated, jerking the passengers back in their seats. The thugs in the aisle stumbled a bit, but kept walking.

A woman noticed what was going on before her, and hoped that nobody pulled a gun... crime was high enough in Midgar as it was. Nobody forgot about the massacre that happened in the outskirts of Midgar a year ago.

The punk in the front of the group stopped beside Cloud's seat and stared at him. "Not so big now without your sword, eh?" he growled. "I've seen you here before. You really look like a wimp without it."

"Leave me alone." Mumbled Cloud, still staring out the window.

Another thug was egged on by this. "Yeah, give us your wallet and we'll let you go... at least, if we feel like it."

Some heads turned at their repartee. It provided them with something else to watch other than the buildings zooming by.

"Why, pray tell, would you need my money?" said Cloud, his gaze unwavering.

The third punk was getting irritated with Cloud's standoffish attitude. "Listen here, scumbag...give us your wallet or I'll snap that skinny-ass arm of yours like a twig."

Cloud turned to face the punks. They were about average-height, with bright pink Mohawks on their scalps. They also wore fearsome-looking brass knuckledusters and studded leather jackets. Cloud reckoned that they would pose a threat, but not much of one...

"I'd like to see you try, cocksuckers." He said.

The front most punk's face transformed into a mask of anger and shock. "What did you call me?" he growled. His companions took fighting stances of their own.

"I called you what you deserved to be called..." said Cloud, balling his right hand into a fist. This was going to be pretty ugly...

"That's it. I've had enough of you." Said the thug who appeared to be in the lead.

"Yeah. NOBODY CALLS US THAT!" said another.

The last punk was too quick for Cloud, taking his fist back and delivering a debilitating sucker punch to the side of his head.

Surprised, Cloud fell against his seat and saw the other passengers tremble in fright, contemplating what would happen.

The two other punks launched themselves at Cloud.

The police officer saw them coming and lifted an arm to block the blows. One of them stuck a hand inside Cloud's coat, searching for a wallet. He came back empty.

It was then that Cloud's adrenalin started to kick in. The punk in the lead leapt on top of Cloud, attempting to punch him again. Strife's left hand shot out and grasped the thug's jaw. With one smooth motion, he shoved the head backwards.

The man fell back against one of his comrades, enraged at how the seemingly puny man before him was able to muster up so much strength. "What the hell?!" he brayed, attracting the attention of the bus driver, who glanced in his rearview mirror.

Oh, crap...not again. Those guys do nothing but start trouble. I bet the fight will be over with as soon as it began. He thought, continuing to drive, noticing the frantic buzzing sounds from passengers wanting to get off, despairingly tugging the "request stop" wire mounted on the wall.

The two sidekicks to the lead thug were in shock and awe at this man who had been able to throw their leader across the aisle.

"Well?" asked Cloud, holding up his hands in a fighting stance.

The other passengers on the bus looked in wonderment. They were merely spectators, but what they were seeing was either magic or a sure sign of "Don't judge a book by its cover" syndrome.

One of the thugs launched himself at Cloud, who was ready for such an attack. He grabbed the punk by his shirt collar and flung him towards the window by his seat. With a sickening crunch, the man's head hit the window, creating a huge crack. The punk drooped over the seat, unconscious. A wound had formed across his forehead, and blood slowly trickled from it.

"Any others?" Cloud stared at the two remaining thugs with smugness.

"You...." groaned the lead thug, sneering. He threw a punch at Cloud, who attempted to block it with his forearm. With a surprisingly loud noise, the sharp edges on the brass knuckleduster cut into Cloud's arm, much to the thug's satisfaction. A few passengers screamed at this sudden development.

Cloud reeled back, holding his arm with pain.

"Not so big now, eh?" said the lead punk. His companion looked at the two of them with an air of uncertainty.

"I'm sure that you'd like to see if you could hit me again, bastard." Said Cloud.

The thug growled again and lunged.

Cloud saw his chance. He grabbed the second punk by his shirt and spun him so he was situated between him and the lead thug.

"What...?" grunted the thug that Cloud held.

Strife put the man in a headlock and tilted his head backwards. "One false move and I'll break this kid's neck."

"Kid? You couldn't be more than 20 years old!" said the lead thug, eyeing Cloud's features with scrutiny. Both his hands were balled into fists, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

"I take it you don't respect this man's life..." said Cloud with a touch of sarcasm.

"Let go of me!" said the punk in the headlock.

"I don't respect nobody!" growled his senior. "I only respect those that are better'n me, and this guy don't got the skills."

"Fine." Said Cloud, suddenly twisting the punk's neck to the side, hearing the satisfying pop emanating from the thick sinews.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell over lifeless. A passenger yelled out and fainted at this.

"What the hell? You killed him!" groaned the lead thug. "Get away!"

The bus driver peered back in his mirror to see a man crumple, totally inert. It was then that he realized what exactly was going on in the back of the bus. He had to stop the melee before it developed any further.

His foot slammed against the brake pedal. Passengers on the bus were jarred forward by the sudden stop.

A grunt sounded from the remaining punk as inertia flung him backwards, down the aisle. Cloud used the forward motion to his advantage, propelling his body into the punk's, headfirst.

The thug gasped as Cloud's head hit his upper torso, with a blast of unexpected pain. His body hit the floor, a wide hole in his chest. Bystanders stared in wide-eyed shock at the thug, who was obviously dead.

Cloud was surprised by this just as much as anyone else. As the bus stopped moving, he regained his balance and rubbed his scalp. His hand was smeared red.

He knew why.

The bus driver ran down the aisle and glanced at the body, then at Cloud.

"You okay, man?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess I used too much hair gel..." he said, looking once more at the remains of his harasser. "The spike is my fashion statement, and mine alone."

The driver stood dumbfounded as Cloud pushed open the doors to the bus and walked to the front, retrieving his sword. He decided to walk the half-mile to police HQ. In the back of his mind, he thought that that was a lot of action in one day, even for a police officer. However, it was to be the start of something truly awful...

The six men met in the bathroom of the train station, all clad in their Shinra factory worker uniforms. There was one man in the front of the group with a large bristly mustache and a long, skinny face. His cheekbones jutted out as if they were broken. This man's name was Patrick Calhoun, and he was sick of Shinra.

His friends were in front of him, willing to go along with his wild plan, which involved hijacking a train and kidnapping President Shinra. The concept was plausible enough, but the fact that they had all cut work today made them slightly suspicious, as Shinra kept a list of all truant workers that they could check on periodically. Hopefully, nobody on the train would have a list.

"So when are we heading out?" asked another man in front. His name was Heath Franks, and he was around 50 years of age, having gleefully joined up with Calhoun's group to end Shinra's oppression.

"We're going as soon as the train arrives. We will blend in and look like security guards, since the uniforms of the guards and the uniforms of the factory workers such as us look almost identical." Said Quentin Worley, adjusting his glasses.

"Thank you, Quentin." Said Calhoun. "Allow me to elaborate:

"We will follow President Shinra's escort very closely. When they get on the train, we will take security posts. I believe that there are enough people here to take a car each. As soon as the train is away from the station, we will spring into action and overpower the guards.

"Hopefully, they won't put up a fight, lest we might have to resort to bloodshed to commandeer the train." Calhoun was pacing in front of the group with a general's stature, eyeing everyone before him.

"Does everyone have his sidearm functional?" he asked.

The man who had gotten them their arms responded. "Yeah, I made sure we all cleaned them last night while you were here scopin' out the opposition." Derek Moran grinned a fiendish grin as he twirled his pistol, a mean looking nickel-plated .38.

"And do you have mine?" asked Calhoun, his hand outstretched.

"Sure thing, chief. A Mak-10, just as the doctor ordered." Moran produced an Eastern Bloc machine pistol from his bag, placing it in his leader's hand barrel-first.

"Got mine?" said another follower, Barry Zimmerman, an all-around average looking man with a mop of blond hair and brown eyes.

"Yeah," said Moran, opening another pocket in his bag and taking out an AKMS rifle, a modified version of the venerable AK-47. He held it barrel- up. "Good luck trying to conceal this baby in your piddly-ass disguise." He said slyly.

"Ugh," grunted Zimmerman. "Can you keep it in your bag?"

"Okay, pal." He laughed, putting it back in.

"Is mine in there?" asked Chris Contreras, a muscular man with a fierce-looking face and a decidedly gangster-like demeanor.

"You were the only one to ask for a knife." Said Moran, taking out an 11" hunting knife with a ragged, serrated edge. He handed it over, blade pointing down. Chris took it.

"Ask and you shall receive..." he mumbled, swinging the knife at the air. He pivoted his arm to the side, and suddenly took a mighty swing at Moran's exposed neck.

Moran screamed as the blade stopped inches away from his neck. "What the hell was that for!?" he wailed.

"Just to test your reflexes... the knife is pretty damn good, not too light, but enough so I can swing it freely yet feel powerful." Contreras stuck the blade in his belt and tucked his shirt over it.

"Whatever..." said Calhoun.

The last man spoke up. "Might you have my weapon?" he was Bill Yamamoto, the quietist man on the team. Most people who saw him suspected something deeper inside, but he was not open about his true personality.

"I've got it, Bill." Said Moran, taking the last weapon out of his satchel. He tossed over an odd-looking assault rifle. "It was hard getting that." He said. "They never told me what it was called, I just knew what it looked like."

"It's made by a company called Steyr, technically its still in development. I have a close friend who let me use his when we went out to the shooting range a few months ago. It's really light and durable, doesn't recoil much. It's pretty thin, and the stock folds. I can probably stick it in my pant leg and nobody would notice." Said Bill, examining his new gun. "This feels like my friend's. That's good."

"What's it called?" asked Moran, curiously.

"Aug." was his monosyllabic reply.

"We've got this issue taken care of...now we have the issue of who does what task." Said Calhoun. "Personally, I'd take the front car and overpower the engineers there. From there I can stop the train in a secluded place such as a tunnel or on a bridge. If we do that successfully, we won't run the risk of getting derailed by a police attack.

"As most of you are aware, Midgar has an exceptionally good SWAT team, led by no other than Cid Highwind himself, who also happens to be the commander of the undercover police division." Lectured Calhoun.

"Sir, I thought that Cid led the entire police force." Said Zimmerman.

"Not so. Cid is just a figurehead who appears to do press releases, speeches, and whatnot. No, the real head of the P.D. would be President Shinra himself. See, all of Shinra's funds literally power the entire city by making the giant Mako reactors that do so, and the funds also pay the factory workers such as us who toil away at those power plants, at assembly buildings, and everything else related to Shinra.

"In exchange for funding of the P.D., Cid decided to let President Shinra lead it, although Shinra gets little to no powers in his position. However, he is the last authority when it comes to coordinated raids on drug running operations, or strikes on the Mafia, which brings me to my next point:

"One of my close friends is in jail now, after coming out of a coma for about one year... he's mighty pissed, from what my phone conversation with him revealed. See, he gave us a little assignment for him. Our original plan to kidnap President Shinra is still going to happen, but instead of our demands for a better working environment, we are to demand his release."

The five other men were utterly shocked by all this.

"What...?" stammered Franks, his face melded into an expression of pure shock and distrust for Calhoun upon hearing the announcement. "That was our original ideal, wasn't it? Our constant requests to increase our wages and sanitize the factories and power plants didn't work, so we had to resort to this, remember?"

"Yes, I remember..." said Calhoun.

"Are you forsaking all our original goals?" said Heath, frowning.

"We don't have to include Sephiroski's release in our demands solely. We can also include those, I suppose that Shinra would pay anything to release its dictator."

"Still... why strive to free a man we don't know?" said Yamamoto.

"Because," said Calhoun, smirking, "He will dearly reward us when we kill President Shinra and he is freed. We will become part of Sephiroski's crime syndicate. We will all get the pay we deserve, and we get to do something fun for a change."

"Fun?" said Worley. "Crime is fun? I only joined up with you because I could get a better house, and not have to be on welfare because I gamble every so often..."

"Gambling is a legalized crime." Said Contreras, showing some acumen for once. "See? Every man has his vice. But one thing... if we were to kill Shinra, why don't we just do it Mob-style and cap him once in the head and run like hell?"

"Well, that won't free Sephiroski, would it? After all, once they release Sephiroski and he is at a disclosed location that I will name to the police after we establish contact with one another, we will kill Shinra and toss his body off the train."

"What? Surely this can't be true!" said Zimmerman. "I don't wanna kill anyone."

"You've certainly got the right gun for the job," said Moran. "Personally, I think you're kind of being a hypocrite about this."

"Sorry..." said Zimmerman. "But I don't want to kill him."

"Then one of us gladly will." Said Calhoun. "Each of us has our own motives against Shinra, surely developed over time to extreme hatred."

"I'd put a cap in Shinra's skull." Said Franks. "But I don't want to work with a crime syndicate."

"You don't have to reap the rewards, you can always go back to a white-collar life after we finish this job, albeit you will have to relocate to another town..." Said Calhoun.

"Har, har." Said Heath, with abundant sarcasm. "Well, I'm not the patient type. When's Shinra supposed to arrive here?"

Calhoun looked at his watch. "I'd say in about 5 minutes, max."

"Alright." Said Contreras. "I can wait. After all, the anticipation of having something is sometimes more fun-"

"Oh, put a sock in it, Chris." Said Zimmerman.

Cloud arrived at Police HQ in downtown Midgar. The scene was alive with activity. Cars zoomed by every which-way; pedestrians swarmed the sidewalks like ants.

A huge marquee by the police station announced the presentations of the famous, top-grossing play "Loveless", which had won numerous Tony awards and the Pulitzer Prize for best play... of course, everyone had seen it yet didn't mind watching it over and over again... it was almost like mind control, Cloud remarked with a grin.

Cloud crossed the main road in front of the police station and entered into the main lobby. The receptionist greeted him with a wide, saccharine smile.

"Good morning, Officer Strife." Said Jessie, the receptionist.

"Hey, Jess. Any messages?"

"Yeah, you have a message from a Mr. Patrick Calhoun."

"Thanks." Cloud retrieved the mysterious-looking letter. "Did this come in the mail?" he asked, tearing open the envelope.

"Yeah, I got it this morning. Who's Patrick Calhoun, anyway?"

Cloud took out a crudely written note from the envelope. "I'm not sure." He said, and began to read:

"Hello, Cloud. You don't know me, but I know you. You probably know my very good friend, Mikhail Sephiroski."

Cloud froze. Evidently this guy had information or he was making a threat...

"Are you okay, Officer Strife?" said Jessie.

"I'm fine." Cloud kept reading.

"When he was transferred to prison this morning, he chose to call me for his obligatory 'one phone call'. In our 10-minute conversation, he told me about what happened to him that night in Kalm, and how you assisted in apprehending him. He said that the last thing he remembered before drifting into his coma was that you were standing in the room, smiling.

"He remembered that smile for one year, Cloud. That smile haunted him for the entirety of his coma. All he saw was your smug face, happy because he was unconscious and bleeding on a hospital bed. Yes, he's out now and supposedly intends to escape from Corel Prison.

"As for me, I've got plans of my own involving your REAL police chief. I am dropping this letter off at the front desk with your lovely secretary, as I am going to my meeting point. By now, you must know my name. I trust we'll be seeing each other later on today. Until then, friend."

Cloud felt sick. First the punks on the bus attacked him, and then he got this sickening letter. Something in the back of his mind told him to follow up with the 'plans' that Calhoun had mentioned in the letter.

"What was that?" inquired Jessie, staring into Cloud's eyes.

"Something big." Said Cloud. "Thanks for the letter... did you see the man personally drop it off?"

"Yeah, he personally handed it to me and told me his name. Did you read the part about the 'lovely secretary'?" she asked, before realizing that what she had just said was incredibly stupid and unprofessional.

"You read the letter, eh? You did a remarkable job of re-sealing the envelope."

"I guess I did," she said timidly, hanging her head.

"Relax, I won't tell anyone." Said Cloud.

Jessie's eyes lit up. "Really? You're the best, Cloud!" She ran up to him and embraced him. "That could have gotten me fired, you know..." she spoke into his shirt.

Strife was taken aback by this, but he hesitatingly hugged her back. "No problem, just get back to work or else people will stare."

"Right." Said Jessie, with a hint of disappointment. She walked behind her desk again and went through some folders.

The police officer walked down the hallway towards the elevators, looking at the envelope with an amalgamation of curiosity and anger. Why would someone take the time to send him a letter explaining what Sephiroski thought of him? Was it part of a larger plan? Some bigger scheme?

Cloud punched the button, and an elevator immediately dinged its arrival, the doors opening. He walked in, still examining the letter.

"Hold the door for me, Strife." Said a voice that Cloud immediately recognized. He put his thumb on the "DOOR OPEN" button on the control panel. Sergeant Cid stepped into the elevator.

"Good morning, officer. Have a pleasant night?" he asked, far more chipper than his normal cranky self. Cloud didn't look up from the letter.

"Spit it out, Highwind. I know you're hiding something from me."

Cid scowled and pushed the button, which sent them up to the 69th floor. "You've got a sixth sense, kid. I guess that night in Kalm last year kinda sent you a message."

"Most horrible thing that ever happened to me. What do you want me to do? Whenever you're nice you want me to do you a favor."

"I didn't tell you this over the phone, but we found a bomb in our lobby last night." Said Cid, looking at Cloud. "It was found by Ed the night guard. We called our bomb techs to come over and look at it. It's plastic explosive, kid. C4. The detonator's still active."

Cloud found all this hard to swallow at once. "What did the techs find with their analysis?"

"Apparently, there was a break-in at Midgar's military armory. There were some assault rifles, some pistols, and a ton of plastique stolen. Nobody forcefully broke into the armory, but signs point to someone... at the top...who may have been behind the heist."

"Uh huh."

"The C4 has been traced to that armory."

Cloud groaned. "Are you saying that someone wanted to blow up this building?"

Cid continued. "We swept the building and found no other bombs, but this break-in might be a sign that terrorist activities are spreading again."

Strife looked at his note at the same time the elevator doors hissed open. The two men walked out, down the hall towards Cid's office. "Sir, take a look at this note I got this morning."

The sergeant gave the note a punctual scan and handed it back to Cloud. "I've had a copy of this note in my possession since last night. Jessie took the liberty of looking at it and xeroxing it."

"Fuh?" babbled the bewildered Cloud. "So much for privacy..." They reached Cid's office and opened the door.

"'Privacy' is not in our vocabulary on the police force, Strife. Have a seat over there... once your partner comes, I'll-"

"Partner? Wait a sec..."

"Well, I kind of blew it on that one, didn't I? Yes, you have an assignment." Cid shut the door and walked behind his desk.

Cloud shifted in his seat. "Does it have to do with that note, or the stolen shipment?"

"Both, actually," said Cid, crossing his arms and leaning back. "In part of that note, it mentioned plans involving our "real police chief". Now, the man who funds the police department is President Shinra. Coincidentally, he is going off to a conference in Junon by train today. This, we speculate, is this group's target, mentioned in the note."

"How do you know it's a group?"

"One man can't overtake a train, fool. I believe that this group is a small division of Shinra labor workers, as six men working at Mako Reactor #2 are missing. Shinra supervisors have reported this same group demonstrating during lunch breaks and getting others to join up with them.

"I feel that they are connected to someone who knows President Shinra very well, one of his top advisors.

"Wow... is that my assignment, to investigate that?" Cloud crossed his fingers behind the office chair.

"No, as much as that may have been a relief for you... it's not the case."

"Shit..." uttered Cloud under his breath, audible to nobody but himself. He stirred some more, and looked at his boss, hoping that he wouldn't have to come face-to-face with Sephiroski again.

"Yes," Said Cid, pacing around the room. "Your task is to be far more tricky than what you mentioned to me... Since I first got that letter, I knew that the Shinra employees would do something of that magnitude. Unfortunately, time is of the essence here, and your partner seems to be late, as usual."

Cloud had a feeling that he knew who his partner was going to be. "No, please... I'm more accustomed to one-man missions. I think that-"

"You're not entailing that you don't value your assignment as much as you value your status as a one-man unit? Strife, this is a perfect opportunity to hone your skills. Everyone on the force thinks that you can't work with a partner."

Of course, this was typical B.S. made by Cid, but Cloud got the point. "Okay, fine... who's my partner?"

Out of the blue, the door to Cid's office opened. Cloud whirled around to see who was at the door. "Oh, what perfect timing. Do come in, officer Wallace."

Strife stared into the face of a mammoth black man who was about 2 heads taller than Cloud was. His dark brown, piggish eyes looked into Cloud's, his face sculpted into an expression of extreme interest. Wallace walked into the room and stood at attention. Cloud noted that the man's body was incredibly muscular and wide.

The thing that distracted Cloud the most was the Wallace's right arm. The hand was missing, in its place was an undersized rotary gun, appearing to be seamlessly bound to his arm. An artificial graft, perhaps? Cloud had seen this man before, and he was fairly popular amongst his peers. During breaks and after work, Cloud would see Wallace socializing with two other policemen, Officers Biggs and Wedge. The two of them were feeble beat cops, yet they seemed to be strangely fond of Wallace.

"Sir, I regret the fact that I was late." Said Wallace, his voice showing a degree of maturity that Cloud had only found in few men. Why he had bothered to notice this he was not entirely sure, except that he was in absolute envy of this man....

"No problem at all, Barret. No problem at all." Said Cid, grinning. "I do expect that you have been briefed on this..."

"Actually, I was in the middle of cleanin' my gun-arm when I get a call from your sorry ass tellin' me that I gotta report to work early! So I goes 'What the hell' and I haul my ass over here... Shit, I don't know why I bothered." Barret raised up the arm with the prosthetic "limb" on it.

Cloud said nothing, he just watched Barret. Wallace was unaware of Cloud's presence; at least he didn't show it.

"I suppose I need to tell you what I have planned...it isn't quite what you had in mind, I'd presume." Said Cid, sitting down.

"Ok... cut the crap, man. Gimme my job." Said Barret. He flicked one of his fingers against the metal barrel of his gun, making a TEENG noise that reverberated around the room.

"I presume you got the note this morning when you came to work." Said Cid. "We put a copy on our bulletin board, as well as by all the places people meet here."

Cloud rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I saw it... and I saw that Sephiroski guy on TV this morning. What the hell's it got to do wit' me?" Barret began to grow irritated as he tapped his toe. Cloud's eyes drifted downwards as he saw the man's monstrous boot move up and down.

I pray to God that he doesn't have a steel toe... thought Cloud.

"Look behind you, Wallace." Said Cid. Barret's gaze met Cloud. For an instant, the two men's eyes met. Neither one of them did anything that would make a bad impression on the other. "This is Officer Strife."

"Yeah, I know of you. You fucked up the job in Kalm. It's a real pleasure to meecha. I'm Barret Wallace." Said the black man, extending a hand.

"So I gathered." uttered Cloud, shaking the hand. It was monolithic in size, it appeared to completely engulf Cloud's in its grasp.

"You two will be partners on this aforesaid job here." Cid smirked and crossed his arms across his chest. "Need I tell you what you will do?"

"Damn right, you should. I have a daughter, ya know... it's kinda hard for her to be making her own breakfast every day." Said Barret, a look of contempt forming in his features. "For once, I'd like to make her a big- ass plate of pancakes-"

"How old is Marlene? Last time I saw her, she was 6, I believe." Cid actually showed some form of empathy for Wallace and his lifestyle.

"She just turned 7 last month. Of course, with the schedule I have to work on, I wasn't there at her birthday party... I just left her present by her bed before she woke up."

Cloud attempted to make conversation with the giant. "What's the wife doing?"

"Hah, the bitch left me for some German guy with 15 inch biceps. What's it to you, honky?" Barret scornfully stared at Strife. "Hell, she's probably dead by now... not like I care or anything-" Wallace's left fist tightened as the knuckles appeared white.

"Guys, enough. You are on a clock. You have BEEN on a clock since this morning. Shall I officially brief you on your assignment or should I dump you off at the train station with a pocketknife and a pack of gum and see what develops?"

"Clock? What the hell?" Wallace looked at his superior once again.

"Train station?" blurted Cloud.

"Oops...spoke too soon. Character flaw of mine." Cid straightened his posture.

"Whatever, Mr. Universe." Growled Barret.

Sergeant Highwind's eyebrows arched with amusement. "Care to repeat that one, Mr. Wallace? Officer Strife here is bound to be impressed by your rapier wit."

"My ass. Just give us the goddamn assignment!" Barret's massive fist slammed against the wooden tabletop of Cid's desk with a booming THUD. Some framed photos, a stapler and Cid jumped up all at once. Cloud reeled in his seat with fright.

"Right..." groaned Cid, maintaining his composure. "Anyhow, your assignment is relatively simple. You and Officer Strife are to be deposited at the Sector 4 train station. There you will purchase tickets separately and board the train. As you should know, our honorable President Shinra is on a trip to Junon by train for a meeting with the mayor. Both of you will take seats closest to the Presidential Car. There will be armed guards at the entrance. If you see any suspicious activity, investigate it at once.

"By any chance if you come across any of the stolen weapons- you will know what they are because you will receive a list with all the weapons' serial numbers on it- report to an armed guard posthaste. All of them have the power to seize control of the entire train and search everyone and anyone on board.

"Wallace, don't use that gun of yours. In fact, such an act is discouraged. Before starting off, you should dis-attach your arm. You can cover as an amputee, I suppose. It's a viable identity. Remember, there are no weapons of any kind allowed on board Midgar trains, much less one with the President on board, so don't even THINK about trying to be a hero."

"Fuck that!" said Barret, with a laugh. "From the looks of it, you're placing top priority on this mission! I don't believe that for one fucking second-"

"Look." Said Cid, his face a mask of fury. "These bastards are ROOKIES! Look at how they handled delivering Strife his letter. It's like they wanted you to come."

"Maybe they did." Said Cloud, resting his hands behind his head.

"Care to explain that, Strife?" said the police sergeant.

"Doesn't it seem too coincidental that Calhoun or whatever his name is decided to drop off the note HERE and announce his intention clear as day?"

Wallace grinned. "Hey, yeah! Man, I never knew you'd be smart!"

Cid rolled his eyes. "However you look at it, the guys are dumbass rookies looking to get themselves killed. Where was I?"

"Uhh.... Don't be a hero?" spoke Cloud.

"Yes. DON'T BE A HERO. That is something that you should remember when you have the urge to take 'em all on at once. Is that understood?"

"You're contradicting yourself, Highwind. Just a second ago you said that they were all rookies, so what's stopping us from slaughtering them?" Cloud stated fearlessly.

Cid swallowed hard. "Listen, I can take that as insubordination and have you kicked off the police force."

"Suck my-" Barret began to say.

"Fine, just don't expect us to do EXACTLY as you say...SIR." Cloud spat.

All Highwind could do was stare. "Get ready." He mumbled. The two officers grudgingly obliged, opening the door and leaving the office.

President Shinra slicked back his balding hair, smiling to himself as he looked out the window of his limousine. "Almost there, Gary?" he asked to his chauffeur.

"Yes, sir... by the way, the name's Jerry." Said the young man in the front seat, always honored to serve, but befuddled by Shinra's clumsiness with names.

"Good, good." Shinra stared out the window, watching the metropolis of Midgar sprawl out in front of him. The limo was speeding down the Intercontinental Freeway that went through the heart of Midgar and directly passed Shinra Headquarters. There was a special lane for government members, which was in the center of the freeway, completely bypassing all the early morning traffic.

The punishment for a civilian using the GOV Lane, as it was called, was instant revocation of the offender's driver's license and a 5-year prison term. The traffic was abysmal in Midgar, some traffic jams had been known to last for days on end. People were so desperate to sidestep all the congestion in the morning and afternoon that illegal usage of the GOV lane was rising. The situation was not always monitored by Shinra personnel, as the only way to tell if an unidentified car was using the GOV lane was to manually access the road's monitoring system and check to see if there was anyone in the lane. Then whoever wanted to know of an unknown car would scan for an ID and check it. If the driver was clever enough to not even have an ID in the first place, then he still faced a 3-year prison sentence on top of the fact that he was abusing the GOV lane.

Needless to say, the Midgar minimum-security facility for small offenders of the law was swiftly filled, and all constant flow of miscreants never failed to peter out. The new criminals were temporarily funneled over to Corel Prison, with all the murderers, drug dealers, rapists, bank robbers, and the like... the kind who deserved to die. The petty criminals were put in with the serial killers, and the death toll mounted. The meek businessmen who took a chance and decided to circumvent the law were either killed in the harsh heat of the prison or by their cellmate.

Shinra's prison system soon came under scrutiny. All the liberal organizations, equal rights groups, and schoolchildren came out to protest the sudden move of petty criminals to a much harsher environment. Shinra caved in and promised to build another minimum-security penitentiary.

The limousine passed the new prison's construction site. Progress was slow, as usual. President Shinra scowled. The last time he had come by to survey the work, the building looked exactly like it did today. A few I-Beams sticking out of a poorly done foundation. The workers were starting to grow disinterested with their line of work, they all complained about their "poor working conditions".

"Gary, can you remind me to call Fred Stone about the prison? He's the architect in charge of the operation-"

"You don't have to remind me, sir. I'll just write it on your calendar...." Jerry's eyes moved to the black mass in front of them. It was a pickup truck, with a small man kneeling in the bed. It was only going about 20 miles an hour, far below the 50 mile per hour speed limit. To top it off, it was a civilian. "Sir, isn't it illegal to use the GOV lane?"

Shinra looked at his chauffeur. "Of course, Gary! You know better." His eyes, too, saw the truck, which now appeared to be stopping in front of them. This presented a problem because the GOV lane was only wide enough for one car, one of the reasons why the ordinance was enacted in the first place.

"Ah, shit. It's stopping. What do we do, sir?" asked the young man, no older than 18 years of age. He moved his lower lip over his upper lip and bit down.

"Get as close as you can. They might get the message."

"Okay. Whatever." Jerry maneuvered the limousine close to the truck and stopped it. The two men could see the man's face, smiling. He reached for something behind him.

"A gun!!" yelled Jerry. "Get down!" He grabbed Shinra by the collar.

"Let go of me, Gary. We have bulletproof windows. There's no need to worry."

"They could have a grenade!"

"You worry too much," scowled Shinra

"He could have a rocket launcher! Or an RPG! A can of napalm! A Molotov-"

"Quiet, Gary. Let's just watch him."

The man had no weapon. He had a sign. With a toothy grin, he showed it to the two men in the limousine.

"My...God..." groaned Shinra. "Not another one!"

Jerry and President Shinra read the sign: FUCK OFF SHINRA. Jerry was outraged. "I'll have their heads!"

"Gary! Don't!" Shinra feebly tried to hold him back. He was far too fast to restrain. Opening the door, Jerry ran out towards the truck. Unfortunately for him, the man in the bed had a bottle of beer with him, which he didn't hesitate to throw. The bottle sailed through the air, flew past Jerry's head and over the railing into another man's car.

With a hearty, drunken laugh, the truck sped off and exited the GOV lane, going into Sector 6. Jerry stood on the road and fumed for a second, then went back into Shinra's limo.

"I didn't get the license plate, sir." Said Jerry, accelerating the car. "I know that they went into Sector 6, and that-"

"I could care less, son. Now take me to the train station, I need to be there at 9:00 sharp. Make it snappy!" commanded Shinra.

"Yes, sir..." grumbled his chauffeur, speeding up.

Calhoun flipped a page in his newspaper. He sat on a bench in the train station with a clear view of the front, where the cars came in. Peeking to his left, he saw Worley appearing to talk on the telephone in the booth. A skilled actor, that kid was. He'd be great on Broadway some day...

"Yo," said Contreras, bumping into him. "We've got the people in the bathroom, and I think that Shinra's escort's gonna be in here real soon."

Patrick smiled. "Superb. Who did you select?"

Chris sat down next to Calhoun on the bench. "Yamamoto and Zimmerman. They'll have the best chance of finding a guy who's their size," he said professionally. "Franks and Moran will lure the men into the bathroom."

"How?"

"They'll pretend that they're drunk."

"Good idea. Those Shinra scumbags are willing to arrest anyone, no matter what the cause... so what if one man comes in instead of two?"

"Shinra works in groups. We're anticipating two or three of 'em. If there's one, like you say, we'll just have one less disguise."

"Thank you, Chris. I can always count on you." Calhoun grinned warmly.

"Just keep that in mind when you pay us. By the way, I think I see Shinra coming up the drive right now... It's show time, pal." Chris stood up and looked towards the bathroom, seeing Franks and Moran leaning beside the door. He gave the signal- a loud cough followed by a retch.

Sure enough, President Shinra's limousine drove up in front of the station, and a small flotilla of bodyguards went out to escort him.

"Step this way, sir," stated one of Shinra's bodyguards, with absolutely no emotion on his face. He took Shinra by his arm and gently hoisted him outwards.

"I don't really need so much care-" he began.

"Sir, we have our duties." Said a second bodyguard.

Shinra grumbled to himself. "Goodbye, Gary. You were a good chauffeur."

"Jerry." He grunted.

The platoon flanked Shinra as they advanced towards the train. "Sir, the car is ready, and you will be served breakfast on board. There will be other guards on the train, so you are absolutely not going to be bothered." Announced the lead bodyguard in front.

"Good, I thought you were slacking off!"

Derek Moran took a swig of the liquid in his pocket flask. To the guards, it would be beer, vodka, brandy, scotch, whiskey, or any other alcoholic beverage, which was NOT ALLOWED in the station. In reality, the liquid was castor oil, a substance that would cause almost instant vomiting from the person who consumes it.

Heath Franks did the same, and the two men staggered towards the group of bodyguards with a convincing stagger.

"...As you see, sir, this train is the top-of-the-line Shinra SM-29 model, complete with automatic brakes, an automated locomotive, and best of all, a security checkpoint in every car." Said the lead bodyguard.

"I remember supervising its construction," the President said blankly.

"Yes, well... we have upgraded the security systems on-board so all the security personnel have to pass through an optical scan before entering the train. This would prevent unauthorized personnel from entering the Presidential Car or the locomotive area to access the manual control."

"Well, I certainly didn't expect that much of an overhaul on the design."

"In addition, there is a metal detector at the entrance of a car, just in case we have any terrorists aboard who like to stash their weapons. We also have a team of drug and bomb-sniffing dogs patrol the entire train at each and every stop."

"You certainly spared no expense for my safety, mister...ah, blast it. I forgot your name. Nonetheless, you deserve a promotion."

"No, the pleasure is mine. You can call me Graham, but my first name is Ian. Despicable name, if you ask me."

"I hate the name 'Shinra' just as much." The President and his team were now passing through the square, within earshot of the two men posing as drunks.

"You don't know how much I agree with that," hissed Franks as he approached the closest guard in the formation.

Moran fell against the bodyguard in the back of the formation. "Hey! I look nice today!!" he wailed in a drunken voice.

"Get off me, vagrant!" growled the guard seconds before Moran vomited all over his pant leg. He staggered back and glared at the offender.

Franks grasped another guard's boot and retched on the floor in front of him. This bodyguard kicked at Heath's face, kitting the bridge of the nose with the toe. Luckily, the bone didn't shatter and kill Franks, but the nose was broken. Blood discharged onto the tile floor, combining with the vomit and at the same time filling in the cracks in the flawed flooring. The elder insurgent rolled over on his back and held his nose as blood continued to spill over his face.

Moran stared in rage. That was clearly against Shinra's policy. "Bitch!!" he bellowed, tacking Heath's assailant. The guard was taken totally by surprise as Derek's weight slammed into him. The two tumbled into a bench, which just happened to be the bench that Calhoun was sitting on, totally aware of the situation and totally enraged at his accomplices' incompetence. He knew he had to step in.

As the men hit the bench and started to scuffle, Calhoun stood up and pulled Moran off the guard. "Rabble! You should learn better than to assault the authority!"

Moran whirled around and faced his boss. "What the hell was that?" he hissed with his teeth clenched.

"Face it, you fucked up." Calhoun responded in a similar manner.

Graham stepped up and helped his comrade off the bench. "I totally agree with this man's statement. All drunkards should be killed."

"Hear, hear! Take these tramps into that bathroom over there. That's the most secluded place in this entire area."

Derek grinned at that. Calhoun was one smooth operator. "I dowanna goo!!!" he wailed pathetically. The guard he assaulted suddenly grabbed him by his shoulders and was immediately put down by Graham.

"Stand down, Laurencio. I'll handle him myself!" Graham produced a baton from his belt, then turned and faced another man, who had Moran's vomit on his pants. "Craig Hudson! Come with me and take the other one. Drag him if you must."

"Yes sir." Said Hudson, taking Franks by his shirt collar.

"Shall I proceed into the train?" asked President Shinra, who had been watching the events unfold before him.

"Yes," said Graham, placing handcuffs on Moran's wrists, "The others are perfectly capable of escorting you. Come on, Hudson."

"LET ME GO!!" Moran proceeded to thrash his body around as best as he could while he was being shepherded into the bathroom. Graham opened the restroom door to let Hudson in, and with a fierce blow to Moran's back with the baton, he shoved him into the room, locking the door as he closed it.

Contreras, Calhoun, and Worley all smiled at once. With the exception of Franks' injury, the plan was going off flawlessly. Now they just had to wait for their men to emerge from the restroom, and the hard part was done.

Ian Graham smiled a toothy, smug grin, his brown teeth showing. He threw Moran onto the grubby white floor, watching the "drunk" squirm around like a headless snake. Graham's follower placed Franks' body next to Moran. Heath had become unconscious almost immediately after his nose had been broken, so he was not much of a problem to them.

"Thank you... now be sure not to tell anyone what we did in here, okay?" Graham said, turning to Hudson, who grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

"Sure, whatever."

Ian's eyebrows furrowed as he approached Moran, who looked up with hangdog eyes. "Don't kill me, man... just lay off!" Derek tried to squeeze out of the cuffs, with no luck. Looking to his side, he saw a pair of feet on the floor, protruding from under a toilet stall. They were Yamamoto's Gore-Tex hiking boots.

Derek could not look further, as a heavy foot hit somewhere under his ribcage. Moran wheezed. He could feel his stomach throb with incredible pain. That bastard hit my kidney, Moran realized at once.

"It seems that you have no respect for authority, you little tramp! Care to explain why you felt the need to heave on my friend's dress pants?" Graham was in a rage.

Because of that, Moran was given no time to respond before the foot hit him a second time, amplifying the pain under his ribs. Attempting to yell out, all that came out of his mouth was a stream of blood from his ruptured kidney. All that Moran could do was roll up in a ball as the third kick thudded into his back.

"Starting to think twice about drinking in President Shinra's presence, eh?" Graham kicked Moran's prone body a fourth time, inciting a muffled grunt.

"Hey, lay off on him!" Hudson tried to pull Graham away.

"Shut up! If you have a weak heart, you shouldn't have joined us!" Graham shoved Hudson away and looked at Franks' body. "Is he dead?"

"I thought that was your goal." Hudson didn't establish eye contact with his superior, but looked at one of the two mirrors on the opposite wall, that were mounted over each sink. He noticed that there was a sizeable part of one of them missing; there was a massive crack down the side of the right mirror-

It was his last thought. Neither of the Shinra bodyguards saw a gangling Asian man grab Hudson by the throat and snatch the 9-millemeter Glock from his hip flask.

"What-" gasped Hudson, his mind racing. Graham turned around to see the Asian man fire a round into the back of his partner's head at point-blank range. The flash and report was suppressed by the man's cranium, but the damage to the skull was clear; the bullet blasted out his forehead, leaving a gaping hole an inch wide. Blood was spattered across the wall ten feet away.

Bill Yamamoto dropped Hudson's remains. It fell over like a doll. Graham looked at the unknown man, then at Franks. They must be buddies, he rationalized. With a sweep of his arms, he picked up Franks by the collar and held the body in front of himself.

"You wouldn't DARE shoot at me now!" said Graham, reaching for his own sidearm.

Yamamoto stared blankly at Graham. "No, but this man's life means nothing to me... You see, all that I need from you is your clothes. Please strip down if you wish to live." Bill centered his sights on Ian's face. He could tell that he was reaching for his own gun, since he only held Franks with one hand. This would be tricky, since Franks was in charge of the explosives that were strapped to his chest. He was to be the "Last resort" weapon, something that he resented being, but agreed to do nonetheless. Hence, he needed to live. Suddenly his opponent broke the silence.

"You some kind of rapist? Jeez, first a drunk, now a rapist! What's next?" Graham had his Glock in his right hand, ready to fire it at the drop of a hat. Alright, Bucko. I don't care if I have to kill you, I'll just feel all the more satisfied at seeing some of the scum that plague my city die at my hands. Graham had been something of an overly upright citizen, having been raised by patriotic parents who wanted him to be a cop when he grew up. This he gleefully became immediately upon graduation from high school. He was the brightest cadet at the Midgar Police Academy, an institution that gladly paid his tuition.

Remembering all this, he prepared to swing the gun up and fire. You only have one chance, kiddo. Make the most of it.

Sadly, it was too late to do anything. Yamamoto's index finger tugged back on the trigger, sending another projectile flying across the bathroom, closing the distance between the two men in a fraction of a second. The bullet entered above Ian's right eye, and rapidly chewed through his brain tissue and out just over the base of his skull, blood showering the wall.

Graham's limbs shot out, the muscles contracting. Franks fell out of the grasp and would have hit the hard, cold floor if Yamamoto hadn't stuck out an arm to support the fall. The Asian man gripped the sleeve of his shirt tightly.

The guard's carcass finally hit the floor, feet twitching. Yamamoto set Franks down on the floor. "You can come out now, Zimmerman," he said.

The young man peeked out of the bathroom stall. "Thanks, I didn't want to kill anyone, just so you know."

"Yes, yes, you're a pacifist. There's a little pacifist in everybody... it's just not as apparent in some." Bill smiled incrementally. "Besides, it's good to let out your frustrations on someone you hate."

"Mghpf." Replied Moran, turning over on his back. His face was still twisted up in his agony, only it had subsided. "Did you get him?"

"Yeah, nice and proper. That gunshot was too loud, though." Zimmerman laid Franks on the floor. Heath's features were ground into a bloody mess, and a sliver of white bone stuck out the bridge of his nose.

Derek managed to get up, but upon standing on his two feet, he let out a groan. "Back!! Hurts!!" He stumbled across the floor and leaned against the wall.

"It'll go away," said Yamamoto, eyeing Franks. "He's useless to us."

"He's a team member. Besides, he has the explosives." Zimmerman began to remove Hudson's shirt and pants. "Let's just get the uniforms and get out of here."

"How am I supposed to get out!?" moaned Moran. "They think-"

"Just walk out once you hear the announcement for the train. There are loudspeakers in here, too, aren't there?"

As if to accentuate this, the intercom system chimed a female voice: "The 9:15 train to Junon is now boarding. Repeat, the 9:15 to Junon is now boarding."

Zimmerman looked at his watch. "It's 9:02. By the way, what should we do with Heath? Should we try to awake him?"

"He's useless to us," said Yamamoto, raising his Glock again-

"NO!!" Moran tried to stop the Asian man, but to no purpose. The gunshot rang in everyone's ears, echoing around the small bathroom.

Zimmerman was in shock. "Why..."

"He was useless. Could YOU do anything with a broken nose while unconscious? Get the C4 off his chest and get into uniform. We're on a clock here, so let's haul ass."

"Seig Heil." Replied Moran. "I'll wait in a stall." He seemed unmoved by his comrade's sudden death.

The two infiltrators got to work.

President Shinra sat down in his private car, which contained a massive yellow sofa (much to his resentment, as it was in incredibly bad taste), a coffee table, a fairly sizeable television, and, his favorite perk, room service by his bodyguards.

Sitting in the sofa, he selected one of the magazines that were on it. There was a fly fishing magazine. With some curiosity, he flipped through it. The first page he turned to was an advertisement for retirement funds.

One thing he regretted about his job was that the only means of retiring was either resigning or dying. Since there was no pension plan for Shinra employees (including himself), resigning was a bad idea.

Of course, there was always the threat of being overthrown or assassinated. He looked to his side and saw his reflection on the black bullet-resistant window. There was a massive frame around the doorway, which served as a metal detector. It did not go off when he was escorted through by the security personnel, but he vaguely remembered being told that all the guards carried plastic sidearms now.

Shinra let out a massive sigh. He felt overprotected. In the back of his mind, he was reminded of his own service as a policeman protecting a Ukrainian diplomat for the United Nations. There was an attempt on his life that Shinra had successfully thwarted, at the expense of taking a rifle bullet to the right lung. The sniper would have killed Ambassador Anatoliy Drukunov if his aim was a little higher.

He rubbed the circular scar on his chest that was still there after 20 years. The surgery had been long and agonizing. In the end, he had to have the entire lung replaced. Fortunately, another man his age had just been in a motorcycle accident the previous day and was considered brain-dead.

Breathing in, he told himself that his right lung once belonged to David Olson of Mideel. Closing his eyes, he tried to filter out all the unpleasant memories...

BRRRRRAAAAAAACCCCCK!!

His eyes snapped open. The light at the top of the metal detector was flashing red and orange, making the hideous buzzing sound. Looks like there's someone with a gun in your cabin, Shinra. After all these years of staying alive, you'll be killed in your own impenetrable train car before your journey even begins! Lucky you...

"Go away!!" Shinra's head was covered with his hands. "Don't kill me!"

The buzzing stopped. He heard the soft padding of footsteps on the carpet, coming towards him. Coming nearer... nearer... nearer...

He felt a reassuring hand on his forearm. "Mr. President?"

Shinra looked up, into the face of an athletic-looking young woman in a full Shinra bodyguard uniform. She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you."

The President was incredibly embarrassed. "I just have these flashbacks from time to time, you know?"

"Yes," she said, smiling warmly. "Nobody ever forgot that brave act you did so long ago. We don't expect you not to think back to it."

"How did the alarm go off?" Shinra shyly closed his fly fishing magazine.

The female bodyguard took a ring off her finger and held it between her fingers. "It's my engagement ring. Pure silver."

"I'm happy for you." Shinra sighed again. "Can I have some coffee?"

"Coming right up."