Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own? That's right: Final Fantasy VII! :D

Guess what I do own? Methusael! The random set techs! Myself!

Author's Note: Hooray for blatant self-insertions. :o Blame it on Sephiroth: I had to get him to cooperate somehow, and that entailed calling a rabid fangirl on him.

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It was at this point, seconds before the plane was demolished by the Knights of the Round, that the scene froze. Condensing abruptly into a twenty-one inch square that showed the ominous form of King Arthur looming on the horizon, the image superimposed itself over the screen of the television that had appeared as if out of nowhere; in fact, an entire sitting room, complete with plush wing-backed chair and burning fireplace, had materialized in place of the plane's interior.

The wing-backed chair was anti-climatically unoccupied. After a moment, however, the door to the set swung open and a stagehand, clipboard under arm, forcibly shoved Sephiroth, sans masamune, into the room. The silver-haired man was not happy; he'd planted his feet against the floor and was attempting to resist, though his boots kept slipping against the polished wood.

"Impudence! I never agreed to this!"

Giving Sephiroth a last, enthusiastic push that nearly sent him stumbling into the end table by the chair, the stagehand grunted something unintelligible and retreated, slamming the door behind him. The Sephiroth in question righted himself, dusted off his trenchcoat, and glared after him.

"At least give my sword back!"

He ducked as the masamune came flying in stage right and spat a profane thanks before retrieving the blade. Snarling underneath his breath, he raised the sword and made as if to slice the television in half. A voice from off-screen interrupted his train of motion, however.

"Sephiroth!"

He glanced sharply towards the camera. Standing to the left of it, her number two pencil stabbing at the air to punctuate the statement, was the author. And beside her—Methusael.

Crap.

"Sephy!" chirped Methusael unnecessarily, bobbing on the pads of her feet. "Hi again! Rijn said I could stay even though I'm unthematic! Isn't it great?" She beamed; Sephiroth gave Rijn the wide-eyed stare of a deer caught in a car's headlights.

"Yeah, I told her she could stay on for a bit," smirked the writer, tucking the pencil into her pocket. "Simply put, you can either cooperate and take the bit part, or you can take Meth' out for dinner."

"Let's go to Red Lobster!" Methusael squealed, assuming that he'd consider her the lesser of two evils.

Sephiroth dove for the wing-backed chair so quickly that he left an after-image in the space he'd originally been occupying. "Casting Knights of the Round on a plane twenty thousand feet in the air?" he began, with scorn impressive for the three-second window in which he'd had to drudge it up. (Methusael wilted.) "It was necessary to advance the plot, I suppose, but that's an idiotic way to make a plane crash. She could've written in an engine failure or something."

"Sephiroth!" snapped Rijn. That hadn't been in the script.

He eyed her for a moment, weighing his options, then decided it was best not to run the risk of getting saddled with Methusael for the evening anyway. "—sorry. But at this rate, they won't need a villain to try and kill them—they'll self-destruct on their own, and quite nicely. Not," he added darkly, "that that villain's going to be me this time. Really, what's a reunion story without me?"

"Better?" called one of the set techs. The others laughed. Sephiroth gave him a dirty look.

"Hahah. Bolt3."

He immediately regretted electrocuting the man, as not two seconds later Methusael, with Rijn's blessing, leapt towards him with a shriek of "Sephy-chan moo-moo kins!"

Whatever that meant.