Rude crossed his arms over his chest and tried to ignore the chaos his coworkers were making of the tiny stall.

The room, he assumed, had been converted to a sickroom from a chocobo stall. It smelled like chocobo, and it looked like someone had forgotten to sweep all the straw out of the corners; not that Rude was ungrateful, just... allergic. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Reno darted past him, shouted a vaguely medical question at Cid Highwind, who snorted and lit another cigarette. Rude withheld opinion. Just closed his eyes in lieu of his sunglasses, and let a little more of his body weight rest against the wall.

Reno had woken him, Elena, and most of AVALANCHE at two-thirty AM by caterwauling out of the cockpit, down the stairs, through the main room, and into the conference room. Rude had awakened to what sounded like someone being slaughtered, or possibly raised from the dead. Most of the screams were along the lines of "He's alive! Wake up, you guys, he's ALLLLLLIVE!"

And lo, he was.

Rude opened one eye, just to check, and yes, the same sable/black head was pillowed carefully on an air mattress, with blankets tucked almost lovingly around him. Tseng. Tseng was alive.

He'd first seen Tseng in much the same condition, so newly promoted to Turkhood his suit practically shined. Sound asleep in the room across the hall from President Shinra in Junon's fanciest hotel, the only person in a two-bed room because the CO was in with the President and the two ranking Turks were sharing a room. It made sense, then, that the assassins went for Tseng first.

Seventeen at the time, Rude was slowly carving a niche for himself in Junon's underworld. Because of his silent observations, short answers, and the questions he ignored, he'd already earned his street name. He generally worked alone, although he did just enough grunt work for a few gangs to be officially under their protection when he was on their grounds. Balanced assets, he'd learned, were a key part of fraud. Pragmatic thinking went hand in hand with balance; without them, you couldn't rely on yourself. Above all, Rude relied on himself.

At the moment, he was the golden boy of nearly every major gang in Junon. Rude's gift, by it's very principle, had taken a long time to be recognized citywide, but when it finally had been, Rude owned the entire underworld. Rude's gift, which was used to great effect, was simply to be unnoticeable. Not so limiting a term as 'silent', 'stealthy', or 'plain', but simply... not apparent. Perhaps a combination of plain features, quiet voice, and small action, Rude made his living as a bodyguard, intimidator, and general thing that went bump in the night. Still, he didn't have any gang tattoos, which meant no room and board, and a guy had to eat.

Thus Rude the thief was born. Hotel card keys were the easiest to jimmy locks with, so Rude spent much of his free time wandering the floors of the Junon Red Phoenix Suites, following the housekeeping carts to find empty rooms. There was always something nice, watches or jewelry or Rude's personal favorite, perfume. The top three floors were VIP floors, which were usually occupied by rich tourists, visiting dignitaries, or businessmen. The wonderful thing about stealing from rich people, Rude knew, was that if you were careful and stole very little, very expensive things, there were usually no suspicions. Maybe people just thought they'd lost things. Whatever the reason, all the guests were the same, and all the rooms were generally empty between 4 PM and 2 AM, the top business and party hours. Rude's favorite was the top floor, so he usually went there first.

Really, he and Tseng met by accident.

He spent a happy ten minutes rifling through toiletries by touch and scent. Someone liked expensive cologne; probably the dark-haired man snoring lightly in the bedroom. Well, it would smell just as nice in a soda can on the corner of 3rd and Marsh...

The doorknob rattled. Rude spun, hands full of bottles, and stared with horrified dismay as the latch clicked and, mockingly slow, the door swung open. Survival instinct had him in the shower, crouched behind the curtain as three black-clad men slipped into the room and shut the door behind them.

Closing his eyes, Rude prayed.

When a crash and a muffled yowl of pain sounded from the other room, Rude considered his prayers answered and beat a hasty retreat.

Or tried to. He'd barely heard the latch click when a body slammed him into said door, shoving it closed over his hand. Rude felt something crunch like no body part should and screamed, a bitten-off cry he stifled with his other hand. Crammed between the door and a body which shuddered like someone was hitting it with a cinderblock (and Rude would know), all he could do was hang onto the doorframe and try to keep the pressure off his undeniably broken wrist.

Finally the body behind him sagged to the floor. Rude sighed, relieved, and tried to open the door the rest of the way.

His black shirt caught up around his throat, chocked him. He was dragged backwards and over, a hard, heavy knee pressing into his chest.

Warm breath by his ear, a light Wutain accent. "If you make a noise, I'll break your sternum and collapse your lungs."

Rude nodded desperately. The knee pivoted so his captor was facing his feet. I could kick... yeah, and die slowly when my ribcage broke.

Something round and hard clicked around his ankle. Handcuff. Extra-large, universal use style. This guy knew his shit.

The door closed and, after a moment of perfect darkness, the light went on.

The man who had been asleep was tall, early twenties, with a chin-length fall of dark hair and a face like a shark- angular, composed, beautiful, very sharp teeth. If Rude hadn't heard him snoring two minutes ago, he wouldn't have thought this man ever slept. His eyes were clear and focused.

As he stood over Rude, an expression furrowed the clear brow.

"Who would send a teenager against a Turk?" he asked of the air.

Rude wasn't blessed with a public education, but every child who'd slept in a gutter had heard of the Turks, the faceless, fearless assassin-cum-bodyguards who worked directly under President Shinra. He hadn't been afraid until this moment. Rude shook his head so hard his teeth chattered.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Before we get started, let me remind you that there are seven bones in your wrist. One of them is already broken. Lie to me and I'll break more."

Rude nodded.

"Who sent you?"

"No one."

Kneeling by Rude's head, the man took his right hand and held it, very gently, between his own. Images of guillotines, of falling anvils, played through his head. He swallowed.

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes," he said, and meant it more than anything he'd ever said.

Miraculously, his wrist remained intact.

"Why are you here?"

Rude swallowed. Two fingers applied gentle pressure to his broken wrist and he gasped, entire body arching against the chain, away from the screaming firey pain stabbing up his arm.

"To steal!"

The pressure didn't stop. "Not to kill me?"

"Didn't know you were here!"

The pain faded like a torch carried into fog. Rude cradled his injured hand, gasping for air and cohesion. When the red streaks cleared from his vision, someone was knocking at the door. His captor spoke through the chain lock for a moment, then bolted the door again. He knelt again by Rude's head. "Only to steal," he murmured to himself. His eyes were both charcoal gray and very brown.

A black-clad form rose behind the eyes, behind the sleep-mussed hair, and before Rude could even open his mouth, the one man left conscious slammed the heel of his shoe down across the back of his captor's head.

Rude pulled his knee up towards his chest, straining against the handcuff chain as the dark haired man collapsed forward on top of him. Rude had time to get a whiff of the very expensive cologne he'd been stealing five minutes ago before the man was pulled off his face. He strained his neck to see the black-clad man dragging his captor between the two beds. Rude reached, straining with his good arm to grab the man's leg and pull as hard as he could. The handcuff chain snapped an instant before the man lost his balance and fell, kicking and swearing, pretty much on top of Rude's face. That's twice in thirty seconds, he thought as a flailing heel connected with his nose. Reaching up, he caught the man's ankle, turning it until the man was forced to roll over. Rude slid on top of him, dropping his weight on the man's chest.

He felt the man fumbling near his waist, pulling something from his pocket. The neat snik! of a switchblade was unmistakable in such close quarters. Rude shoved down, pushing himself off the man and, resting his weight on his forearms, pinned the man's arms to the floor. The man bent an elbow at an unlikely angle and slashed, slicing Rude's side just along his ribs. Rude hissed, let the weight off of that side just a little. The man surged up, slamming his face into Rude's forehead. When the purple and red faded from his vision, he was lying on the floor, tasting blood and watching two pairs of legs sticking out from behind a bed. Both were kicking, then came a soft, anticlimactic pop and one pair fell limp to the floor.

Rude's captor reappeared from behind the bed, wiping blood from his mouth. He came over, knelt by Rude's head, took his pulse.

Rude coughed through the smoking crater his face had become. "I'm alive."

"Ah." The man pulled open a drawer, broke open an elixir capsule on Rude's face. He felt swelling shrink, cuts close, and what would have been a fantastic black eye vanish entirely. He coughed, spat a blood clot, and sat up. The world rocked uncertainly, then settled. Suddenly, he felt like his entire body had been ground between broken glass and gravel. He winced.

"You'll be sore in the morning. That wrist is broken."

Rude nodded.

The dark gray/brown eyes narrowed. "You're- a street kid. That's why you shave your head?"

It was a well-known fact that professional thieves shaved their heads to give anyone who found them one less thing to grab onto. The fad had recently become popular in the streets, as well. Rude nodded.

"So you can't afford a doctor to set your wrist."

Rude shook his head.

"Wait." Rising, the man went to the phone, made a quick call. When's he going to kill me? Rude wondered.

Someone knocked on the door: twice quickly, then twice slowly. The man opened the door and admitted a petite dark-skinned woman, who crossed to kneel by Rude. She seized his arm, set the wrist with an excruciating motion of her thumb, and, with a significant look at his captor, left.

Rude lay gasping on the floor, wondering what had happened.

A cool, balmy Cure washed down his arm, sealing the set bone. Rude exhaled, feeling muscles he didn't even know about unclench. A warm, dry hand closed around his arm, lifted him to his feet. He found himself eye-to-eye with his captor. Who bowed.

"Tseng Hishino."

Rude wet his lips. Bowed back. "Rude."

After a moment, Tseng ran a hand through his hair.

"So, were you planning on keeping my cologne?"

Tseng had gotten him into the Junon military, then into Shinra securities. It wasn't long before he was transferred to Midgar, first to the Shinra building, then into the Turk training corps. Apparently Tseng had been impressed by the young man who'd freed himself from handcuffs, fought off an assailant with a broken wrist and a head injury, and saved the life of a Shinra employee when he could have run away. Shinra had been reassured, if not impressed, by that last bit. Rude moved through the ranks with record speed.

And now things had come full circle. Rude stood against the cold wall, arms crossed like he could keep the future out of himself. Tseng was silent and sleeping on. Lucky him.

Rude was not a man much prone to fear. He could take care of himself and probably someone else, as long as necessary, and he knew that. But not in a time this uncertain, not Reno and Elena. He was next in line for the Turk leadership, and God help him, he wasn't ready. Thank God for Tseng. He wasn't ready.

He stood by the wall, then sat against the wall, then dozed by the makeshift bed. He woke every few hours when Reno or Elena stopped in to check on Tseng. Each of them glanced at Rude, silent, and left again. They carried an air of quiet wonder with them, like observers of a miracle, a religious experience, a fallen star. At one point Reno squatted across the mattress from Rude, stared at him over the bundle blankets. Opened his mouth to speak, closed it, stood, and left. Rude watched, smiled tiredly. Reno may have only six months less time on the job than he did, but sometimes it felt like six years.

The sheetmetal floor of the main room went from silvery black to indigo to mother of pearl to rose as dawn crept in, and the dark form on the mattress never moved. At some point he must have slept, really slept, because when he woke there was a mug of lukewarm coffee next to him and his watch read 9:06. The coffee was black with one sugar, just the way he liked it- Reno or Elena must have overseen its brewing. It was comforting, in a bizarre way, to have his own coffee next to his boss, unconscious or not. Rude sipped, swallowed, then gulped. Someone –Reno– had added a shot of Bone Village brandy, and frankly, Rude thought he deserved it. Not like anyone was around to cite him for drinking on the job-

Frighteningly pale fingers closed around his wrist, pressing bones together and making him gasp.

"Smells like... alcohol," Tseng rasped, his eyes the only color in his face. "Can I... have some?"

"Rude? I brought you some-" Elena stopped dead in the doorway. True credit to her Turk training, the plate in her hands wobbled but did not fall. "-toast. Tseng. Sir. Tseng. RENO!"

Front the sounds of breaking crockery, splashing liquid, and startled curses, Reno had been making his own coffee. Turk-issue half boots clattered down the stairs and Reno slid into the doorway.

"What's wro- Oh."

Rude handed his boss the coffee mug, sat back on his heels. Tseng's eyes played over all three of them, left to right and back again.

"I see you three have managed adequately in my absence."

Three heads bobbed mechanically.

Tseng put the mug down, sat up, fell back with his hands over his stomach. "What- Ah." He swallowed, sweat beading on his face. "Sephiroth."

Rude bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

"Sephiroth is dead," Elena said with such grim satisfaction Rude would have believed she'd torn out Sephiroth's living heart bare-handed and brought it back as a souvenir. With some regret, she added: "Cloud Strife killed him."

Tseng lay back against the pillow, creases smoothing out of his brow. "I see I've missed a great deal. Please, bring me up to speed."

The three junior Turks exchanged nervous glances.

"Want some toast?" Elena finally offered.