Disclaimer: Final Fantasy 7 and everything related to it belongs to Square. The original characters, as always, are mine…and believe me, they're not making me any money, either. :p
A/N: Ta-da! Finally, here's chapter 15! I humbly apologize for this one taking so long, but for awhile there I just didn't have the urge to write, not to mention a few extra family gatherings to attend…but now I'm back, and for those who've been patiently (or not so patiently -- lol) waiting for this update, I hope it doesn't disappoint.
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What are you doing?
"Sir."
You shouldn't be doing this now!
"Sir!"
Enough!
"General Sephiroth, Sir!"
Viridescent eyes, concealed in a fold of musky black, snapped open. Sephiroth remained motionless, trying to decide what exactly was going on. The insistent voice -- above him, it sounded like -- pressed no further. Neither did that irate voice in his head.
Then he heard it. No whirring, no droning, no soft, idle banter…silence. He remembered noise…
He raised his head, angrily swiping away the platinum locks that obscured his view. He found himself staring at…boots, which shifted a bit as his gaze wandered up to see their wearer's face.
A brown-eyed blonde, appearing scarcely older than Sephiroth and bearing a Corporal's insignia, stood patiently before him, looking straight ahead at the steel-paneled wall.
The officer he'd boarded with.
Silence.
"Welcome to Wutai, Sir."
(I…slept…the whole trip!)
His stomach pulling some as he snatched the Masamune and rose, Sephiroth regarded the Corporal with unintended heat smoldering within his emerald depths. "We've only just arrived, then?"
"About ten minutes ago, yes, Sir," the Corporal explained in near-monotone. "I apologize for not retrieving you sooner, Sir, but you weren't very noticeable up here."
(Good.)
"Nothing intentional, Sir. I apologize."
(Save it. I shouldn't have dozed off up here anyway.) "Never mind," he said, with a brusque, dismissive wave of his hand.
"Thank you, Sir," the blonde replied, daring to meet the General's gaze as he pivoted on his heel to leave. In the split second their eyes caught, he couldn't help but feel as if his silver-haired superior had bored straight through to his soul. The bottomless intensity in those verdant orbs put even the purest Mako to shame.
"I'll…take you to the commander's tent, then…Sir," he said, nervously clearing his throat.
"Yes, do." Sephiroth motioned for the Corporal to go on ahead, but the blonde, now clearly unnerved, hesitated, glancing warily over his shoulder at the great sword in the General's black-gloved hand before he started down the catwalk.
Sephiroth caught the other officer's restive peek, and a subtly amused half-smile found its way to his lips as he, too, began walking. "Don't worry…I only use this on those who cross me…" He trailed off, absently gliding his thumb along the cool edge of the katana's hilt as he recalled its recent…prize. "…Or those who deserve it," he added, more to himself than the corporal.
(All who deserve it.)
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The commander's tent -- functional, unadorned, and brown as its barren, cliff-dominated locale
-- was nestled at the hub of an impressive array of equally drab canvas huts. SOLDIERs and troopers, some readily bearing arms, either milled or lounged about, or stood guard on the perimeter and at entrances to the more vital tents. It was obviously one of the smaller outposts; one of substantial size would have had every last man occupied.
Those Sephiroth passed promptly snapped a salute. He guessed most of them inferred his superiority from his unorthodox attire. The current commanding officers had been informed of his departure; that he'd already been told, despite it being obvious protocol, but it was safe to assume he wouldn't be formally announced until after he'd met with the commanders.
No matter how they knew to salute, it was just satisfying to know he wouldn't be ignored or blatantly disrespected without consequence anymore.
The Corporal led him to the central tent's entrance, where both of them were greeted by a pair of rigidly saluting riflemen. The blonde, in turn, saluted the General before returning to the Gelnika to inform the pilot that he could return to Junon now that everyone was where they were supposed to be. One of the guards swept aside the canvas door with a perfunctory, "Sir."
The inside was far from accommodating; not that it was supposed to be, but it was clear they hadn't planned on being here as long as they had been. A dozen firearms ranging in size from pistol to rifle were propped against or set atop one of the small cluster of barrels near the entrance. Not twenty feet in, the tent had been crudely divided by a worn canvas partition, beyond which must have been the ersatz sleeping quarters.
And in the center of this part stood a huge old ammunition crate strewn with maps, tactical summaries, and battle logs. Around it, occupying three wooden stools -- the only real 'furniture' present -- sat the reigning officers, heatedly bickering over one particularly garbled-looking summary. The only one who noticed the General enter was the one facing the outside, but as soon as he dropped his argument and rose at attention, the others weren't far behind.
"Sir!" he declared, more robustly than necessary. This one, the youngest of the trio but the highest-ranked, was so disarmingly sweet-faced he looked like he'd be more at home on a movie screen wooing young girls than on a killing field shooting down Shinobi. He appeared rather startled that the General, the final authority in whatever martial matter he so chose…was younger than he was.
"You are…the General, Sir?" the next oldest, a clean-cut brunette as tall as Sephiroth and twice as broad, queried, his own disbelief better hidden than his younger comrade's. "Pardon me for saying so…Sir…but we weren't informed that you were so…"
"…Fresh outta your mother."
The cherub choked and lost all color.
The brunette balked and turned an unhealthy shade of red, hissing a mild profanity under his breath.
The General did nothing, nor did he change hue. His emerald eyes went cold as he slowly shifted his gaze to meet the lightless depths of the eldest, hatchet-faced officer, whose stern features only pinched further under the young man's scrutiny.
"Do you have a problem with my age…" he paused to note the man's insignia, "…Second Lieutenant?" Sephiroth's tone was cool and eerily level.
"There's not much he doesn't have a problem with," the brunette muttered.
"No…I have a problem with everything about you," the Second Lieutenant answered sharply.
Now the middling officer rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Holy shit…this is going well," he grumbled.
"Burkell, please…" the younger officer interjected, "Talking like that to a superior officer is bad enough, but he doesn't even know our names yet."
"Quit being an ass long enough for the formalities, eh?" The brunette shot an annoyed glare at the older man, who still held rapt Sephiroth's attention. "I'm SOLDIER First Lieutenant Will Reyburn," he said, taking it upon himself to initiate the introductions.
Shaking his head with disapproval, the baby-faced officer declared himself as well. "SOLDIER Major Rian Cressmore, Sir."
Staring hard at Sephiroth a moment more, the dark-eyed officer added absently, "SOLDIER Second Lieutenant Joseph Burkell." A smirk wedged onto his rugged features. "Sir," he finished with sarcastic deliberation.
(Another Bailey.) Had Sephiroth been of a different disposition, he would have burst into laughter at the absurd similarity of Burkell's caustic attitude to the deceased Sergeant's.
I wonder…
(…how he'll die.)
(…What…?)
Sephiroth's silver brows furrowed. It wasn't the thought itself that puzzled him; heavens knew he'd contemplated others' death before. What caught him off guard was the fact that the thought didn't even seem like it was his this time.
(That voice!)
"I hope he's thinking of how he's gonna kick your ass, Burkell, because speaking like that shouldn't earn you anything less."
Realizing he hadn't said anything for awhile, and that he'd been regarding Burkell with concentration heavy on his features, Sephiroth tore his eyes from the Second Lieutenant and looked to Reyburn.
"I don't mean to make your decision for you, General, but he's got no right talking like that." Reyburn folded his arms across his sturdy chest.
"So I can't say I don't like the kid?" Burkell spat back, looking the brunette's way.
"Not like that…" Cressmore sighed, flushing with embarrassment at the Second Lieutenant's audacity.
"You're addressing a superior, Burkell," Reyburn sternly reminded him.
Glancing at Sephiroth out of the corner of his eye, Burkell snidely asked the brunette, "What…Sir…do you think the General will gut me like he did Sergeant Bailey?"
"Sweet Shiva, Burkell, enough!" the Major barked.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Sephiroth replied calmly, much to everyone's surprise. "Bailey gave me a reason to kill him. You…are just a loud-mouthed fool."
Intentionally brushing past the livid dark-eyed officer as he at last walked further into the tent, Sephiroth paused at the partition, turning to face the trio. "There are cots back here?" he confirmed, asking whoever would answer.
"Yes, but…" Cressmore stole a glance at Reyburn, who gave him an imperceptible shrug. "We need to inform you of the current situations, General. As soon as possible would be…"
"…Not now," Sephiroth finished. Offering no further explanation, he pulled aside the flap that had been cut into the canvas, but before going through it, looked squarely back at Burkell. The officer was so furious he couldn't maintain eye contact, and latched his black glower to one of the tent's support poles.
(Like a sulking child…)
"The war won't be won while I rest, Major. It can wait an hour or two." Not once as he spoke did he look to the one he was addressing, and not once did the one he was looking at return his gaze.
"Should we wake you in a couple of hours, then, General?"
You're not sleeping anymore right now. No.
"No." Leaving no more room for objections or…curt remarks, he stepped through the open flap, letting it sweep shut behind him, lightly brushing the trailing leather of his coat.
His assumption about this section's purpose had been quite correct -- that is, if six bony-looking cots could truly constitute sleep-worthiness. No matter, though. He'd dozed plenty on the plane.
Sliding the Masamune under one of the nearer cots, Sephiroth then lowered himself onto the scratchy canvas -- carefully, for the wretched thing didn't look all that hardy -- and curled his arms behind his head, ignoring the mild discomfort of the wooden framework poking his elbows. Without intentions to sleep -- especially not on this contraption, although sooner or later he knew he'd have to -- he closed his eyes, absently wondering how in the world Reyburn managed to fit in one of these things.
You're not planning on sleeping again, are you? I told you not to!
Agitated, Sephiroth shifted on the cot. Whoever had been speaking to him as of late had greatly worn out their short, unwanted welcome.
Well?
He heard laughter not far away rise to a drunken crescendo. Some nonsensical chatter…swearing…musings about when the next Shinobi attack would be. The staccato popping of someone's distant target practice…
Don't ignore me!
(So go away.)
What?
(Whoever you are, whatever you want…shut up, and go away.)
…!
To ward off any further intrusions and to keep his mind occupied for the two hours he'd arbitrarily granted himself, Sephiroth conjured up a string of thoughts about the first thing, as undesirable as it was, that came to mind -- Hojo.
His uninvited mental guest spoke no more.
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"Burkell, that was totally uncalled-for! Bringing up the late Sergeant like that…we only just found out about it, and already you've taunted the general with it!"
"Taunted him, Major? That's a load of bull! You make it sound like he feels guilty about it!"
Cressmore's china blue eyes sharpened and shadowed, undecided whether to be angry or appalled. He opened his mouth to say something, but Reyburn beat him to it.
"Whether he does or not isn't our business! When the Lieutenant General called here, he made it damn clear that he killed him out of self-defense!" He spoke without restraint, as did the other two; they weren't overly concerned if the General heard them. "I don't know about the General, but I know I wouldn't have a knotted conscience over that!"
"I'm sure he wouldn't."
"You know, Burkell, as much as I would have disagreed with it, he could have killed you as well for being so disrespectful. It's barbaric, but he could have," Cressmore said. "You're just fortunate he doesn't see your offense in as harsh a light as he did Sergeant Bailey's."
With a throaty growl of defeat, Burkell started to leave, regarding his two superiors with a roll of his dark eyes. "Forget it," he muttered, just soft enough for them not to hear him. "Morons."
"Where are you going, Second Lieutenant?" Reyburn demanded, oblivious to what he'd just been called. "We were in the middle of discussing…"
"…Shit that can wait until the leader's ready. I need a smoke." With that, he stomped outside.
"I take it that's what Sergeant Bailey acted like?" Reyburn queried with a side glance at the Major.
"I guess."
Smiling sardonically, he settled back down next to the crate. "I can see why the General killed him then."
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"Fortunate indeed," Burkell gruffly mumbled, ripping a lighter and a half-spend pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He cursed a blue streak as he fumbled with the stubborn lighter, taking such a deep, savoring draw off the cigarette when he at last got it lit that one would have thought it his last act alive.
"That kid's about as forgiving and rational as a pissed-off Bahamut." The Second Lieutenant strolled leisurely around the commander's tent, the nicotine gradually slowing his racing blood. "If those two jackasses would just open their eyes, they'd see that he's just damn good at hiding it."
He took a second magnificent drag from his cigarette…and dropped the spent weed, grinding the ashes into the dirt with his heel. "Should be twice as long," he mused.
Burkell looked up, seriously considering lighting up another smoke, only to see that he'd stopped not a foot from the tent's back entrance. A corner of it had been pinned back so the inside wouldn't get too stifling, and through it, distinct against the drabness, caught a glimpse of brilliant silver -- the General's hair. He stared hard at what he could see of the one who'd killed the man he'd liked to call a friend…and his nicotine-bated blood seethed again.
They'd been personally called by the Lieutenant General less than an hour before their General arrived, and told what had happened. The call interrupted a strategy meeting that was going nowhere, and both Cressmore and Reyburn were affectedly concerned, but minutes later they'd all returned to their heady discussion. Only he himself had been noticeably upset at the news, and had struck up a furious argument about something as trivial as -- he thought -- the ratio of swordsmen to marksmen in the perimeter guard.
And he'd decided right then that he was not leaving Wutai. He would not be led by a…child…lacking field experience; near as he could tell, all Sephiroth had was a masterfully concealed temper, an absurd katana, and way too much Mako in his blood -- none of which he felt justified ranking him General. The last weak thread of respect he'd had for Shinra -- the President and the Company -- had snapped.
Drawing his mouth into a thin, tight-lipped smile, Burkell casually knelt in the dust, unconcerned if he garnered any passing attention…and drew something from his boot.
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/You're a poor liar, Sephiroth./
/…so you will not tell me what to do!/
/Don't be smart with me…son./
/…You'll lop off my head? Skewer me…? Get over it…it didn't work./
/…Seem to excel at playing a hero./
(A hero…)
A keen banshee's shriek mercilessly stabbed his mind, sundering his bitter reverie. Startled, feeling as if every last one of his nerves had exploded, Sephiroth snapped his emerald eyes open…
…To see a cold glint of metal plunging toward his throat.
He jerked his head out of the way at the last second, and the blade intended for his jugular instead slipped through his platinum mane and tore into the rough fabric of the cot beneath him.
Rolling off the side, Sephiroth snatched up the Masamune, straightened, and wheeled to meet his assailant all in one swift motion. His eyes, narrowed angrily at the dangerous intrusion, widened a shade with unsuppressed shock when he found himself not facing an errant Shinobi, but one of his own.
Scowling with disgust, Burkell yanked free the stiletto he'd meant to bury in the young General's throat. "Stupid shit," he growled, flipping the slender knife over in his hand. "Should've stayed still. It would have made this a hell of a lot easier!"
He lunged across the cot knife-first, landing easily in a crouch but nowhere near his intended target.
Sephiroth had deftly backed out of the blade's limited range and now stood near the wall of the tent, his sword ready but not raised. "I thought as much," he hissed. "But apparently you lack even more intelligence than I thought. You couldn't even wait until nightfall to try and murder me properly."
"Aw, hell," he chuckled bitterly. "Why bother? I'm not going back to Midgar anyway." Burkell slowly rose.
Not even caring to question why he reasoned that, Sephiroth changed the subject to the motive of this flagrant attempt on his life. "So…I take it this is about the Sergeant?"
The Second Lieutenant restlessly flexed his fingers around the stiletto's handle. "I grew up with the bastard, joined the military with him…he never amounted to much 'cause he had such a damn temper. Kept him outta here 'cause he was too volatile for anything but training recruits."
Sephiroth's jade eyes narrowed fully again; the workings of a snarl tugged at his lips.
"Looks like that didn't turn out so well for him, either," Burkell sneered.
"I hope you're not waiting for an excuse or apology on my part," Sephiroth replied, " because I've no need to justify what I did to that gutter-mouthed has-been to anyone…let alone an inferior officer."
The harshly emphasized reminder of his place made Burkell's face go ashen. "Don't pull that rank shit with me." The stiletto trembled faintly in his white-knuckled grasp. "Cocky snots like you belong on the front lines, where the cannon fodder should be."
Without warning, he lunged again at the young General, who was, again, long gone. And as he came up in a crude attacking stance, he was knocked hard to his back by the flat of a blade he couldn't even see.
In a split second, the blade was visible again, its death-cold tip at his throat.
"Now I decide who the cannon fodder is."
"General!" Major Cressmore swept aside the dividing flap, the primarily one-sided scuffle having reached his attention. Reyburn was at his heels, cocking a pistol he had grabbed from the barrels.
When Cressmore spotted Burkell prone on the ground, the General's katana poised a hairsbreadth from his windpipe, the first thought that popped in his mind butchered any confidence he thought he had in his new leader's sanity and demeanor. Then he noticed the stiletto still in his fellow officer's grip. "Burkell!" he exclaimed, his cherubic face flushing with shock. "What the…?"
"What is the meaning of this?" Reyburn demanded, pointedly indicating Burkell. "General, Sir, what is going on?" He abandoned readying the handgun as he sought his superior's explanation, but his gaze never wavered from the Second Lieutenant's enraged glower -- which, in turn, captured the General's stoic façade.
"Nothing..."
"Sir!"
"…but another loud, jealous dog trying to kill what he cannot." Sephiroth held the Masamune steady a breathless moment longer before stepping back with a soft snort of disgust. "And I won't have another dog's blood on my sword."
"You are some son-of-a-bitch," Burkell spat, propping himself up on his elbows, his dark orbs glistening like fresh oil about to be set aflame. "Don't think you got the goddamn right to call people animals just because you killed someone with that overgrown butcher knife and impressed that red-suited, chain-smoking slob enough to get sent here! All that shit must've gone to his head…putting some freak-of-nature kid who's probably not old enough to drink in charge of his frickin' army! I mean…what the hell? Does he think you're just gonna up and win him the whole damn war?"
Waiting patiently throughout the gratingly familiar blustering, Sephiroth's practiced indifference didn't so much as flicker at the officer's insults. They weren't exactly new…
Finally, when Burkell paused to draw a breath for a fresh tirade, he quietly asserted, "He does…because I will."
Still clutching the stiletto, the incensed Second Lieutenant clambered to his feet, moving what distance he could away from the General. "My ass," he growled. "You're just gonna prance in here thinking you can single-handedly do what an army of SOLDIERs and grunts haven't been able to accomplish in years?"
Shades of disbelief crossed both Cressmore's and Reyburn's face.
"Yes," Sephiroth replied, unfazed, "but you will help me do so." At the looks of incredulity he got, he elaborated, "On our next advance, you will be the first to go. If I'm satisfied with you performance, I may overlook this attempt on my life and let you keep both your rank and your life. If you disappoint me and merely come back alive, then your life is all you will keep. And if you fail entirely, then obviously neither concerns you anymore."
"I told you I wasn't going back."
"Then die…if that's what you'd planned on doing. But you're still going out on the front line."
Burkell started to swear at him, but as soon as he recognized what expletive the officer was about to hurl at him, decided he didn't care to hear it and interrupted him, adding, "I would suggest a better weapon, though."
Whatever he'd been poised to say fizzled. His face contorted somewhere between defiance and fury. Giving on finding a voice too strangled with negativity, Burkell at last expressed what he'd meant to say with a rather blunt gesture -- one not intended for Sephiroth alone.
He flipped them all off.
And no sooner did he lower his hand than the entire camp seemed to burst with harried movement and the angry cacophony of shouting, clanging metal, and snapping, growling guns.
"What the hell?" Reyburn started for the front of the tent and was cut off just beyond the partition by one of the guarding riflemen, who now bore a fresh, oozing gash along his cheekbone.
"Sir," he said, excitedly fingering the trigger of his firearm, "it's a swarm of Shinobi! They came out of nowhere!"
"Of course they did, you fool! They always have!" Tossing aside his pistol and snagging a rifle of his own, the First Lieutenant hollered for his two superiors -- excluding Burkell either on purpose or due to battle-fired forgetfulness -- before sprinting outside. The rifleman was right behind him.
Cressmore cast a final disapproving glare at Burkell before running to grab a weapon and join the fray, shaking his head as he disappeared after Reyburn.
Sephiroth didn't even look back as he went after the other two officers; he didn't even bother ordering Burkell to come with, or even to take up better arms. The obstinate Second Lieutenant wouldn't comply without an argument or some nasty refute, and when the situation was as it was, there wasn't time to bicker with someone of his mien. At the same time, he couldn't shake this nagging assumption at the back of his mind that by the time this was all over, Burkell wouldn't be here anymore.
And that it somehow wouldn't surprise him.
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Sephiroth emerged in time to intercept a trio of lightly-armored Shinobi, one of them female and all of them readily brandishing simple ninja blades, making a beeline for the commander's tent. Their speed didn't diminish when they saw someone now blocking their way, nor did they abandon their destination. The woman shouted in Wutaian at her two comrades, then took a great vertical leap, drawing from nowhere a handful of glinting metal, which she promptly flung at the one in their way. The other two, still earthbound, did the same.
(Shuriken. How…amusing.)
Unflinching, Sephiroth stepped forward, raising the Masamune in front of him…waited…and at the final instant, deftly spun the katana in a wheel of quicksilver. The failed hail of whirring silver clattered harmlessly to the ground, and before they'd even all fallen, the platinum-haired General was rushing to meet the Shinobi pair that was closing in on him. In a show of dexterity rivaling even his cunning adversaries', he twisted his wrist enough to lead the katana's momentum horizontally, dashed clear past the nearest Shinobi, whirled -- the blade still leading, switched to a two-handed grip, and thrust the Masamune straight up.
The female ninja, her attack foiled and countered too rapidly for her to even touch ground again, now plummeted face-first to that soil she'd been so close to landing on, her belly pierced and split. The other two, their jugulars severed -- but still in possession of their heads -- were dead before they fell.
His jade eyes glowing hot with excited Mako, Sephiroth lowered the Masamune, looking the glistening silver over. A pleased smirk found its way onto his lips when he saw there was scarcely more than a crimson spatter at its tip; unlike the fight with Bailey, the sword had been moving too quickly to become drenched in its victims' blood.
"General!" Cressmore, reloading his spent firearm as he tore between a pair of sickly grayish tents, stopped short of his superior, hastily surveying the three slain Shinobi surrounding him with unabashed amazement. "I know…I know Reyburn called for you to join us, Sir, but it's really not necessary to…" He was interrupted by the uncomfortably close report of a rifle, and after snapping a look left and right, muttered something under his breath about being sitting ducks.
"I didn't come here just to sit idle and watch others fight," Sephiroth replied, looking up and focusing on something well beyond the Major. "Now…tell me…where is the bulk of the raiding party?"
Cressmore thought for a second, noticeably tensing when another nearby rifle barked. "Near the northeast corner, Sir," he said. "Near the bluff. That's where we think they came from, but the stupid guards didn't even…"
The General started walking in the direction he'd indicated, so the Major fell silent, until it dawned on him that he must have meant to weed out what was left of the invading Shinobi himself. "Sir!" he called, jogging to catch up with him. "Sir! You don't mean to take them out…alone, do you?"
"I'm sure the SOLDIERs have taken out most of them already," he called over his shoulder. "Those they haven't…I will. Gather whoever you can and assemble at the center of the camp. I won't need back-up," he added, as if reading Cressmore's next objection.
Stupefied, the Major watched as the General strode almost casually through the mess of tents, not even seeming to mind the screams, shouts, gunfire, and clashing metal erupting around him. He glanced back down at the three bodies, marveling at how cleanly they were killed…and supposing that with skill like that, he probably didn't mind.
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SOLDIERs, troopers, officers, and Shinobi alike skirmished amidst the canvas dwellings; bullets and shuriken flying, knives and swords dueling. There seemed to be plenty of the ninja already among the dead, and from what could be seen, a scant few Shinra personnel joined them. Several tents had already collapsed, and many more were riddled with bullet-holes and blade tears, some rendered nearly unusable.
The Masamune glinted menacingly, even in the cloud-tempered late afternoon sun, as Sephiroth made his way toward the rust-tinged cliff that towered in the northeast. Twice on his trek he was assailed by -- and immediately victorious over -- lone Shinobi, and now that he was nearing where the Major had said they'd first broke through the perimeter guard, he found more living foes than dead, and knew that soon the great katana in his gloved hand would have its fill. He walked straight into a small clearing at the base of the precipice…and found himself against no less than a dozen Shinobi -- the remainder that hadn't quite made it into the camp yet.
He halted. So did they. Several of them began taunting him in their native tongue, and while Sephiroth had learned only a scant few Wutaian words in basic training, he felt confident they were mocking his odds. It would be foolish for all twelve of them to assault him at once…but somewhere in the furthest depths of his mind, some persistent thought that again seemed not to belong to him actually wished they would.
And so they did.
(Act the fools I know you are…)
Sephiroth leveled the Masamune, donning a cold smile as he steeled himself, and silently beckoned the lot of them.
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A/N: And that's where I'll end the chapter. Yep. Sorry. Oh, and this went through more edits than I care to admit; I think I got everything, but if you spotted anything out of place, please let me know. I'm sure that sounds nit-picky, but I have a pretty heavy perfectionist streak (which is brutal at times -- especially so now for some reason), so I would be eternally grateful. *bows*
Take care, and let me know what you think! ^_^