Author's Notes: Thanks for reviewing, those of you who are still loyally faithful to me. I do provide a great deal of your entertaining reading material, right? Otherwise you wouldn't come here. Erm. Anyway, ignore me trying to make myself feel better.

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Vincent Valentine switched his grasp on the subway bar overhead to his metal hand. He looked perfectly alone, but that was because half of the folks who were in the intercity car with him had crammed themselves away from him. They feared him - it was natural, they'd had much to fear for months during the time when Sephiroth had stolen the Black Materia and threatened complete annihilation with it. Many people still looked up at the sky only to sigh in relief that there was no longer any Meteor hovering like a worrying nest of hornets on the ceiling of blue sky.

Their suspicions did not end with the slaying of Sephiroth and the final banishment of Meteor into the sea. People could take one look at Vincent and the nightmares returned. He reminded them of the horrors that had been; of horrors that they could not have comprehended unless they beheld it with their own eyes. Vincent shrank into himself, turning his unholy red gaze from them and instead looked as the walls of the redeveloped subway tunnel sped past.

The letter was crisp and clear. It had the sharp flavor of something that had been rewritten many times, probably in one's head, before ever touching paper. It was Luciel's writing alright, and the picture of the little girl was oddly a shocking reality check. Luciel was asking him to rescue his little girl and the children from a group of mass murderers. Murderers, perhaps, that had already killed them, the letter explained, but Luciel's writing looked desperate as he insisted that it was no excuse not to look anyway.

Vincent felt the subway tilt. The nauseating sensation of a fast object slowing down pulled at his innards; when it gave a final, gut-gurgling lurch he released the bar and stepped toward the door to get off. Luciel's home office was just in this quiet area of Kalm. This was the only rail system that even went out as far as Kalm anyway. Nobody was really interested in going to Midgar anymore. The people behind him wandered out and talked amongst themselves while he left up into the sunlight into Kalm's proper.

There were three roads. The left road led to the picket fence homes of about a dozen or so families, expanded after people began to move out of Midgar and head toward Kalm. The middle road led to squatting, dirty piers whose hunkered down in the water like ugly ducks. Finally, the road on the right led into the part of town that had the business. Vincent took that road, cobbled with an assortment of ocean rocks that were weathered as much from the sea as they were from hundreds of feet walking them every week.

Nobody was following him, so that was good. He had already noted several times during the time of his journey underground that the subway was a very good means to smuggle small children out of Midgar. For one thing, he had counted the number of empty alcoves that went into other roads, service caverns and emergency stations along the way. Vincent knew now that he would have to look for clues, even if it was something as insignificant as an odd glance from a person.

He divulged no clues at all. Even when all of the small hints around him were divested of the ordinary, he perceived no threats at all. Vincent gritted his teeth and waited in the lobby of the penthouse to gain access to the upstairs. It was only four stories high.

A guard in a pale grey uniform stood by, watching him with an arched brow. Then he spoke up. "You that guy, uh..."

Vincent turned his eyes on him.

The guard blanched. "You can go on upstairs, Mr. Valentine."

Vincent sighed and stepped over to the elevator. The man's grip was on his gun, he noted morosely. Then his sight was obscured as the elevator doors closed and he waited patiently. His heart thudded laboriously in his chest cavity. That, and the motion of moving directly against the force of gravity made him feel more ill at ease, as though this was not happening.

He stepped from the elevator on the fourth floor. It was quiet. The dark maroon carpet was almost salmon pink as the sunlight bleached it through the window at the end of the corridor. Several doors lined the walls, but there was only one of them he wanted and he knew without even knowing how which one it was. Vincent walked toward it and raised his hand uncertainly before knocking twice, held his breath, and waited.

After several agonizing moments, Vincent slowly let out his breath only to realize that maybe Luciel wasn't even home. The guard had not even bothered to mention that perhaps Luciel was out at all. Vincent then concluded that it was probably the guard's eagerness to get the frightening red-eyed man out of his sight immediately.

The gunman did not let this alteration in his plan to meet with him stir his frustration. Instead, he merely tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. He stepped into the office space and marveled at the sheer size of it. It was entirely comfortable, with a chair here, a couch over near a sizable bookshelf, and a desk near the corner. The windows were huge, and after a moment of examination noted the must be bullet proof or Luke would never have had them installed.

The sun was finishing its arc in the sky as it became afternoon. The shadows in the office grew darker, and the cool yellow light from the sun began to give the room a most intriguing glow. Vincent spent most of his time waiting by the bookshelf, paging through the books. Poetry. Plays. He noted several of them were directly from Vincent's own collection, and they were so old that they must have cost a fortune to gather.

"You've been treating yourself well," Vincent remarked to the absent old friend.

Suddenly the door opened. Vincent turned as he eyed the knob turning, until a flustered, impatient looking man with blond hair stepped into the room. He tossed his jacket into the chair close to the door again, and tossed his keys onto the coffee table next to it. Then he froze, pinning Vincent against the bookshelf with surprised, bright blue-green eyes.

In a breathless whisper, Luciel said to him, "You came. I knew you'd come."

Vincent nodded slowly. He had the picture of Saph in his pocket. It was unnecessary to bring it up, but he wanted to let him know that it was him. In case Luciel refused to believe. Presently he took in the appearance of a man he had not seen in years. The bags under Luke's eyes deepened; there were wrinkles where there once had been clean, unblemished skin. The youth and snarky grin of his youth was replaced by a smile that Vincent hadn't yet seen. Instead of wearing a ridiculously garrish clown outfit, or the over-sized clothes from Vincent's closet, he wore his own set of clothes. It was a black business suit, shirt-collar open, the tie loosened, making him look like an overdressed boozer instead of a respectable citizen.

And there was a surprising thing: the slight unshapely bulge under his arm where there was a pistol.

Vincent finished his examination with a feeling of quavering nostalgia. Luciel was different. Vincent had barely changed.

Vincent decided to get straight to business. He stepped toward the couch, and sat down, speaking coldly, "Tell me everything you know about these men, where they work, who they are, and what they can do."

Luciel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. But when Vincent took charge, he was both relieved and annoyed. First of all, they hadn't seen each other in years. Vincent didn't even bother to ask him how he was.

But he bit back his anger and said in equal coldness, in a voice that struck Vincent as vaguely unsettling, "They're a group of mass murderers. Basically, they are loyalists who supported Shinra. They try to overthrow the new government but they keep failing. They're attempts to kill the new president have left hundreds of people dead already. And now I think they're going to try this new tactic to hold these kids hostage. I don't know what they want, and they haven't put out a statement yet, but all I care about is getting Saph back."

Vincent nodded. He listened, but didn't look at Luciel. It was strange to look into the eyes of someone who had loved him - passionately, in fact. And Vincent's guilt began to mount again. He had his reasons. Terrible reasons, but they were the only ones he had.

"How much do you want?" Luciel asked suddenly.

Vincent looked up, bemused. "I don't want your money."

"You must want something, right?" The businessman twisted a button on his jacket around idly, pacing in front of him. "I mean, you sit around doing nothing all this time and you don't have much, you must want something, don't you?"

"I don't want your money," the gunman repeated firmly, but in a blank tone.

"Fuck you," Luciel spat. "You're taking something. And even if you don't want it, you'd better take it, and if you somehow indirectly give it back to me--" His threat fell unheard and unfinished. He gave a heavy sigh, and turned away. "Well, I found out where they might be hiding. It's a start." He tossed him a sheaf of papers, which Vincent looked at it critically.

There was a blueprint of an old building on the outskirts of Kalm. It had once been a theatre with a bell tower, but a year ago had fallen into dilapidation and ruin. The other pages gave small details and key details in abundance about the members of this group.

"Where did you get these?" Vincent asked at last.

"I have my sources," Luke replied coolly, surprising him with a wink. "Now, are you going to take the job, or not? And yes, you are going to accept my money."

Vincent nodded. "I will take the job... but I am not accepting your money." Then with withering, stubborn look, he pushed himself out of the chair, the brilliant gold light from the windows catching the dull, scratched metal of the claw on his left hand.

"Come on," Luciel sighed at last. "You can't go barging into Hell with a weapon like that. Don't look so offended! These men are not your garden variety thugs." Luciel paused on his way to the door. His eyes looked troubled. His troubles were directed inward, always inward. "I want you to make sure you keep those kids safe..."