(A/N: Well, thank you to the two reviewers who so kindly left me something to appreciate. And yes, I know this update was rather fast, but I'm leaving to Yangzhou for a week tomorrow, so I decided to put this up early.

Now, let's speed this up a bit. Time to introduce a few friends of ours...)

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII is the property of Square-Enix. Original plots and characters are my own.

Threads of Spirit
A New Day

The Midgar slums produced virtually no profit economically, but if the denizens of the city ever decided to export anything, alcohol was high on the brief list of available finished products. After all, one could hardly sell misery and despair on the markets, though both were in high supply. In any case, bars and brothels easily boasted the richest privately owned establishments under the Plate, but even they had to close sometime in the hazy time composed of late night and early morning.

"Alright, you two. It's long past closing hours. You have to go – now!" The manager, a middle-aged man dressed in a well-tailored brown coat, normally wouldn't have risked shouting at these two patrons in particular, but he was getting tired of their drunken antics, and he had to open in – he checked his watch – eight hours. Muttering a prayer under his breath, he wondered tiredly if he could risky bodily throwing them out. Probably not, he decided, if he wanted to live longer than the time it took them to get over their hangovers in the morning.

The two men, one laughing uproariously and the other simply sitting there with a thin smile, didn't notice him, which was hardly surprising in their present state. The first, with vibrant red hair and a dark blue suit stained with unidentifiable blotches, spoke on in a slurred, joking voice to his dark-haired companion. "And so, I says to him, 'Rude, if you don't get your head out of my lap right this second, why, I swear –" He stopped abruptly, though, as his seemingly more serious drinking companion cut him off with a raised, gloved hand, easing himself slowly off of the cushioned barstool. "I think that's enough, Reno. You have an on-duty day tomorrow, don't you?"

Zack shook his head for the seventeenth time this year and wondered why he persisted in doing this every week. Something about the Mako that he had been exposed to during SOLDIER training had prevented him from suffering any of the usual effects of alcohol, but his friend had begged him to come along the first time five months ago, and he had subsequently been dragged out every Sunday thereafter to watch his friend drown himself in alcohol. He could hardly blame the twenty-one-year-old Turk, what with the nature of his assignments, but he determinedly told himself that he would stop him the next time he asked. The sentiment was weak-hearted after stating it seventeen times before. Zack sighed at some of the unchangeable things in the world.

Reno was still muttering something about wanting to stay, something about killing the dreams, but Zack took him firmly by the upper arm and, smiling apologetically to the manager, led him to the door. Once he reached it, he looked back at the man, who was frowning under his mustache, and decided to toss him another fifty-Gil note. It wasn't as if Zack needed it, with the salary of a SOLDIER First-Class, and the man had truly done well to put up with the two of them. Before, they hadn't dared go back to the same bar any more than once. "Sorry about that, sir. Get some rest, alright?" Flashing the manager a brief trademark smile, Zack dragged the stumbling Reno outside, where he promptly sank to his knees and threw up on the establishment's sign. Zack winced; they wouldn't be coming back to this one, either.

Cursing himself for letting his friend act so irresponsibly, the swordsman half-led, half-dragged the still-muttering Turk towards one of the special elevators used by high-ranking Shinra employees. The muggy air and the stagnant smell of rust and decay didn't do much for his spirits, and Zack almost thought of using Aero to clear a bubble of clean air around him, but then he decided that it wouldn't do much good for long in the dank environs of the slums. Sighing and coughing subsequently, he told himself more resolutely that this was not happening again. He would talk to Tseng about it in the morning, as a matter of professional opinion, of course. Losing a Turk to alcoholism would hardly help their image, though, knowing the Director of the Turks, he would claim that a person named Reno Jahar would simply never have existed, if it came down to that.

That was when he felt a familiar sensation; a half-tingling in the back of his neck that he knew meant trouble was near. It was in him from birth and had saved his skin in a number of situations, and the Mako showering simply augmented what SOLDIER training drove deeper. Eyes scanning the rooftops and alleyways, he slowly moved his right hand towards the sword hilt rising behind his shoulder. Then, he heard the scream, a slow, agonizing sound with no words attributed in it. There was a brief period of shock that affected anyone after hearing such a sound, but then Zack's extensive training kicked in. Reno appeared not to notice, and Zack let the man drop to the ground. It had been a female scream, and added to the fact that it was late at night in the slums, Zack quickly made the connections, pulse quickening in anger. Sure, he liked the girls and loved chasing them, but rape was dishonorable, and he regarded those who committed it as the lowest of criminals. His ears told him that it had originated from his right, and he hurried that way, unlimbering his sword from his back.

Another scream, this one more desperate, sounding like "No!" Zack quickened his pace, running towards where he had heard it originate. Growling deep in his throat, he rushed forth onto the scene, Buster Sword held at the ready. In a dark, unlit alley, two roughly dressed men were assaulting a young woman, a third man lying on the ground, clutching his head. The plain wooden staff that lay at Zack's feet at the alley entrance, where it had probably been thrown after being wrested from the girl's grasp, explained that. Even as Zack moved fluidly, as he had been trained, his eyes analyzed the situation. One of the men had grabbed the girl's coat from behind her, trapping her arms and bringing her to her knees, while the other darted in to fumble at her dress. Even then, Zack couldn't help but notice how some of the diffuse light from a distant streetlamp made her face glow, and how the red handprint on her left cheek hardly detracted from her beauty. He snarled at himself for the inappropriate thoughts and concentrated his mind on the task at hand.

He opted for a soft "kill"; the girl would have enough bad dreams as it was without him adding to it by showering her in the blood of her assailants, much as he would like to kill them, if he could do so in a detached manner. Drawing on a deep power innate in his mind, one that had been brought to the surface through long hours of training and meditation, he channeled it through one of the glowing green Materia orbs in his blade, weaving the resulting flows around the two men. The low-powered Aero spell reacted exactly as he known it would, seizing the criminals in invisible fists and tossing them to the ground away from the girl. Another flow of Air knocked them soundly unconscious. After a moment's thought, he repeated that to the third, who had shown some signs of recovery, attempting to rise.

After making sure that the three would make no more trouble for a few hours yet, he replaced his sword to its normal carrying position and turned back to face the girl, who was trembling still in fear. As his brown eyes met hers, a beautiful green, she smiled at him gratefully, beatifically lighting up her face. Zack resisted the sudden urge to kiss her; that would hardly do, now, and he shouted at himself mentally for thinking like a selfish fool. Instead, he contented himself with an inward feeling of satisfaction before asking her in a grave tone. "Are you all right?" He didn't really need to ask, per se, but it was compulsory in scenarios like these; his cursory inspection revealed a few scrapes and bruises, but overall she was fairly intact, physically.

She looked at him oddly, almost as if not entirely focused on the here and now. With a small start, she nodded and replied. "Yes, thank you. It's nothing that I can't Heal." The capital was audible, but now it was Zack's turn to look at her strangely. Those who had been showered with Mako developed an affinity with Materia over time, along them to "see" it, and she did not possess any. Just when he was about to offer his Restore orb to her, she seemed to whisper, and a sudden, warm breeze rose about them, filling the air with a scent of roses that easily wiped away the earlier stench that had permeated his nostrils. Zack's mouth gaped; this was absolutely impossible! Then, he realized that the aches in his bones, pressures and tenseness he had not even known were there, were gone, and he felt almost lightheaded in comfort. Not even Materia healed that well; even Mastered, it left a slight tiredness and aching where wounds had been – better, certainly; a little discomfort was better than the agony of a sword cut or thrust. He noticed belatedly that her wounds were gone, too. She appeared even more radiant, as if pleased with what she had wrought.

Just as he was about to ask, she answered his unspoken question in a light, pleasant tone that spoke of an amateur lying. "I've been able to do that for a few years, now, though I'm not sure how. Whatever works, right?" He nodded at her, understanding that she clearly hiding something and yet knowing not to probe. He was not such a cold soul, and now wasn't the time for unnecessary questions. "So, is your house nearby, Miss...?" Zack thought the least he could do was finding out her name. He decided that he liked the girl. Big surprise, his conscience grumbled. She giggled slightly, as if understanding his thoughts, and pointed to a large, well-maintained house in the old style, complete with a flower garden off to the side. Zack found it so outrageously out-of-place, though he suspected that it would give an awe-inspiring sense of peace if one were to lounge in it.

The girl's voice broke him out of his reverie. "My name is Aeris Gainsborough. You can call me Aeris, though." A pretty name meant for a pretty girl. Zack decided that he could definitely see this going somewhere in the near future. "My name's Zachary White. Everyone calls me Zack, though. It's late, and your parents will already be worried sick. You should be getting back home, now." She nodded solemnly, turning to leave. Zack watched her until she came to the threshold, waving once to her before heading back to where Reno was probably still lying there in a drunken haze, if not asleep. Either way, he didn't exactly relish the thought of dragging the man all the way back to their apartments on the Plate; Zack wasn't weak by any means, but the Turk was hardly light. Still, he told himself resolutely that it was the least he could do, having let his friend get as drunk as he had. Even with the whimpering redhead over his shoulder, Zack couldn't help but smile at the result of the night's events. He was in between girlfriends at the moment, and he knew deep in his heart that he had taken to Aeris already. And so, even with a snoring weight perched precariously on him, he still managed to walk with a bounce in his step.

Aeris, hands shaking from fatigue so deep that her wind hadn't alleviated it, fumbled the key for a good minute before she finally managed to unlock the door and walked, or staggered, she thought, through the threshold. To her surprise, the light in the kitchen was on, and she shied her eyes briefly. The sight before her incited a sharp, painful wince. Standing in the middle of the room was a grim-looking Elmyra, arms crossed beneath her breasts in the manner of disapproving women all over the world. The clock ticked ominously in the background, though why she would notice it now, Aeris had no idea. Before she could say anything, her foster mother began in a dangerously calm tone. "Hello, dear." Aeris shuddered; it was the same tone she had used to tell her that she wasn't really Elmyra's daughter. It did not bode well. Aeris slumped her shoulders and prepared for the inevitable outburst.

If her mother's blue eyes had been sharp before, now they were positively blazing. "You have quite some explaining to do, Aeris. For starters, why are you home two hours late?" To Aeris, it seemed obvious that this was going to take a while, so she sank into one of the chairs by the table and replied wearily. "I got ... held up. Twice." She didn't really consider meeting Sephiroth as being "held up", but it had taken some time, and in the present mood Elmyra was in ... Apparently, it was the wrong answer. "Aeris, you were never a good liar." The voice in her head agreed with the scornful words, but Aeris was shocked. How did her mother possibly know about her meeting Sephiroth? As if her mother had sensed her thoughts, she added with a snort. "The signs are obvious. You might as well tell the truth. I suppose I can understand." Now, her eyes just looked sad, which confused Aeris all the more. Tell the truth, the voice urged her. For once, she agreed. Then it continued. Watch how she tears it apart.

"You see, on the way back from the train station ..." She was interrupted by her mother's sigh. With a weary voice, Elmyra prodded at her daughter. "Go on, Aeris ..." Aeris replied quickly, eager to get this over with and go to sleep. "I ... met Sephiroth. We ... talked ..." From the look on her mother's face, Aeris decided she would be better off not mentioning the flowers. Elmyra nodded solemnly, though Aeris thought her lips had twitched, just for a moment there. Probably her imagination, she concluded. The voice in her head ranted about trust and betrayal, but she forced it to silence. Elmyra's voice stirred her, though, as Aeris willed the internal nuances to leave her alone. "And the second time?" Aeris was split between finding her mother's protectiveness of her comical or irritating. This was one of the latter times; she had another long day waiting tomorrow – today? – and she wanted to sleep, however troubled her dreams normally were, with a never-ceasing flow of screams and the feeling of intense agony that left her tossing and turning. However, she knew that her mother would be relentless if she begged off, and it would be better to get this done with, quickly. "The second time was when some thieves tried to rob me. I got away from them, though."

Elmyra threw back her blond head and laughed sardonically. "Girl, you're a terrible liar. Look, I'm not so dull-witted or dreary-eyed to see the obvious." Aeris wondered what she was talking about. She had told the truth, after all, despite all the reasons not to. She opened her mouth to protest, but her foster mother spoke first, in a rough voice. Strangely, she seemed on the brink of tears. "I'm sad that you don't trust me, Aeris ... but I can't let you deceive me like this." She raised a finger threateningly. "Your coat's ripped and hanging wrong, the top two buttons of your dress are undone, and your hair is unbraided." To say that Aeris was confused was a vast understatement. Where in the world was Elmyra going with this? Her mother had never cared too much about her appearance, before. As her tired mind tried to puzzle out her mother's intent, Elmyra strode over to her seat, roughly squeezing at Aeris' shoulder and staring into her face. When she continued, her voice was harder, as if trying not to bend from sadness. "Your muscles are limp, there's a shine in your eye, and your lips never had so much color at this time of day." Now, Aeris was completely bewildered. Why in the world was Elmyra pointing out the after-effects of her healing? Would she have been better off walking in with bruises and scrapes covering her? Her inner voice muttered indistinctly but belligerently, but she lacked the concentration to mute it again. Before her, her mother's eyes widened in shock, and she plunged a hand down the bodice of Aeris' dress, pulling out the currency that Sephiroth had given her, earlier. With a moan, Elmyra collapsed in a chair, sobbing. "Aeris ... oh, dear, I'm so sorry about grumbling about ... money, but you didn't need to do ... that ..."

What in the Light was her mother talking about? Aeris had no idea, and so stumbled blindly in her reply. "I ... I didn't steal it ... mother ..." her voice died away as Elmyra laughed again, bitterly this time. "Oh, no, you didn't steal it, dear ... you provided a good, and you were paid for it, weren't you?" Aeris was long past confused, long past dumbfounded. Was her mother insane? She had been selling flowers for four years now! Voice angry, she bit off. "Look, Mother, I've been doing this for years now, and now you decide to complain?" This was ridiculous. She wanted to sleep, and her mother was delaying her with these pointless questions, the Light burn her! "Just because Sephiroth decided to pay me extra isn't a reason for you to get all upset like this!" Elmyra's mouth dropped, voice faint. "... Sephiroth?" Aeris fumed. This was getting nowhere. She decided to raise her voice. "Yes, Sephiroth! I said that the first time, didn't I? It's not like I wanted him to pay me so much! And it's not like he was trying to hurt me, or anything; he was kind, almost! He's nothing like what the media and the rumors say!" Aeris glared at her mother. This was nonsense! Absolute nonsense!

Her mother turned to face her, eyes glittering with anger. When she spoke, her voice was under control again, tightly bottled rage under a façade of calmness. "You can go back to him, then! If he enjoyed it so much, I wouldn't be surprised if he kept you on permanently. Aeris, if that's what you want ..." Her voice broke down into tears. "Oh, dear, I never would have thought ... my little girl, prostituting herself for years. Where did I go wrong ... oh, Light, where did I go wrong?" Aeris was aghast. That was what she had been thinking? She laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it, stating in a light voice. "Mother, you have it all wrong!"

Wrong answer. Again. Blue eyes burning with fury, Elmyra raged at her. "Don't you lie to me now, girl! You admitted it yourself!" Against Aeris' sputtering protests, Elmyra seized her by the arm and pushed her towards the door. "Get out, get out! I don't want to see you here ever again! Oh, how I thought I could make you different! I hoped that you would live a life, not become just another damned whore from the damned slums! I taught you, protected you, prayed for you ... and you dare do this, burn you! GET OUT!" With a final, forceful thrust, Elmyra projected her former daughter from the house. Aeris landed on her face, sobbing quietly into the mud at the realization of just what was happening. Standing above her, Elmyra snarled in tones of infinite contempt. "You're no daughter of mine." Picking up the bills from where they had been lying on the tiled floor of the house, Elmyra tossed the notes to the figure, lying motionless on her doorstep. "Take your damned money. I never want to see any sign of you in this house again!" With that, she slammed the door, locking it firmly behind her.

For a time, the only thing Aeris could do was cry piteously, and her first considered thought wasn't much better. Light, this can't be happening to me. Aeris' attempts at denial only brought a fresh onset of tears as the voice inside her mocked her with glee. You knew you should have listened to me. You knew approaching Sephiroth would only bring you harm. That smugness, that arrogance, enraged her, giving her the will to act. Rising slowly, she shouted mentally. WHO ARE YOU? The voice just laughed, and Aeris chided herself. She had more important things to be doing than ranting at something that was just a figment of her imagination. She took a moment to consider her options, and the list was fairly grim. It wasn't fair! Her mother had completely misunderstood her at every turn!

Light, but she was tired. Weeping, she noted with something barely approaching wryness, was exhausting. Eventually, she decided that sleeping in the mud in front of her house – former house; and oh, how the thought of that hurt – was probably a bad idea, and she began to drag herself towards the flower garden. The pragmatic part reminded her gently to pick up the two-hundred-Gil notes, while the superstitious segment frowned and proclaimed them as obviously bad luck. But then, Aeris thought, getting hit by a falling piano sometime in the vague future was probably better than starving to death in a week. Sighing softly and kneeling, she picked up the dirty bills, tucking them back into the lining of her dress. That, she noted sadly, was completely unsalvageable from lying in the mud for a good twenty minutes, along with her coat and boots. Rubbing her grimy hand against her face, which turned out to be worse, she wondered if the day held any more snares and pits ahead of her. What she didn't consider, as she slowly eased herself against the flowerbeds that she had cultivated, was that the new day had barely begun.

Beep>"Nuclear Launch Detected," the cool, female voice stated, devoid of emotion. Reno rolled over on his bed, hand fumbling for his cell phone as he cursed. The Turk was a light sleeper, but times like these he wished he could just fall back asleep on his wonderfully comfortable bed. His mouth tasted like he'd been gargling a 9-volt battery, and he felt like there was a full brigade's worth of Wutain battle-drummers pounding away in his head. That told him it was Monday. Only on a Monday did he feel this terrible. At least, he consoled himself, still searching for his phone, the alcohol blocked out the dreams. It was almost worth it.

Beep>"Nuclear Launch Detected." Reno wasn't quite sure how he had gotten himself that ringtone, but it worked, and he hadn't found the time to change it. At last spotting it on the table and activating it, he tried to disguise his hung over state. "'Ello, this is Reno of the Turks. Need something destroyed?" Over the line, the Turks' collective secretary didn't laugh. She had had years to get used to how the redhead answered the phone, which wasn't the case with civilians and some of the lower-ranked personnel. Instead, she merely remarked dryly, "Commander White left some hangover potion for you in the kitchen." As Reno silenty thanked his friend, she continued. "Director Tseng told me to inform you to be in his office in thirty minutes. He says he has new mission orders for you."

Finally. A part of him was overjoyed to find out that the black-haired bastard had finally re-assigned him. Reno had asked for it a month ago; he simply couldn't follow a man very well when his fur coat made him sneeze and cough and splutter every few minutes, now could he? The other, larger part was focused on stumbling over to the Turk's shared kitchen to get his potion. As he sat down on the breakfast bar and pulled the plain glass vial of viscous purple fluid over to him glumly – the thing tasted like moldy socks – he noted the other Turk in the room, glancing at him with a combination of compassion and barely-suppressed laughter. Rude, already in his trademark sunglasses even when the sun had barely risen yet, limited his speech to three words. "You should change." Reno was grateful for that, though he didn't see the multiple meanings; he wasn't ready to deal with his friend's chivvying this morning. Then he glanced down at himself and winced. Dirt, dust, wrinkles, alcohol, and vomit just didn't look good on a Turk suit. He downed the acrid-tasting concoction in one gulp and walked back to his room, where he swiftly showered and donned a new navy blue suit and black pants, both tailored of medium quality. Tseng had stopped having the higher quality uniforms sent to him ever since had begun ruining them on a weekly basis.

As he sat back down at the barstool, head already clearing into something resembling a thinking apparatus, he picked up a large plate of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon; Ms. Alaine, the Turks' secretary and cook, knew that was what he had every Monday. He needed the added energy to face the thought of another five days of grueling, tiring, tortuous work. Beside him, Rude raised an eyebrow behind his shades, but wisely said nothing today about cholesterols and fats. The dark, bald man was almost done with his small bowl of fruits and cereal grains; Reno had no idea how he survived on such a meager fare, but Rude just looked at him with a rare smile on his face whenever he brought it up. Rude smiling was just so disconcerting that he let the subject drop whenever he was faced with it. Instead, the redhead let his eyes wander around the room. It hardly seemed a place where one might find Turks. The walls were painted a soft hue of pastel blue, with gray-streaked white marble surfaces everywhere and a general aura of comfort and relaxation. The large, well-used leather sofa in front of the television seemed to beckon, while a painting of ocean waves against a beach completed the image. Anyone who stumbled in would have no idea that the Turks' apartments lay just behind an unmarked door.

Noting the silence, Rude spoke first on a relatively safe topic. "Congratulations on your new assignment, Reno." Reno flashed a small smile at the man and chuckled lightly. "Hell, anything would be better than chasing after that smuggler with his goddamned cat-fur coat." He just couldn't stand the fine, prickly stuff, blowing three missions on that factor alone. Rude, on the other hand, merely quirked his lips as he replied. "I got a look at the folder. You might want to rethink that sentiment, Reno. It only came down to you because Tseng refused it." Reno whistled appreciatively at that; anything originally given to the Director was really, really important. Time to raise another pay grade, he thought with a smile. Then he considered the ramifications of the thought. "Wait, is this the one Tseng's kept for the last ... three years?" Rude nodded, settling back into his customary non-verbal stance. Reno just shook his head and went back to eating. Tseng had never said anything about that assignment, which was odd; the three Turks usually discussed them with one another all the time.

Once he was done with his breakfast, he and Rude took the elevator down from their 5th-floor apartment and began the short walk to the Shinra building. It was a small "village" of apartment towers dedicated to the more higher-ranked Shinra employees, but they were generally the first to leave and last to return on any given business day. Along the way, they discussed the usual things; sports – one-sided, the weather – still dreary and cold, and their present relationships – neither had found a decent girl for anything long-term, but Reno had plenty of stories to tell from all of his brief flings, which Rude seemed to find vaguely amusing. After they signed the registry at the front desk, Reno nodded farewell and took the elevator up to the Director's office, while Rude raised a fist and headed to the employee gym to complete his daily morning workout.

Leaning against the interior wall of the elevator, Reno watched the sun as it rose over the horizon, silhouetting the rooftops of Kalm. It was a pretty sight, so long as you didn't let your eyes drop down to the barren wastelands that surrounded Midgar for a good hundred miles, more in some areas. The redhead wondered if it had always been like that; he vaguely remembered hearing a tale somewhere that these fields had been green, sometime before. It certainly would have made a good children's' tale, except that Reno Jahar hadn't really had much of a childhood. Growing up a bastard son in Sector Four, he had had virtually nothing to call his own. On his sixteenth birthday, his mother had unceremoniously thrown him out of the house in the manner of the slums, and he had walked into Shinra's recruiting station the afternoon afterwards. The war with Wutai had been raging, then, and he thought that he might have been able to rise through the ranks and make a name for himself like Sephiroth had.

Fat chance; he laughed about it sometimes in retrospect. He had barely begun basic training when, during a routine inspection, the Director of the Turks at the time, Kristoph Mendos, had singled him out and had him entered in special lessons immediately – without Reno's input. He had had no choice but to go forward, but Fate chose to be whimsical. The night before his last "test", Kristoph had died of a massive stroke, and the autopsy revealed signs of abnormal growths in parts of the brain responsible for the cognitive functions, possible root causes of insanity. Reno was stuck with the knowledge that his being chosen to join the Turks was completely irrational and random, and that he ought to be grateful for the high status, good pay, and access to insider information. That was what the others had told him in not-so-subtle ways, at least.

What he hadn't bargained for was the dreams, the nightmares. Years of operating for the Turks had given him a guilty conscience that weighed down on him like the proverbial mountain, and it just wouldn't go away whatever he tried. At first, it had been manageable, but eventually, he simply couldn't deal with it anymore, which had led to his touring of the bars. Fellow Turks shrugged and said they didn't have to worry about it; Reno cursed their luck and lack of caring. The psychiatrists that Tseng insisted he talk with told him to find a change of profession, and that wouldn't do. Shinra didn't just give away TOP-SECRET information every day, and quitting the Turks was never voluntary. Either you were promoted, or you died in various, spectacularly absurd ways. That particular fact hadn't made it into the propaganda, and sometimes, when he found himself staring at someone who resembled one of his former "objectives", Reno cursed whatever cranial abnormalities had forced Kristoph Mendos to choose him of all people.

The buzzer dinged pleasantly as he reached the 59th floor, where the Turks' offices were. Reno nodded and smiled at the Director's secretary, who returned the smile and told him to go right on in. He found the Wutain staring at the painting on the wall – roses on blue; Reno had never quite figured out why he kept it – a paper of some sort lying on his hardwood desk and a thick manila folder, labeled TOP-SECRET; STATUS: CRITICAL nearby. As soon as Reno entered the threshold, though, the Director's tilted black eyes came to focus on him, giving him a quick once-over to make sure he wasn't attempting to assassinate him, or something like that. For his part, Reno adopted a serious posture, sitting in one of the two hard-backed chairs facing the Director's much larger, far more comfortable seat. Rank had its privileges. "You called for me regarding a re-assignment, Director."

Tseng's speech was clipped and terse, almost as if he had deliberately shunted himself away from the elegantly flowing phrases of the Wutain tongue. "Yes, I did. This next assignment is rather interesting." Abruptly, he opened the folder; rifling through the stack inside, he located an eight-by-ten glossy photograph depicting a girl, perhaps fifteen, dressed chastely in a long, pink dress and a bright, red jacket. She was facing the camera, but that didn't mean she had been aware of it; her eyes, a deep green, were focused elsewhere, her mouth open as if to greet a friend. She carried a wooden staff of the cheap variety in one arm and basket of flowers in the other. Reno's first thought was Wow. She's cute. The second was Wait a second here; this is the person Tseng's been unable to catch for three years! Somewhere in between was a nagging feeling that he had seen those eyes before, but he couldn't quite place it.

The Director spoke again before Reno had much more time to contemplate. "Her name is Aeris Gainsborough, and she sells flowers on the Sector One Plate. She has every day now, for the last four years this October, in fact. Senior Officials," which meant the Department Heads, "believe that she may be an Ancient, the only one alive besides Sephiroth." That was where he had those eyes, Reno realized, though they couldn't have been more different otherwise. One set was tilted and burning, always suspicious, the other round and bright, seeming so innocent. Reno nodded, and Tseng continued. "Professor Hojo," whose name Tseng enunciated in tones of derision, "wants to experiment on her." And we get to bring her in, so that a madman can have his way with her. Joy.

Reno sighed; this would be one more face to haunt him, and a pretty one at that. Damn. "With all due respect, Director, why can't you handle this yourself?" Tseng knew and respected Reno's weaknesses, and the redhead didn't think the Director would spite him deliberately in this way. Tseng's face clenched but almost softened for a bare instant. "I have ... personal ties ... involving her." Reno could not help laughing at loud at that, drawing a pained glance from the Director. "Haha, Director! Are you meaning to tell me you have a crush on the girl?" Tseng muttered under his breath, shooting a look at his subordinate. "Don't think the worst at all times. For your information, Reno, we grew up together for a time." His face, though, had barely reddened, though, but Reno didn't press him further. To add to that, Tseng continued in a dry tone. "Besides, I could always have you keep chasing after the smuggler." Then, he sighed; it was something Reno was not accustomed to. "Look, I know you don't enjoy this any more than I do, but this should be a quick, easy pickup. Just bring her in from the street and take her to me. I'll deal with the ... Professor." Reno nodded his acceptance, though he had the feeling Tseng had been about to say something else. Also, this would be an easy assignment; he should have no time to develop any emotions regarding her, and thus he would not feel such a large obligation to her.

The problem, he knew, was that he already had. Muttering under his breath, he picked up the file and left to pick up his electromagnetic rod in the Weapons Room. Behind him, the Director sighed again and decided the most he could do was speak to Hojo and attempt to persuade him to curb his ... enthusiasm, distasteful and boundless as it was. He forced his mind to compartmentalize the issue, like so many others, and focused once more on the report lying before him.

It was all such a waste of time. There were no more enemies to fight, at least not army-to-army, but here he still was, teaching deployments and strategy to a class of aspiring officers in a classroom on the lower floors of the Shinra building. Some time or other he almost felt like cornering each in turn and asking him whom exactly they thought they were training to lead armies against. Sephiroth smirked, pointing once more to the graph he had drawn on the projector screen. "Observe." He gave them five seconds to do so. If they couldn't see that the Red Force had 3:1 numerical advantage and control of a small hill with a hundred feet of uncovered ground before the only assailable route, then they didn't deserve to be here. Blue Force had low supplies, fewer men, and a supposedly inferior tactical position on plains with no cover. Morale was not high compared to Red Force, but not low. "What would an intelligent commander of Blue Force do?" He gave them an additional five seconds to consider the question. When no one of the class of sixteen volunteered, as usual, he jabbed a gloved finger randomly into their number. "You! What is your answer?" He hoped to the gods that it wouldn't be too

embarrassing.

Without hesitating, the officer-in-training replied. If there was one thing he had ground out of them, it was delay. He would not tolerate it, lack of battles or not. Men died and battles were lost for failing to act when the time was right. "General, Blue Force should consolidate into a defensive position along the ridge to the south while waiting for reinforcements and heavy weapons to breach Red Force defensive positions on the river."

Sephiroth waited until it was clear that that was all the man had to say, short and un-detailed as it was. Then he opened his mouth and replied in the terse, cutting tone he used for lessons. "That is a choice for the weak and cowardly. I would expect a substandard commander to allow his or her initiative to wallow and die in such a pitiful manner. A general greater than any of you once said, 'Attack on ground where your enemy believes you will not, from an unexpected direction at an unexpected time. Defend where the enemy believes you are not, and when he believes you will run. Surprise is the key to victory, and speed is the key to surprise. For the soldier, speed is life.' Those words are true." He gave them a little time to let them copy it down. Then he pointed again. "You. What would Blue Force do?" the officer replied after examining the maps for a brief second longer, not as sure as the first. "General, Blue Force should ... attack the Red Force river garrisons?" A few of the students glanced at him, some curious, some struggling to contain laughter.

Sephiroth wanted to grab him and throw him out of the window, but the idiot likely wouldn't survive the impact. The fool ... normally, he would continue until someone finally got the best answer –his opinion, of course, but his opinion had won the battles and written the texts, and that was what counted to Shinra. Now, he was just far too irritated, and with the end of the lesson time approaching, he decided to just give them the answer and get back to his apartments and rest. "Incorrect. That would be suicidal. Instead, Blue Force should advance forward under cover of darkness to this ridge, here," he pointed at another terrain feature, far to the north of the first. "Then, his defensive lines should focus southward, and no contact to the north should be attempted. Reinforcements would, as Mahnricht said, bombard the garrison and force them into an attack, and which time the original party would be in a fine position to strike from the flanks and rear." One officer nodded, adding a few lines to his notes. One. Sephiroth groaned at the thought of teaching these buffoons for the next few years. He had hardly enjoyed prosecuting the war, but it was a welcome relief to get away from the incompetents at Shinra, cadets, executives, and everyone in between. They were all beneath him, but he could do nothing, yet. It was too risky, and he admitted while that he was an Ancient, he was not invincible, no matter what the rumors said.

The foul mood persisted until he returned to his personal apartments on the Sector Five Plate. The maintenance contractor had pronounced the pillar perfectly sound, which relieved Sephiroth immensely. He hated shopping, and that especially applied towards residences. He shared the building with a few of the other SOLDIER First-Class, and he found their presence bearable, at least. At least, he thought with a smirk, he didn't have to rub shoulders with some whiny Shinra employees every morning and evening. Taking the elevator up to the top floor, he joined one of his few friends, Zack White, taking the time to nod to him once before holding down the "Close Door" button. Sephiroth knew Zack lived on the second floor. "Why are you going up?" Zack laughed in his loud, raucous manner, gesturing at the General. "To visit you, of course! You hardly get enough company as it is." Sephiroth frowned in slight disapproval. The man, though competent enough, had the habit of sticking near him at the worst of times. Right now, he just wanted to pour some good, ice-cold lemonade and relax his headache away. Teaching – no, attempting to teach idiots – inevitably left his temples pounding.

But then, short of placing the Masamune against his throat, Zack never took no for an answer. His loyalty, if it could be called that, and his stubbornness were what had instilled his respect in the black-haired man in the first place, along with his sharp eye for terrain and his skill with his blade, impractical as he saw it to be. "Very well. We will talk." The elevator door slid open noiselessly, revealing a corridor of ivory tile leading to a single heartwood door engraved with gold. Both men had traveled it enough times to not gawk at the obvious and unnecessary luxury. Sephiroth slid his ID card into the holder, which beeped and pronounced him able to enter. Pushing the heavy door unceremoniously, he stepped into his eight-room suite, of which he only really used two rooms. Leading in from the threshold was the living room, where he had placed the flowers that he had bought yesterday from that girl in a glass vase on the coffee table. A dining room – he rarely ate here; sitting room – he didn't entertain guests formally, either; bedroom – which he admitted was only used as a library, as he did not need to sleep; bathroom – necessary as always; game room – converted into another library; kitchen – which he saw no point in using; and a large veranda completed his quarters. Generally, he remained in his converted libraries whenever he was here, reading or sleeping. Sometimes, though, he went outside to the veranda and gazed at the stars, marveling in their elegance and mystery.

The entire place was decorated in austere black and white, with sharp, sudden corners and stark contrasts. The few spots of color from the flowers in their vase seemed quite incongruous in the scene. Zack exclaimed on seeing the bouquet. "Hey, you finally got some color in this place! Doesn't it feel so much better with them?" He moved in closer to sniff at them. "Whoa, these are real, too! Who sent you these? I know you don't list your mailing address." Sephiroth scowled at the thought. A daily avalanche of correspondence would bury him if they ever figured out that he didn't live at the Shinra building like the Department Heads. Really, it wasn't as if he liked the place. "As to your first question, no, it has hardly changed my meager opinion of this place. And as to the second, no one sent them to me. I bought them myself." Zack stared at him. "You bought things? I mean, from her?" The General shrugged. With anyone else, he would berate them for being so vague, but Zack was a friend, and a rare one at that. "Considering that the seller was a female, yes, from 'her'."

Zack grinned widely at his General. Added to his monstrous head of hair, it made him look like some giant, demented porcupine. "Her name's Aeris. I've been asking around the HQ, and everyone seems to know about her. Though Hojo gave me the strangest look when I asked ... say, what did you think of her?" Sephiroth almost laughed out loud at that. He could hardly tell Zack about the cautious respect-between-equals he had decided on cultivating towards her; it would most assuredly get out to the media somehow, and Sephiroth would never have a moment to himself again. "I thought nothing of her. I bought the flowers, paid her, and moved on." Which led to the obvious question, one that Zack quickly voiced. "But why did you buy flowers? I mean, seriously, Sephiroth and flowers? The media'd have a field day with that story! 'Super-Macho Shinra General Weak Against Flowers.'" Zack laughed again, imagining the look on his General's face if he ever saw that headline.

Sephiroth hardened his voice; what had before been a cold river was now simply frozen-over ice. "It was a whim; a foolish fancy. I do not know why I bothered." With that, he channeled the rage and frustration of the afternoon's lessons through his Materia, using powerful flows of Aero to lift the flowers, vase and all, and crush them into an infinitely small mass, burning it with a brief burst of intense Fire. So strong were his innate magical capabilities that not even a single ash remained from the combustion, which left a brief sensation of heat that dissipated with the spell. "You know I do not care for such things. So easily broken, so easily destroyed. Only the strongest, the hardest can live in this world."

It would be better to get this over with quickly, the cadet thought, shuddering in distaste as he faced the Mako tank, empty and forbidding, for the first time. The air was slightly chilled to keep the instruments safe, and the cadet couldn't suppress a shiver as he quickly stripped of the SOLDIER-in-training uniform, aware and beyond caring of the officer's eyes that paused for an almost insulting direct stare before returning to his notes.

The cadet stepped into the tank, oblong and large enough for a tall man to stand in it comfortably with feet to spare, trying to repress thoughts of the stories the various other cadets had told the newest crop about their first "shower". Closing the transparent panel that served as a door, he tapped the thick polymer twice, signaling that he was ready. The officer, with an almost bored expression – he saw the did the same hundreds of times per day, day after day for years, now – depressed a switch to lock the tank door, flipped a cover with a red "WARNING" stamped on it, and pressed down the button below it. The cadet, who had been watching, murmured a few quiet words and braced himself.

Above him, a small panel opened and a nozzle emerged. That was all the warning the cadet had before a soft spray of fine green liquid, light and airy, descended upon him. As soon as the first whisper of a hair touched him, the cadet screamed, a long protracted sound of agony. Unlike Materia, which was energy that had "fermented" into a form safe for bare skin to handle, raw, untreated Mako was highly dangerous under all but the most careful of conditions. The pain came as a stinging, burning sensation, starting from the point of contact but spreading throughout the cadet's body in a heartbeat, lighting him up in an intense, wracking pain that came in waves timed to the quickened beating of the cadet's heart.

Through pure strength of will and the knowledge that nothing he did could possibly change this for the better, the cadet stood straight and tall, unbending as the light shower continued, as it would for the next minute. The teachers and students had both agreed that with time and prolonged contact, the pain would eventually fade, until it was safe to begin full-body immersions – "baths". Only once the body showed no aversion to that did the final treatments, direct injection into the bloodstream, begin. For now, though, that minute felt like an hour of torture to the cadet, locking his jaw in an attempt to prevent any additional screams from being uttered. Barely ten seconds in, the muscles in his jaw had already formed a hurting, knotting cramp, and the cadet knew he'd have to work at them for quite some time before he could open his mouth at all.

One of the tips his mentor, a First-Class with incredibly chaotic black hair and an easy smile, had been to think of other things; focusing on external memories seemed to attenuate the pains, which no potion or spell could heal. Forcing his mind to operate, the cadet began to think of his childhood, a time of confusion and anger and frustration. He remembered the blames he had placed on him, the shame that had been a part of his daily existence. He remembered the rage he had held in check when the other children had framed him, the sadness when no one seemed to want to talk to him. The cadet growled then, low and deep in the throat, and he willed himself to think of other things. Better things. He sighed and thought of sitting on top of the town well, staring at the stars, finding solace in their isolation, reflecting on the sorry state of his own life. He remembered the promise he had made, and that spurred other thoughts. He was going to show them all, he thought resolutely. He was going to be in SOLDIER, and he was going to excel. He knew it in the depths of his soul. He would go back, and everyone would beg to allow him to forgive him or her, beg to speak with him. He was going to be strong; he was going to be devious; he was going to famous. He knew it.

Abruptly, the spray stopped, and the cadet let out a ragged breath, nostrils flaring as he sucked in air greedily. He hadn't been aware that he had been holding his breath. Around him, the suction apparatus began to remove the Mako gas from the air, and he waited for the process to continue before the officer unlocked the hatch with the same bored expression, and the cadet walked out stiffly; his muscles were tired but knotted at the same time, and he thought with a sigh that it would be hours before he could speak again. Nodding brusquely to the officer, he strode over to his clothes and put them on, feeling the burning sensation still flowing through him jump as his skin came in contact with the fabrics. He staggered out the door, limping slightly, and he attempted to smile reassuringly at the next cadet waiting outside. It came out as a drawn grimace, and the young man gulped and shook visibly.

Clutching the railings – placed by sympathetic a Second-Class only months earlier – for support, the cadet didn't notice any changes. He knew internally that it was foolish to think an effect could come about so quickly as that, but a small part of him hoped that it would. Eventually finding his way to the small room he shared with five other cadets, he lay down on the hard, lumpy bed, determinedly not whimpering in newfound pain as sore muscles attempted to support him. He was going to show them all. Sleeping fitfully, the cadet dreamed of bloodied water and two glowing orbs.

The mood, if it could be called that, was a mixed combination of grimness and anger. The table they sat at was hewn rock, suiting the stony silence that had fallen upon them after witnessing the events through their last living surrogate. Finally, one of the dozen there, a woman, dressed in flowing red robes embroidered in green leaves and vines, with elaborately plaited hair at last sighed and spoke, voice tinged with unbelieving sadness. "Aeris ... poor, poor girl." The winds, which had been still before, rose in quick assent, bringing with it the soft yet burning scent of tears wept in emotion. Part of her wanted to laugh with incredulity at the circumstances leading to her daughter's ejection, while another wanted to lie down and weep at the consequences. This cheery land, scenic, snow-capped mountains and rolling, golden plains, did not suit her. Ifalna had always preferred the quiet solitude of a snowy meadow, or the dark, shadowy colors of an old forest. True, she enjoyed the crisp, clean air that these mountaintop meetings provided her, but she felt unsafe here ... exposed, almost. Her last seven years in life, spent at the mercilessly probing hands of a certain laughing, Wutain scientist, had ingrained that fear in her.

Across from her at the table, a younger male, lined face dark and with oily black hair shaved on the left half of his head and worn to the waist on the right, scowled with anger, and the light around them dimmed. Here, no earthly detail was ever certain; the Planet changed and fluctuated in response to their feelings and senses, adapting itself easily to the situation at hand to better suit its protectors. Gesturing at the woman in red, the man spoke tersely. "Why does she refuse to hear us, Ifalna? Why does she choose to ignore the Planet? Why must she be such an ignorant fool?" His voice had rose in a gradual crescendo, with the last question almost a roar of outrage. The distant sound of a beast's growl accentuated his bitter tones. The others remained silent, though it was clear that they too were unsettled by the latest turn of events.

Ifalna sighed deeply, and a soft yet heavy wind rose briefly in their meeting. The place was getting quite chaotic, she mused. Normally, each deceased Cetra stayed within the bounds within their own Promised Land, and that land bent and shaped itself over the years to the whims and thoughts of its owner. However, for serious occasions such as these, the clashing viewpoints and perspectives could be ... troubling, to say the least. Earlier in the evening had not been the first time they had sat through a simultaneous hurricane and earthquake, and with present company, Ifalna knew it probably wouldn't be the last. "Baracs, I explained who and what she was to her early on in her childhood ... Surely, you remember her speaking with you a dozen years earlier." She knew, with a sad twinge, what had probably caused her daughter to close to the Cetra and the Planet. Ever since she had died by the train station steps and left Aeris to fend for herself, Ifalna had not been able to converse voluntarily with her, and neither had the other Ancients or even the Planet. The only way they could speak, now, was hardly savory; breaking down another's mental barriers and forcefully inserting one's thoughts was nothing short of rape to the Cetra. "Perhaps she reacted badly to my dying ... she could be trying to destroy whatever images she had of me in order to move on, and I can hardly blame her. I should have held on." She bowed her head in shame, remembering how she let herself let go, too tired to go on. "We must accept it and continue with our task regardless; she knows nothing of us. Her memories are gone." That last came in a tone of dejected hopelessness, and a black chasm opened before them on the plateau, gaping and empty.

The image of Aeris returned to them, blurred and faded from the lack of openness and the all-too-painful tension and suspicion emanating from her mind, even as it slept. She looked so pitiful there, so uncertain, clutching at herself as if to comfort against an unknown enemy. Baracs shook his head angrily, and the Ancient on his right, Arilan, uttered a sharp curse, provoking a lightning strike mere feet from them. Ifalna turned to her angrily; they could not "die" here unless the Planet that they were tied to died, but it was unnerving in any case. Arilan lowered her face, muttering something akin to an apology. At last, Baracs spoke haltingly, head down. "I ... searched her thoughts earlier." Ifalna's was not the only one to gasp in shock at that; old day or new, that had been among the worst crimes that any of the People could commit. Baracs continued quickly, clenching his fists, before anyone could interrupt him. "I thought the situation warranted it, and I was correct, it seems. We must be careful, now. She thinks of going to him." The last word was spoken in a quiet, deadly hiss. That brought another bout of silence, in aghast this time.

Ifalna's thoughts, collected mere minutes ago, were reeling in shock. No, irrational and jumpy as her daughter as was, she couldn't possibly think of attempting to seek out the spawn of the Calamity. Even as she thought of Jenova, her mind was clasped in unearthly pain for a brief second, a vision of a leering blue smile and cold pink eyes. It was a warning instilled in all of the Cetra after the Calamity had been defeated, a warning against her and any who carried a part of her. Aeris should not even have been able to speak with him without collapsing in pain. The only logical conclusion, one that fit so well with the rest and yet seemed impossible, came to her suddenly colorless lips in a quiet, worried voice. "She can't feel Jenova. She doesn't have the safeguards." Baracs nodded in silence, and Arilan cursed again; the others ignored her. Ifalna continued in the same tone as before. "If she goes to him, and he remembers who he is ... this is not good." She pleaded with her eyes to the rest of the Elders. "We must watch her, we must help her! For the love of the Light and the sake of the Planet, we must!"

Baracs smiled, if one could call it that, a clenching of the lips into a snarling picture of fear and anger. Yet his voice came out calm and perfectly neutral. "In times like these, the term 'calamity' comes to mind." Then he laughed, a bitterly cold sound that sent shivers done Ifalna's spine. Around them, the Planet muttered and groaned, as dark clouds amassed and errant lightning bolts began grazing the treetops. It's meaning, ambiguous at times, could not be clearer now. A storm was coming.

(A/N: The Aeris/Elmyra conversation was so fun to write Seriously, though, I hate it when people are misunderstood because they're not seeing from the same perspective. Oh, and I hope I did alright with the characterization. I really ought to play through the game again, one of these weeks...

Please leave a review. They're as good a motivation as I'm ever going to get.)