Disclaimer: I do not own Yuffie and Godo Kisaragi, Vincent Valentine, AVALANCHE, all characters and concepts related to AVALANCHE, or, in fact, anything that is from Final Fantasy VII (that honour goes to the wonderful bunch at Square-Enix).
Claimer: I DO, however, own the concept of this story, the name Phe Tsen Shu, the rest of the Shu family, the concept of North Wutai and South Wutai being separate countries, the city of Le Phe Tan, the bastardization of the name Leviathan into Le Phe Tan, and other things not found in FF7. I also own the concept of Heavenly City Da Cha O, the bastardization of the name Da Chao into Da Cha O, and the concept of the Wild Ace's Deuce's Wild Casino. Feel free to use my ideas and original characters, but please give me credit. If you don't give me credit, Tsen Li will turn into a Gary Stu, ruin your story, and then eat your liver.
And When that Day Comes
Dig my head down deep so I can't hear the cars
Outside on the street, and the stars are laughing
They get a kick out of my misery.
I've tried everything short of Aristotle,
Dramamine, and the whiskey bottle,
I pray for the day when my ship comes in
And I can sleep the sleep of the just again
—Insomniac, Straight No Chaser
Chapter One
Summer, forty-three years later (Year of the Star that Did Not Fall)
Island of Wu Tai --- City of Le Phe Tan
Mao Li Shu stared at the letter in his hands. He didn't quite know how to describe how he felt. The letter contained information he had wanted to know for well over forty years…
But it was also impossible. The boy they had lost, his nephew, could not be a day under fifty-eight.
Maybe this was his nephew's son. That was possible, was it not? People in his House often looked very much alike. Foreigners could not distinguish between them. Hell, that idiot Yu Fi Kisaragi girl had confused his son with his son's third cousin during her visit to his city some nine years ago.
On the other hand, Tsen Li and Li Tseng did look rather alike…
Mao Li looked once more at the photographs. One in black and white, one of the only four photographs of Phe Tseng Shu… One in colour, the only extant photograph of Vincent Valentine.
Even without his reading glasses on, Mao Li could see the similarity. A blind old woman who confused people's names could see the similarity. A foreigner who thought all Wutaians looked alike could see the similarity. The similarity was there for all to see. It shouted "HA HA HA, LOOK AT US, WE'RE REALLY SIMILAR! BAH! SCRATCH SIMILAR, WE'RE $&IN' IDENTICAL!"
And then there were the checks. Made out in Sho Kisaragi's hand to one Alexander Gast, Private Investigator. And then there were the private investigator's reports, one of which stated that he had found Phe Tsen Shu working Shinra under the name Vincent Valentine.
And then there was the transcript, from twenty years earlier, of an interview with a captured murderer. The murderer claimed to have kidnapped a Wutaian boy from a large city in South Wutai and sold him to Gold Saucer. At some point after this, the criminal had kidnapped the boy again and sold him to Shinra.
Mao Li felt his blood pressure rise. His fists clenched on the paper.
This was an insult. Worse, this was an insult he could not endure. Godo Kisaragi would make reparations for his father's lies. His honour, the honour of his House, demanded it.
The failure to find his nephew was his single greatest shame. It had changed his city, his outlook on ruling. It was the shame that had ruled his life.
The shame that had killed his brother one crisp winter morning.
The shame that meant Mao Li's son had never heard Nao Hei's ridiculous legends. His son had never claimed to believe that Leviathan slept, and did not sleep, at the same time. His son had never walked the city without a guard.
His son had never enjoyed cool winter evenings. His son had never known Phe Tsen's wonder about snow. His son had never so much as thrown a snowball.
Tsen Li had also never swum in streams, or raked leaves from temple walks, or helped with the harvest.
His son had led a dreary life, thanks to Mao Li's failure. Thanks to Mao Li's determination to never lose another child dear to him.
Mao Li dipped a pen in ink and began to write a letter.