Chapter Six

The low-slung, whitewashed terraces of Balamb glowed a fierce orange, as tongues of flame from charred shops billowed smoke into the night sky. From a distance, the beach-town radiated with a hue similar to the wick of a burning candle, flickering infinitesimally whenever a breeze fanned the furnace. The curved structure of the junk shop, usually a reassuring salt-stained grey framed by the hanging plants, was no more than a mass of blackened leaves and concrete, and fire rose from shattered house windows.

From where I was standing just outside the front door of my childhood home, the furious inferno raged as far as the eye could see, past the dark cylinder of the Balamb Hotel to the black sea in the harbour. My hometown burned with unrelenting abandon, the scene like an indescribable nightmare from the darkest recesses of the mind. My heart jackhammered against my cold chest; having only just woken from sleep, I remained rooted to the spot on the steps to my house in a daze, hardly able to believe the scene unfolding in front of me—villagers staggering from the remnants of their houses, choked as I was by the thick, powerful smoke. The fact that anyone would want to do this to my hometown was almost incomprehensible, as Balamb was nothing more than a tourist location to travellers from the West.

A few hundred yards ahead, in the smoke-shrouded town centre, Civil Protection Officers drafted in from Galbadia wrestled panicking citizens away from the blazing gift shops and the ticket booth outside the train station. Near the booth, two officers emerged from the charred skeleton of a café, carrying a dishevelled, badly burnt figure, supporting his limp form rather than hauling it away from the wreckage. The figure collapsed to the cobbled road in a heap, coughing mightily as more plumes of smoke followed him from the destroyed shop. He cast his weakened glare toward the heavens, as if to ask the gods why they wreaked this horrific vengeance on him for something he thought he'd gotten away from. And in his last movement, he brought his eyes down in a final expulsion of energy, letting their dying gaze rest on one thing.

Me. His son.

As I ran toward my dying father, shouts of "Stop the kid! Get him away from the fire!" echoed around me, but the citizens couldn't do anything to hold me back. I dropped to my knees as I reached his ragged body, grabbing handfuls of his jacket in the vain hope that he might summon his last reserves of energy and come round, pulling himself to his feet as he battled the onset of death. But it never happened. He simply lay stretchered on the road with his eyes fixed on my face, where tears rolled uncontrollably. He finally managed to place his hands on my night-shirt, not grabbing it but emphasising his hands' presence, and forced the last sentence out of his mouth.

"Whoever did this, promise me you'll return the favour."

Without really thinking, I replied. "Okay, Dad. I promise." He let his grip loosen, then simply slipped away like the receding wash of a tide. I buried my face in his jacket, somehow wishing that I'd take my head away and discover that I'd imagined the whole thing.

But every time I did, the scene remained the same. And it was then that I realised: I wouldn't rest until I'd paid my dues. Normally, I wouldn't have taken such an aggressive stance, but this meant more to me. Whoever was responsible for this, they'd changed my life irreversibly, beyond what emotional repair and recovery could change.

And for that, they would pay.

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"Hey, looks like he's still alive."

"Yeah, I can see that, numbnuts. How hard d'ya think I hit him? Can someone get me some cold water or something?"

"You think that wound will be okay? Looks pretty bad."

"Don't worry about it. It's only a knock."

Voices, fragments of conversation wormed their way into my subconscious, tunnelling into my mind with a sharp fury, every syllable making my head pound. To be honest, I had a bad fucking headache, and some uptight asshole talking nonsense in my ear wasn't my idea of an effective cure. Coupled with that, I'd been knocked unconscious, something I hated. You have no control of your situation, anyone can do anything they want with you, and it makes you look weak, like "Look at this wet rag, I didn't even hit him that hard!" As I came round, light flooded in from the corner of my eye from a strip-light overhead, a thick bar of white light illuminating what seemed like the interior of a train carriage; I could tell from the corrugated steel floor, cramped space and the sliding doors to my right. The place where I'd been hit with the pulse rifle was just a throbbing scrim. Self-consciously, I placed a hand on top of my head to adjust my hat, only to feel coarse hair.

"Where's my hat?" I blurted stupidly. Great. Perfect way to make a first impression—come out with something stupid like that. Luckily, whoever was accompanying me was in an amicable mood, and a hand with my hat in it was thrust into view. Gratefully, I took the hat and secured it on top of my head.

"Where am I?" I asked, knowing that I'd got the greeting right at the second time of asking. The figure squatting next to my prone form grinned, as though I'd asked just the right question. He was about the same age as me, clad in grey cargo pants and a dark blue fleece, and had a thick crop of black hair which lay flat on his head.

"Well, look at this!" he exclaimed. "A SeeD, and for free! Christmas sure has come early this year… But that's good old Timber for you, right?" He chuckled mirthfully at his own observation, which I have to agree was quite accurate, but irritating all the same. Stupid hick-towns.

"Look, are you going to tell me what I'm doing lying on the floor of a train somewhere outside Timber, not knowing where the hell I am or how I got here, surrounded by some half-witted hillbillies who seem to enjoy telling me nothing useful? Or do I have to find out myself?" The man flinched as if he'd spotted a blitzball flying hazardously toward his face.

"Are you angry?" he stammered. Oh pu-lease. What is it with these people?

"No…" I sighed resignedly. "Look, I'm supposed to be returning to Garden right now. I'm here on a mission, and objectives say I've got to return to base once the mission's been carried out. Which it has. So what I'm wondering is why I'm here. Any useful information?"

"Well, looks like I bashed you up pretty bad," he stated. No shit. My temple felt like someone had gone ten rounds with it. "Sorry about that. Anyway, let me introduce myself. Although I'm famous around here, a Balamb rube like yourself might not recognise me—Timber doesn't share much information with the outside world, as you know. I'm Zone, leader of the Forest Owls resistance movement. We're fighting for the independence of our great city, through thick and thin." He offered a hand, and I shook it. At last; I thought you'd never say anything useful.

"You know that alley way you were heading down? Well, we were on patrol down there, mostly looking out for Galbadian troops, just in case they're looking to cause some trouble. We try to keep the streets as safe as possible."

"So how many Galbadians go down alleyways?" I inquired sceptically. For some reason, there was an image of a G-Soldier hurrying down one of those pathways, eventually finding refuge in a pile of cardboard boxes. Alleyways prove useful for urination purposes, believe me. Anyway, Zone flinched again as if the invisible blitzball had returned for another attack.

"Aaaaah… You'd be surprised how many of them go down those back roads," he claimed. Yeah right. Some freedom fighter he was; I doubted if he could fight for the independence of his own bathroom, let alone a Galbadia-ruled city. A few yards away, an electric door ground aside—clearly the best this ragtag bunch could afford—and a pot-bellied man about the same age as Zone clad in a yellow polo shirt and dungarees came down clutching a bowl of water. I allowed myself a private laugh—the man's costume wasn't exactly flattering, and he looked ungainly and inept in every action. Zone looked annoyed with the other man, and rose from his crouch in a swift motion while dismissing his partner with a flick of his wrist.

"About fuckin' time!" he barked. "How many times have I told ya, stop wasting time with that stupid train model! That's why Timber's got a gift shop!"

"But sir, the princess isn't here, so someone's gotta take her place. Making crappy train models is my speciality, sir!" he declared, snapping off a tidy salute. This whole arrangement seemed laughably stupid; in fact, it recalled horrible memories of the Christmas pantomime at Galbadia Garden, where I stuffed myself to the point of insanity with sweets from an aisle-to-aisle vendor.

"Oh pu-LEASE!" Zone raged, almost knocking the bowl aside with his flailing hands. "Look, let's just sort this guy out, okay? You got his identification papers?"

"Right here, sir!" the other man replied with a tremendous vivacity, thrusting a handful of papers and a passcard into Zone's hand. I immediately realised that I wasn't wearing my trenchcoat, and whoever had taken it off me had checked the pockets for anything they could claim for themselves. Seemed like the Timber people were scavengers, too. When the second man handed back my clutch of possessions, after clumsily tossing the bowl onto a nearby table, I recognised the eager hand as the one that returned my hat earlier.

"You got my coat somewhere?" I asked, shooting him a glance to accompany it which said: If you've done anything with it… Luckily, this man was in some sort of hyperactive mode, and he obediently blundered through the sliding door. Zone sighed in resignation, one hand glued to his forehead, then turned to me again. It seemed as if he could never stop smirking.

"You're a very vain person, Mr. Kinneas," Zone smiled. God, he was doing that refer-to-me-by-second-name habit, the bastard. "First a hat, then a coat. What will you ask for next?" Oh, screw off. The sooner I get out of here and back to Garden, the better.

"Look, not meaning to abuse your hospitality, but I don't have time for a lesson in punctuality and the finer points of model trains. So if you don't mind, I'm leaving this train as soon as I get my coat back. And don't expect me back in a hurry." Zone, though, flinched almost imperceptibly, the imaginary blitzball seeming to graze his ear slightly as it rocketed past his head. He seemed to have some sort of allergic reaction to shouting.

"Two things, Kinneas." Please, stop calling me by second name! "First, in case you didn't notice, we're currently on a train moving at almost a hundred miles an hour through the plains of Timber. Secondly, no-one's going in or out of the city, because those Galbadians have closed down all entrances. They're running a security check on the place."

"What for?"

"Didn't you hear what happened earlier on? Some guy was shot dead, right in the middle of the city in broad daylight. Looked like a political assassination of some sort. They aren't sure who did it yet—no sources or anything, no trails leftover." Fuck, that's me they're looking for! If only these guys knew they were keeping the assassin hidden…

In a sudden gesture, I started pogoing up and down on the spot, to signal my impatience. "You got a toilet in this place? I've really gotta go."

"Down the end, first door on the right." I could not wait to get out of that room, trenchcoat or not. The bathroom was pretty obvious—one of those typical steel cubicle doors with a symbol on it to identify which gender should be using it. Didn't matter which bathroom I was in right now, as I didn't need to go at all; I just had to get off that train. As soon as the door was locked, I put the toilet seat down and begun scanning the cubicle for any exit points. Unfortunately, the cubicle was to all intents and purposes a shed, with only a tiny air vent directly overhead providing some sort of air. And judging by its size, I wasn't going to be escaping through it.

Although these Forest Owls were too inept to pose any real threat, while I was on their train I was essentially a prisoner. The only way I was getting out of there was if I turned myself in, or went out in a bodybag. And I wasn't particularly interested in either.

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An hour or so later, I was cramped into a briefing room deep in the bowels of the train, surrounded by a half-dozen other faction members. Someone had been kind enough to make me a cup of coffee—that pulse rifle knock was aching like a bastard—and I was now wrapped up in my trenchcoat, much to my approval. Their briefing room consisted of a few windows covered with blinds, a full-length table with an immensely detailed map of the city, and a few crates holding weaponry and ammunition littered around the floor and the cupboards at the end of the room. Zone and the other man, who I'd been told was called Watts, seemed to be outlining the assassin's possible route through the city, along with a few projected means of attack and contingency plans. It was all a load of crap, of course.

"Watts tells me the killer probably took his shot from somewhere in the shopping district," Zone confirmed, indicating the area with a circling finger.

"Some information from my trusted sources, sir!" Watts enthused. He obviously enjoyed his job.

"The weapon used had to be some sort of rifle, perhaps an M195 anti-vehicular Galbadian sniper, to kill him dead in one shot from that distance." I found the Timberans' way of talking particularly grating. Kill him dead? It's bad enough to kill him, but to actually kill him dead… "He could have taken the shot from somewhere behind the Timber Hotel," he continued, emphasising his words with another finger rotation. At the same time, I took a long swig of my coffee, never more grateful for the thick, pungent taste. "If anything, he would have taken his shot from an abandoned house; if anything else, it would have been from this one-" –another finger rotation- "-just behind the hotel."

"Very good," I praised him, putting my hands together in mock applause. "However, you've overlooked one minor detail: there's no fucking way anyone could kill him from that distance. We're talking a half-kilometre or so from the target distance, and only an MSG-90 could take someone out from there. And those rifles aren't even in production yet." The Timber Owls glanced at me as if I'd just insulted their country. They had no idea what I was talking about, and what's more, they wondered how I knew it in the first place.

"Just trust me on this, okay? I've been a sharpshooter for what, nine years? I think I'd be able to make a better assumption about this than someone who runs the gift shop. Okay, I admit, it's got to be a sniper of some sort, but anyone can make an uneducated guess about that." Immediately, Zone fell to his haunches, gripping his stomach in pain. The invisible blitzball had finally made contact!

"Ouuuuuuuch," he moaned. "My stomach!" I threw a glance toward Watts, this time saying: Where the hell did you get that guy?

"Uh… Gathering BAD information is my speciality, sir!" Watts proclaimed again, raising his hand in that neat salute. It was enough to raise a smile, even considering the laughable nature of the situation. Watts moved toward the table, and indicated a cluster of trees in a nearby forest, seemingly having taken over the post from Zone.

"We're going to set up camp here. As you know, there's no way any of us are going back into the city, so make sure you've got everything you need." By the looks of things, I'd have to get used to these Timberans—I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. Frowning intently, I placed my now-drained mug onto the table, furiously racking my brains for the applicable Garden rule.

Code 9:8; in case of emergency, something something something.

I slapped my forehead with an open palm. You know, I knew I should have read the code of conduct in more detail.

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Over the next few days, I got to know the resistance faction better, as I spent most of the days accompanying them through their assignments and journeys, and we often visited a travelling salesman just outside the city to stock up. They'd been kind enough to arrange me a bedroom, and it wasn't a bad one either; the bed wasn't too uncomfortable, there was plenty of storage space in the cupboards and there was a dresser tucked away in the corner, where I stashed any incriminating material. The Owls had recovered the briefcase I was carrying, and handed it back to me with my other belongings; luckily, the custom rifle inside was secured with locks, as I suspected the nosy bastards would have had a look through that too. The only thing I didn't like about the room was the colour scheme; the garish blend of pink carpet and bedding with antique furniture was a perverse contrast.

On the third day, the Owls decided they would eat supper outside, and prepared a barbecue on the plains. The setting sun was a ball of fire in the west, just beginning to float toward the horizon in a drift of orange cirrus clouds. One of the other Owls was tending to the food, slapping sauce on the browned meat, and the delicious aroma of barbecued ribs floated through the air. A gentle breeze ruffled the long grass, picking up occasionally with a prolonged gust. I was lounging in a deckchair, my arms wrapped round my legs protectively, when someone placed a hand on my shoulder.

"A call for you, sir," Watts said, gesticulating with his thumb toward the train. I nodded acknowledgement and leapt off the seat, searching through my mental phonebook. Not only could I not figure out who was calling, but I was curious as to how they got the number. When I picked up the receiver in the train's cool steel interior, I was greeted with Cid's distinctive mumble.

"Ah, Irvine. Glad to see you're still among the living. I take it from the news reports that the mission was a complete success, so I'll know to trust you with missions in future. Our client talked with me yesterday, and he seemed very pleased with the outcome; as a matter of fact, he paid us a visit at Garden to personally deliver your payment."

"Sir, I don't mean to sound suspicious, but how the hell did you get this number?" I twirled the lead round absently with my finger. "I didn't think anyone knew where I'd gone."

"Oh, don't worry, you're safe with the Owls," Cid assured me. "The Owls are among my longest-serving clients, since before the Second Sorceress War. I'm actively collaborating with them to ensure Timber's independence as a state, providing them with funding and SeeDs to help them. So when I heard they'd captured you, it was quite warming." He chuckled.

"So what do you want me to do?" I asked, shrugging. "As far as I know, I'm stuck here. Aren't you going to send someone to help me out?"

"No need to worry, Irvine," Cid rumbled. "There aren't any pressing engagements here at B-Garden, so I'm entrusting you to their custody for the moment. Don't worry; they don't bite. If anything does come up, I'll keep in contact. Understood?"

"Yes sir," I agreed wearily, but the click at the other end told me he'd hung up before he'd heard me reply. Didn't bother me; I always hated long conversations, and it wasn't as if Cid was my drinking buddy. I seated the receiver back in the cradle, and headed through the train door into the cool evening breeze. From where I was standing, the food-laden table was under siege by the Owls; Zone seemed to be scooping as many ribs onto his plate as it could hold, his fingers smeared with the sauce. I made a quick resolution: Don't let him hog all the food.

"Any problems, sir?" Watts inquired cheerfully. For all his clumsiness and bumbling nature, Watts was the most amusing member of the Forest Owls, and certainly the least xenophobic. Some of the others gave me that I'm-not-sure-about-him glare, and some of the others gave me the I-wish-he'd-bugger-off-back-to-Balamb glare, but Watts seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

"Nah," I replied, selecting a choice piece of meat and biting into it. I let the meat stay on my tongue for a while, savouring the taste; it had been a long time since I'd had food this good. The B-Garden cafeteria was good for three things: hotdogs, assholes and more hotdogs. Let's just say those who get the hotdogs get the good stuff. "Looks like I'll have to stay here for a while, as my superiors say they don't need me right now. Seems a bit strange to me…"

"That's fine," Watts confirmed. "To be honest, I'm glad to have someone sane on board. Zone can be a little… difficult sometimes." We both turned our attention to the commotion surrounding the table, where the aforementioned leader of the Owls appeared to be choking on an unchewed piece of meat. It looked uncannily like Zell.

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Another couple of days passed with little fanfare, and little or no excitement to propel them along. I spent most of my time helping the Owls with rudimentary tasks, such as cleaning, cooking and keeping the faction in order. Some Puritanical bastard assigned me to clean the toilet during the fifth day of my stay, so I spent most of my morning scrubbing dirt from the rim with one of the most useless toothbrushes I'd ever set eyes on. By the second hour of the task, I was about ready to clean it with the guy's head.

After six days had passed, the Galbadians finally eased their watertight grip on the town's entrances, and trains resumed their perpetual grind in and out of the town. The Owls' train returned to Timber via the Deling City line, and I was finally able to get out into the open air. I'd been stuck in there for far too long, with a bunch of people who I'd rather not bump into again if given the choice, and I needed to see some civilization. Whatever Cid said about me staying with the Owls, I was out of there as soon as possible, no mistake about that.

But my escape had to be delayed for a little while longer, as the Owls had made some plans that piqued even my usual indifference. They had many other members stationed in the town and neighbouring countries, keeping their ears to Timber's underground (not literally, as that would be dangerous) and they often produced gems of information. In a world dominated by power-hungry nations like Galbadia, information was more valuable than gold, and anyone lucky enough to have it would certainly be in demand. One of these faction members happened to be the owner of Timber's hotel, a woman named Miss DeMarco, who offered vacancies to visitors from a far such as Dolletians and Galbadians. Little did these visitors know, Miss DeMarco's decidedly loquacious nature was far more than verbal diarrhoea—it was a clever ploy of sorts to learn information about her customers. As you might suspect, some of this was considerably interesting to other nations, and Miss DeMarco found herself in the situation where she knew things others would kill for.

So it was that I found myself nestled in the hotel's bar in deepest darkest Timber, accompanied by Zone and Watts, who were required to go because they were essentially her employers. It was a comfortable area warmly lit by golden light from baroque light-fittings attached to the columns dotted between tables, the other light provided by tall windows which leered down on a shopping arcade, whose shoppers in sodden slickers and anoraks darted to and fro trying to get out of the district before the rain hit the town with a renewed intensity. There was no arguing about it; Timber had its fair share of grim weekdays, and today was just one of those, the tattered, ashen clouds and fine mist of rain whipped into a frenzy of drizzle by the howling winds. We sat at one of the circular tables with Miss DeMarco at the head, the hardwood garnished with coffee mugs and ashtrays which only I was using. I'd never had much of a taste for coffee before, mainly because I could think of better drinks than hot mud, but a week of pounding headaches and sleep patterns with more peaks than a Trabian mountain range had given me something of a liking for it. I made a mental note to myself: if I ever met Zone down a dark alleyway, hit him with a pulse rifle. Hard.

"You wanted to tell us about the guest, right?" Zone prompted. Miss DeMarco took a long drag from her coffee mug, then set it down gently on the placemat.

"He was from Dollet, I think," she began. "He came in here fairly late on Sunday night, looking for somewhere to stay. Course, I offered him a room straight away. He was fairly quiet on the first night; didn't really say much or do much, spent most of the time in his room and didn't eat either. Next two days were a completely different story, though. I talked to him a lot while he was eating, as he spent a lot more time in the canteen and the bar. Anyway, the important thing is, he didn't really tell me very much. Apparently, something pretty big is going down in Dollet, and he knows more about it than he'd care to let on."

Zone fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug, wrapping his finger round it and rotating the mug with an irritating grinding sound. "So we still don't know this guy's name, or what we need to know. I guess we're back to square one. We don't have any means of tracking him either, so we're fucked."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Zone," Miss DeMarco chided. "You should know me better than that by now. Don't you remember those tracer tags you gave me a few months back?" Immediately, Zone's eyes lit up. I knew what she was talking about, as Cid had shown me them just before the Garden Festival—they were tiny tags you could attach to people's clothes which emitted a radio signal.

"You're more than just a hotel owner, aren't you, Miss DeMarco?" I praised, smiling wryly. She cast a disapproving look across the table.

"Young man, just because we've never met before, doesn't mean you shouldn't treat me like the other Owls. Call me Francesca." As a mock curtsey, I tipped my hat to her like a true gentleman, which provoked a flattered chuckle. As we stood to leave, I felt slightly embarrassed; all the rain on my coat had run down the sleeves and pooled on the floor underneath my chair. I tipped my hat one more time, than ducked out the front door into the rain-washed street.

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Instead of spending the day with the other Owls, I took this time to recuperate in one of the Timber Hotel's vacant rooms, and spent the remainder of my day cultivating my hatred. There was plenty of storage space under the bed, but given the intrusions Miss DeMarco liked to make into her guests' rooms, I wasn't leaving anything out for her to see. Those bloody Timberans—they have to stick their noses in everywhere.

At about eight o' clock that evening, Zone sent me a message on my pager, alerting me to meet him down at the Aphrora. The Desert Prison line next to the pub was the most efficient for entering and leaving the town, so it was no surprise that they wanted to meet me there. Before I left, I changed into a long black coat I'd acquired at Hampton's, the clothes outlet next door to the hotel, and fixed my hat securely onto my head.

They were already waiting for me when I got down the stairs to the pub. It was a black, moonless night, and the rain had intensified into hard, acidic strings tainted with industrial smog. As the pub was secluded in the lowest point of Timber, you could see the rows of dimly-lit houses circling the city's skyline, but on this night they were indistinguishable in the hissing torrents of rain. All I could see was drifts of smoke from the chimneys, restricted to tiny slants by the vicious wind. As I stood in front of the train line, I removed my hat for a few seconds, letting the rain soak my face and hair. Looking up into the black sky was like being in the firing line of a thousand invisible bowmen. The town centre was illuminated in a haze of turquoise neon, the restaurants and wine bars now fully accommodated, and the light generated lingered in the dark sky like aurora borealis.

"What the hell took you so long?" Zone demanded, tapping his foot in anticipation. "We've been waiting here for ages. I'd like to go home dry, thanks very much."

"Yeah, well tough shit," I told him. "In case you didn't notice, some of us have to walk." Yeah, you frickin' whore, I wanted to add, but decided against it.

"Got the whereabouts of our target!" Watts broke in, waving a blue-steel datapad in my face. "Seems like he's decided to come back to our fair city."

"He's been stationary for half an hour now, and we're assuming he's stopped off in a wine bar or something. Going by the green dot-" –he consulted the pad- "-he's in the Eighth Wonder." I wasn't too sorry to hear that, as that bar was run by an old girlfriend of mine from Galbadia Garden. The rain hammered down unapologetically as we made our way to the Deling City train line, where we were just in time to catch a night-tram. It was one of those you always see in Western-made movies—dull red padded seats, strip-lights and those posters advertising things no-one will ever ask about. I rejected the offer of a seat next to Zone—he fidgeted way too much for my liking—and instead propped myself on a post. The automapper beeped incessantly, occasionally increasing in volume as we passed over the Town Centre, and the green dot emitted flashing green circles to partner each beep. Eventually, after about fifteen minutes of Zone swinging his legs to and fro, the tram ground to a halt, and we braved the torrents of rain once more. It started to ease off slightly, just as we crossed the road to the restaurant-lined street, where smart-looking estate cars lined the pavement resplendent in greens and golds.

Once we entered the Eighth Wonder, the bitter chill of the night was blanketed by a warmth generated by heaters and commuters in the cheer of unity. A standard fan whirled overhead, and waitresses in red and gold dresses wove between over-populated tables delivering meals and flutes of champagne. The rich, plummy aroma of red wine permeated the small bar, coupled with waves of chatter and the occasional bellowing laugh.

"Whadda we do now?" I called over the rumble of talking. In response, Watts thrust the blue unit in my face.

"He's at the bar, apparently," he shouted in my ear. "Dunno how we're gonna get him out of here."

In order to remain inconspicuous, we secured one of the free tables tucked away in a dark corner, and ordered bottled lagers to pass the time. When the surly waitress brought the amber bottles round on a gleaming platter, I was so impatient I ignored the supplied glass and prised the cap off with my teeth. I knew you weren't supposed to do that, and I'd had an uncle who'd broken his front teeth doing it, but once wouldn't hurt.

The problem was, I downed the drink faster than my alcohol tolerance could cope with, and I soon found myself asleep with my head cradled in my free hand. Occasionally, Watts would interrupt my half-awake state with a comment about the target's movements, but for the most part I slipped in and out of a light sleep. Time passed.

Eventually, I spotted a dark flickering at the corner of my eye, and I was awake and alert before Watts was required to dig an elbow in my ribs. We shoved the chairs under without fanfare, still trying not to arouse suspicion, but the man at the bar had already noticed our movements, and made for the back door. As the wooden door swung closed, he darted out of sight having broken into a run.

"You go that way," Zone ordered, "Watts and I'll take the front." Although I found his yellow-bellied nature aggravating, I was happy to take matters into my own hands. As I knocked the back door open with my shoulder, finding myself in a dark-shrouded alleyway, I noticed ominous thunderclouds frowning down on the city, so I shrugged my coat further up my shoulders. At the end of the alley, silhouetted against waves of flashing gold neon from a casino, was the Dolletian man, already making his escape. There were no Civil Protection Officers in sight, so I took off down the alley in pursuit. I slowed down slightly when I reached the main road, and saw the man bounding down the street toward the Balamb train-line, his coat flailing wildly behind in the battering wind. He had almost reached a T-junction in the road when a blue van rocketed out in front of him, stopping him dead in his tracks. I kept on running, my shoes scuffing the rain-sodden road with squeaking sounds, but I had a feeling I'd lost this chase, as the travellers in the van were most likely his compatriots coming to bail him out. My fears were proved when one of them leapt out the sliding doors, clutching an AK-74, and the fleeing Dolletian stopped his sprint, panting for breath.

"Thought you'd never get here," the man began, his speech jerky and littered with rasping breaths. "They know I'm here, they know what's going on. It was that bitch in the hotel!" I saw a flash of concern cross the eyes of the AK man. Bafflement, perhaps?

Then, before either I or the Dolletian had a chance to register it, the AK man's left hand, which had been concealed inside his leather jacket, shot out and impacted with the man's chest, sending him reeling. He'd plunged a knife deep into the Dolletian's ribcage, and as the recognition of the searing pain dawned on him, the AK-wielding thug leapt through the sliding door, and the truck screeched in the opposite direction.

When I reached the Dolletian, I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him to a sitting position. "Don't worry, I'm gonna get help," I assured him. "Relax. Who are you?" The man, gasping as he drew in his final breaths, fixed his blazing eyes on me, and spoke a single word.

"Ultima."

And then, just as quickly as he came, he was gone.

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I accept, I have a tendency to rush things, but once I get an idea in my head, I need to get it down on paper as soon as possible. That's one of my favourite chapters to date, as I think I got the balance between action and humorous narration just right. Also, there were a few nods to my film noir fixation in this chapter, and a few more will crop up throughout, along with some Sin City references. The cars in the Timber street are meant to be like those ones in 30s Chicago.

Kudos has to go to Massive Attack, whose "Unfinished Sympathy" helped me to keep the noirish urban vibe of this chapter together. If you've never heard it before, I strongly recommend you go and find it right now. But most of all, credit has to go to my lovely reviewers. You're helping me keep this thing together!

Well, that's all for now. Adios.