This is probably the soonest I've ever posted a second chapter to something. Sort of cathartic. Does anybody even still read FFVII fanfiction (is anyone reading this?) I've been away a long while, and it's starting to seem like the honeymoon's way over. Ah well.

Oh, and just to clarify, this isn't meant to be some kind of social commentary on the government and America today. Just goofing around and seeing how things can fit in a different setting and see if I can keep them pretty in tune with the original storyline.

"I just don't think it's a good idea." Wedge sighed, sounding like he'd already accepted defeat but just wanted to put in his two cents regardless. "You know we can't let anybody get wise to us, even if you think he's a friend."

She nodded along from where she was leaning against the bar, eyeing the subject of their conversation warily. She'd gotten back to the bar later than she'd anticipated, not having run into any trouble, but still slowed down trying to drag Cloud along with her.

Barret and the others had all gone to bed by then, so she had shoved him into the booth with the least amount of duct tape holding the split vinyl together, crammed a pillow under his head, then went to bed, making sure to lock her door and take the cashbox with her from the register just to be safe.

She hadn't exactly been surprised when Wedge had come pounding on her door at six in the morning, urgently telling her that some crazy drifter had managed to break in and was sleeping off his drug binge in one of the booths. He'd been frantic, had gotten out the shot gun for Christ's sake, and hadn't been soothed at all by her explanations.

Of course, reassuring him that Cloud wasn't a threat, and that he was somebody she'd kind of known from back in her hometown, but hadn't seen or heard from him in seven years, and had brought him back to the bar because he seemed sick, and that she couldn't just leave him there wasn't one of the most glowing recommendations she could really offer.

"You're just lucky I found him in here and not Barret." He muttered as they stood there and Cloud-watched, Tifa nodding and stifling a yawn against the back of her wrist. The coffee maker burbled and spat as if in agreement, and she just sighed, grabbing her pack of cigarettes and flipping open the lid, dipping her head to clamp down on one and pull it free. She thumbed the spark wheel of her lighter lazily for a moment before lighting up, paper crackling on the first drag.

"Yeah," She chided in a burst of smoke "You're smart enough to run for back-up rather than shoot first and leave us with a body to dump in the Hudson."

He wasn't mollified by her comment, and his frown just deepened further.

"Look, I know you think you're doing a noble thing here, but we aren't a methadone clinic. We can't help a druggie-"

"I said he seemed drugged, not on drugs." She cut in to clarify, as if it were the most important distinction in the entire universe. "I think he's got PTSD or something. I want to get Jessie to give him a check."

"Well, that's all well and good, but have you stopped to consider what's going to happen when he comes around? Even if he's not some dangerous coke fiend, we can't afford to have outsiders hanging around. It's not good for our operation." He always said it like that, in that same obnoxious 'trying to play it cool, but totally dropping a hint that this is something exceedingly important, and oh I'm so scandalized you've even forced me to remind you about it' way. At least he just stuck mostly to the financial end rather than the technical.

"Then we just play it cool for a bit. Besides, I got us enough dirt on my run yesterday to keep Jessie and Biggs busy for a good month at the least." Another drag and release on the cigarette, and her eyes narrowed at the way he eked out a little cough and waved dismissively at the smoke filtering towards him. "I'm not going to blab about AVALANCHE as an ice-breaker."

Silence hung between them, broken by the staccato little pops from the coffee maker, piddling drips as the pot filled. Finally, she turned, groping underneath the bar to dig out the ash tray sitting back there. It had been the only one she'd kept after smoking in bars had been outlawed, chunk knocked out of the heavy glass from when a patron had hurled it at his girlfriend's head during a fight. She immediately ashed, letting the conversation sit prematurely dead while Wedge fiddled with his outfit, sliding in the collar stays and tugging at the knot on his tie until it was just right. He was a portly man, double-chin and jowls that shook when he talked. His stomach bulged over the top of his belt, last few buttons on his dress shirt looking particularly strained. That was actually how he'd gotten the nickname. Biggs had joked that he'd need a crowbar to wedge himself out of the booth that they kept downstairs, the one they used for their meetings. It was probably from all the business lunches he had. Rich foods, plain laziness, and convenient subway stops left him soft and flabby.

At least one of them was eating well.

He sighed to himself as he grabbed two mugs, filling them and passing one off to her. He took a noisy slurp, leaning forward as to not risk spilling any on himself, before leveling his gaze on her. She chased another puff with a sip of coffee and refused to meet his gaze.

"Look, I just want to make sure you know what you're doing, is all."

"I always know what I'm doing." She replied measuredly. She wouldn't have made it for five years on her own if that weren't the truth. Sometimes, she didn't even know what he was doing in their group. Of course they needed somebody to worry over their tasks, make sure they didn't get too cocky, take too many risks. But when that worry spilled over into everything…

His expression fell, and he nodded along, as if chastised into agreeing.

"I know. I just… forget it."

"We can talk about this when you get back from the office. Team meeting, if you want."

Tone implying she'd rather do anything but.

"Mm." Glancing at the clock, he swilled down the remains of his cup and snatched his blazer up from the bar top. "Need me to grab anything on the way home?"

"Roach motels, if that isn't out of your way." None of the little bodegas or Pharmacies in a twenty block radius carried the damn things. And she liked to keep her bar clean.

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"You should really get some more sleep." He paused at the walk-up, chubby fingers grasping the handle. "You were out pretty late."

She decided not to point out that she would have gotten more than two hours of sleep if somebody hadn't been pounding at her door with the shotgun out.

"Sorry." She drawled, shrugging. "Looks like I'm on guard duty now." Not like she hadn't brought this on herself.

With the light jingle of the bell, Wedge was out the door, leaving her alone, sunlight just starting to filter in through the windows, casting a kaleidoscope of green and red diamonds on the tables and floor. She perched on the closest stool, cigarette burning down until she was sucking filter, and smashed it down into the ashtray until the cherry went out, leaving a sputtering, thin little wisp rising from it. She dug her knuckles against her eyes, scrubbing harshly. Hopefully the others would take it a little more rationally than Wedge.

"Well, I dunno." Biggs concluded finally, after hearing her out and studying the blonde for a good long while.

"Great. You've certainly assuaged all my fears." She groused from her spot at the table she'd moved to, hunched sleepily, heel of her hand digging against her cheekbone, only thing keeping her from doing a faceplant onto the wood. It was rounding on two, four hours until they opened for business, and Cloud hadn't moved once during her vigil. If this continued, it looked like they were going to have to stash him somewhere before they opened. "I-" Gaping, loud yawn, not even making an attempt to hide it behind a hand.­­­­­­­­­­­­­ "You're taking this well."

"What else can I really say? And, hey, check out the rank patch. Looks like he was up there." He shrugged once, nose wrinkling up as he considered it. "Might have some pretty good dirt we could use, if he's pissed off at Uncle Sam."

She tilted her head, leaning shoulder to shoulder with him as she squinted, considering it. She really had no idea what military rank the patch on his sleeve indicated, but it seemed pretty ornate. Beyond a Private, that was what she could tell. Probably ought to brush up on that.

"I guess." She replied, unconvinced. She didn't really want to force him into this, even if he could be of some help. "He gets checked out first; then we see what his story is."

After her less than supportive conversation with Wedge that morning, she'd been looking for further input. Barret had left with his daughter in tow at around noon, heading for a day at the Central Park Zoo. Neither had seen the boots sticking out of the booth as they'd left. Jessie had noticed, when she'd gotten in from her night shift, but had merely tipped her head toward him with a questioning glance, getting' long story' as her answer.

"And what if he's not up to snuff? You going to double up the scraps you leave out back for that dog?"

"Give him some money and send him on his way, probably."

"Tif, you know we don't have that much to go around."

"And I'm not suggesting we give him everything we've got. Just enough to get him a bus ticket to wherever, or off-peak out to Long Island. Something like that." She yawned again, eyes falling to her watch. The time that stared back at her was disconcerting. Maybe it would be better if she didn't open. Like that would ever happen. "Look, I need to crash for a bit. Can you check stock and keep an eye on Cloud? Get me up if he comes around."

"You got it." Bright smile warring with the slightly dubious tone, seemingly unconvinced that Cloud actually was going to wake up. "Want Jessie to give him a once-over when she gets up?"

She ran her hands over her face as she kicked her chair back from the table, standing and stretching, arms over her head.

"Mm… nah. Can one of you give me a wake-up at five-twenty? I can talk to her then." She turned away, heading for the door to the back hallway where all their rooms were. They kept it locked from the barside, keep anyone from getting back there during business hours. Her boots thudded quietly across the aging hardwood, slightly warped in a few spots where the roof used to leak. She stared down at the aging leather of her shoes, metal plates cobbling the boots together where they'd gradually started to wear away on the heels and outside edge of the toe-cap. Gotten them at fifteen, shiny cherry-red leather Doc Martens. Good for hiking, even better in a fight. And the plates gave them a little extra oomph.

As she shoved the door open and made her way into her own room, she wondered briefly if she should even bother taking them off before falling into bed.

Biggs sighed and palmed his bandanna higher up on his forehead, scraping the bottom of the saucepan with a slightly melted spoon.

He blew, touching his tongue to the side of the spoon quickly, testing. He drew his head back, grimacing.

Scorched. Lovely.

Sighing, he dialed down the heat and grabbed a handful of white sugar, tossing it fitfully into the saucepan, hoping to mask it. Every fucking time he tried to cook something. Goddamn second-hand electric stove. Never seemed to heat anything properly, either burning it or taking forever to even heat up. Tifa was the only one that could ever seem to coax a decently cooked meal out of the thing; pity she wasn't on dinner duty all the time.

At least the girls ate whatever was put in front of them, with the restrained politeness of foreign dignitaries. Barret never complained either, mostly because he was the worst offender of the lot of them. Just scowled into his food and went heavy-handed on the condiments, salt forming little snowcaps on blackened chicken. Marlene didn't complain either, mostly because she was at a phase where all she wanted was peanut butter sandwiches, lemon yogurt, buttered noodles, or applesauce. Any meal and every meal, it was most likely going to be at least one of those items. Wedge was the only one that would complain, nose wrinkling as he peeled back the plastic wrap on his leftovers after reheating them in their ancient microwave oven.

It wasn't a glamorous life. But it was… cozy enough. They made do.

That, and the others were trustworthy. He'd met them through rallies, protests and anti-government messageboards. Not that they were anarchists, but they'd all been wronged by the government in some way, government just sweeping it under the rug, turning a blind eye and acting as if nothing had ever happened.

Probably weren't going to make an impact; not as big a one as they wanted, surely, but they wanted to show the public just how badly they were being lied to. Split open the government's belly and let all those horrible secrets and conspiracies and lies to just come spilling out and let everybody see the truth for what it really was, not just what they were being spoon-fed.

Going into the bottom of the fifth, with the Mets down by two-

He shot a scowl at the radio as he passed it, tinny buzzing from one of the speakers as the announcer droned on and on about the baseball game. He went across the kitchen, really, more turned and took four steps, to get out the dinner plates and silverware, extras for when Barret, Marlene and Wedge eventually made their way back home.

"Hey, Mets up?" Voice from the doorway chirped, and he glanced up, seeing Jessie peeking in at him, hands braced on the frame. She had her reading glasses perched on her forehead, probably wandered up from the basement to take a break from looking over the information that Tifa had gotten them.

"Down by two." He shrugged, seeing her mirror his earlier irritation. "How's Soldier boy?"

"Oh, still out like a light. You burn dinner again?"

His moody silence sent her into a short, bemused fit of laughter, and she reached out, snagging the handful of silverware from him, before ducking back out, door flapping shut behind her. He could hear her rattling around in the barroom, setting places for the three of them. He paused a moment, before finally grabbing one more plate, just in case their moocher would ever come out of hibernation.

Biggs shut off the burners under both pots, dumping the noodles into the colander in the left sink basin, turning the tap on cold, setting the pot into the other basin. He was digging for the ladle in one of the drawers, when he heard something from within the bar. He wasn't really sure what it was, but he stopped, shutting off the radio, listening expectantly. There was a… thud, followed by… he wasn't sure.

"Jess?" He called hesitantly, reaching behind his back, pulling his handgun out as a precaution. He flipped the safety off, hearing no response from her, that shuffling noise continuing.

Shouldering the door open, he was met by the sight of Jessie on the floor, Cloud pinning her down, one hand over her mouth, the other holding a Bowie knife under her chin, face contorted in rage; insanity.

Jesus, knife, Tifa didn't check him for weapons?!

She was struggling, one hand fisted in his hair, nails scrabbling, gouging at his face, other hand gripping at the wrist of his knife hand. She screamed, muffled under the hand, twisted and thrashed, kicking at him. Her own weapon was inside her vest, out of her reach.

"Who are you?!" The blonde demanded, frantic, delirious. "Who are you?! Are you with them? I'm not going back, don't you get it, I'm not going back you're not going to put me back in that basement-"

"Get off of her!" Biggs barked, cutting off the blonde's rant. "Tifa!" He shouted over his shoulder, knowing she wasn't a heavy sleeper, hoping she'd get out there fast.

Cloud was staring at him, unfazed by Jessie's struggles, the blood dripping down his face, eyes riveted to the gun trained on him. His lip curled back, eyes narrowing.

But just when Biggs thought he was going to have to fire, Cloud's expression suddenly slackened, and he cringed the blood out of his eye, looking down, staring in mute shock at the sight of Jessie beneath him.

The knife clattered out of his hand, and he scrambled off of her, looking around, frantic look coming back, like he was trapped. Looking for anything familiar, anything-

The door at the other end of the bar clattered open, and Tifa dashed out, having obviously quickly pulled her boots on, still in her pajamas, hard lines of brass gleaming dully across her knuckles. She came to a dead stop, only adding to the sudden silent confusion.

"Oh shit." She breathed, taking in the scene in front of her, Biggs's gun, Jessie on the floor, the blood all over the blonde's face, the knife.

"Tifa?" Cloud said finally, staring at her like he was seeing a ghost. The familiar face seemed to help though, and he relaxed, taking a shaky breath.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me." She nodded, hands up placatingly. She swallowed hard, shooting a glance at her two comrades. "It's okay, we're not going to hurt you, nobody's after you, and-"

"What?"

"You were just shouting that at us." Jessie replied, meekly, staring up at him, but making no move to get up off the floor. "'Are you with them?'" Well, that was paraphrasing it anyway.

He dropped his gaze, hand to the back of his head, fisting in his hair as he mulled it over.

"Jesus." He muttered finally, gaze on Tifa first, before trailing to Jessie and Biggs uncertainly. "Must've had a flashback. I'm not…" He trailed off, just shrugging ineloquently; helpless.

"It's… it's okay. It happens." Jessie ventured finally, pushing herself into a sitting position. She tugged at the hem of her t-shirt, dropping her gaze away from him as she did so. "I probably shouldn't have been leaning over you like that anyway."

Cloud glanced around despairingly again, like he could find something that would make his actions forgivable, take them off edge; get Biggs to take the gun off of him.

"Where am I?" He finally asked, glancing back at where he'd been laid out. Woman hovering over him, backlit by fluorescent, it had just…

"Seventh Heaven. It's my bar." Tifa replied quickly. The silence descended again, and she coughed lamely into her hand, before continuing. "Harlem." She clarified finally. "We're in Harlem."

Harlem? Cloud stared at her, uncomprehending. How did he get to New York City? Let alone run into Tifa, end up in her bar?

She seemed to pick up on it and frowned, hands falling to her hips. She was a mess, hair disheveled, sleep mussed, and heavy bags under her eyes. Looked ridiculous in her pajamas with the clunky over-sized boots on. She turned a dismayed eye on him, swallowing.

"I found you at the Times Square station." She prodded "You were pretty of out of it, so you might not…" She trailed off, waving a hand dismissively.

Again, the silence descended, neither party sure what to say, unsure what was safe ground to breach; if they should take a shot at the elephant crowding the room, ask what the Hell it was that he'd been ranting about, where he'd come from, what had happened to him to put him in such a state.

"I've been sick for a while." Cloud explained after a pause, swallowing hard, dolefully eyeing Tifa; eyes silently begging for her to believe him.

It sounded like a lie.

Finally, Biggs cleared his throat, gesturing with his gun toward the discarded knife. He kept his gaze on Cloud though, the blonde refusing to meet his gaze.

"Alright, look. This isn't a great 'nice to meetcha' on either side. But, Jessie works for a clinic, can get you whatever meds you need. Sound like something you'd be okay with? Letting her talk to you later?"

"Yeah, yeah." He mumbled, quick forlorn nod.

"Alright. Well, so long as you let us hang onto that knife for safe keeping, I don't see the harm in letting you stick around for a bit."

Another nod, and he kicked at the weapon, sending it skittering across the floorboards toward Tifa. She knelt and picked it up, keeping her eyes on him as she did so.

As soon as Tifa had her hands on the knife, the tension seemed to dissipate more, Cloud scuffing at the floor with the tore of his boot, like somebody at a party where they didn't know anybody.

"So, now that's all settled, you want something to eat?"

"Sure. Whatever." Didn't sound convincing. Also looked like he wouldn't be able to stomach one bite, even without prior knowledge of Biggs's cooking skills; or lack thereof, rather.

Biggs just nodded back, turning and heading back into the kitchen, setting the safety on his gun and securing it in his waistband.

He just hoped things would settle back to normal now, albeit with one more mouth to feed.