Please note that this did not actually happen in the timeline of the story "Pathos", it is merely using the story's content and setting.

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It was cold down here, in a way that went deeper than the feeling of temperature against his skin. Something almost dank that seeped and crawled so deep into him, into his bones and his very soul, that he felt he could never shake himself of it. It made him sick, in the most sincere way, and was the only thing he could honestly say he still detested.

Yet he had found himself in the place once more, when the news of the man's death had made him think, for just a moment, that he may not ever have to do it again. It was the words of the obstinate blond that bade him return, however, and was the only reason he would do so.

"Boss, there's nothin' down here but dust and mako. Swear." Tseng canted his head just slightly, beetle-black eyes unexpressive as he trailed his fingertips in a layer of dark grey filth. He withdrew his hand slowly, and smelled - then tasted - the substance. Reno appeared by him noiselessly.

"Ugh, don' tell me ya tastin' the shit," he said as he passed the other, a placid figure against his constant restless movement. "You a' one sick fuck." Tseng said nothing, and after a moment Reno laughed softly at his own hypocritical statement. The man was in love with his voice, and Tseng had gotten used to it over the years. Turning back to the steel counter, he placed his palm flush against the cold metal, and closed his eyes.

Something happened. A split second passed in a whirling sense of vertigo, and by the time Tseng had so much as thought to open his eyes, it had stopped, the moment over. He was exactly where he had been, his hand pressed still against the cold steel beneath him. There was only one problem: there was no dust.

Brow furrowing, Tseng turned around quickly and reached out to his surroundings, sensing nothing. Wherever he was, he was alone. Obsidian eyes gleamed in the low lighting, which was unchanged except for a sharp buzzing that emanated from the bulbs themselves. And silently, Tseng shifted his feet, and began his slow, quiet way back up the stairs. He encountered no one, no sign of life in all of the basement room - though he could almost say he sensed something dark and dangerous in an adjacent room made of tinted bulletproof glass, which had been open when he and Reno had come down, but was closed now. It was of little concern to him, however. His first priority was figuring out where exactly he was.

It took him little time to slip past the scientists, who were not of much consequence - though he did realise he didn't recognise a single one of them. What was odd, however, wasn't this - it was their very existence. When the main building had been destroyed, nearly all of the scientists had been killed, including the ones working on the top-secret projects in the basement, and rubble had actually made it down into the place Tseng was standing in now. The building had been decimated and nearly impossible to get into.

Tseng had some idea of what may have happened, and found himself suddenly concerned. Hojo was known for playing with things beyond his sphere, but this was more than unacceptable. He found himself wondering if the man had used this particular power before, and the very idea made his stomach roil. To be sure, there were a few things he felt he could use to verify the situation, before he could examine at what angle to correct it. Perhaps the effects would wear off in time - a reasonable guess, all things considered, but one of which Tseng couldn't be sure. At this point, his best plan of action was to examine his surroundings, verify the problem, and seek out a solution.

Making his silent way upstairs, he moved quickly to the side-stairs with little more than a scan of his surroundings. A few of these people he recognised, and that fact unnerved him even more than the scientists had. As he slipped into the stairwell, he heard a few soft voices ask if their companions had seen a shadow, or a ghost, and frowned some, realising they must indeed be able to see him. To what extent, he didn't yet know, but it was reasonable to assume his level of caution couldn't risk being compromised. There were many pieces to this puzzle, and as he made his quiet way up the stairs, he did his best to place them together into some semblance of order, figuring which would be the best next step. Calculating, that's what people usually called him. It was mere strategy; he was used to it.

The fourty-second floor. A gleaming metal plaque marked the door to it, and Tseng stopped to examine it, running one finger around its edge. It was fairly new, but had managed to gather some grime around it, which meant it was from the period of time when the stairwell was still being maintained. That fact in itself narrowed it down a few more years, and Tseng frowned again, wondering if they key card in his pocket would even work. If not, there would be another trek downstairs in store, and a lot bigger risk getting hold of one.

Cautiously, he opened the door, grateful to know his card wasn't void, dark eyes taking in his surroundings in a flash. The floor was mostly empty, except for a single room. There were voices coming from this room, voices that, though soft, he would recognise anywhere.

" 'S been less than a week, ya sure about this?" Tseng moved into the main hallway, feet dancing lightly over the ruby carpet, silent, more silent even than most of these men could be. That single voice gave away everything, the entirety of the puzzle falling into place. He knew this hall, knew where each creak and snap was - he'd grown up here. Here, in this room he stopped outside, where three men stood speaking lowly to one another, as a few more moved around, cleaning up.

"I'm not questioning the timing," a more mature voice broke in, the slight shifting of expensive fabric telling the uneasy movement of the first speaker. Tseng's nose twitched, reacting to the dark, rich scent of the third man's cigar. He had always smoked them when he was on the floor, and now he knew why this room had smelled of them his first night. Someone cleared their throat, and there was a pause.

"I know." A resolute answer. Finality, everything he'd come to associate with the man. Something in Tseng twinged hearing the pain in his voice. It was so unlike him. From inside the room, the man sighed. "Jes...neva feels righ'." A low chuckle broke from the man with the cigar, and there was another soft sigh of fabric. One of the people cleaning up headed toward the door, and Tseng darted noiselessly into a room across the hall. He heard the young man hesitate, take a few slow steps toward the room he'd found refuge in. Instantly, Tseng's trained mind began to analyse his situation. There were no places to hide in these rooms, and for damned good reason. He would have to distract him, or outright run. He knew he could at least escape this small creature, and might be able to get enough head to slip by the others. It was probably his best shot. Another step, and Tseng tensed, ready to run.

"Kunsel!" He was so alert that he nearly bolted, but managed to catch himself, hearing the gasp of the young man in the hall. "Where the hell you think ya goin' wi'that?" The young man stuttered, clearly intimidated by just the man's presence.

"I, well...sir, it's just I...I thought I-"

"You thought? Yeah, I know whatcha thought. Now gi'cha pampered ass back 'ere 'fore I think ya desertin'." One last wary glance to the room, and Kunsel scampered back with a soft, obedient "Yes, sir." Tseng relaxed. The older man hesitated, before turning back to the room, and Tseng took his chance to dart out of his own room and down the hallway, around a corner he could easily escape from. There was another pause, as the other two men joined the first in the hallway, and Tseng closed his eyes, taking in their scents, their small sounds, their presences. They were his family, his only companions, and though he'd trained all emotion he might have toward them out of himself long ago, he still...missed them. There was a certain comfort in the certainty of events. This was the past, his past. These were the men and women who had raised him, had been tutors, mentors, fathers, rapists, abusers, victimisers, his personal daemons...they were all he knew, everything he had come from. And they were all going to die. But first...

"Boys, line up!" the sharp voice of the leader he'd replaced rang out, and the sound of soft, trained steps followed it, short and quick before they ceased suddenly. Veld's own steps were as silent as Tseng's, and he paced down the line, and then back up, before stopping in the middle, feet set shoulder-width, hands clasped neatly before him. Tseng could practically ifeel/i the man's characteristic smirk.

"Let's go fishing."

Tseng's heart stopped. Time seemed to slow for the moment that they rang out their trained response, and he made his way back down the stairs. It was the blink of an eye, that seemed to last forever. As he waited at the base of the stairs, uncertain as to what he should do now...he reminisced. He'd never done anything of the sort before, and it was an odd occurrence. Reliving memories of feeling, of his past, of the day they'd hunted him down like a scared rabbit, brought him in. They'd tortured him, trained him, taught him, this group of men and women he'd learned to hate more than anything in the world. His entire life, here in this building. Slowly, he stepped outside, and moved back to gaze up at the expanse of ShinRa Headquarters, the view from the bottom that so very few were ever privileged to. A multitude more memories accompanied this view. The looming building on his return from Wutai, killing those he might once have called compatriot. The sense of rightness, of belonging, as he made his way back up those stairs. The slow years following, of stalking SOLDIER, of protecting Rufus. And then the fateful day...the day the last of his mentors had died. Screaming, collapsing, fire and shards of metal chasing him down the stairs. The resolute feeling of resignment as meteor crashed down upon them...and they survived. They'd survived so much already, it seemed impossible. And now, now when the world was over again, made fresh, and ShinRa was rebuilding, though from the sidelines now...what was there left? All this life. He'd lived it once...would he be forced to live it again, returned to this time, this place...

Tseng frowned. The wind had grown somewhat stronger in the past few moments, whipping his long hair and his suit like the warning gale of a storm. Dark eyes turned up to the sky, the churning, toxic purple-black he'd learned quickly not to question. In a moment of pause, he recalibrated, measuring the wind, the sense of gravity that day, the feel of the world, slightly different than what he was used to. And without another thought, he made his way to the edge of the plate, and began his descent.

The Turks themselves had been impressed with the young man who had grown so quickly under their tutelage. He was swifter, smarter, deadlier than any of them, and they had grown to fear it somewhere deep inside. If they were monsters, Tseng was the devil himself. It took him mere moments to let his lithe body down the plate, the unfinished platforms and supports, wires and old scaffolding providing more grips than he needed. When he landed on his feet on the hard, dusty ground of below-plate, he straightened his suit, swept back his hair, and ignored the openmouthed stares of the small group of homeless people who had watched him for the past few minutes. He was a man with a purpose, and these people knew Turk when they saw it. Standing back in his wake, they said nothing, waiting until after he'd passed to whisper among themselves. There was a tiny glimmer of pride in that, and Tseng shivered. Feeling. He was ready.

By the time Tseng's swift footsteps led him to the inner part of the sector, the chase had already begun. A small boy, his dark hair long and matted, his gleaming black eyes narrowed in concentration, darted through buildings and alleyways like a cat on the run. Quiet footsteps chased after him, the occasional stop to recollect positions made before they were off once more. The boy was getting tired, but he knew these streets, knew them better than the suits who pursued him as if their lives depended on it. As if ihe/i were a national threat. How ironically true.

He was putting up quite a good show, too. They had found him guilty in the murder of three thugs, this small child of undeterminable age, though he couldn't be more than ten. He'd mutilated them, their deaths swift and gruesome, and one of them... They never mentioned that one again. Tseng stopped behing a building, listening to the man he'd heard rallying his troops earlier cry out in frustration.

"He's a kid, for fuck's sake! Just find him!"

No hesitation, the daemon assassins chiming a perfect "Yes, sir!" as one, before breaking off once more. Veld moved slower, stalking the child, listening, sensing. One man stepped into an alleyway, looking cautiously around...and Tseng closed his eyes. He envisioned those feet, watched from a small hole in a building, saw them step once toward him, once to the side. The man turned some, and that catlike body sprung into action, landing neatly and rolling as if he'd been taught, darting between those legs and escaping. Running, running, desparate and weak. He hadn't fed in days. Tseng's hearbeat raced, raced with those feet, remembering, becoming one once more with the child. One with this version of himself. He couldn't catch his breath, there was no time for that. His small body was pulsing, chilled, as his heart cried out, and Tseng felt his hand move of its own accord, metal warmed by the proximity to his unnaturally cool skin brushing his fingertips, taken into his hand. It lasted a second, but he felt everything. The dust kicked up by Evander's feet as he turned swiftly and took the lead after the boy. His fingers closing around the grip of the gun, trained, swift, perfect. The rustle of his suit, silent against the sudden commotion of ten Turks turning heel and chasing after this boy, this tiger cub, more dangerous and deadly than some of them. And his dark body, eyes of onyx, turning from around the corner of that building, the gun trained, his aim perfect. There was a moment, when two sets of beetle-black eyes met, the fear in the younger reflected in the apathetic, unreal gleam of the elder. And with one single shot,

it was over.