The day had started with a throbbing hangover, and it wasn't getting much better. After passing three security checkpoints in the stainless-steel and white plaster basement of the Shinra building, Tseng was headed for a meeting with his least favorite person in the world: his commander, General Karl Heidegger.

He had observed, as an immutable law of nature, that those with the least ability wielded the most power. Capable soldiers were needed in the field. The men best able to command them were stationed close by. Only here, in an office as far removed as possible from where anything got done, a man like Heidegger was placed where he could do the least harm. It didn't help that so many of the army's best had perished in the five-year war.

Then again, Tseng supposed, it wasn't much better in Wu-Tai. Wu-Tai was ruled by the Emperor, a man forbidden by law from being useful. There would be a scandal if the Emperor poured his own tea.

The sterile halls and hard metallic light gave way jarringly to Heidegger's wood-paneled office, filled with books he never read, decorated with pictures of men, war heroes, who lent him a phony aura of authenticity. The general, husky, his field uniform decorated with impressive-looking medals awarded for feats like working ten years at a desk, was eating a plate of shrimp cocktail. Tseng watched each slimy morsel vanish into his mouth. When the shrimp were gone, he used one finger to scour the sauce dish before finally looking up.

"Sir."

"Ah!. Tseng. Sit down. Cigar?"

"No, thank you."

"Straight from Costa Del Sol. Like the kiss of a pretty, sun-baked little girl. Heh."

"I had a rough night, sir. I'd just as soon…"

"Of course, of course. Now, it must be something very important to bring you to my humble abode. I never see you."

"I try to control my wild desire for your company, sir."

"Gya-ha-ha!" Heidegger slapped his thigh. Tseng could never tell if the general found his jokes funny, or if he took every excuse to literally laugh in his face, this lackey of his with eight times his combat experience, this bond slave of a conquered people. Then Heidegger pushed his bulk over the desk, peering at Tseng's briefcase. It was, notably, handcuffed to his wrist.

"What've you got there?"

"Did you read my briefing, sir?"

"I read things all day." Heidegger waved his hands. "You'll have to refresh my memory."

Tseng placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. Heidegger's eyes widened.

"These are three pieces of the Heaven Stone."

"Hmm! I don't have any idea what that is, but I like the sound of it. I like the Stone…and the Heaven, I like that bit too."

He eyes still fixed on the three materia shards, big like ripe fruit, glistening in the crushed velvet interior of the suitcase, Heidegger opened his cigar box. He trimmed a cigar and inserted it between his lips in a disturbingly sensual way, his whole manner dripping greed.

"Allow me to explain," said Tseng, keeping his face expressionless. "The Heaven Stone is a powerful Summon materia…so powerful, in fact, it has never been used in modern history. It was to be a weapon of last resort. When I defected…that became impossible, obviously. The sages of Wu-Tai who understood its nature, and who distributed the pieces to me and my…former colleagues, are dead; and the fourth piece is still missing. The third was recovered last night. It had been in Red Bird's possession, as I suspected."

"And why wasn't I informed of any of this, hmm?"

"It was before your time, sir. General Weaver, my handler, oversaw the operation. The file was triple-sealed and locked in the vault. We never expected it to come to light again."

"And what about the fourth piece, hmm?"

"The fourth piece should have been recovered when Blue Dragon was killed. But I wasn't present, and I'll need your permission to access that file," said Tseng, then added with a note of concern: "I should say, Blue Dragon was a spy, and a master of subterfuge. I can't discount the possibility that he is still alive."

"Well, well!" Heidegger rubbed his hands together, and let smoke roll from his tongue. "The plot thickens! You have a lead, that's good. I expect the whole stone on my desk by Monday."

Tseng lightly kneaded his forehead with one hand. This was the part he hadn't been looking forward to. "Sir…with all due respect, I don't advise that course of action."

"Hmm?"

"It was…my view at the time, that the surviving pieces of the stone should be destroyed in a mako reactor, to keep them from falling into the hand's of Shinra's enemies. My view remains unchanged."

Heidegger burst out in another horselaugh. "Wha-at? Destroy something called the Heaven Stone? I'd thought you were smarter than that, my boy. Why destroy what we can use?"

"We can't use it," Tseng said painstakingly. "For all I know, all four Guardians had to be alive, or it might blow up half of Midgar. Even if we could use it, and knew exactly what it did…well, sir, what for? The Wu-Tai Empire was the last remaining obstacle to Shinra interests. That's why you…why we goaded them into a war that cost us billions of gil and nearly as many lives. We effectively own this planet, and I'm as happy to be a part of that as you are, general. But who needs weapons in peacetime?"

Heidegger's eyes narrowed, and he looked more intelligent than usual. "Let me explain something," he said, jabbing the smoldering cigar at Tseng. "There's no such thing as a gun that's too big. Do you understand?"

"There is if it's too big to hold."

"Then mount it on a car! Strap it to a building! Build a robot to carry it! That's-that's why we won. Because we understood what was necessary. I thought that's what you Turks were all about."

Tseng looked at Heidegger steadily, and blinked several times. Finally he said:

"I underestimated you, general."

"Hmm? How's that?"

"I had thought you were a man without ideas. It turns out you have exactly one."

Yet again, Heidegger laughed, and Tseng was more sure than ever he was being laughed at; not with.

"You'll follow Red Bird's trail. Maybe you can find out where your buddy Blue Dragon is, if he is still alive. And don't let those shards out of your sight. Sleep with that handcuff on your arm."

"Understood."

"Oh…and Tseng?" said Heidegger, as Tseng turned to go. The cigar had lifted his spirits, and he seemed very sharp now. "What about that promotion? You'll need a good man for an operation like this."

"I still haven't found anyone, sir."

"My army's full of capable soldiers! Put one in a suit. I don't see what the problem is."

"It takes," Tseng said delicately, "a certain kind of man to be a Turk."

"Oh, yeah? What kind of man is that?"

"A man…who has been so abused, so kicked-in…so smoked by the fires of life, he cares about almost nothing. Almost nothing."

"Gya-ha, ha! I see."

"It's a delicate balance."

"Well, find him. Drag your feet too long, and I'll pick my own man. A real clean-cut soldier boy, a drill sergeant, to whip you drunkards into shape."

"The threat is well-taken, sir. Good day."

Reno tapped the wire cage separating the front and rear seats of the car. "Hey, teach. Where's this school bus headed?"

Rude didn't answer.

"You're a quiet bastard, anyone ever tell you that?"

The girl prodded him with her elbow. His right wrist was handcuffed to her left. It was an odd arrangement, but it seemed Rude only had one pair of handcuffs, and it decreased the odds of either escaping individually.

"Don't provoke him," she hissed, "look at him! He could take your head off!"

"I'm tougher than I look, sister."

Suddenly, without turning his head, Rude spoke.

"What's your name?"

"My…oh. I been called a lot of things. My ID says Sal Jones. But call me Reno. Everyone does."

"Alright, Reno," said Rude, his voice calm, slow. "You ever killed a man?"

They were driving through a long tunnel. Periodically, the white lights washed over their faces and the smooth back of Rude's head. Reno bit his lip.

"Depends on the day you ask," he said. "Maybe yes. Maybe no."

"I have," said Rude. "Six years, regular army. I saw my best friends die in front of me. Punched off their feet by bullets. Fried by magic. So if you think, for one second, you can rattle me with your cute punk act, think again."

"Oh! This kitten has claws!"

"I'd just like to point out," said the girl in a high, shrill voice, "I'm being totally co-operative."

"You're a good kid," said Rude, nodding, and gestured at Reno with his thumb. "Stay away from guys like this. They're poison. A real man knows when to hold his fucking tongue."

"Hey, no need for profanity in front of the lady. And if you want to talk about a real man, you bald prick…when was the last time you got laid?"

Rude was silent again. They turned; the tunnel seemed to go on forever. Behind and in front of them, commuters, trapped in the machine of Midgar, inched toward their destinations.

"Not recently, huh," Reno whispered. "You give everything to the job. Don't you? It burns the soul out of you. There's nothing left to give a woman."

"Shut up," said Rude.

"Don't get me wrong. I understand. My remark yesterday? Well, I apologize, I got nothing against queers. But you are one, aren't you? I bet you and that ice-cold looking Wu-Tai brother get it on in the supply closet every thursday. Because you gave up hope of ever feeling a woman's touch again. Am I right?"

"Shut up!" said the girl. "Shut up, shut up!"

"It's all right," said Rude. "We've arrived."

He turned again; some device embedded in the car allowed them to pass through a red security screen. Then they were out in daylight, and above them, sucking up the light in its immense shadow, stood Shinra headquarters.

"Welcome to the best five-star hotel in town. I hope you enjoy your stay." Rude got out of the car and, holding a rifle as casually as if it were a briefcase, came around.

"You're real calm," Reno whispered to the girl. "You realize what this means, right? I bet you didn't kick up a fuss about a lawyer, or anything like that, cause you're like me. No lawyer. No family. Nothing. And when you go into that building with nothing, you never come out."

Looking straight ahead, she whispered back: "Don't worry. I got a plan."

Rude opened the door, poked Reno in the ribs with the gun, and hauled him out. The girl was pulled after him. More gently, he helped her to her feet, all while keeping the butt of the gun raised to smash Reno in the face if need arose. Then he looked Reno in the eyes, the blank shades staring.

"You don't know what it means to have your soul burned out," he said. "You will. Someday."

"Oh yeah? Look behind you."

"Oh…come on. You don't really think I'm falling for that one, do you?"

"It was worth a shot."

Then the paper bird swooped down, weighed down by something the size and color of an eight-ball, and as it passed over them the object rolled off, angled straight at Rude's head. There was no hesitation. Rude dived, covering the gun with his body. The object struck the ground and exploded.

Reno was engulfed in a cloud of bitter-tasting smoke, and suddenly felt a wrenching pain as the handcuff tried to tear off his hand.

"Run, creepazoid, run!" screamed the girl, and he ran.

They ran. And ran. The area behind Shinra HQ was a maze of disused warehouses and loading bays, from the days when manufacture, and not energy, had been the company's main line. Several times they heard shots fired behind them, but when Reno turned his head he never saw Rude. He was breathless with admiration. It had been a move worthy of himself.

Finally they stopped, sides heaving, plastered to the wall of a garage, a place not unlike the alley where they'd met.

"You're pretty good," gasped Reno.

"Thanks. You kept up okay, sleazebag."

"What's your name?"

"Yuffie."

"Why're you after that stone?"

"It belongs to Wu-Tai."

"So, what? You a secret agent or something?"

She shook her head angrily, her cheeks still red from the sprint. "You don't get it. Our materia aren't like the trash you guys cook up. They're the blood of the gods."

"You use some god's blood to heat your house? That's messed-up."

"They gave it to us. It's a blessing. So I'm not gonna let it rot in some," she spit out the word, "Shinra reactor."

"Alright, we aint got time for this. Looks like," and he jostled the handcuff, "you're stuck with me. I need the stone because in this city, there lives a very scary man. Whatever he wants, he might as well have it. Whoever he wants dead, they might as well be dead. He told me to get this for him, and until I do, I'm as dead if he finds me as the Turks. So I suggest we combine forces, because that increases the odds one of us will get the damn thing."

"No way! I'm not stupid. You'll just beat me up and take it."

"Or maybe your superior guile will let you get the drop on me before that happens. It's a gamble you'll have to take. Because if the Turks keep the thing, I'm dead, and you're dead because you're with me."

She thought hard, her precocious face wrinkling. But of course, she had no choice. She clasped his hand, her small, brittle fingers in his large calloused ones.

"Okay."

"Then let's go. You got a place to lie low?"

"Yeah, in the slums. But you sleep on the floor, and you are not getting in the shower with me."

"Fine, but I'll eat your food."

"Deal."

They took off running again. Reno was, again, astonished at how natural it felt, as if they had been partners for a long time. It felt good to work with a pro. He thought, with a shock, of Carlos. Had sending the kid back empty-handed to the Rat King been the best idea? Maybe he should have laid low too.

"Hey," Yuffie panted, "um, were you just kidding back there?"

"Bout what?"

"You really think that bald guy is gay?"

"I was just messing with him. Why, you liked the merchandise?"

Her voice echoed out just as they ducked into a sewer tunnel: "Oh, shut up!"

Carlos had never seen the boss before. Few people had. The Rat King wasn't exactly mysterious, he just didn't invite curiosity. His orders came, they were carried out; if not, the consequences were immediate. The lion had no reason to emerge from his den.

As Carlos knocked on the office door, sweat squeaked inside his boots. The hand as it knocked trembled, and hardly managed a tap. He was about to knock again when a low voice said:

"Come."

He shut his eyes, breathed in, and opened the door.

There were two people in the dark, cramped office, that looked no different from any bookie's. There was a desk with papers and spreadsheets arranged in neat stacks, and behind it sat a man who looked like an accountant, going over a ledger. He wore shirtsleeves and thick, square-framed glasses, and had a face Carlos forgot the instant he saw it.

Leaning against the desk was a seven-foot giant with what appeared to be a gun for a hand.

The man had arms like the cuts of meat that hung in butcher-shop windows. He was smoking loco weed-no mistaking the thick, skunky smell-and his eyes were bloodshot. His shaved head looked raw and bloody under the light. His left arm, below the elbow, became a double-bored shotgun somehow nightmarishly woven into his flesh.

He looked at Carlos, his heavy lids blinking.

"Yeah?"

The word made Carlos flinch like a blow. In a stuttering voice, starting over several times, and unable to meet the man's terrible eyes, he related the story of what had happened in the apartment; and after. The man listened without moving, except to take long drags on his spliff. The shotgun hung, dead weight, at his side. When Carlos finished, he laughed briefly and said:

"Reno always was a fuck-up. He really knows how to pull defeat from the jaws of victory."

Then the accountant looked up. He removed his glasses, polished both lenses with a white cloth, replaced them, and prodded them into place with the middle finger of his right hand. He blinked several times. In a flat voice, utterly lacking character, he said:

"Understood. I have one question, however. Why are you addressing my bodyguard?"

Carlos' head whipped around.

"S-sorry! I thought…but…you…"

The man had forgotten he existed. To the big man he said: "Reno's ripped me off. Find him and kill him, with or without the stone. You have three days."

His bodyguard grunted.

"I-it's not true!" Carlos burst out. "Reno's solid! He's putting his life on the line to get your…s-stone back!"

The Rat King removed his glasses, and began to polish them, a second time. "Dyne," he said, "kill him."

"What…right now?"

"What did I say?"

"Forget it. I'm sick of blowing people away cause they looked at you wrong. Let's save the bullets for our enemies."

"Are you disobeying me?"

Carlos was frantically jangling the door handle, wheezing with fear. The Rat King calmly opened a desk drawer, took out a silver-barreled revolver, raised it and fired twice.

Dyne sighed, and blew out a long plume of loco weed smoke.

The Rat King, taking out other implements, began to clean and oil the gun. Licking his thumb and forefinger, he selected another bullet.

"Dyne. This organization functions on two axioms. What are they? Efficiency, and accountability. You are my only employee I would exempt from that rule, because of your value. But that won't keep you safe forever. Cross me again, and consider your position terminated."

"Yes…sir."

"Good. Now…" Glancing down, the Rat King noticed a speck of blood on his sleeve. His eyes narrowed in annoyance. Brushing at it would only make the stain larger, though. He turned back the sleeve to cover it. "Now. I hope you're ready to put in some overtime. Reno is good. But let him get away with this, and he will start thinking he's the best. We can't have that, can we, Dyne?"

"No, sir. You're the best, sir."

"And why is that?"

"Efficiency…and accountability."

"Correct. Now drag that thing out of here, and tell Adena to bring me some new carpet on your way out."