AN: So, I've noticed this story is slowly turning into "Guy Ritchie Directs the Prequel to FFVII," or "FFVII: Snatch" (or "Hard Man Pissing Contest"). I'd apologize, but if you're like me, you think that's awesome. Cue the Benny Hill chase music! Hopefully my United Kingdom readers will know what I'm talking about on both those counts.

To be honest, I had very little idea where I was going with this story when I started. I'm pretty happy with how it's turning out.

The Turk arsenal was a simple affair. One wall of the narrow closet was lined with metal shelves, like a jeweler's, that pulled out to reveal glowing rows of green, blue, pink and yellow materia. The other was a backlit plastic screen, and from it hung rifles, pistols, shotguns, and Tseng's ceremonial sword, that hadn't left its sheath in years.

After some consideration, Tseng fitted the one socket in his pistol grip with a green Barrier materia. Rude, with practiced, sure movements, equipped his brass knuckle with a Cure and a Time, and the butt of his rifle with a pink Accuracy.

"Sir," he suggested, over the satisfying click as materia slid into place, "shouldn't we take a third man? Or an MP patrol?"

Tseng frowned. "Discretion is our watchword. Heidegger didn't say as much, but I think he wants to keep Scarlet's claws out of this operation. The Heaven Stone is a weapon, after all, and the Wicked Witch of Weapons Development is sure to take an interest."

Tseng slammed home a fresh magazine, engaged the safety, and holstered his gun.

"Still," he went on, "another pair of eyes would help. Let's use that Public Relations girl…what's her name."

"Elena?"

"Right, Elena. The blonde."

"You sure about that? She seems…untested."

"Well, how do you test someone? She'll never be a full-blooded Turk, perhaps; but she could use toughening-up."

As he loaded his rifle, Rude remarked, casually: "They say Wu-Tai men like the blondes."

"They also say we smoke the loco weed and have small penises," said Tseng, grimacing. "I can refute half of that."

"That's…a bit more information than I feel comfortable with, sir."

Tseng chuckled. "There, now you're catching on. I'll have them issue your medal for Workplace Banter. Alright, lock-n-load, we've got a whole lot of red to find."

"Sir, sir! Please wait!"

The high female voice was followed by a crash of papers cascading to the floor. Tseng turned his head, with an expression of mild curiosity, to see a pretty young woman, her blonde hair cut in a pageboy flip, desperately scooping documents back into a manila folder.

He and Rude stopped their progress down the hallway, allowing her to catch up. Breathing heavily, brushing hair from her face, she saluted.

"Present and accounted for…Mr. Tseng!"

Tseng regarded her with an unblinking gaze, hands clasped in front of him. The confidence slowly ebbed from her face, and it paled; until she almost looked as if she were going to cry.

"Elena," he said.

"S-sir?"

"That's a Turk suit."

"It's…just a dark blue suit, sir."

"It looks like a Turk suit to me."

"Well, I suppose I thought I'd…blend in. Team solidarity? Presenting a unified front..?"

"Only Turks wear Turk suits."

Rude coughed. "C'mon," he muttered, "quit screwing with her."

Tseng's face relaxed into a thin smile, and Elena, overcompensating, let out a big, false laugh, stifled it, burned for a moment with shame, then lightly cleared her throat and regained her composure.

"Had time to run over that briefing?" Tseng asked, indicating the big folder in her arms.

"N-no, sir…"

"Then let me give you the short version. Our rooster-headed friend could be anywhere by now; we need to find out who hired him. Now, there's two names in the slums. Don Corneo, and the Rat King. But the Don is soft. He's a pimp, a pornographer; the most he'll move is a couple fur coats that fell off the back of a truck. The King…is another story. He's hard as a diamond, and he moves drugs, weapons and black market materia. The MPs won't go after him because he's probably sitting on an arsenal half the size of their own. I'll bet my left testicle he's our man, but the Don might still know something. Rude will go shake the old pimp down, while you and I…pay a visit to the Royal Court."

Elena seemed to burp with shock. "Me!"

"You've got a way with people. Isn't that why we hired you?"

"Sir, I've never been in a place like that before. I-I've never fired my weapon!"

"No better time to learn."

Elena ducked her head. "Understood." Her eyes then moved to the briefcase, still attached to Tseng's wrist. "Mr. Tseng…I don't mean to speak out of turn…but is it really safe to carry that around? Especially if we're going to Wall Market..."

"Trust me. It's safer here," said Tseng, hefting the case, "than anywhere in this city. I hope I don't have cause, before the end of the day, to demonstrate that fact. Oh…and Elena?"

"Yes?"

"It's Tseng. Just Tseng."

Reno and Yuffie sat at the table in her apartment, if it could be called as much. The three-legged table was propped up by a shabby set of drawers. Dead flies inside the lamp cast splotchy patterns on the walls, and every so often, rats scurried behind the baseboard. The bed consisted of two mattresses stacked on top of each other, now so crusted with filth it was impossible to separate them.

They'd slept on it together, because Reno kept pulling her off when he turned in his sleep. Even then, she'd kneed him awake several times when he accidentally rolled on top of her. Showering had been a terrible ordeal, involving a blindfold, and Yuffie, standing outside with the handcuff chain jammed in the door, had insisted Reno run the tap to cover the sound of his other bathroom activities. But coffee was made, a few rolls she'd stashed away were distributed, and the first meeting of their partnership commenced.

Yuffie placed a small box on the table. Its surface was covered with beautiful inlay in silver and bronze, a patterns of flowers, trees, animals and monsters.

"This is a puzzle box," she said. "Don't get any bright ideas about lifting it, 'kay, cause only I know how it opens."

"Why would I lift it when I don't know what's in it?"

"Cripes, you're slow. It's another piece of the stone. The last piece."

"Oh yeah? What poor sap did you roll for it?"

Yuffie fumed. Her face reddened so easily, Reno couldn't help savoring the reaction.

"I did not steal it! This belongs to me, for your information. There's four. Shinra stole one. They stole another one when they killed Red Bird. And that," her eyes narrowed further, and now she looked very angry, "that man, who was there. He's got the fourth. The Oath-breaker. All this is his fault."

"Hang on, the Wu-Tai brother? You're telling me…he used to work for you guys?"

"There were four of them. Blue Dragon. Red Bird. White Tiger. Then, him…Black Tortoise. I'd kill him if I could. It's because of him we lost the war."

"Hey!" said Reno. "I don't care if you are the toughest goddamn twelve-year-old on the planet, it gives me the creeps to hear a girl talk like that."

"Whatever." Yuffie tossed her head, trying to look tough. "Anyway, the one they're missing is Blue Dragon's. Those losers think he's dead…but he isn't. They'd never get him, not in a million years."

"Oh yeah? How can you be so sure?"

"Because he's my dad," said Yuffie, beaming with angry pride.

Reno leaned back. He felt an odd sense of shock. The information meant little, if anything, to him; but he got the feeling it would be worth a lot to certain people. Well, no sense in getting ahead of the game.

Taking advantage of the pause, Yuffie took a package of cigarettes from under the table. Reno instantly snatched them out of her hand.

"Oh, no! These things'll kill you before the Turks do. Honestly."

"Give…hey…!" He held them out of her reach, keeping her pinned to the table by the handcuff. When she finally gave up, he flipped the pack open, removed a cigarette with his teeth and placidly lit it.

"Hey!"

"Me? I'm a dead man walking. You got your whole life ahead of you, sister.-Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. So if the Wu-Tai brother knows about the stone, then dollars to doughnuts, he's the one running the show. It sounds crazy…hell, it sounds suicidal…but we'll have to get to him. What kind of a piece you got?"

"Piece?"

"Guns. Materia. Hell, a knife, or is it just that paper bird and a couple smoke bombs?"

Yuffie flushed slightly with embarrassment. "No…and that was the last smoke bomb."

"Aw, shit, I might as well be cuffed to a corpse! Alright. I got just enough scratch to pick up something decent, so let's hit the scrap shop in Wall Market. I know the guy; maybe he can saw this cuff off too. Now, on to other matters…I couldn't give two shits what this stone does, or who it belongs to. All I'm on the hook for is the one piece. If we got our hands on the other three…and the Wu-Tai brother will know where they are…would you consider throwing me the one in this box?"

Yuffie reflected. She cast a jealous glance at the smoke issuing from Reno's mouth, and chewed on a strand of her hair. At last she said:

"Sure. If we can do it. Three for one's more than fair. 'Sides. The fourth piece is his, and he doesn't belong to Wu-Tai anymore. Let him keep it."

"Splendid." Then Reno took a drag, and shuddered. "Mother Earth's tits. Did my brain fall out? Kidnapping a Turk. This was supposed to be a simple fetch-and-carry job."

"Yeah, well," said Yuffie, in a tone that made Reno snort, "that's life.-What's so funny, huh!"

"That's life, huh? What do you know about life, little sister?"

But she probably knew quiet a bit, he thought. At least, more than a girl her age should. Suddenly, with a shy motion of her head, she asked:

"So, like…what's your story, anyway? How'd you end up here?"

The question came out of nowhere. Reno regarded her askance. "Why so curious all of a sudden? I thought you hated my guts."

"Well…we can't make a move till it gets dark. We might as well talk, huh?"

He thought he detected a slight tremor of need in her voice. How long had she been alone? But he felt no real curiosity, even if he'd slightly prefer she came out of this alive. She might be a pro in some respects, but a real pro never said more than strictly necessary.

"Eh." He shrugged. "I could tell you one of fifty sob stories, but I might as well tell you the truth. It aint long. I was born on the plate…my dad was a cop. When I was little, he got knifed by some drunk in a bar. Then it turned out the supe had gambled away half his pension…this was before Reeve cleaned up the city a bit. My mom freaked, dropped us kids in an orphanage and ran off. It was me and my big sister. When I grew up, I tried to follow in the old man's footsteps; but that didn't last. So, here I am."

"What happened to your sister?" Yuffie asked, quietly.

"Life happened to her. I'd just as soon not talk about it."

"So you steal stuff for a living?"

"I do jobs. Whatever needs to be done."

She sniffed. "That's no way to live."

"Hey, hey. You aint exactly no princess yourself. What're you doing, running around on your own?"

"Um, eew. Like I'm telling you that."

"But…I just…"

"Yeah! Sucker," said Yuffie, and stuck out her tongue.

Tseng sat at the bar, again. His life seemed to be a succession of events, punctuated by bars; all superficially different, but with the same drunks, the same stories, the same glasses of stale whisky. It had been a fruitless day.

He'd lost touch. When he was new in Midgar, an outcast, he'd enjoyed working the beat. He spoke the language of the damned souls in the slums; understood their hunger, their leanness. Now, life was good, and their eyes reflected their contempt for any Shinra suit. He'd joked with Elena before; but the Turk suit was a suit of armor, as alienating as an MP's facemask. Only threats or bribes got him anywhere. Nobody knew anything about the Rat King, it seemed. The most powerful man in the slums might as well not exist.

"One more," he said, "and leave the bottle this time."

The bartender, a stout, respectable-enough looking man, silently obeyed. Tseng contemplated the bottle of Midnight Express whisky. Not bad for six gil a cup.

Then he felt something cold, and large, push on the back of his head.

"Hands on the bar, Shinra lapdog."

Tseng showed no visible reaction. His right hand, chained to the briefcase, was already on the bar. He placed the other beside it, palm down. The bartender had surreptitiously vanished. The voice sounded familiar. He turned his head the slightest degree. Then faint surprise registered.

"Dyne. What are you doing here?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" The deep-set eyes, chips of pure anger, glared down at him from Dyne's impressive height. "Nothing here for you. You've already taken everything these people have. Not satisfied?"

Tseng moved his hand the slightest degree; the two shotgun barrels prodded him.

"I sneeze, your blood is in the tequila. And this place aint been dusted recently."

"Dyne…are we going to have an issue here, moving forward?"

"Depends. Just how badly do you want to get fucked?"

Tseng heard the door open as another patron, or perhaps the bartender, scurried out into the alley.

"You work for the Rat King now," Tseng guessed.

"I hear you been asking about him. Well. Here's the news. The King aint interested in talking. The King doesn't talk. He doesn't make deals. There's nothing you have he wants, and if you raise a hand to him, he'll blow your arm off. You want war, you'd better come down with an army."

"Alright. Message received. Now put that thing down, and let's discuss this like…ah…I believe my associate has returned from the bathroom," said Tseng.

Elena stood behind Dyne, both hands, trembling, clutching her semi-automatic pistol.

"Drop the…arm!" she yelled, with impressive force.

Dyne didn't budge.

"You pull the trigger on me, Shinra slut," he said, "you'll be wearing your boss's brains for a hat."

"Don't let him roll you, Elena," Tseng said in the firm, patient voice of a mentor. It might have been a field exercise; and his calmness infuriated Dyne, the veins bulging in the huge man's forehead.

"Fuck you. You think I wouldn't take the excuse to rid the planet of another Turk?"

"It's not me you want, Dyne," said Tseng, with something approaching sympathy. "It's Scarlet. Isn't it. And believe me, I hate that toxic bitch just as much as you."

Dyne's voice rose to a scream: "How dare…! You hate her just as much as me, huh? Cause she's a bitch? That's why?"

"Mr., um, Dyne…" Elena swallowed, choked, then went on in an even voice: "You're, you're not going to win this. That arm? It's going to get tired holding up that shotgun, a heck of a lot sooner than my hands are, holding my little p-pistol. So, just put it down, okay?"

"You don't want a war any more than we do," said Tseng, "so tell us what you want…we'll tell you what we want…and see if we can't find some fucking common ground. What do you say?"

Dyne didn't lower the gun, but the hatred in his eyes dimmed somewhat. He bit his lip.

"For some reason," Tseng added, "I suspect our interests are intertwined."

Dyne's jaw rolled. Every muscle in his arm, leading up to the fatal shotgun trigger, tensed. Then after several minutes, he said, in a voice that sounded forced through a vice:

"What do you know about a two-bit thief called Reno?"

"We know," said Tseng, his voice silk-smooth, "he recently pilfered an article of considerable interest to us."

Dyne snorted, loud and phlegmy. "Huh! So, it's a bigger deal than I thought. Well listen up. I got no interest in an article. I'm gonna find Reno, and when I do, I'm gonna kill him. You guys keep the stone. I guess the Rat King wants it…but, fuck it, he should've been more specific. I'll help you out. In exchange for a favor."

"Oh…really? And, what might that be?"

Grim, Dyne reached into his pocket. He removed a tiny object, no bigger than a thimble. Peering, Tseng realized it was a bullet. Dyne tossed it onto the bar, his expression careless.

"I know…I know. I'll never get close enough to use the thing. I came all the way…but now I'm a killer, a piece of garbage, with nothing to show for it. That's how it goes. Just…just make sure…Scarlet gets it."

Tseng nodded. "I will."

He picked up the bullet, examined it. In tiny letters, etched painstakingly with the blade of a knife, a word had been inscribed into the jacket:

Marlene.