DECEMBER 9TH, [ ν ] - εγλ 0007

FLOOR 49, SHINRA HEADQUARTERS, MIDGAR

Rooms are not dead things. They are not blind, passive; they observe and carry in their very walls the stories of all they have seen, the good and the bad. And if we listen we can perhaps catch a whisper of what transpired long before we crossed those thresholds. If they could speak, the brushed steel walls that surrounded the two men would scream tales of countless quiet conversations, of hushed questions with no answers asked over and over in calm, cloying, insistent shadows.

The younger of the two men, his blonde hair still marked with dried, dark stains, twitched uncomfortably, the heavy chains and cuffs that bound him to the table clearly cutting into his wrists. "I don't know what to say. I've already told you everything I know so many times now."

The suited man sat across from him blinked slowly behind his glasses, his face inscrutable. "Indulge me."

"My name's Cloud Strife. I'm a SOLDIER. First Class. I was sent to Nibelheim with Sephiroth. Now I'm back. What's the big deal?"

Lazard Deusericus steepled his fingers and stared over his glasses levelly at the boy. His gaze took in the familiar dark uniform, those unmistakable, piercing blue irises… At least the boy certainly looked the part. He raised an eyebrow. "The 'big deal' is how you were found. Covered in blood, wearing a uniform you most certainly haven't earned, with a sword that has been identified as belonging to an actual member of this company declared missing in action for several years."

Cloud shrugged. "So I got a little messed up, so what?"

"Start with the sword. How did you come by it?"

"Come by it? I told you before, It's mine!"

Lazard raised an eyebrow. "Please," he said, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise calm features. "We both know that's not true."

It had been two months since Angeal and Genesis, his best men, had returned from the wastes, this raving child in their custody. He had grown more lucid in the weeks since then; according to Genesis, when they had found the fair-haired youth, exhausted and barely able to stand, let alone hold the weight of Angeal's long-lost Buster sword, he had been barely comprehensible; Cloud, if that was truly his name, had spoken nothing but confused mutterings, half-formed claims of SOLDIER status, nothing of who he was, of where he had come from. Of where he had found that damn sword. Zack's sword.

Zack. Lazard eyes hardened at the thought. One of SOLDIER's finest, an inspiration to the recruits and veterans alike. Gone for five long years… And now this boy, this Cloud, appearing from nowhere, with Zack's sword, claiming to know nothing? It was all too unbelievable.

In the weeks since his arrival the boy had somehow become more certain, like an actor settling into role. His slight frame had loosened; he no longer looked like a scared child, more like a trapped dog testing its leash, ready to bite.

Lazard placed his gloved hands on the table of the cell, letting an air of threat edge his demeanor. "We've been through this several times already, Mr Strife .There are two ways we can go about this. You can answer my questions truthfully here, in as little discomfort as possible, or I can hand you over to the Turks and have them ask you instead. And believe me; they will be far less… Accommodating."

"You've been asking me the same questions since I got here. What else can I tell you?"

"The sword, Mr Strife. Where did you get the sword?"

The youth shook his head angrily. "It's mine! You want to know how I came by it? I guess I found it, I don't know!"

"Where?"

"I don't remember."

"Impossible." Lazard leaned forwards. "I am rapidly losing my patience. I distinctly recall just requesting that you speak truthfully."

"That is the truth!" Cloud's hands had clenched into fists. His nails were broken, lined with black, his hands weaker than before; despite his bravado, incarceration was clearly starting to take its toll on the boy. "I've told you everything. How long are you going to keep me here? You've got no right! I'm a SOLDIER!"

"And I am the director of SOLDIER," Lazard replied coldly. "I have every right." Standing, he rapped on the door. Bolts scraped and locks clicked open. He glanced back once more at the young man, catching his confused, storming eyes. "If you were truly one of us you would have known that the day you arrived here." The cell door swung shut behind him, leaving the blonde boy with nothing but the silent, watching walls for company.

Different rooms, different walls- this time, the functional comfort of the SOLDIER lounge. It had been designed for respite; a brief ceasefire in a place built for war; but was granting none to the two men currently occupying it. One sat, apparently at ease but poised, cat-like, the red leather of his long coat hanging too still for true relaxation; the other paced back and forth, tall and imposing in his black uniform, brow furrowed. "I know this is it, Genesis. This is the clue we've needed. Zack. Sephiroth. Once we get him to talk he'll lead us to them."

"It's been weeks," murmured Genesis. "There's no reason to get excited." He gazed down the corridor towards the small holding cells, shaking his head dismissively. "You saw him when we found him, Angeal. Skin and bones. Even with the outfit that boy's as much a SOLDIER as I'm Rufus Shinra."

"SOLDIER or not, he had the Buster sword. He knows something. I can feel it."

"If he does, he's still not saying." Lazard had returned, wringing his hands.

"Sir?"

The director rubbed his forehead wearily. "Once again he's sticking to his story, what little there is of it. I doubt we'll ever get anything else out of him."

"Please sir, he's been here two months. Give me five minutes with him. He'll talk."

"That's not going to happen."

"So what are we supposed to do?"

Lazard straightened up, carefully adjusting his ascot. The flamboyance of it stood in stark contrast to the austerity of his surroundings. "We don't have the resources to hold him here any longer," he replied, keeping his voice as level as he could. "I'm making the executive decision to have him taken into the custody of the General Affairs department. The Investigative Sector there will look after him from this point onward."

Genesis raised an eyebrow in surprise. "The Turks? Really?"

"It's for the best. They have greater expertise in these areas."

Angeal snarled. "I can get answers out of him, sir, I know it!" His face had contorted in anger, a rictus of fury unlike any expression Lazard had ever seen on the man's otherwise normally calm, if stern, face.

"Sit down, Angeal," Genesis sighed. "He's not going to give you the boy." He sneered. "Try not to throw too much of a tantrum."

Angeal ignored him, striding closer to Lazard. "This is SOLDIER business," he spat, his eyes blazing. "SOLDIER. Business. Hand him over to the Turks and we will never see him again. That boy knows what happened to Sephiroth, to Zack. We can't just let him go!"

Lazard glared back at him, his eyes hardening at the mention of Zack just as they had before. "You think that hasn't occurred to me? I've hoped for information as to their whereabouts as long as you have. The possibility this boy represents has not escaped my mind. Why else do you think I kept him here as long as I have?" He turned, walking in the direction of his office. "You're a SOLDIER, Angeal Hewley. First Class. Remember that the next time you feel like acting like a petulant child." He strode away, hiding the concern that was starting to creep into his features.

Alone at last. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as the door to his office slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss. He felt exhausted, tired to the bone, and he knew it wasn't just the day getting to him. Had this job always been so hard? It had seemed easier, back during the war, back when the rulers of Wutai still thought they could hold out against the might of Shinra. Or, if not easier, certainly simpler; there was the fight and the enemy, a cause of some kind. Not noble perhaps, but a purpose, a direction, a reason to fight; better than interrogating crazy young men barely out of their teens about memories best left forgotten. But that time had long-since passed. Even the scraps of resistance Wutai had managed to muster for a little while had been crushed. So what now? What were soldiers, when there were no wars left to fight?

"Lying to your men, Lazard? I thought SOLDIER believed in honor."

Lazard opened his eyes, surprised by the voice. Facing away from him gazing up at the various monitors and readouts that hung above his desk, was a tall man in a dark suit, his straight black hair hanging to his shoulders.

"I won't be lectured on the subject of honor by a man such as you, Tseng," Lazard replied, doing nothing to disguise the dislike in his voice. "How did you get in here?"

Tseng turned towards him, his aquiline features expressionless. "The disciplinary hearing cleared me of all wrongdoing, remember? I'm the new head of the Turks. I may go where I choose. Besides," he said, clasping his hands behind his back; "You asked me to come."

"Yes, well, I have a matter that requires use of your people's particular skill-set."

"The boy you've been holding?"

"How did you-" The Turk cut him off with a meaningful glance.

"It's my business to know everything that's going on in this building, Lazard. What do you want done with him?"

"He's a threat. There's a small chance he is carrying sensitive information on Nibelheim, but it's unlikely. We've done all we can here; I need to you to make sure he doesn't know anything, and then silence him. Permanently." Lazard adjusted his glasses, trying not to let his nervousness show. He had always found the quiet man unsettling, long before that unfortunate business with his predecessor, but in the last few months since Tseng had become even more so, a quiet air of unhinged threat adding to his demeanor, dogging his steps like a shadow.

"And what will you tell the pair outside?"

"I lost two of my best in Nibelheim. If Angeal and Genesis knew the truth about that damned incident they'd be gone too, off looking for answers of their own. I can't let that happen."

The Turk nodded; turned; and left. Lazard felt his shoulders slump, relief flooding his body. He took a seat at the desk, leaning back and enjoying the slight reverie of the moment. It was going to be just fine. Tseng would deal with the boy at last; Angeal and Genesis would remain blissfully ignorant, and, more importantly, loyal; everything would be back to normal.

His peace was to be short-lived. Without warning, an alarm began to reverberate around the room, a siren blasting in the distance. It meant only one thing; a security breach, and a big one at that. The last time it had sounded Wutai resistance fighters had just been caught infiltrating the basements of the headquarters itself. Whatever was happening was serious news. He smashed the button of his intercom, calling out to whoever was listening. "What's going on out there?!"

A voice, obscured by static, screamed back at him from the speaker. "It's Reactor One, sir! It's been compromised!"

"Compromised? What do you mean, compromised?!"

"It's… Attack… Bomb…" The voice disappeared under a wave of interference. Lazard leapt to his feet, dashing out the door. Angeal and Genesis looked towards him, confusion clear on their faces. The siren was even louder out here.

"Sir," Angeal yelled over the deafening wail. "What's happening?" Lazard ignored him, his madman eyes fixed instead through the window, on the distant sight of Mako Reactor One. It stood steady and proud as ever, its cyan geyser-glow seemingly at peace, the twinkling lights of Midgar like a galaxy of stars before it. He held his breath. The seconds began to drag like hours. Maybe they had been wrong. A false alarm, perhaps.

Then, the impossible. Lazard watched, open mouthed, as the towering refinery began to buckle, shake, crack; as a great gout of flame began to burst forth, explosions wracking its very foundations; as it was at last consumed in a vast, terrible fireball that seemed to sear the very night sky itself. Even this far away he felt the floor shake as shock-waves raced across the city. He watched, as in the distance fires began to rage and twinkling stars went out one by one.

As the inferno burned on, he felt a shift inside him. A familiar confidence of leadership that he hadn't felt since the battles of old was starting to flicker, deep down; it was if the very walls were calling out to him, reminding him of past stories, of past victories. He caught Genesis' eye, caught a glimpse of the hunger he felt reflected there too. After what felt like eons he cleared his throat and spoke. "Well, men," he said, focus returning to the distant chaos. "It would appear we have work to do."