A/N: Small break from Operation: FFR. I'm pissed and I need to kill something.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

He was in the business of torture. It took a lot to disturb him. Several things had made him cock an eyebrow in amusement and make a mental note to utilize the method in his procedures; but nothing had ever caused his gut to wrench in pure unadultered hatred and loathing as that which he was witnessing now in the small village.

An eight-year old boy had been caught stealing a loaf of bread from a local merchant. The authorites had been called and punishment was required and demanded since he had been caught red-handed. From the looks of the child, he was an orphan living on the streets. His clothes were tattered and dirty, his tear-streaked face filthy. A man, more than three times his size had the child laying on his belly on the ground, his left arm propped up by a stack of cloth, a vehicle slowly pulling up to him. The punishment for this child for his theft was to have his arm crushed by the car, rendering it completely useless for the rest of his life.

Black eyes watched from his vantage point. He wasn't even supposed to be here. This was an unscheduled stop for him on his way back to Edge. But as he watched the crowd gathering to watch the punishment of the young boy, he knew there was a reason for his presence here. He remained stationary, watching the scene playout as if it were a movie. The boy was brave, despite the situation and his age. This method of punishment was customary for this village and his eyes showed that he had known the risks. But when hunger gnaws at you, risks of punishment are drowned out by the fierce growling of your own belly.

The man was now holding the child in place and calling out to the driver to move forward. The boy didn't even flinch. But then the tire made contact with his arm, and small white teeth clenched in pain and the sickening sound of bones crushing could be heard. Losing a bit of his bravery, the boy let out a cry of agony, so heartwrenching that watching black eyes narrowed as a stomach churned. The voyeur could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, his blood starting a slow boil into rage. Knowing interference could cost the boy his life, he remained silent, vowing to his conscience, what little he had left, that action would be taken.

Soon.

Once the tire had rolled completely off the boy's arm, he was removed from the ground and sat down on the side of the street. His injuries were not tended to and he was warned that next time, his hand would be chopped off. With no further entertainment to view, the village people began milling back around and going back to their own business, leaving the boy injured and broken on the ground.

No healing spell, no potion, no nothing. The child clutched his broken arm, sobbing to himself, never noticing the black haired man approaching him. He felt a warmth spread over him and gave a choked cry when he felt the bones in his arm heal and restore themselves and the pain cutting through him disappear. Looking up, he watched as a man in a black suit turned from him and walked away, his long black hair shining in the sunlight.

The man who drove the car was the first to die. Delicate yet skilled hands snapped bones with efficient ease before peeling the skin away from muscle and fishing the broken bones out. The pieces of skelton that were extracted were used to stab into the ear canals of both hearing orafices. Castration was next, the phallus placed upon a metal rod and rammed into the anus of the man. He finally found death at the end of a razor blade as it was dragged across his throat, slowly; the blackness taking him finally.

The one who had held him down was next. The voyeur had stripped him and tied him in a standing position against the wall. He then took the still bloody razor blade from his last victim and cut a small gash in the man's thigh, in his groin area. He then sat back and watched as he slowly bled to death, each minute wrenching his life's blood from him, his anguished filled eyes revealing that he could feel the life leaving his body.

"Your village's traditions of punishment are antiquated at best," the voyeur said, examining his nails. Sharp eyes glared into his victim's. "My home of Wutai doesn't even practice such torture anymore."

The man couldn't answer since his assailant had severed his vocal cords so his screams would not draw anyone in. "Though I must admit, using a piece of technology such as a vehicle added a modern twist to an old concept," he continued. "Still, such practices on a child are disturbing to say the least. I watched, knowing that traditions are traditions. But I could not let it go unanswered. I'm a bit of a traditionalist myself. An eye for an eye and all that."

He stood, adjusting his tie and slipping fingerless leather gloves back on his hands. Checking his watch, he smirked. "Well, you have precisely two more hours before your life is drained from you," he told him stoically. "And in the very unlikely event that someone finds you before you expire, the chances of you surviving this even with a massive blood transfusion are slim to none. Ifrit should have an enjoyable time adding you to the kindling of Hellfire. Good day."

The boy looked everywhere for the strange man in the black suit, knowing he couldn't have gone far in the small village. Rubbing his now healed arm, he turned around, running into the very person he was seeking. The man glared down at him, his piercing black eyes looking straight through him.

"Are you hungry?"

The boy's eyes widened as he slowly nodded his head. The man gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, knowing the boy would follow him without being prompted to do so. Stopping at a cart, the man purchased several items of food and continued walking, slowing so the boy could walk beside him.

"Have you a home?"

"No, sir."

"Family? Parents, siblings?"

"No, sir."

"Very well," he said, opening the passenger's side door of a black Jaquar. He gestured for the boy to get inside, strapping the seat belt over him and giving him the food. The man then climbed into the driver's seat and started the vehicle, shifting it into drive.

"Where are you taking me?" the boy asked through a mouthful of food.

"Edge," was the reply. They sat in silence for a while, the boy eating, the man driving.

"Name?"

The boy looked up. "Paulo," he stated with a small grin. "You?"

"Tseng."

Paulo took a drink of the soda Tseng had bought him. "How did you fix my arm?" he asked. "Are you a god?"

"No."

Young, black eyes stared up at older, black eyes. "What are you then?"

Silence save for the sound of tires on asphault and engine noise.

"I'm a Turk."

A/N: Thanks, Tseng. I feel better now.

Tseng: Always a pleasure.