Author's Note:

I don't own Final Fantasy, or any of its characters. For those who missed 'A Day In the Life of Rude', the 'Day in the Life of...' series takes place a couple of weeks prior to the events of FF7, and does not include any of the Pre-Crisis continuity. This particular fic takes place on the day after 'A Day in the Life of Rude.' Stay tuned for 'A Life in the Day of Reno', which will be released shortly after this. An Elena piece is also in the making, so stay tuned for that, too.

A Day In The Life of Tseng

Time: 6:30 am

The alarm clock rang, indicating that it was time for Tseng Katsuo, Commander of the Turks, to rise and ready himself for the world. Work would soon commence, in exactly two and a half hours, and Shinra would expect its golden boy killer to be up, ready, and on time. Tseng, however, was already awake, and looked up at the alarm clock from behind his kitchen counter disdainfully. How would he ever fully polish the oak counter, which had cost him a small fortune to get imported from Wutai where the wood wouldn't be corrupted by Midgar's Mako process, with all these little interruptions that seemed to plague him?

Sighing, the Turk Commander gave one final stroke of his cloth across the wooden surface, which he could nearly see his reflection in, crossed his apartment, and flipped the switch to the alarm, ceasing the incessant buzzing noise that it produced.

Soon he would be sitting in an office alongside a redheaded psychopath who thought it was fun to randomly shoot his pistol in an open street filled with civilians, a silent and most definitely deadly Soldier who was probably a big teddy bear in reality, and a blonde, slightly ditzy bomb specialist who seemed more a secretary than she did a Reserve Turk. Most people would be horrified to hold the position Tseng had. He was the man who made sure than none of his crew, especially Reno, 'went postal' and depopulated a McChocobo's with a Shinra-issue weapon. Mostly because Shinra hated to deal with the PR of having to explain how someone who supposedly had no affiliation with the large power company managed to get their hands on a weapon that was capable of firing 1100 Mako-tipped rounds per minute. Tseng had the job he did for four reasons. First and foremost being, no one else wanted the job. The second being that Heidegger had decided that in light of the Midgar-Wutai war, a Wutaian in a position of power in Shinra would make for great PR. Never mind the fact that the Turks were a covert group, and therefore, any PR on them was bad PR. The third being that Tseng was pretty much the only one of the Turks qualified to do it, with Elena being too green, Rude too quiet, and Reno too... Reno. And the last reason, the oddest one of the whole bunch, was that Tseng had actually volunteered for the position, despite the high mortality rate, most of the deaths attributed to suicide, of previous Turk Commanders. Most people wouldn't touch Tseng's job, not even with the Junon Cannon. Most people weren't Tseng Katsuo.

The simple fact was, Tseng loved his job.

The Turk Commander untied the belt that held his robe together, let it drop to the floor, and headed for the shower.

Time: 7:24

As Tseng slipped his watch on, he glanced at it, exasperated. He'd spent nearly an hour - an hour - fixing his hair. Yes, it was glossy, and shiny, and delicate, and there wasn't a single godamn hair out of place in his beautiful, black mane, but he'd spent far too much time on it this morning. An hour, really. It was days like these that made Tseng wonder if Reno was right in nicknaming him the 'fruit-fruit train'. Not that the Turk Commander was ever supposed to have heard that nickname. Reno was brave with his little games only when other people's backs were turned.

The Turk Commander walked to his kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee -- made from a delicious blend popular in Mideel -- and left the pot on. His maid, when she came to do some basic tidying later, would help herself to a couple cups of the coffee. Being from the slums, it was the only chance she had to peruse such a delicious cup of coffee, and Tseng was more than happy to let her have her share in addition to her fee. It was the least he could do considering what he was paying her. Labour from the slums was cheap. More than cheap. For just a hundred gil a day, Tseng could practically own someone from the lower city of Midgar. Having once briefly lived in the squalor of the slums after moving with his family from their native Wutai, the Turk Commander knew what it was like to live in those awful conditions. Conditions he would never subject himself to again.

The sound of the phone ringing broke Tseng from his reverie.

He picked up his kitchen phone, and answered carefully, "Hello?"

Only a select few had his phone number. President Tobias Shinra, Vice President Rufus Shinra, General (Although how the fat fool had ever obtained the rank 'General' was beyond Tseng) Ronald Heidegger, the head of Shinra's Weapons, Josephine Scarlet, the head of Shinra's Urban Department, Tolliver Reeve, and the Turks, Rudolph 'Rude' Seirath, Reno Melville, and Elena Michaels. So when the responding voice came over the line, the Turk Commander's eyes widened in shock for only a moment, and then narrowed dangerously.

"Hello, Tseng," came the self-satisfied and most certainly condescending tone of Professor Norman Hojo.

The Wutaian decided to not even bother asking about how Hojo managed to get the number. The man would avoid the question, or lie, and it wouldn't do any good anyway. No, even if Tseng changed his number and didn't give it out to a single soul, somehow, Hojo would find out.

"What do you want?" the Turk asked bluntly.

"My, my," Hojo said. "Such a tone of voice. Hardly the way to speak to someone who can benefit you."

Tseng glanced at his watch. "I only have so much time. Would you please get to the point?"

"I've been working on something in my lab. I'm sure you'll have a great interest in it. I need--"

"You need someone to look at it and then try to sell it to Heidegger, who will in turn attempt to sell it to the President. You need funding, and therefore, you need people in Shinra to notice it."

Hojo's response was delayed, but eager when spoken. "Yes, yes. That's exactly it. I need you to look at it so you can tell the good General Heidegger what a good job I'm doing and how wise it would be to bring this project to the President's attention."

"I'll think about it."

"Think all you wish. You just need to see the process. I'll be ready for a demonstration at... say, eleven am. Be there, please, I beseech you." And then Hojo hung up before Tseng could get a word in edgewise. The Turk had no intention of going to see the demonstration, but if it really could be beneficial to him in some way...

Hanging up the phone and pulling out his daily planner and a pen from his breast pocket, Tseng noted the time for the appointment. It was really too bad for Hojo, though. Heidegger was now on vacation and would be for the next four days. Any 'selling' Tseng would do on the mad scientist's part would, unfortunately, be very delayed.

As if merely thinking the name, the phone rang again, and Tseng was forced to juggle his pen and planner to pick it up.

The loud and boisterous voice of Heidegger erupted, "Tseng! Meeting at the number four reactor, noon. Special plans, secret assignment. Can't talk over the phone about it."

The Turk Commander was about to argue that his line was very secure, then remembered his unexpected conversation with Hojo just seconds before. He frowned, and merely said, "Yes, sir. But aren't you on vaca—"

"Don't question me! Gya ha ha ha!" the man laughed as if by demonstrating his authority, he'd done the funniest thing in the world. As usual, the Turk began to picture his boss on a spit over an open flame, an apple shoved in his mouth.

The phone hung up once again, and the Turk Commander was tempted to tear the cord out. He glanced at his planner, and rolled his eyes heavenward. He'd have to cancel his appointment with his masseuse if he was to make the meeting with Heidegger. Scribbling out the old plans, he penned in a new entry. His planner now read:

8:30 -- Sign in for work

9:00 -- Breakfast at First Plate

10:15 -- Lessons in hand-to-hand combat with Elena

11:00 -- Meeting with Professor Hojo

12:00 -- Appointment with(an illegible scribble that used to say'Company Masseuse')General Fatass

1:00 -- Lunch with Golden Boy

2:15 -- Orientation meeting with newest Soldier class

3:30 -- Requisition more ammunition from Scarlet

3:50 -- Quick patrol of Sector Two with Reno

5:00 -- Meeting with President Shinra on status of Ancient

6:45 -- Personal Engagement

Tseng didn't actually need the planner. He had every detail in it committed to memory, but it never hurt to have it all written down, just in case. He pocketed the book, then went to pick up his throwing knives, which he would hide under his sleeves today. They were always sheathed somewhere different in a predetermined pattern of locations, varying from day to day. Just so that no one who casually observed him would ever really know where he was hiding them.

For some reason, Tseng had a nagging feeling that he'd especially need them today.

Time: 9:00 am

Even as the second hand on Tseng's watch ticked 9:00 am, the front door to First Plate opened up, the familiar bell ringing. The white and black checkered floor positively gleamed in the artificial light, and as always, Tseng gave an appreciative nod to that. The tables were similarly shining, and even more surprisingly, not a single piece of food in the entire establishment had touched the floor. First Plate was the closest thing to gourmet that the slums could achieve.

He looked to the left corner and saw that Reno and Rude were already there, sitting across from each other and feasting on their normal meal plan. Reno had a plate of pancakes covered in more syrup than was considered healthy alongside a bottle of moon-shine whiskey, and Rude had a large slab of ham, which he was eagerly carving into, with a side of salad that had gone untouched. The bald Turk would attack that later, making sure than not a drop of dressing ever touched it, once his meat was consumed.

Tseng gave a wave to "ol' one-eye" Marty, the restaurant's owner, who was standing behind the counter. The man gave a frown, and then a withering glance at the Turk's private table. Tseng frowned. Reno had done something, most likely. Realizing he had to keep some sort of peaceful relations between his men and their favourite eating establishment, the Wutaian stepped up to the counter and took a seat there.

Marty, a large man with an eyepatch covering his left eye, quickly moved to Tseng and said, "Tell your friends to keep your hands off my waitresses from now on."

Immediately, Tseng's eyes narrowed at the remark. While said politely, it had all the overtones of a threat. And the Turks never responded well to threats, regardless of who gave them.

As if noticing the Turk's glare, Marty, as large and imposing as he was, backed off a little bit, an apologetic tone oozing from his follow-up. "Didn't mean it like that. I meant, uh…. Listen, yesterday, there was a scene in here. A bad one."

"A scene?"

"Yeah. A real bad one. Y'see, Reno… he and one of my waitresses, Candi… well, they… uh… in the bathroom, they…"

"Say no more," Tseng said. He could feel a headache coming on. "They copulated in the bathroom. And I assume, afterwards, he dumped her in front of everyone and then acted like nothing happened?"

"Uh… more or less. She was in a real huff. Spat in his food and everything. And in Rude's. She was gonna dump some rat poison on it, too, but I caught her and had to fire her. I mean… what he did was wrong, but she tried to kill him, an' I can't be havin' that."

"I understand. I'll talk to Reno. It will never happen again." Even as Tseng said it, he amended the sentence in his mind, It will never happen in this particular restaurant again.

Making his way to the Turk's booth, he stood in front of the table, waiting for his two subordinates to acknowledge him. Rude immediately put down his knife and fork, but Reno, ever the asshole, pretended not to notice his Commander and regaled his partner with a tale of how he one time single-handedly killed a Tonberry. Rude coughed politely into one handed and pointed to Tseng, and Reno, having no choice but to look, smiled dumbly and did a sloppy salute. With the wrong hand. With the fork still in it.

"Hey, boss!" he said cheerily.

Tseng nodded to them both. "Good morning, gentleman. Rude, if you will?"

The bald Turk nodded, shifted his plate over, and slid down the seat to make room for his Commander. Sitting down, Tseng placed his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and gave Reno a level look.

"Marty has asked that you not pursue any of his waitresses," he said simply, making sure to use what he liked to call his 'command voice,' which he knew Reno called the 'Oh shit, I'm in trouble' tone.

Reno, who normally rebelled against any type of authority when it got in the way of his fun, merely nodded, then picked up his twenty-sixer of moon-shine, took a swig, and slammed it down on the table. Tseng gave the bottle a wry look, seeing that once again, Reno had even taken the time to label his homemade brand of alcohol. The label on this particular bottle had a picture of a pirate – complete with eyepatch, pegleg, and parrot – with a naked woman thrown over one shoulder, and a jug of what was clearly alcohol in the other hand. Underneath, in large red letters was the name of this particular brand the Turk had made, entitling it, "COMMANDANT SHITFACE."

Resisting the urge to sputter and laugh at it, Tseng merely asked, "'Commandant Shitface'?"

With a grin, the redhead quipped, "Because it commands you to get shitfaced! Want some?"

"Not while I'm on the clock, no thank you. Maybe after."

Reno snorted, and Tseng couldn't fault him. Despite all of his attempts to warm to his men, Tseng never socialized with them outside of work. He was too professional, and his job demanded too much of him. Even when he was off the clock, he was never truly off of it. There were always extra assignments and more paperwork to do, and business functions to attend and executives to placate. There were days that Tseng had wished his native Wutai had won the war. At least they wouldn't have dominated the world with bullshit bureaucracy.

But in the end, Tseng knew that was a lie. He didn't become close with his fellow Turks because in the end, he was afraid he'd lose them. In his tenure as Turk Commander, he'd lost two of the closest friends he'd ever known, and now, out of simple self-defense, he refused to allow any of his subordinates to become close. Even Rude, to whom he had been a friend for seven years, had been pushed away in his efforts to distance himself.

Tseng sighed. He just had to keep the good things in mind. Another year, and he'd have enough money to retire. He still wasn't sure who he'd put in charge of the Turks when he stepped down. He glanced between the two he sat with, unable to make a decision. The silent and intimidating Rude, or the often brilliant but most definitely erratic Reno. Well, no matter who he chose, at least neither option would be Elena.

A waitress walked up to the table, a phony smile playing on her lips as she set Tseng's customary cup of Darjeeling tea down in front of him. "And what would you like today?"

"The usual," Tseng supplied. "Poached chocobo egg, stuffed with Wutaian caviar, and lightly glazed with hollandaise sauce."

The meal, as usual, would cost enough money to keep a normal person in the slums fed for a week, and Tseng certainly wouldn't be able to finish it all. Most people who watched him looked on in envy, and that was the way he liked it. It might be a little shallow, but he derived more satisfaction in the fact that people saw that he was in some way above them. In a sense, it almost made selling his soul to Shinra worth it.

"And you?" the waitress asked Reno. "Would you like anything else?"

"Yeah," Reno said, his mouth still full. "More fuckin' pancakes. Keep 'em coming!"

"Would you prefer waffles instead? There's a special on them today."

Rude visibly winced at the word 'waffles', and Tseng nearly swore at the girl's mistake. Reno dropped his knife and fork and dipped his hand into the front of his blue suit, reaching for his gun. Tseng shot the redhead a dangerous look that brought the skinny man up short. Pulling his empty hand from his breast holster, Reno picked up his knife and fork and resumed carving at his pancakes.

"No, ma'am, I wouldn't like any godamn waffles." The word was spoken with such venom that the waitress blanched at it. Recovering, she turned to Rude to see if he wanted anything else. The large man merely shook his head, slicing off another piece of ham and forking it into his mouth.

As soon as the woman departed, the redhead mimicked, "'Would you prefer waffles instead?' Who the fuck eats waffles?Ha! She can take her waffles and shove 'em!"

"What, may I ask, is your aversion to waffles?" the Turk Commander queried. "They're basically the same thing, just a different shape."

"No, they're not. First, waffles are in these little grid-like patterns. They remind me of bars, like in a jail. And I sure as hell ain't eating anything that reminds me of jail. Second, and more incriminating, is that pancakes contain a baking powder in the batter. Waffles, however, contain yeast. Yeast reminds me of yeast infections, and I ain't fucking eating a godamn yeast infection."

Rude choked on his ham, and Tseng, who'd just been taking a sip of his tea, nearly spat it out all over Reno. Even as the two both nearly gagged at the crude comment, Reno threw his head back and laughed.

"God I love fucking with you guys."

Time: 10:15 am

Once more Elena was sent flying into the mats, crashing once more into the ground with a thump. Tseng, dressed in a white combat gi with a black belt, calmly inspected his nails as he waited for Elena to get back up. He'd have to see about having them professionally done. They were beginning to look like they belonged more on a slum hobo than on his normally perfectly manicured hands. Even as he carefully inspected them, Elena stood up with a growl and charged at him. He stepped calmly aside, sticking his foot out at the last second, sending Elena sprawling once more to the floor with a wail.

Lifting his one foot up to get a closer look, Tseng made mental note to include a pedicure as well.

Elena stood up once again, stubbornly preparing herself for another futile strike. She wasn't bad. Rude had next to no success in training her hand to hand combat, but that was more from his complete lack of patience in training others. Either someone was a brilliant student who learned everything the first time, or they were useless. While the bald Turk was willing to give up on her quickly, Tseng had no such plans. He would sculpt her into a perfect fighting machine, someone who wouldn't get killed out on her first assignment.

She'd had to learn everything the hard way, of course, but at least the Turk Commander told her the basics. Tuck your chin when you were about to get hit, because it always inevitably happened, and when you did, be ready for it. Balance your weight to the front of your feet, and always keep them moving with your body. And never, ever, clench your fists. You could do more with a half-closed fist than you could with a fully closed one. Of course, Elena still had difficulties grasping that concept, and always reverted back to clenching her hands when in a fighting stance. He'd beat it out of her eventually.

Sparring as they were, they'd attracted quite the audience in Shinra's gym. It wasn't often that the Turk Commander demonstrated his fighting prowess, and those that liked to watch a good scuffle that was handled with dignity and pride always gathered around the practice mat. Tseng almost felt like a dying man surrounded by vultures as he looked around at all the suited men and women surrounding him. You could always tell who all the single women and homosexual men were in Shinra. They always inevitably flocked to admire Tseng at play.

"Ready?" Tseng said, thinking to try something new. Dropping his foot back to the mat and setting himself into a standard boxing pose, both hands held before him, he motioned for Elena to do the same. If she couldn't get a handle on martial arts, he'd just have to teach her how to fistfight.

Elena, seeing the change in stance, imitated it immediately, and a smile came to her face. "I know how to box, sir. My brother used to—"

"You talk too much. I don't care if your brother was the World Boxing Champion. Unless you fought all of his battles for him, I don't want to hear it. Now, I want you to hit me. Your best shot."

He wasn't really intending to stand there and take her best hit, but the exercise was a needed one. He had to see how hard and how fast her best punch would be. He wouldn't be there to take the hit, but she'd have to find that out the hard way.

His look of smug superiority fell off his face entirely as he heard one of the executives surrounding him say, "That's Tseng. Head of the Turks. I hear he's found the Ancient."

The words were enough to distract him. 'Found the Ancient.' No one but Reno and Rude were supposed to know he had found Aeris yet, but there the declaration was said, and out in the open. A man next to him retorted, "He hasn't found her yet. He's still looking. I hear the President's—"

Tseng never got to learn what that particular executive heard about the President as all Elena's combined frustration of never being able to land a hit on either Rude or Tseng, combined with the recent insult her boss had just given her, all amounted into a single chance to knock the pretty-boy flat on his ass.

Tseng's sole thought as he hit the mat and stared up at the ceiling was; My god. It's full of stars.

Time: 11:00 am

Tseng, still holding an ice pack against his freshly broken nose that had been popped back into place by the roughest doctor he'd ever known, didn't want to be in Hojo's lab. Shinra's resident mad scientist was more than just your garden-variety quack. The man was dangerous, using his knowledge of all things biological for usually the most twisted and devious things he could find. Tseng wouldn't be surprised if he found out that Hojo even experimented on himself.

The professor, his loose collection of black hair tied back messily, made something very akin to a leer at Tseng as the Turk walked into the laboratory. The place seemed like a typical Shinra lab; white, clean, and littered with chrome-plated gadgets. In corners stood Robo-guards, and at the door were a pair of Soldiers. Tseng made a mental note that Hojo had obviously pulled some favours to get this level of security, and that meant that at least someone higher up was already aware of his little project.

"Just in time," Hojo said, then stopped, looking at Tseng's nose. "You should have that looked at that."

The Turk was about to give a nasty retort, something like 'Yes, like a real doctor, someone other than you' or the like, but for some reason, he just couldn't muster the snarkiness required. Almost sullenly, he followed Professor Quackjob to his lab. In the middle of it stood a giant vat, with what seemed like a gurney that could lift out of it and set down beside it. All around the vat were a series of man-sized steel and glass pods. Hojo handed Tseng a small booklet. Putting down his ice pack on a random machine.the Turk quickly glanced over the report. The cover read 'Project: Eternal.' Flipping through it, the Turk ignored Hojo's lengthy speech about the process, focusing on the basics within the book. After a few minutes, he came to understand what he held in his hands. It was a method of resurrecting the dead. The requirements for the procedure were simple. Machines designed to capture Mako energy before it 'returned to the Planet.' A corpse, well preserved. And eight people willing to sacrifice themselves to bring back one.

Hojo was detailing how eight common soldiers would be a worthy sacrifice to bring back the life of a General when Tseng interrupted. "No."

The professor, caught off guard, mouthed the word 'no', as if confused, then said, "No? What do you mean?"

"I won't endorse this project. I won't hype it up and make it sound good. I won't help you in any way on this."

Hojo looked as if about to protest, then stopped, a sly look coming over his face. "That's such a pity. And to think…. My first two test subjects to bring back were going to be …" he stopped, glancing at a clipboard that hung from a machine, "…Steffon Carloff, and Latherion Murtock."

The book dropped to the floor as Tseng pulled two knives from his sleeves, pressing both of them firmly into Hojo's throat, one of either side. Those two had once been Turks, now dead. Everyone knew the job was dangerous when they signed on, but Tseng had taken it as a personal affront when the two of them had died.

"If you ever touch my Turks with any of your dirty little projects… especially this one… you won't see where the killing blow comes from. You'll just be dead before you hit the floor."

Hojo didn't seem phased by the presence of two blades against his throat in the least. He just frowned, as if Tseng were some minor obstacle in his path. "Very well. I'll just go to General Heidegger myself and—"

"No, you won't," Tseng said. "I'm going to Heidegger, and I'm going to tell him that you're involved in a project that might start a revolution against Shinra, by its own soldiers. How do you think they'll react when they find out that eight of them have to die every time a higher up is killed? Or worse, how do you think potential enemies like Wutai might react? They train ninjas and assassins better than any other. So, if we ever go to war with them again, do you think they'll risk open engagements with our soldiers? No. They'll just send those assassins to kill our officers, knowing that for every officer they kill, they've essentially murdered eight men, who for all you know, could be the next Sephiroth."

"That's highly unlikely," Hojo said coldly.

"Is it? I seem to recall a certain troop by the name of Cloud Strife who—"

"Don't you dare utter that name in my presence. You'll regret this decision Tseng. One day, you'll die, and when you do, I will be there, laughing. Laughing because I'll still be here, my resurrection process still in my mind, and you will still be dead."

"Then I'll have died happy," Tseng retorted as he withdrew his knives, sheathed them, picked up his ice pack, and left.

Time: 12:00 pm

Tseng stepped out of his car and into the shadow of the number four Mako reactor. The place was deserted, had been for three days, ever since a report had come across Tseng's desk saying that a terrorist attack from a small group of malcontents calling themselves Avalanche was imminent. Security entering the sector had been upped, and the reactor itself left empty of all Shinra personnel save the Roboguards.

Glancing at his watch, he knew he was on time. Heidegger would likely be late, as usual. The fat man always was. He liked to keep people waiting. It made him feel special. There wasn't a whole lot that could make Heidegger feel special.

Tseng wondered what would happen if Heidegger arrived to find no one waiting for him. It would probably cost Tseng his job – and he so loved his job -- , but the expression on the fat man's face alone might be worth it.

So it was as Tseng was chuckling at the mental imagery when he was hit with the gas grenade.

Time?m

Even as Tseng awoke with a groan, a thought entered his mind wondering why people always seemed to awake from an involuntary unconsciousness with a groan. Even groggy as it was, his mind was still sharp. In Tseng's line of work, it kind of had to be.

His eyes opened up, and he immediately began to take note of everything. The room was completely black, and he couldn't get up. He was sitting on a (wooden?) chair, his wrists tied to the armrests. His jacket and holster had been removed. His sleeves were pulled back and his knives were gone. His shoes also appeared to be missing. Likely, whoever had nabbed him, and this was obviously some sort of kidnapping, also probably had his cell phone and beeper as well. He shifted, lifted himself from his chair as much as he could despite his legs being tied to it. His side touched his arm, and he gave a wry chuckle. He still had his beeper.

What kind of idiots was he dealing with? Everyone knew that Shinra bugged and traced their own employees all the time. As soon as someone realized he was missing, it would take little effort for his Turks to locate and rescue him. He just hoped that Rude lead the rescue mission.

Time?m – twenty three minutes, forty-two seconds after regained consciousness

He kept time in his head. It was a boring, tedious process, but it gave him something to do while waiting on his captors. His nose throbbed all the while, the stinging injury to his pride that Elena had given to him. He wondered when he beeper was going to go off. Inevitably, someone would page him, and that would be the end of it.

Finally, the door opened up, and in stepped his would-be captors. There were three of them, all with masks on. The first was the biggest man he'd ever seen, a magazine cutout of Tobias Shinra's face glued onto a piece of cardboard that had then been tied across his visage. Squinting, Tseng could see a gun-arm in the darkness, but not much else on him. The man was too far in the back to tell. The second one was a woman with what appeared to be brown hair. She had a black skirt and a white shirt, and a similar mask of what appeared to be Scarlet. The last was a scrawny man with a paper bag over his head, with two eyeholes poked out, and a mouth hole, where a cigarette stuck out.

Tseng played the descriptions over in his head, fearing the worst. The man in the back would have to be Barret Wallace. Even with the mask, it was easy to tell who he was from the gun-arm alone. The second was an unidentified woman that had been sighted at the last anti-Shinra terrorist attack. That would have to make the third man Biggs. Avalanche.

Lovely.

The third man, the one with the cigarette, walked up to Tseng, casually circling him. He'd peer close, back up, then continue his tour. The whole time, the man's cigarette smoke wafted into the Wutaian's nose, making him want to cough. Finally, the stranger inspected Tseng's face, particularly his nose, and said, "You should have that looked at."

Barret coughed, and Biggs straightened out, walking away, nodding. "Oh yeah, it's him. I seen dis guy all over da slums."

Sector Two accent. Tseng made note of that. Heidegger's earlier intelligence had said that Avalanche made its hide out there. For once General Fatass had been right. When he got free, he promised to scour Sector Two of everyone with that accent, provided he didn't kill the man here.

The woman stepped forward, her chest thrusting ahead as she did, and said, "I think we should kill him. He's Shinra, right?"

"Yeah!" the one Tseng thought was Biggs said. "Power to th' Planet! We ain't gonna let any Shinra scum live! Down with Mako reactors! Down with Shinra!"

"Shu' up!" Barret said. His voice sounded strained for some reason. Nervousness, perhaps? Tseng wasn't sure. With everything else, it got filed away.

"Come on, big guy," the woman said. "I think Wedge is right. We should kill him. I know all sorts of martial arts. I could kill him with my bare hands."

Tseng frowned. Wedge? He looked to the skinny man with the paper bag on his head. Something didn't add up. Something… wait a minute.

The woman came forward, and made a few mock swings, her fists clenched tightly into balls. She dropped out of her fighting pose, and fidgeted a foot nervously.

"We kill him," Barret said.

As he did, Wedge stepped in close, a gun drawn from his holster, pointing it right between Tseng's eyes. The Turk didn't blink, didn't twitch, and didn't move. He simply sat there, calmly breathing, as if nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.

Finally, he said, "You can put the gun away, Reno."

'Wedge' let out a frustrated howl, and stepped away, throwing the paper bag mask off. The woman also took off her mask, showing underneath that it was Elena. The lights came on, and squinting against it, he was forced to wait until his eyes readjusted. When they did, Rude had his mask off, and was smirking.

"I told you he'd figure it out," the large man said, removing the gun-arm, which was obviously made from papier-mâché in the light.

"Bullshit!" Reno cried. "Someone told him! Which one of you fuckers did? Or was it Heidegger? That fat fuck betrayed us, I just know it!"

Tseng let Reno rant on, drumming his fingers across the arms of his chair. At that particular moment, he was ashamed of his team. He kept repeating his private mantra in his head. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

Growing tired of listening to Reno swear, he cut him off. "Enough. I figured it out on my own. Now, can you let me go?"

The redhead stopped, staring at Tseng like he was some sort of alien. "How? How the hell did you find out?"

"The first thing that tipped me off was that 'Barret'…" he inclined his head to Rude, "… sounded nervous. Wallace is described as a boisterous man that knows no fear, even to the point of foolishness. Second, Elena called you 'Wedge.'"

Reno said, "Yeah. And?"

"Wedge is the fat one. Biggs is the skinny one. Do your homework next time. Then I remembered that neither of those two are reported to smoke, never mind that they don't smoke your brand of cigarettes."

Reno looked at the cigarette in his hand and sword. "And here was me thinking that a guy with a paper bag mask smoking would be funny."

"Of course, Elena trying to stick her chest out was a little obvious, too, since she doesn't have the… ahem… endowments of the mystery member of Avalanche. And of course, she tried to make a fighting pose, and we all know that Elena still can't put up a good one without clenching her fists still. A mistake a trained fighter would never make."

Elena blushed, and Reno gave her a death glare.

"But most obvious of all," Tseng said, "was that you all over-acted. 'Power to th' Planet', Reno? Wasn't that a little bit over the top? Oh, and your Sector Two accent is horrendous. Now, release me now, or I'll have to fire you all."

The redhead sputtered, "Pfft… You can't fire us. Turks are on contracts. The only way the contract expires is if …" He stopped suddenly as he realized the veiled threat, his face going pale.

Tseng gave him a devilish grin.

It was suddenly a race to see which of the three Turks could get him untied quickest. When the last of the bonds fell to the ground, Tseng stood up, maintaining perfect dignity, and merely said, "Why?"

"Because it's your birthday, sir," Elena said, "and Reno thought you'd think this was funny. A funny prank we can all laugh about at the end of the day?"

Tseng nodded, even letting a smile cross his lips, as if her answer made the most perfect sense in the world. She smiled weakly, and Reno and Rude both let out a collective sigh as they realized their boss wasn't going to kill them after all.

The Turk Commander's body unleashed like a spring. His foot came up, connecting heavily with Rude's groin. The bald men fell down, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. Reno, realizing he was next, took the initiative and punched out at Tseng. The Wutaian caught the fist, and using Reno's own momentum against him, flung the skinny little man over his shoulder and into the wall, hard. Elena stood completely still, a terrified look in her eyes. Tseng's fist came forward, aimed right at her nose, prepared to deliver to her the same blow she had given him in their training session. The blond made a squeak-like noise and flinched. His fist never hit her. It took her a second to open her eyes, looking down at his fist which was just a few centimeters from her face. One finger came out, and flicked her across the nose.

After a second, she said, "You're not going to hit me?"

Tseng's left fist to her stomach answered her question for him.

With his Turks lying about on the floor, all groaning in pain, Tseng straightened out his shirt, rolling down his sleeves. He found the rest of his possessions in a garbage pile on the other side of the room. He calmly put everything back in its place, then turned on his soldiers, and said, "Oh. And one last thing. It's not my birthday."

He slammed the door behind him.

Time: 6:45

The Slums. He didn't like to come to the Slums, but there were times when he had no choice. The obvious times like when work called for it, or when he dined at First Plate with Reno and Rude. And then, there were the times he came for a stroll down memory lane, or on the occasional special event.

Today was a special event.

He stood outside a simple house on the edge of Sector Five, a house that had somehow been blessed with both light and a garden. Most people living in the Slums would have killed for such a home. And Tseng couldn't blame them. It was beautiful enough to belong above the plate.

There was a hesitance to his step as he approached the front door. He wanted to be there, but at the same time, there wasn't a house he was more afraid of entering. He'd gladly enter a room filled with armed and lethal eco-terrorists, all bent on killing him, but when it came to one simple flower girl…

He knocked on the door, and nearly jumped back at the noise he made. He looked around, adjusted his tie, and then got ready for the worst. The door opened up, and there she stood.

Aeris looked at him with a smile on her lips, and a frown in her eyes. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, one that he'd gladly give his life for. He held the flowers up for her.

"Thank you, Tseng," she said, stepping forward and accepting them, and closing the door behind her all in one motion. They both knew her mother didn't appreciate Aeris' consorting with Shinra personnel, benevolent or not. "But shouldn't I be giving you something for your birthday, not the other way around?"

"I thought I'd break with tradition," he said. He'd lied earlier when he'd said it wasn't his birthday. Mostly just to prevent Reno from trying to come up with a 'real' birthday present. Rude knew the truth, and out of the three, he was the only one who mattered. Mostly because he wouldn't attempt a follow-up.

She sniffed at the flowers, and then looked closely at him, taking in the sight of his nose. "You should get that looked at."

"It's funny," he said with a laugh. "I keep hearing that. Too bad all the doctors I know are mad scientists, eh?"

Fear flickered across her face briefly, and he realized he'd said the wrong thing. Stupid of him to mention someone like Hojo to her, a girl who lived in fear of his examination table. He berated himself, and for a moment, the two stood in absolute silence, both feeling an awkward tension.

"I'm sorry, but… my mother…" Aeris started, but the Turk nodded, and waved his hand as if it were nothing.

"There's no need to apologize. It comes with the job. Some days, I can't blame people for hating Shinra."

"Then, why…?" she asked. She didn't have to finish the question. He knew what she wanted to say. Why do you do the things you do?

He gave her his best smile, the kind of smile that made most women swoon, and other men envious. The kind of smile that had no affect on Aeris whatsoever. "Because I love my job."

Beginning to turn away, he was interrupt in mid-stride as Aeris abruptly asked, "Do you have any word on Zack?"

It was a question she often asked. One she had been asking nearly every time he'd seen her for the past five years. He remembered when he'd first joined the Turks, only fourteen, young for a Turk, but not unheard of, so proud to be wearing his uniform. Everyone had thought he'd been killed within his first week. After all, only one other Turk had joined at that age before and lasted long enough to make a name for himself. Twelve years now, and Tseng was almost upon beating Vincent Valentine's service record. And in those twelve years, he'd never expected the past five to be difficult. He hated mixing his social life with his work. It was so difficult telling where his real loyalties were.

"No," he lied. "But I'll tell you when I hear about him."

"Thank you," she said. "And happy birthday."

He waved to her and walked away, already hating himself. Why did he lie to her about Zack? He knew where the Soldier was. Knew where he'd been ever since Hojo had begun experimenting on him in a secret lab in Nibelheim. More, he knew that Zack had escaped those labs just a few days previously. So why did he lie to Aeris? Loyalty to Shinra? Doubtful. Jealousy? More than likely. And that was something about himself he just didn't want to face.

His cell phone rang, and the Turk pulled it from his breast pocket and answered it. "Tseng speaking."

"Sir," Elena said. "I've just received reports from a group of soldiers in the field. They've found the two fugitives, Soldier Zack Lance, and Private Cloud Strife. Orders, sir?"

The words stopped Tseng immediately. He turned once more, looking at Aeris' house. She was inside now, more than likely having dinner with her mother. Happy, albeit worried, or a small part of her was anyway. Aeris. Career. Aeris. Career. Cute, pure, angelic Cetra with a heart of gold that would never love him. Twisted, dirty, demonic corporation with no concept of love, only desire, who paid his bills. The girl who would ultimately be his moral compass, or the thing that allowed him his fancy manicures and expensive coffee and his 'poached chocobo egg, stuffed with Wutaian caviar, lightly glazed with hollandaise sauce' every morning.

"Capture them," Tseng said. "But don't kill them. And tell those idiot soldiers in the field not to proceed until we get there. Anyone who acts without my being there will be shot before they can even offer me an explanation."

"Yes, sir," came Elena's response.

He hung up, striding towards the nearest train station, his mind racing. He had to think of something fast. The part that was loyal to Shinra said capture them. The part that was loyal to Aeris, the woman who would point the way where his soul should follow said that he should let them go. And the part that so desperately hated Zack wanted to kill the man.

Perhaps I can do all three, Tseng thought bitterly, and barked a laugh at that. And how would he accomplish that?

Running for the train now, the Turk said to himself, "I hate my job."