Warnings; AU, yaoi, mild substance abuse, prostitution, cross-dressing, attempted rape... and Chaos D8

Disclaimer; Characters not ours. Don't sue us, we're saving up for Vincent's hip replacement :3

A/N; Once upon a time when we'd finished the last monster of a role-play, it fell to a little Devonian girl to pick the next idea. And she happened to be doing history and a bunny blasted through the window and smacked her in the back of the head with a spork that was actually an artefact from the Victorian era.

Yeah so that's how we started this 8D

Happy early birthday (because we're impatient) to sphinxofthenile who rather enthusiastically requested that we adapt the role-play into a prose fic D: And so it was done ;D

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REVOLUTION

Act I

Scene I

Smog coiled from Midgar's chimneys, smothering the dark streets with opalescent grey smoke, bubbling along wet cobbles like the sea. It was like a living thing, twirling up Sephiroth's legs as he strode through the dim streets, glancing up at a sky glowing emerald to get his bearings before he continued. The stars were bright, sparkling in velvety expanses, but they couldn't hope to oppose the power of the unnatural luminescence emanating from newly-built towers looming over the city.

This Industrial Revolution had spurred huge change in Midgar; new structures of red brick and gleaming metal had sprung up like grasses in the rains, dotting the skyline with hazy behemoths watching over the cramped hovels squatting in the lower districts and the elegant terraces crowding the higher ones alike. The discovery and harnessing of mako had terrified and enchanted the populace; it was always the way with simple people confronted with greatness. Sephiroth wasn't sure what he should think of the long-term consequences of the usage of this new power – but for now, no one else cared.

They were all swept up in the storm of development and excitement flooding the city these past few months; invention and ingenuity were rife, new models and blueprints and construction projects passing through the dusty offices of clerics every day. In the upper districts, at least, all were employed – the aristocratic women stayed in their plush homes looking after their tutored children while the menfolk disappeared off to slave over paper and ink all day, coming home tired but satisfied to a warm meal and bright mako lights. It was a comfortable existence, one that would not have been able to flourish in the illumination of ignorance and smoky wax candles. Now it was here and the future seemed so hopeful and bright for everyone.

But maybe not the poor souls occupying the districts here, on the outskirts of what was officially called Sector Five but which everyone referred to as the poor district. The air was even thicker here, ghostly shadows flickering through the smoke as the inhabitants went about their business trying to scratch a living from the leftovers given to them by the upper classes. There was no security here; no constant office employment, no businessmen hurrying to and fro in the trade districts consulting papers and figures. There was only desperation, people selling what they could to gain enough money to buy what others could spare.

Sephiroth pitied them. He'd grown up with hardly a material want – everything he dared to ask for was (albeit grudgingly) provided, and he knew others who had never even had to do that and hadn't ever lifted a finger to provide for themselves. It seemed odd that there could be such a marked difference in station in one city; the deciding factor seemed to be complete luck, as to whether one was born to a noble family, engineered together through socio-political machinations, or to some woman on the street with barely enough to feed herself, let alone an extra mouth.

On every corner under bright street lamps shining like beacons into the gloom gathered girls; women who had no better way of making a living than to rent themselves out, nothing to sell but their own bodies. There were so many, it was hardly surprising that they couldn't raise themselves from this existence, no matter how many ravening high-class men degraded themselves down here.

As he walked past one such group, a few detached themselves from the others to trail around him, reaching out with grime-stained hands but stopping just short of besmirching his heavy black coat, running thick tongues over their dull lips.

"Fancy a tumble, mister?"

"Only a sovereign… swish gentleman like you could afford it!"

Without a word he gently pushed them aside, carrying on with a shake of his head. There was no lust inspired with these wretched creatures; only pity, embarrassment for their unashamed soliciting, and underneath, cold indifference. They were ten to a penny in every city Sephiroth had been to or heard of – they couldn't be saved. All of them were doomed to be dragged shrieking into the world, wrench what they could from life and die alone and unmourned in some dank back alley. They were moths; flaring for a brief moment, drawn forever to the light of improving themselves, but always burning up before they reached it.

"No thank you," he said politely, refusing to meet their eyes for fear they would see the disdain lurking beneath. He didn't intend to take them up on their propositions; he was not poor, but he hated frittering money away on unnecessary indulgences. Having never made a point of visiting these districts unless, as now, he had no choice but to walk through them, he'd successfully managed to stay clear of falling to the vices that had claimed so many of his acquaintances.

"If you don't eat from that apple, sir, there's plenty of boys around who'd be glad to do you a service…"

"Especially Genny, gotta be careful with that one…"

There was a fit of giggling, but Sephiroth ignored it and shook his head again, speeding his pace a little. "I apologise, I cannot take you up on your offers tonight. Good evening."

With defeated sighs they dropped away from him and moseyed back to their spot to wait for the next potential customer to lure into their net of debauchery and seduction. Sephiroth could still hear their girlish comments leaching through the mist as he continued on up the street at as swift a pace as he could maintain after a crippling day behind the desk, once more.

"Married, eh…"

"Shame."

"Never stops most of them!"

Their giggles receded quickly into the smog as he walked away.

The night was getting chilly now, and the damp air hung heavy around Sephiroth. He wondered absently how close winter was; it was technically autumn but recently the weather had been darker and damper and colder than it was usually around this time of year. The summer illnesses had broken out in the lower districts as they had since time immemorial, and were progressing to the seasonal flus and coughs brought on by damper weather; winter meant that the diseases would be killed off earlier. So far tonight, Sephiroth hadn't seen too many signs of the havoc they wreaked in the close-packed poorhouses; but then again, the day was more the time for beggars and peasants to throng the streets and he didn't plan to still be here by then.

A swift glance at his pocket watch made his step hurry a little, the tap of a plainly-decorated yet well-made walking cane setting his pace. He wanted to be home before long – the chill of the evening made him long for a warm fire, a glass of rich red wine, and (unfortunately) setting about putting the final touches to that proposal from his employers, the ShinRa Trading Company, to the Mayor regarding switching all street lamps officially from the old-style gas lights to new mako ones. A tiny sigh escaped his lips at the thought of that; so dry, and yet it was assigned utmost importance by the President, and as such had to be addressed as soon as possible. But it wasn't for slacking that Sephiroth was renowned, and that certainly wasn't what paid his wages. And to think, after it was finished, it would be a huge weight off his shoulders until the next assignment was thrown at him…

Mist swirled around the knees of his boots, a breeze stirring the atmosphere for a second. Sephiroth tugged the lapels of his black coat around him a little more snugly, not quite shivering yet but wishing ever more to be home. He only had to come this way because the main road had been cut off for the night – some 'incident' deemed severe enough to sever his primary route home off. A nuisance, but not an insurmountable one… He could have hired a cab, drawn by tired-looking draft horses and their skinny drivers, but he did not wish to wait to find one that looked vaguely healthy and had instead set off down here to cut through. A decision he was regretting at this moment.

Scene II

The industrial revolution was a fabulous advent, heralding many different changes, improving all sorts of business around the city. New methods of energy had made the rich richer and the poor poorer. Those who lived by the traditional means of burning wood and gas and could not afford the new mako had no other choice than to offer themselves forth to the workhouses, or into the secure labour of mako mining and refinement. Both left them too exhausted at the end of a long day, even if they could escape from the occupational prisons, to engage in midnight hedonism. Not that they could spare the pennies for it anyway. They had their own families to feed.

But for those who were lucky enough to be born in the upper sectors, working in crystal clean offices in tall, whitewashed buildings, the city had become their oyster. It wasn't quite a problem of 'what could one afford' and 'can one afford to do it all' rather 'where does one start?' for them. Tales of a richness that was not the form that could find itself in a wallet drew them down to the lower sectors when the sun set and the day's stocks closed; urged by older, world-wise companions to experiment in a dissolute lifestyle before the wife fell pregnant and at least some decorum would be needed in the house.

The newcomers had swung the balance somewhat, not truly understanding the careful balance in which the districts operated; that no matter what stereotypes and rumours said, it was certainly not acceptable to stroll in looking for trouble and grab the first creature they saw in a dress too low-cut and racy to be becoming on a real lady – not that one could ever be sighted in the epicurean paradise. There were reasons why they were told to stay in their painted houses with their painted children and painted lives.

An interesting observation, how the streets all but a year ago would've been boiling with men and women searching for each other and something more – even at late at night as this. Pleasure knew no bounds, hours were limitless, until the clock chimed the wife's whining. Blue eyes scanned the near desolate, mist-scattered avenues that offered the occasional gentleman who was pulled away into alleys and grotty buildings before they even reached him.

Business was good, but business was slow.

Genesis sighed, closing his eyes and taking a long breath in through his cigarette. Reclining against the wall, half bathed in a yellow light, he watched fellow inhabitants of the slums wander past on their way. Few turned to acknowledge him, either amiable or with disdain. The was the only one of his kind that ventured out into the public eye, risking a run in with the law, albeit in a convincing guise. As such he was a liability, but one that drew in wealth. Androgynous features and code of dress made him a novelty, something for men to see, not just touch. Few knew him as a male, appearance far too pretty to betray anything from the outside: his patrons and fair master and those unfortunate enough to find themselves under the same employment all knew he was worth more working than kept under a lock and key.

There was something calming in the monotony, like the waves that crashed onto the shore that he hadn't seen since he was a child. It was about the only way to relax, stood outside in the cold dark, his only company the cigarette in his fingers. Far from the exotic, or sophisticated, they were of the highest quality that he could afford on his wages. His clothes were something far richer, deep crimson in colour; of style far more elegant than that of an average whore. It fit his figure tightly, almost too tightly, to give him curves and accents where a male body would've just been straight and solid. Hair rested plainly, unadorned and fresh, around his painted face, the colour of Eastern spices.

Out of the darkness came a large, square figure, long dark hair framing a leathered face, his jaw and mouth concealed by a thick black beard, only the glint of his teeth as he entered the light was visible. Brown eyes were dazed and he stank of cheap gin. Danger flared up immediately behind Genesis' eyes, but his expression remained flat.

"'Ello darling," the man slurred, gloved hands gripping the redhead before he could even turn and announce that he wasn't open for business, and if Sir could kindly move into the building to sate his thirsts…

When Genesis struggled, pulling away or pushing him back, the man only doubled his attack. Those hands grasped tighter to his forearms, dragging the young redhead back into the shadows of the alley beside the large building, and forced his back hard against the damp brick. And before Genesis could even shout out, one of those hands, hot and sweaty, wrapped around his mouth. The taste of bile in his mouth overpowered that of salt. And before Genesis could even move to defend himself, perhaps a sharp kick in the centre of a man, his legs were spread, invalid, and the aggressor filled the void.

"Yeah, you just keeping strugglin' like that, darling."

Azure eyes hardened, jaw itching to bite, but his mind was too repulsed by the man to do so – even for his own protection. A window would quickly open for an escape. Somehow. And soon, he hoped, for one hand had asserted itself under the skirt of his dress, quickly aiming for a target that wasn't there. He saw the confusion on that face, even in the pitch black. But just when Genesis suspected the man to run, disgusted and afraid to commit too many crimes in a single encounter, that grimy voice simply smirked.

"Don't find ones like you too often."

Eyes doubled in size, Genesis twisted in the grasp, but was only restrained further. His wrists were pinned atop his head, where the coarse brick ruined the delicate lace of his gloves. Any time he tried to cry out the sound was muffled and pathetic, and the hand pressed down harder, making breathing a much more trying task.

Scene III

Sephiroth's thoughts were fixed on that new case of Mideel Vermell lingering in the cellar that he'd been determined to save for a special occasion when he caught the echoes of a scuffle in the shadows surrounding him. Shrugging it off as the skittering of a rat, common in these parts, he ignored it and walked on – but there it was again, sounding suspiciously like a muffled sob and what could have been a muttered threat. He halted, letting his ears become accustomed to the hum and creak of the night, eyes searching the mist intently for any movement.

Robbers, thieves and cutthroats were as common as the rats in these districts, driven by poverty to stealing from rich wanderers into their territory and thriving off the fear of their fellow slum-dwellers. Sephiroth didn't particularly want to get involved if there was a gang attacking someone; what was another dead prostitute? One less mouth to feed, and the criminals could be notoriously vicious. Surely it was better to stay aloof – this was nothing to do with him. And yet…

His fingers tightened on the handle of his walking cane as the silence stretched, turning this way and that in an attempt to locate the sounds' location like a hunting predator. There was a tiny, almost inaudible click as the handle's catch slipped free and he took the main part of the cane in his other hand, preparing to draw the halves apart. Where -

"Ah!"

It was there, on his left, and for a second the mist drew apart enough for him to glimpse a wide back straining to restrain a struggling woman, one of her aggressor's hands ruthlessly pinning lace-gloved hands above her head while the other wandered under her skirts. For a moment, Sephiroth froze. Rape wasn't an unusual occurrence among those who served the night – if the customer paid, the service had to be provided. But this seemed wrong, too violent and unexpected; and from what little he knew, he was emerging now into the slightly more reputable area of the pleasure quarter if there could be one, where the brothels were governed by rules rather than the rough, anything-goes attitude that pervaded the heart of the slums.

It only took a second, one more muffled shriek, for Sephiroth to ignore any hesitation he had, seeing only a defenceless woman being heartlessly abused and himself with the power to stop it. He rushed over the uneven cobbles towards the shadow of the red brick building, managing not to trip only because of an almost lifelong training in fencing and other methods of combat.

Coming to a stop a few paces away from the two, he strode the last few feet while drawing a razor-thin rapier from within the cane with a metallic ring and touched it to the side of the man's thick neck, ready to use the wooden outer shell as a defence.

"Excuse me, sir," he said in a level, cold voice, "but I believe you should unhand her now."

For a moment the man barely reacted except from a sudden cessation of the movements of his hands; beyond him, the woman's startlingly blue eyes widened more, but at this second he was not concentrating on her. All his attention was riveted on his opponent, tensing for a sudden retaliation as he watched for the bunching of muscles. There was nothing for a long moment charged with tension, and then Sephiroth broke the silence again, pressing the blade a tiny bit into the man's dirty neck.

"Must I repeat myself?" No reply; the sword drew a dribble of blood. "It was not a request."

With an angry grunt, the man ducked to the side and Sephiroth immediately withdrew, holding the rapier to guard – but the other didn't come for him as expected, instead spitting on the ground and stalking off, vanquished. Inwardly, Sephiroth sighed in relief – he didn't truly want to get involved in a fight which would certainly end in someone's death or wounding this night – but he still did not relax until he'd caught heavy shuffling footsteps sloping off into darkness completely. And it was then, and only then, that he turned his attention to the recipient of his impromptu rescue.

"I must thank you, Sir," a velvety voice said softly; but her gaze, locked to his as she curtsied as delicately as any debutante, spoke otherwise. Of fire, defiance, strength… things one would never find displayed in a girl of his own class. "Whatever can I do to show my gratitude?"

She was incredibly beautiful, a rare find among the usual dirty street whores. Aristocratic cheekbones graced an aesthetically shaped face, eyes reminiscent of sapphires peering out from behind long charcoal lashes. Sephiroth could tell her cropped hair would have been immaculate if she'd been in a composed state, but the way it fell tousled around flushed cheeks now was… fetching.

That azure gaze scrutinised him as she rose gracefully, no doubt judging from his attire that her services could well be paid for tonight. There was something about those eyes, some strange secret lying in the depths, and for a wild moment he wished that he could know what it was. But every girl here had a story to tell, none of them as pleasant as their company.

He knew exactly what she was asking, what she was offering, but he wasn't interested tonight. He was no Catholic, but he'd never used the services of someone of her profession before; it wasn't fear of infection, or disgust, but just because he'd never particularly felt the need. And he shuddered at the thought of what his parents would say if they ever found out. 'Draconian' was an understatement for his father's management of him…

Sheathing the sword and slipping the lock on the handle back into place, he tucked it under his arm. He didn't take his eyes off hers, somehow powerless to look away under the world-weary yet arresting gaze, but he was certain that if he glanced down the skin of her hands under torn lace hanging off her fingers in shreds would be smooth and unblemished, meticulously taken care of as the only other visible skin of her face was. It was unusual that she bore no pockmarks or scars from disease; so common were the poxes and measles down here that even the smallest child in the slums carried some mark from their ravages.

When he did tear his eyes away, he noticed the smouldering cigarette lying on the ground where presumably she'd dropped it when she was attacked; middling quality, not something he'd want to smoke, but better than the death traps most of the lower class were hooked on when they could afford it.

"Truly, I ask for nothing," he replied, inclining his head to her. "It's only right to stop ruffians such as him from terrorising others…"

With a heel he ground out the glowing ashes and pulled out a lacquered black case from inside his coat pocket. Opening it, with slender fingers he plucked out a slim, pearly white cigarette, replaced the box and offered it to her graciously, knowing it was far better quality than she could ever afford.

He saw something unreadable in her eyes but dismissed it, still holding her hand lightly in his. "And what name do you go by?"

She didn't answer immediately, taking the opportunity to accept the offered cigarette, inhaling it a little as if she recognised it – perhaps some other of her clients smoked Eastern tobacco as well as him. It was the fashion, after all, though it was more because of the pleasant quality that Sephiroth chose the blend.

Without a concern the redhead gathered up her skirts, exposing long, slim legs, almost porcelain except for black leather calf-length boots, laced and heeled and perhaps a little more expensive than what was expected of a whore of even her apparent class. She pulled her own small matchbox from a red lace garter; that done, she dropped everything perfunctorily back into place and ignited the match.

The long breath she drew through the white stick certainly had an indulgence that he could almost taste about it; how her eyelashes fluttered from the explosion of rich taste on her tongue. She drew her hand away and leant back against the wall to exhale.

"My name," the redhead finally graced the air with a near-lazy drawl, "is Genesis, and may I ask of yours?"

"Genesis…" Sephiroth echoed softly, committing the name to memory. Appropriate, he thought; it represented creation, perfection – and sin. No doubt that was why she'd chosen it. Many of the whores picked exotic names to make them seem more appealing, more uncommon than simply a poor girl trying to make a living. This was an interesting one, one that could have driven away many potential customers who fooled themselves into thinking they were religious – as if they could be, if they came here. How hypocritical they all were…

Genesis. Intriguing.

He breathed in the rich smoke as she drew on his cigarette again, thinking how strange it was that the scent seemed so much more fragrant when she was smoking it than it seemed when he used it. Everything about this girl was curious; she'd recovered entirely from her almost-rape, suggesting that the occurrence could hardly be described as occasional and her whole mien suggested she was more than willing to lend him herself for the night, already.

It was a little sad; that such a beauty, who would have risen up high in the social ranks he happened to frequent, was wasted down here in the shadows instead of shining out in the sun. Life was cruel.

Blinking to break the spell she was weaving with every drift of smoke, he gathered his thoughts, hoping he hadn't stayed silent for too long while he thought.

"Sephiroth," he said, with a small self-depreciating smile. He had no idea where the name had come from; no doubt from his eccentric father rather than his mild mother. "Sephiroth Crescent."

At that moment the bells in the clock towers dotted around the city rang as one, striking the eleventh hour. The muffled clangs dragged Sephiroth from the moment and he blinked, unnecessarily looking down at his pocket watch to check the time; the rings faded away through the night and he looked up to Genesis apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I should be going," he said, remembering the pile of work waiting at home in Sector Eight with a flood of foreboding. "I'm glad I could help you… Genesis."

"Thank you," Genesis said with sweet sincerity. But before she could say anything else -

"Genny!" The insistent voice rang out from inside the brothel, as stringent as the bells. He guessed her break was over; evidently the pleasure workers were just as hard-pushed as the clerical employees in Midgar's plush business districts.

Pushing herself away from the wall, breathing in the last of the cigarette and grinding it into the grimy paving stones, Genesis curtsied once more to him, brave enough to take a hand and brush a kiss to nimble fingertips.

"I am in your debt, Sir."

The cry from her master came again, and the door to the brothel swung open, filling the streets with a different blend of expensive smoke and alcohol, and the unmistakable, even to Sephiroth, scent of bought sex. "Good evening."

With which she stood back up and entered the building with an oddly haunting look in lingering blue eyes sent back over her shoulder. The fragrance of smoke lingered in the air as the doors shut behind Genesis, back to her duties inside the building. For a second Sephiroth considered calling out, asking for her to stay a little longer – but he knew how that would look, and he couldn't stop her from earning money when he was not intending to spend any. With a sigh, he turned, feeling the last touch of her lips burn on his hand, and walked into the night.

It was late when he finally arrived home, letting himself into the white terraced house and swinging the glossy black door open only enough to let himself in. He shut it with a snap, setting the locks and wearily hanging his hat on a mahogany stand before swinging off the long black coat. The lights were shining bright, new smokeless mako bulbs illuminating the tastefully sparse decoration and furniture.

Sephiroth had never been one for clutter or indulgence, yet he didn't live in discomfort either. There was enough to be homely, yet not too much to clutter; he didn't have hordes of servants skittering around, only employing a cook, a maid and a house servant. If he hadn't been so occupied by his work constantly, he wouldn't even have employed them, much to the horror of his contemporaries; he didn't see the point of wasting money when he could do it himself, and to be honest he was not entirely comfortable with the thought of having other people in his house all the time.

But needs must, and for now he was glad of the already prepared kitchen as the maid ushered him through to a set table and apologised for the wait for food.

"We weren't sure when you'd be back, Sir, so Cook just put it in the oven to warm…"

"That sounds fine, thank you," Sephiroth replied with a nod, too preoccupied to contribute anything else to the conversation and sitting down silently instead. The girl curtseyed and hurried off, pattering footsteps echoing off parquet flooring.

The meal was simple but filling, warming him through after the chill of the night. After it was taken away, Sephiroth retired to the large sitting room and settled before the roaring fire, pouring himself a large glass of deep red wine. Staring at the refracted patterns the flames made through the liquid and taking an occasional sip, he pushed everything from his mind but one certain pair of gleaming blue eyes.

Strange how he could remember her so clearly now; he had no recollection of any of the other whores he'd passed, fading away into nameless shadows in the mist. But Genesis stood out, that last two words hanging in his head like the smoke hung in the air; though he didn't usually smoke often, he lit a cigarette now and perched it between the fingers holding the glass, breathing in the scent and wondering why suddenly he couldn't associate it with anything else but her.

Scene IV

The calm monotony of the street was only a vague, transient memory under the hustle and bustle of the brothel itself. The ground floor was like being shut on the showing pedestal of a livestock auction. Men filled all the available spaces along the elongated pine table that served as the bar. The dark varnish to make the wood seem that little bit more expensive, high class and beautiful was wearing thin through age and lack of attention. Other men sat at the individual tables, sampling the women available before making their choice for the night, if they could afford it.

Patrons were filed into different sections of the bar corresponding to their certain tastes. Ranging from the more conservative by the door and the bar to the back, for those who had something to hide.
Genesis was blessed as such to find his place in a dark far corner, knowing that only those of good taste, experienced in the world, and those with the fattest wallets, would come for him.

There were some who just appreciated a beauty of their own sex. And then there were those who sought to vent anger and hatred for their wives on something that could take the treatment, and understanding, and not yield in the ways that a woman just couldn't comprehend. Misogyny was a disease of the aristocracy, one that he had contracted at birth.

Though he couldn't complain of the niche his employer had ushered him into, he hated having to walk through the fray to get there. Every night after his cigarette break, Genesis faced an onslaught of hands too poor to afford him, or those who thought he was just a pretty girl before they felt him.

"I've been saving up for you, Genny," one drunk voice whistled from behind a gin glass.

"That's nice, Sir." Genesis didn't even glance to acknowledge him: he'd heard such statements so many times.

A man could save all he wanted, but unless he was decent enough, his employer wouldn't let him anywhere near his finest catch - when he felt like it, at least. For that, Genesis was somewhat grateful.

Then, when he was close to his assigned table there was a familiar face sat waiting patiently with a glass of wine, arms tied around his neck, clothed in expensive black suit sleeves. "Hmm," came a purr in his ear. "Who was that with you outside?"

Genesis turned in the near-embrace to meet with the pale blue eyes he'd been expecting under a fringe of deep caramel hair. "A gentleman, who prevented a near rape."

Kunsel's eyes hardened. "Not you?" Genesis nodded. "Do you want to take the night off?" The lack of sincere concern in the man's face and voice was painfully tangible. But nothing Genesis wasn't used to.

Genesis sighed and shook his head, manually unwrapping the brunette from around him.

"There's my girl," Kunsel smiled and pushed the redhead to the table before vanishing back to whatever free poor worker he fancied a piece of.

Not bothering to sit down, Genesis simply held out his hand to the blonde at the table and offered a sultry smile. "What can I do for you tonight, Lazard?"

He stood, smiling, and straightened the lapels of his flawless pinstripe suit. Blue eyes peered over semi-circular glasses at Genesis. Lazard reached out and took his hand.

"Just the usual?"

[Exeunt]