He's falling and firing that gun.

The gun he's held to his forehead so many times, wishing desperately that he had the kind of courage such an act entailed. The gun that's slaughtered so many in his short life, so many that he could dye a hundred of his father's suits red. Above him, back on the ledge, he can see the wispy, silver hair and the insane, cat-like eyes staring down at him in fury, voice cursing him as he makes his descent. He's ready, though, ready, and he closes his eyes…

And then he abruptly opens them again because he can no longer feel the rush of air on his face or hear the sound of his gun. There had been no crash, no shattering of bones, no pain, so he could not have landed.He opens his eyes and all he can see is green, a glowing, ethereal green that makes his insides seize up and his heart pound as he realizes just where he is, or, more exactly, just where he isn't. With a cry that echoes through the strange, familiar light, he clutches his gun to his chest, desperate suddenly to hear the sound of its fire when set off too close to his ear. When the gun does not fire, even after he reloads it, and he only hears the hollow click of the mechanics,he spins about desperately only to see green light for miles and miles and miles before—

"What are you doing here?"

He freezes. The voice echoes around him, much like his scream did earlier. For a moment, nothing happens, but then he feels a prod, notices a slight shift in some points in the green light, a shimmer here, a ripple there.

"It's not your time," says the voice, or voices; he can't tell with the echoes. "You shouldn't be here…"

He's never been a cowardly man, but he finds it takes much control for him to speak. "What do you mean?" he shouts, noticing, out of the corner of one eye, that his hand - the hand previously blackened by the plague, the Geostigma - seems to be glowing, seems to be on fire but with no pain. "What's going on?"

Again there are ripples and shimmers, and, he hears of the first time, whispers like thousands of people conversing at the same time. He thinks that they (whoever they are) sound agitated, worried. His heart pounds in his chest. There are so many voices.

"Do you know what happened?"

This time the voice does not echo and seems to be just one, a kind but firm voice. He turns a bit to his left, looks directly at a shimmer several feet away with dissecting eyes.

"No," he answers, "I don't know. I should be dead. Butthere should have been pain if I'd died; I should have felt my body smash open before everything shut down."

Shimmer-thing flickers as so hundreds of others. "We do not doubt your honesty," it says, its' murmuring once more sounding through the light. "This is our mistake… We havemiscalculated and now our mistake must be corrected."

More murmurs, some louder, some softer. Ironically, it makes him think of the board room, filled with all of his father's people, all of whom had planned to harness this green light, to bend it towards human will.

A new voice, older, wiser, harsher, speaks. "We have a proposal for you."

It sounds ominous, but what other choice does he have? He is a reasonable man; he will listen."What is this… proposal?" The word tastes like poison in his mouth.

"We must send you back. It is not your time to join us." A pause. "But we cannot send you back to the time where you are directly affected by the great schism in our plan. Either we will allow you to keep your memories but send back to the time of our choosing, or we will wipe your memories of everything that has thus occurred but return to the moment before your infection. It is your choice."

"In other words," he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, "either I become your repair tool or I remain a blind puppet."

There is a long silence, no murmurs, not echoes. He fingers his gun, and he thinks of the past, all his years and his life, all the terrible and the few wonderful things. He considers and weighs before he decides. Well, what has he got to loose? He knows he can't go back; they would have sent him back already if that were so. And so much as gone wrong, yet there's so much he would rather die than forget.

"I want..." He pauses, looks at the clean skin on his hand, the mark ofthe plague vanished, cleaned. "I want to keep my memories."

Another pause, then a million shimmers and ripples, a canopy of voices all murmuring, all whispering. The shimmer that spoke alone to him first stands out for a brief moment, and he almost imagines that it is smiling.

"Very well."

And then he's falling again but now through absolute darkness.

--

Turkish Delights

--

Prologue

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

--

Pain.

It was everywhere. He withered, writhed, but he seemed to be strapped down with something very strong. The pain was burning and relentless, and he screamed until his throat was raw and dry, until his voice was hoarse and he could scream no more. For hours, he felt like he was going to die; for hours, he could think of nothing other than the pain, the absolute agony.

But, slowly, so horribly slowly, the pain faded away and he could think again. He was exhausted, yes, but he couldn't sleep, not with all the thoughts running through his head, not with all the strange smells and blurry sights around him.

Where am I? He thought as his breathing finally steadied, but that thought was immediately followed by another, more disturbing one as he remembered the green light and the fall from the roof. When am I?

Footsteps were the first sound other than his own laboured breathes that he registered, one set of shuffling thumps and another of heavy scuffs. They were nearing him, and he struggled to focus his sight, struggled to see more than the watery blurs that made up his vision. He couldtaste blood on his lips.His limps were still securely fastened to the surface he lay upon.

"Can he hear us?" asked a gruff, crude voice that sent a jolt of fear and horror through his exhausted body.

Shuffling thumps, a cold cloth pressed over his eyes, wiping away the watery film so that he could see. "No. He'll be delirious for another half-an-hour or so, Mister President."

Red, like his name, but hated; it was all he can see now that his vision was no longer blocked. It was the red of his father's signature suit, bronze buttons in buttonholes stretched because of a corpulent belly. A pudgy hand pressed against some machinery next to his head.

"You better have fixed him up good by tonight, Hojo. I can't have my son worrying his dear Mother so much she won't let me screw her after dinner."

"You know," said Hojo, in a strange tone, "you almost killed the kid. If I shoot him up again so soon, it'll speed up the process of healing, but there's going to be consequences."

Rufus Shinra, for the first time in a long time, felt true fear and despair as he listened to his father speak again in the very same voice he heard in his nightmares.

"I don't care." Flat, no emotion, yet it still tore atRufus's insides. "Just do it. He's useless this way."

A needle slid into his right arm, into the vein,filled with the familiar glowing green. The pain started again, but he had no more energy or breath to scream.And, for a long time,he thought no more.

--

End Prologue