A/N: Previous author's note deleted. I was never meant to be up for long, being so personal, and I figured it was read by the people it was meant to be read by. Sorry for the double alert!

Many thanks to Novocain, my awesome beta. Please enjoy, and reviews are always welcome!

~M

Chapter 6

i. little green

ii. on the way

If there is one thing I've always liked about little brats, other than the fact that they have the makings of wonderful and almost cost-free scapegoats, it's the parties. Man, I love kids' parties. They are big, messy blobs of boisterous fun - stinky as hell, and everyone with a basic understanding of how the Sun spins around Gaia knows that boisterous is my middle name. One of my many middle names, in fact, depending on who you ask and the financial or sentimental value of the item that is missing from their person. Yuffie Boisterous Kisaragi, at your service.

My wheels were, apparently, just as noisy. They rolled over a thick blanket of rubble, moist from the morning Edge mist that so many songs are not sung about because it is made up of a murderous percentage of toxic waste wafting in from old Midgar. Speaking of Midgar, my attire was straight out of the wardrobe of a slum hobo, layers upon layers of rough fleece with blankets draped over my shoulders and lower body to seal in a semblance of warmth. Edge took its winters very seriously, and I would be lying if I said I wasn't grateful for Tifa's last minute shoving of an oversized cap over my ears, even though by the time we had reached the market, it had engulfed most of my head and I could no longer see from one eye. I was blinking my other eye rapidly, trying to avert a slow, impending catastrophe while the cap slipped further and further.

"It's cold out here today," Tifa said, smiling as she rubbed her mittens together, no doubt to the effect of small electric currents rocking through her body in a pleasurable fashion. Such a sexy girl. It's the only reason I let her hang around me.

"Really? I hadn't noticed." I rolled my tongue in my mouth. "Maybe because one of my brain hemispheres is frozen into a solid, yummy sorbet."

"Aren't you glad for Cloud's ski cap now?" she chirped, and underneath that goody two-shoes facade of hers, I could see her gloating. I've recently started investigating the scenario of Tifa being Jenova all along, still planning world domination and mass destruction. It's not as far-fetched as it seems. Think about it.

"No," I lied.

"You'd expect it to get warmer as the day goes by," Vincent mused from his honorary position behind me. "Maybe we should have waited a little longer."

"Nonsense! It must already be six in the morning - I doubt I could have waited another minute."

Tifa chuckled. "It's noon, Yuffie, you sleepyhead. Are you still annoyed with me for waking you up?" she teased.

"Nooo," I drawled. "I love me a sweet, subtle wake-up call from a vacuum cleaner in my ear. Don't you, Vincent?"

Instead of replying, Vincent would rather we crossed the street safely. It's the sort of thing I'd expect from someone as lame as him. He doesn't have his priorities straight.

"It wasn't in your ear- " Tifa started in an amused, exasperated sigh.

"She didn't sleep well last night," Vincent interrupted, always the buzzkill, as he tilted the chair back and gave a gentle tug upwards. Another road crossed, another mountain – sidewalk - climbed. I glanced at the brick pavement below me and the small, welcoming entrance of the store before us. Little flickering lights. A carton chef holding a fluffy white cake so humongous he should be buckling under its weight until half of it ended up splattered on his shoes. These things are never realistic. I swear, they think we young ones are stupid, just because we are fresher than fresh zucchini and they are jealous of our sparkling youthfulness. I bet they do something to the cakes, too, because last time I had one from that place it took the combined efforts of three men to pry me off the ceiling light I was dangling from. Sugar high, they said; I scoff at such remarks. That is so not me – I'm much too poised and pretty and royal for that. These guys here, however, have become much craftier since the days of poisoned red apples, I'll give them that. These days, they caramelize the apples and hide them within folds of snowy whipped cream. I have it all figured out. I'm on to you, bitches.

I was stripped of my astute observational powers when darkness came crashing over my eyes like a thick stage curtain. Stupid cap with its stupid imperialistic ambitions. (Yeah, so I've read some books. You would have too, if you couldn't do much in the physical department.) I blew some air at the general direction of my left eye, but aerodynamics was never my strong suit. Pursing my lips, I cursed Tifa, Tifa's mother, Tifa's cap, and the cap's mother until two fingers clasped at the woolen fabric that was swallowing my head and pulled it back marginally, taking a couple of hairs with it - sacrificed at the hands of Vincent Valentine.

"Ow!" I said, light washing over me as I spoke. I looked at the man standing discreetly at my side, my savior from the dreaded humiliation of having to ask for help, and all I got was the strange impression of a vegetable. Tall as he was, he was like a funky carrot, with a body of red where orange should be and black sprouts in lieu of green. Peering at him from such an angle, his collar made it impossible to see anything other than his eyes, somber and focused comme giant carrot meant business and didn't like to mess around if it could be avoided, but it wasn't a bad carrot. It wasn't a very fresh one, either - more like a pickle.

Mr. Pickle has a very nice ring to it, not to mention beautifully embarrassing connotations. I stored it in the back of my mind as future ammunition in a battle of wits.

For some reason I found myself still studying the parts of his face that I could see. What can I say? I may have found an interest in Natural History. He was neutral, too neutral, as though his mind had no real reason to be all there and was therefore free to wander or just lie dormant until something more challenging came up.

"Thanks," I finally mouthed at him begrudgingly, and I wouldn't be surprised if in his advanced age he had forgotten what I was supposed to be thanking him for. The chipper ring of the store bell alerted us to Tifa - who had apparently sprinted ahead – flinging the glass door open, then turning around and facing us, her face all flushed and grinning.

"Well? Hurry up and come on in!" she said, her voice laced with girlish excitement as she took a peek inside. You'd think it was her party. I couldn't blame her; being the center of attention is always pretty exciting. "They have such amazing stuff in here - Marlene is going to go nuts. Do you think we should go with something fruity and rich and white? But chocolate is nice too. Oh, some of these things are evil - they smell so delicious. I know there's this chocolate walnut cake with little chips in it..." She drifted off as she held the door open for The Princess and her entourage of one to enter.

I didn't want to tell her that kids don't exactly love walnuts, because I do. Who cares what kids think? Nyuk, nyuk! More cake for me, poisoned or not. It's not like I would be climbing anything anytime soon, I thought, and at that moment I kicked myself for being mentally handicapped as well as just handicapped, and that was an equally awful thought. I pushed myself to come to a screeching halt. Wait, was that kid staring at me right now? Why am I picking up on all these little vibes that I normally refuse to acknowledge?

I so didn't want to go there.

Stop. Brain, stop functioning now. Resume previous position.

Like a sip of bitter, undiluted grapefruit juice when you've just woken up and your mouth is dry, the taste of defeat lingers, and it gets worse and worse until each thought bothers you a little more, tiny mosquito bites stinging inside and on your chest. And worst of all, it brings out the Itch again; the need to be a miserable, selfish bastard and scratch at a mental wall with your imaginary nails until you open up a vortex of feelings and half-finished thoughts.

It brings back the little green monster in me.

It reminds me of the fact that once I hadn't known what it's like to catch the odd glimpse or curious stare when you're not obsessively trying to lick your elbow. I certainly hadn't known you could go aaaaah in silence, deep in your throat and in your heart, where there are no words. I wasn't supposed to know, but I do. No one was, not to the extent where it all eventually melts into a vague, mounting sense of horror. Not when it can be brought forth by the thought of a ceiling light - one that wasn't particularly pretty to boot.

I used to be unshakeable. Now I'm easier to unravel than a rope knot tied by a drunk Turk.

Backpedal, Yuffie. Fast. One, two, three... One, two, three... Close your eyes. Think of parties, materia, and inbred chocobos with an eye on their beak and an appetite for their own feathers.

Slowly, carefully, I regained some of my balance. Demon-banishing is a tough job. I wouldn't want to be in Vincent's shoes, especially when they're so out of fashion it's not even funny. Seriously, the only purpose the pointy toes could possibly serve is to squash cockroach families nestled in tight spaces and corners, and, considering what his mansion is like, that's probably why he's still wearing them.

And so it was with my signature Gongagan monkey act on (even though the shopkeeper veto'd my decision to balance cupcakes on my nose) that I swallowed my wayward thoughts like sour tea and browsed for a cake to celebrate a young girl's budding life. If I pulled a face or two, I don't think anybody noticed. I'm too good at what I do. Well, I'm too good at everything I do, if you want to be particular, but I make the occasional attempt at modesty.

'Cause that's how Yuffie rolls.

Like, literally. I roll on things.

My new fighting name could just as well be "Yuffie the Sinister Rolling Pin". It even has the potential to be upgraded to "Yuffie the Spinster Rolling Pin" eventually. Although not nearly as exuberant as I'd like, especially since it doesn't have the words will, bruise, and your ass in it, it will have to do.

Now, lucky reader of Yuffie's Adventures on the Road of Self-Awareness, Tranquility, and Even More Awesomeness, I know you're aching for some action, especially the sort of disastrous action I've promised concerning how I managed to leave Tifa's bar and reassuring smile behind, as well as trash a little girl's party, scandalize half a dozen concerned parents and alienate myself from the people who care the most about me. This is not an easy tale to tell, mostly because at some point I have to admit to getting orange juice poured over my head and trying to tear a well-wishing card with my teeth, but at the same time, it signifies a turning point in my life.

In reality, it's all much more straightforward than it sounds, and I say this while painfully aware of how well I do flashy. I am practically made of glitter. But even I can't make cowardice look flashy. (Maybe a little.)

This is when I finally let go of all the pain and confusion in one sound explosion that left me with shreds of dignity and the pressing desire to run, which would leave me branded as though with a hot iron - like a small, squealing, commercialized pig - for a long time. This is when I first noticed that the stars always look the same, no matter where you're standing and looking from. It's also when I chose to turn my back on Tifa's open arms and beg a man who never wanted me to be his friend, a man who shouldn't have even been there, to take me to an inn.