So here's the debut for a new fanfic plot egg that I thought up. It's not entirely novel, but it's a comfortable, well-worn idea that suits many people well, and I think I put a sufficient number of twists to keep even you, oh beloved reader, guessing ;)

Thanks to all of you! You make my world go round! :D

Enjoy!

Boston, Massachusetts

"Hey, Teef, over here!"

A few swift, precise kicks and the soccer ball flew over to Tessa's waiting cleat. Picking up the pass perfectly, Tessa weaved skillfully back and forth between defenders before finally facing the goalie. She bit her lip, flickered her gaze left and right. Sensing indecision, the goalie rushed her, leaping with arms outstretched.

Tessa's anxious expression abruptly dissolved into a sweet smile as she lightly tapped the ball to the left…straight to Tifa. As the goalie yelped hopelessly, still flying away from the goal, Tifa stepped in neatly to take the shot.

Point blank. Golden goal.

"Haha!" Tifa punched a triumphant fist in the air. "Yes, yes, yessss!"

Sweaty, exhausted, and utterly exhilarated, Tifa's team swarmed her, roaring their approval in voices made hoarse by fatigue and the thirty-some minutes of overtime. Their opponents lay practically comatose on the turf, less disappointed in their loss than relieved at the arrival of their long-awaited rest.

"Semifinals, here we come!" Tessa squealed, hugging Tifa tightly and squeezing out what little oxygen remained in her lungs.

Tifa chuckled breathlessly and wrapped Tessa in her own bear hug. "This means you owe me twenty bucks, you know."

"Oh, small price to pay for this glory!" Tessa sighed theatrically. "For the first time, I am glad you won a bet!"

Tifa grinned before looking around, scanning the crowds through the thicket of her joyous teammates. "Hey, where's our cripple the Captain? Didn't she say she'd be here today, 'broken foot or no broken foot'?"

"Oh yeah…we saw her at halftime though, so she must still be here somewhere," Tessa commented, rubbernecking around. "She's a stubborn one, and I can't imagine her just letting someone whisk her back to the hospital before the end of the match."

Tifa spotted the familiar black braid of their team captain. "Over there!" Tifa yelled, leading the team towards her.

"Iiiiiiisabellllle!" Tessa cheered, rocketing towards their captain with a spurt of her characteristic 'monster speed.'

Isabelle had barely turned around before Tessa tackled her to the ground, cast-clad leg and all.

"Hey, hey, watch the ankle!" Isabelle smiled, propping herself up on one elbow. "I might still be your tough-as-nails captain, but I do need breathing room, silly!"

"And here I always thought you were a cyborg or something," Tifa quipped as she arrived, still smiling widely. "Welcome back, Izzy."

Isabelle's smile faltered. "Hey, Teef."

Tifa didn't miss a beat. "Izzy?" she questioned curiously.

Isabelle stared up at her, suddenly lost for words. "Umm…Tifa…"

"Yes?"

"Ms. Tifa Lockhart?"

Tifa whirled, surprised by the unfamiliar voice.

A tall, middle-aged man in a suit stood before her. He seemed peculiarly two-dimensional with his generic brown eyes, generic brown hair, and generic gray, three-piece suit. He looks like a government grunt straight out of The Bourne Identity, Tifa thought to herself.

"Yes, that's me?"

"Ms. Lockhart, I deeply regret having to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart have been declared deceased in your home today."

…What?

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" Tifa asked, keeping a tight smile on her face. What a lunatic! Who let this guy onto school grounds?

The lunatic pulled out a badge and an I.D. "I am Agent Trotsky from the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Ms. Lockheart."

Tifa hid her confusion behind a blank stare. FBI? What? Dad works at the FBI, but—

The pieces fell into place, and Tifa's heart stopped. No. No, no, no. Tifa's mind raced back to that morning. I ate breakfast, said goodbye to Mom and Dad, left for the soccer game…no, that can't be right!

"I think you might have the wrong person," Tifa said weakly. "I saw my parents less than three hours ago. They…can't be dead. It's not possible."

The agent seemed to sigh. Some impression of sadness flitted through those impassive, plain brown eyes. "The residence located at 501 Maple Leaf Street in Lamar County detonated today at approximately 9:30 AM, most probably due to a hidden incendiary time bomb placed somewhere in the laundry room. Our bomb squads are currently examining the remains of the house to determine more specific details. Ms. Lockhart, do you reside at 501 Maple Leaf Street?"

Tifa said nothing. She stood there, stunned and silent because she did reside at 501 Maple Leaf Street in Lamar County and because she'd had toast and scrambled eggs with her parents, kissed them goodbye, and driven down to the soccer field at no earlier than 9:10 AM—and somehow, someway, in the twenty minutes it took her to drive to the tournament, both of her loving parents had quite literally been wiped off of the face of the planet.

And here I was playing soccer for almost two hours after my parents died, Tifa realized numbly.

Tifa stammered—something she hadn't done since she was three. "I…I don't…"

"Ms. Lockhart," said the agent more gently, "I am sorry for your loss, but as we are not positively certain of the circumstances of the murder or the specific target, you are still in considerable danger. The FBI is offering you protection for the time being until your relatives can be contacted and…" His voice faded out in an indistinct screen of white noise as Tifa replayed his words in her head.

Murder. Murder. Murder.

And, in the chaotic turn of events, somewhere in Tifa's head, something changed. Foreign chemicals flooded her system, previously dormant neurons started firing crazily, and Tifa stayed stock-still as her mind shattered from loss and something new came together from all the broken pieces.

"…Ms. Lockhart?" The FBI agent examined her cautiously, his face a mass of blurry pixels, his voice fuzzy and far away. "Ms. Lockhart, are you alright?"

A hand descended on her shoulder. Tifa barely acknowledged it. She'd almost forgotten that the rest of her team was there. Tessa's tearful voice filtered through the buzzing in her ears. "Teef…Teef, I am so sorry…I…"

Tifa whispered. "…Stop."

And the world suddenly stood still. But Tifa didn't notice the pigeons were suspended in midair, plump pears hanging in the sky, or the trees paused in their waltz with their wind, their limber forms still bent in graceful, arched bows. Tifa didn't notice the leaves shimmering through the air, each tumbling fringe caught in the glare of the sun, or the sympathetic eyes and faces frozen in expressions varying from pure shock to welling grief. Tifa didn't see the beautiful world quiet and calm around her because in her world nothing could possibly be right again.

"Mom…Dad…"

And only then, surrounded by silence, did Tifa finally break down and start to cry.

…

Washington, D.C.

"Zack Fair…" The rather unpleasant, smirking man drew out the last name before snapping the file shut and turning his gaze at the boy sitting in the chair before him. "You are quite the troublemaker."

Zack sighed. He was sitting in a windowless metal box of a room that was about as artfully crafted as a marshmallow gun. Concrete walls of solid gray stared down at two steel chairs – one of which he was occupying now – and a single metal table riveted into the floor. There was one barred-off air duct near the ceiling, a thick metal door, a slab of one-way mirror fixed in the wall, and yet another pompous, black-suited interrogator.

"Oh good, you can read," Zack yawned, stretching as best as he could with handcuffs encircling his wrists.

The interrogator kept smiling snidely. "Make all the wisecracks you want, boy. We have you now. There's no miraculous escape for you this time, not in this room."

I beg to differ, Zack thought, suppressing a smile of his own. He could see a dozen ways out just by glancing around – he was just participating in their little façade to keep the Feds happy while he plotted his real grand scheme.

"What I don't understand, though, Mr. Fair, is how you're able to be so cavalier under such serious circumstances," the interrogator continued, setting the file down on the table and sitting on the other chair. "I believe that you are aware that you are being held under suspicion for the theft of multiple, highly-regarded, and extremely secure paintings across the globe?"

Zack put on his best poker face and widened his eyes. "Who, me?" he asked, pointing a finger at his innocent expression.

The interrogator showed the first signs of impatience. "Yes, you. You have been stealing priceless artworks from public museums and private collections for the past five years under the pseudonym of 'the SOLDIER'. You have also managed to get away with all of them – excepting that last failed heist, of course," the man said, adding the last phrase as a taunt.

Zack was smart enough to see bait when he saw it. "The SOLDIER?" He frowned. "Sounds more like a government nutcase than an art thief. Are you sure his name was that?"

The interrogator simply watched Zack, his eyes scrutinizing. Zack stifled another yawn.

"Oooooookay," Zack finally said, breaking the silence. "So you're saying that I'm some sort of internationally wanted white-collar criminal capable of stealing really expensive paintings that are protected by really expensive security systems?" Zack raised an eyebrow skeptically at the other man. "If I had any more money than the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket, I'd use it to buy some new clothes. I'm pretty sure that I've been sitting in this outfit for the past two days or something."

"Thirty-five hours and fifty-six minutes," the interrogator corrected. "And yes, that is precisely what I have been insinuating."

Around thirty-six hours, Zack thought to himself carefully. Okay, so that means that the trigger should be coming soon.

The interrogator seemed to be realizing the futility of his current approach. He switched demeanors with an almost bi-polar swiftness, his voice growing gentler. "What we're trying to say, Mr. Fair, is that we need the paintings back. They are all great testaments to humanity's glory as a whole, and the entire world deserves to see them, don't you think?"

T-minus two minutes and a half. "Not particularly," Zack replied absentmindedly, his eyes wandering the room. Seriously, whoever designed this place could probably suck the life out of the Last Supper.

"But surely you can see that the pieces that you've stolen symbolize the genius of the human race?" the interrogator almost pleaded. He fixed his gaze on Zack. "We need them back, Mr. Fair. All of us need them."

Zack stared at the interrogator in surprise. "Umm. Hold up. Did you just say, 'the genius of the human race'?"

Taken aback by the random statement, the other man frowned. "Yes, but that's not the point."

Zack blinked…and then burst out laughing.

"Oh…wow…" Zack choked out between fits of laughter. "There's the worst joke I've ever heard." He smiled at his interrogator. "Genius? The human race? Those two are practically opposites to begin with. Putting them in a sentence next to each other creates a pretty epic oxymoron."

"…I'm sorry? I don't follow," the interrogator finally said, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Of course you don't," Zack sighed, as if he'd been anticipating the answer. He reached up and tapped the side of his head. "Gotta think outside the box, you know?"

The interrogator kept looking at him. "I'm sorry, I don't think that we're being very clear with each other. The point of this discussion is—"

BOOM!

The concrete enclosure shook ominously, leaking spirals of dust from unseen cracks in the ceiling. Through the soundproofed walls, they could both hear the wail of some alarm picking up, its pitch and volume increasing exponentially. The interrogator's head snapped up to stare at whatever disturbance was happening above – and then snapped back to glare accusingly at Zack.

Zack yawned again and rolled his shoulders.

"Is this you?" the interrogator snarled, pointing at the ceiling, all traces of the friendly façade utterly evaporated.

"How could it be me?" Zack reasoned, smiling politely and holding up his cuffed wrists by means of explanation. He pointed at the interrogator with both hands and winked. "I have all attention focused on you, after all."

Another thud and a muffled explosion shuddered throughout the complex. The interrogator spat a curse and stormed out of the room, his hand pressed against his ear as he jabbered into an invisible mouthpiece.

"Angry little fellow," Zack commented idly, shaking his head in dismay. "Oh well. I guess I'd be kind of stressed too, in his position." He stood up. "I guess I should get ready, too."

Zack waited patiently for exactly ten seconds before taking three steps back from the steel table and closing his eyes.

The ceiling suddenly exploded, sending chips of cement, steel, and mortar flying. Zack felt a sudden wave of heat blast his face and opened his eyes with an irritated scowl on his face as he looked up at the ceiling.

"You're late, Reno," Zack grumped, sending a little shock of electricity through the handcuffs. In every atom of the cuffs, the metal ions suddenly polarized and contracted at the jolt of electricity. Without the contiguous puddles of electrons to lend malleability and strength, the cuffs turned stiff and brittle, and Zack's light pull utterly pulverized them.

"Hey, you rush a miracle worker and you get lousy miracles," grinned Zack's savior, his long red hair stubbornly ruffled despite the ponytail holding it back. His green eyes glowed like a cat's as he dropped down through the melted hole in the ceiling and onto the remains of the crushed steel table.

"Wo-w," Reno whistled, drawing out the word. "I can see they put a whole lot of effort into the décor here." He shook his head. "And now here I've gone and put a gigantic hole in the roof. What a shame."

"Well, you know what they say – change is good for you, right?" Zack grinned, hopping up onto the ruins of the table next to Reno. "Did you get the stuff?"

Reno rolled his eyes. "Was that even a question?" he retorted, reaching into the folds of his rumpled blue suit and pulling out a medium-sized box. "Here you are, my dear partner in crime. The Hope Diamond from the Smithsonian Museum itself. Happy now?"

Zack didn't bother opening the case. He tucked into a pocket of his black cargo pants and smiled at Reno. "Don't worry, I had full confidence in you. So where's the shrimp?"

"Hey! I take offense to being called derogatory terms!" yelped a little voice from above. A petite girl with short, dark hair in short, dark clothing peered over the flames still lining the edges of the hole in the ceiling.

"Sorry, Yuff. We'll be up in a second," Zack repented with another grin. He turned to Reno. "Ladies first."

"Not…so fast," came a breathless voice from behind Zack and Reno. Both boys turned. The FBI interrogator was standing in the doorway, holding a gun on them. "Stay where…you are."

"Oh, great!" Yuffie ranted from above, clearly visible hopping up and down in frustration on the level above. "Nicely done, Reno! I thought you said that you'd distract everyone while we made our great escape, you moron!"

"You're kind of out of shape for a Fed," Reno noted sympathetically, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Out of breath from a little run like that? Geez. Shrimpy up there could probably beat you with her twig legs."

"What was that?" Yuffie roared menacingly. "I dare you to say it to my face when you get up here! I dare you!"

"Keep your shirt on, we're coming," Reno yawned. He jerked his head at Zack. "You wanna take care of this one?"

Zack sighed. "Of course. I'm always running around putting out your fires. No pun intended."

Reno grinned and climbed to the top of the rubble.

"Don't move!" the agent yelled again. "I won't repeat myself!"

"Huh. And yet you have no problem with spewing the same crap at me for a day and a half straight," Zack grumbled. He felt the energy crackling through the steel under his feet, gathering obediently at his beck and call.

"Stop right there—"

Zack unleashed a very light wave of electricity at the federal agent. First it zapped the electrons in the metal of the gun and bullets, rendering the firearm utterly useless. Then the wave moved on, hitting the man, standing all of his hair on end, paralyzing his limbs, momentarily overloading every nerve in his body, and throwing him back a good ten feet through the door. The door itself slammed shut with surprising force, magnetically attracted to its own frame.

"Oops," Zack sighed. "I miscalculated again."

Reno raised his hand palm-up to his lips and blew a couple of white-hot sparks at the door, welding it shut to the frame. "That should hold off any more of them for while." He clambered nimbly up to Yuffie's level and looked down at Zack. "You coming?"

"Yeah." Zack turned back to his friends and took Reno's hand. Once they were on the same level, Yuffie stared stonily at both of them.

Reno and Zack sighed. "Alright, we're sorry about the short comments."

Yuffie continued muttering darkly under her breath as she took hold of their sleeves. "Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Reno volunteered cheerily.

Yuffie concentrated for a moment…and then took off running at an inhuman speed, turning the world into a blur of streaked colors.

Someone walking outside on the sidewalk that night could almost hear a triumphant laugh ringing through the empty air, the only evidence that the Triad had visited – and struck – once again.

…

Los Angeles, California

"Dr. Gainsborough!"

The nurse came fluttering down the hall, repeating the name urgently as she slipped past throngs of doctors. "Dr. Gainsborough!" As she spotted the familiar pink ribbon and gently wavy brown hair, her voice sounded infinitely more relieved. "Aerith! We have a patient coding in O.R. 6 – we were going through with a multiple bypass, and somehow, I don't – the surgeon – he doesn't know – we're sorry, we just –"

The doctor turned…and smiled. "Casey. There's nothing to be sorry about." She placed a comforting hand on the nurse's shoulder. "Lead the way."

The nurse gave her a quick, nervous smile and hurried towards the operating room with the surgeon nicknamed "The Miracleworker" in tow.

The moment her shoe slapped the tiles of the operating room floor, Aerith was immersed in a flood of pure, professional-grade panic. The EKG beeped wildly, warning the surgeons of the all-too-evident demise of the patient on the table. The head surgeon was moving fast, sealing each hemorrhaging artery or vein with swift, precise movements of the hemostasis, but more blood pooled with every passing second, filling up the chest cavity and concealing their sources.

"Dr. Gainsborough is here," gasped the nurse, yanking on a new pair of latex gloves and pulling her mask back up.

Aerith followed suit, donning a sterile blue apron, fitting a mask over her nose and mouth, lowering glasses over her eyes, and snapping on fresh gloves. When she stepped forward, the assisting surgeons parted, leaving a perfect spot for her across from the main surgeon.

Aerith smiled behind her gear at the calm, cool, and utterly panicked surgeon in front of her. "All right, Dr. Philodumanos. I'll take the surgery from here."

With a grateful glance, the other doctor handed Aerith the hemostasis and took the role of the assistant. Aerith took a deep breath, closed her eyes in brief prayer to God, and dived in.

She could immediately see why the nurses had seemed so urgent. Sometime during surgery, the heart had begun palpitating irregularly, cutting itself open in multiple spots on the sharpened edges of the surgeons' scalpels. Aerith noted the bizarre situation somewhere in the back of her mind as she took up the hemostasis in hand and began sealing blood vessels.

Yet, as fast as she could cauterize, the blood still collected, the fluid level creeping up insidiously despite the other surgeon's swift and decisive actions with the drain. It was like trying to empty a bathtub with a sieve.

And then, out of nowhere, Aerith felt that familiar little nudge in her heart that told her to use the full extent of her gift. She closed her eyes again momentarily, acknowledging the command. "Let your will be done on earth as it is in Heaven."

Aerith continued the procedure with her hands, but her mind reached deep inside herself, into the very core of her being. Her power lay there obediently, waiting to be used. Aerith paid her tribute to God before drawing on her talent and allowing the warm, healing flow of energy to stream from her heart and into her fingers.

Heal, Aerith thought, watching the green strands of energy leave her hands and sink into the man's body. Even though only she could see it, Aerith always found it a pleasure to watch the magic do its work. Careening through without even the slightest inkling of Aerith's guidance, the energy seemed to know what to do. It spun delicate weaves over every last laceration in the heart, cutting off the profuse bleeding instantaneously; it spread long threads over the entire heart and steadied its pulse, aiding the weary muscle in pumping the blood. The other surgeon's eyes widened as the blood flow slowed and finally stopped altogether and the heartbeat, rallying to the steady palpitations of the magic, settled into a regular rhythm. He looked up, amazed. "How did you…?"

All the while, Aerith continued faithfully sealing every exposed blood vessel with the hemostasis, trusting the healing threads to do the rest.

"How…how did you do that?" the other surgeon asked quietly, finishing draining. "We both tried that tactic for over thirty minutes, and it failed. How did you…how did you do it so that it worked?"

Aerith smiled earnestly at him as she handed the hemostasis away and peeled off her gloves. "I trusted in God. Now let's bring this tired man back to his room so he can rest easy."

Hushed by the vision of the miraculous healing, the nurses and doctors obeyed. Aerith smiled down at the man as he passed. God has deemed you worthy of the Healing Touch, brother. Be healed and live happily.

"Thank God you hadn't left yet," the nurse breathed, staring up at Aerith in adoration as the operating room cleared. "You saved that man's life. You truly created a miracle."

Aerith smiled, but shook her head. "No, no. What you said before is true. Thank God, not me. I did not save his life; I did not create a miracle. No, I merely served as a vehicle for His holy will, and He decreed that the man would not die on that operating table this day."

The nurse blinked, astonished. And then she laughed. "Dr. Gainsborough, you are truly a spectacular physician."

"Only as spectacular as God allows," replied Aerith humbly as she inclined her head once more and walked away. The nurse watched her leave and shook her head.

"There goes God's greatest gift to humankind since the days of the Testament," the nurse proclaimed, watching the graceful doctor walk away. "There goes humanity's very own miracleworker."

…

The Hamptons

The door clicked quietly open at exactly 12:30 PM that day.

Right on schedule, he noticed, smirking. As usual.

Shff shff, shff shff. Even the inch-thick carpeting couldn't completely silence those steel-soled shoes.

Good morning, Tseng, he projected in his usual languid manner. He could smell the white flowers adorning the slim branches outside, tousled silkily by the wind. How do you fare this morning?

And, as usual, he was met with the bizarre radio silence of the other mind. Not a flinch, not an inch, he thought to himself, an amused smile curling his lips.

Even without the gift of traditional sight, his mind perceived everything clearly around him—the pear tree before him, vibrantly white with life; the sleek black birds skimming the water below, their small hearts thrumming rather than beating in their merry, aimless chase; the blank, obedient ivory of the guard standing at the door behind him. He could sense the fainter white outlines of the furniture and layout of the room, their geometric forms shimmering even in the darkness behind his eyes; the mysterious scintillations of countless random energies wandering through the room, appearing and living only for a moment before falling back into oblivion; and the mechanical, aloof entity working purposefully at the desk behind him—Tseng.

No comment? He probed further, edging up to the corners of Tseng's mind. Ah. I see, then. Perhaps you are still acquainting yourself with my novel conversation vector?

Though he'd been born blind, he'd also been born with a gift, the capability to see without physically seeing, the ability to close his physical eyes and somehow understand the world with his mind better than his eyes ever could. His unusual talent—his 'inner vision', as it had been labeled—had evolved alongside him, growing exponentially in power and perception until his tenth birthday, when he finally found himself able to 'speak' to others—without ever opening his mouth. Ever since that coming of age five years ago, he had gone utterly mute, choosing to converse purely through thought.

Tseng had been hired as his 'caretaker' a few years back, after he'd nearly given the last babysitter a heart attack when he 'talked' to her for the first time. And, at last, he'd encountered someone who was unfazed by his gift—someone who kept his mind as firmly shut as a closed book. Naturally, this Herculean self-control had piqued his curiosity, and now he spent most of his time exploring new paths to hack Tseng's defenses.

He began focusing his awareness at Tseng curiously. What are you doing back there, anyway? Isn't it usually just the quick checkup to make sure I haven't killed myself or someth—

A sudden, powerful pressure pressed on his collarbone and shoulder, effectively arresting all movement above the shoulders. The other arm swiftly snaked across and anchored the deadlock. He barely had the time to feel shock when something sharp pricked his neck.

Only then did the panic reflex kick in as he struggled to free himself. What the—?

"Relax. Keep breathing," came the monotone. The pain at the side of his neck started to ebb away…

He felt so sleepy all of a sudden…so desperately ready to nap for a week or so to shake the sudden drowsiness overwhelming him. Some muffled cognitive processes informed him that doing so would be a bad idea, that there was some connection between the stab in his neck and his abrupt lethargy, but no matter how he tried to remember, thought and memory slipped effortlessly away…

His muscles went rubbery, and his hand slid away from the arm wrapped around his neck, twitching. He let his head fall backwards in the supportive embrace of…whoever it was back there, releasing all remaining tension.

Just before his consciousness fluttered out, he knew the culprit…and Tseng's shielded mind stared back at him, the shimmering outline of the empty syringe in his hand…

One last foggy thought slogged laboriously through his mind as the world spun away and left him in blissful darkness.

Et tu, Brute?

…

[unknown]

He could feel it coming. It was always preceded with that strange vacancy of thought and emotion, as if some omnipotent deity from above had simply scooped out his soul and held it up to the light, peering through it like it was a pane of strangely colored glass. It left him imperturbably placid in the few moments before the real oddities began.

– is he looking at me anyway? I don't think he is but – so if the parabola is the set of all points equidistant from a fixed point and a fixed line then we can derive that an ellipse is – wonder what's for lunch? It'd better not be that gross cheese we had yesterday, that barely counted as food – if they're even paying attention. I'm not paid enough for – hope she doesn't collect the homework – I HATE PRECALC SO MUCH – need that A if I wanna go to Harvard – wish I knew what an abscissa was – then f(x) = (x - h)² + (y - k)² would stand for –

"Mr. Strife."

Cloud jerked back into consciousness, almost falling off of his chair. A few of his classmates snickered. "Y-yes?"

His teacher's disapproving gaze bored into him. "Would you like complete Teresa's statement and explain what a hyperbola is in the geometric sense?"

Cloud racked his brain, struggling to dredge up the notes he'd taken before. "A hyperbola – is the set of all points who have – who have a common difference from two fixed points on the Cartesian plane?"

"Very good, Mr. Strife," his professor said, her eyebrows slightly lifted. Apparently she'd thought he wasn't listening. "Naturally, it could use some slight editing, but it's an excellent start." She spied another daydreamer. "Carl, would you like to help Cloud?"

Carl, who had neither done his homework nor paid any attention whatsoever in class, blinked sleepily at her and the board. "Huh?"

Cloud ducked his head and breathed a sigh of relief as laughter erupted around him. He'd passed today's participation grade, thankfully.

And then he frowned, rubbing the side of his head. These random onslaughts of random thoughts – none of them his own – were starting to bother him. He'd dealt with them all his life, but after his sixteenth birthday, they'd started to actually hinder him. It had started out merely as a distracting running commentary in the back of his mind, but now Cloud could barely pick out his own thoughts from the foreign ones.

And where do they even come from, anyway? Cloud wondered. He'd wondered for a while if he was going insane, but eventually judged himself of sound mind and soul – but, then again, it wasn't as if he had actually asked anyone else.

"…And Mr. Strife, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred thousand times, would you please at least try to keep your pencil—" The bell cut off his teacher's sigh. The class fairly cheered as they quickly packed up and left in a mad flurry of papers, pencils, and calculators.

"Saved by the bell this time, Mr. Strife, but don't expect it to happen again!" his teacher called after Cloud as he fled the room, laughing under his breath with the rest of his friends.

"Geez, you really know how to snooze in class," Tom chuckled, slapping Cloud on the back. "I didn't think it was possible for our little daydreamer to get any more distracted than he already is, but I guess you learn something new every day."

"Ugh, did anybody understand what an abscissa was?" Cameron groaned, fumbling with his math notebook. "I swear, she just runs her mouth and expects us all to understand, like we're all goddam geniuses."

"It's like an x-coordinate, Cam," Tom explained jovially, swinging an arm around Cameron's shoulder. "Kinda like a euphemism for…"

Cloud frowned, retreating into his own mind again. "Did anybody understand what an abscissa was?"…Why did that question sound familiar?

"CLOUD. Earth to Mr. Strife!" Tom yelled in Cloud's ear.

"Huh?" Cloud blinked uncomprehendingly. Tom sighed.

Tom rolled his eyes. "There goes our little dreamer again, off into La-la Land. Tell me, is there anything really interesting going on there? Anything more interesting than, say, the real world? All the other guys are ditching us."

Cloud winced as Tom punched him in the arm. "Um, ow, Varisty Tennis Team Captain, ow."

Tom grinned. "Well, if someone didn't keep drifting off, we wouldn't have to remind you every two seconds where we're going."

"Yeah, well…" Cloud struggled to think of a comeback. "…Where are we going again?"

Tom's smile widened. "Lunch, Cloud?"

"Sounds good," Cloud replied gratefully, jogging towards the herd of his classmates ahead.

"…Hey, Cloud."

"Hmm?"

Tom ran lightly alongside Cloud, looking pensive as he studied Cloud out of the corner of his eyes. "You actually do seem kind of distracted nowadays. Do you…have something you need to talk to someone about? I mean…are you sure you're okay?"

Oh, no, it's nothing. I just hear voices in my head and debate whether I'm insane or not on a daily basis. Oh, and sometimes I can't tell if the voices in my head are someone else's or my own.

Cloud summoned up another brave smile.

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm fine."

Famous last words.

A/N: Yay for Cloud! :D I wanna be questionably insane, too! :3

Thanks for reading, everyone!

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