How I Found Him

Palmer could pack pin-ups, roll them into paper piston rods and place them behind the piano so his mother wouldn't find them. Since his teenage years, however, Palmer had grown—even though Scarlet told him he must have shrunk every day, in addition to losing more of his hair—and he craved more appropriate toys. Something he could prop up on his desk. He told Corneo repeatedly that he needed to expand his line of Honey Bee merch into the figurine market, and he'd only recently hit pay dirt.

A torn box spilled pewter ladies over Palmer's desk—well, more an ironing board these days, since the division cuts. Corneo promised Palmer a gil for every hundred sold, as long as he sent his approval. Palmer estimated those babies would top the papers for Sector Six sales. They made great paperweights, dash décor, party favors—even little antennae on punished televisions for the slumlings. A shelf rested behind Palmer in place of a window, but who needed a window when he could pile it with pewter goddesses? Palmer kept the age-old adage, debauchery suited men like action figures suited boys, and Corneo could cater to both.

Those Sephiroth action figures were a thing of the past. If The President ever rebooted the space program like he planned, Palmer would make sure at least one lucky palm-sized lady made it to the moon.

Palmer's favorite so far had to be Priscilla. She had green eyes and just the right curve dipping inside her hip bone to send tingles to the back of Palmer's hands. The extra dimension really added that P-factor—like salt in mamma's chocolate chip cookies. Prissy made Palmer forget all about the unfavorable ruling that evening's meeting.

Having shut the blinds to get to know Priscilla better, Palmer missed the hush over the floor, the turn of the nobs, the hiss of displaced coffee pot, dripping glass and grinds on the floor. As one last wave of euphoria ripped up his spine, a cold buzz kicked it back down. Lights flickered, painting sparks in the room.

Mako power didn't fail like that.

Palmer wiped his hand on his pants and leaned back in his chair. He tried to peer through his office blinds from where he sat. Could he hear pained screams? Had someone let a cat in the office? No, of course not—it could only be…

Porscia chose that moment to dive from the shelf behind his head in a fit of jealousy, along with all six other ladies Palmer had stacked there, one by one—truly, the flimsy plywood had puckered. As if orchestrated! Palmer tipped forward. The ache stabbed at the base of his neck, and he fell over, smashing his face against his desk and pissing out all the lights.

Stabbing forced Palmer into a haze. Dusk had fallen. Cold floor kissed his back side—pants down, he hadn't had a chance to pull them back up—and his thick fingers clutched around Porscia's neck. She really wasn't Palmer's type. Long white hair, red eyes, that strange dead-blue skin…

Not Porscia.

It looked like that creature Hojo kept in his labs. That horrible thing! Hojo had promised that if he would volunteer for the intelligence trials, he would have a word with The President regarding the space program. Damn prober poked so many needles in his left arm, and not a single word to Big Pops.

Red eye twinkled as Palmer ran his thumb over the small—Jehova? Was that it? Jenova—face. It pulsed against his hand, hiccupping. When had his own skin started to prick him? In all the places where that scientist—must be the muscle memories. The pores gulped the hairs on the back of his knuckles. He needed those! Damn, he needed any hair. Anywhere. Scarlet always complained about how aging put hair in the wrong places, but he'd take it.

Who took it from you?

Palmer blinked. The hair came back, but the pale skin of the figurine still shone blue. Tentacles began to grow from Porscia—if Corneo had wanted to try something to make the dolls more life-like, he had some kinks to ponder.

Preferring any other sight, Palmer turned to see if he could check for faults in the other products…

Except that Palmer seemed to no longer be in his office. That would explain why glass bit into his ass instead of plush carpet. He saw the high lamps, the glass yellow desk of President Shinra, and almost yelped.

Shinra sat up in his chair, his eyes unblinking, his hands folded on his desk. Except that he did not move. Nothing in the office did. The usually roving ceiling fans stood still, but the chains that hung from the propellers seemed to have frozen, dangling like stuck pendulums.

Porscia felt heavier in his hand. Palmer looked down to see it flattening, losing color, and growing longer. Steel, not pewter, cut against his palm, leaving droplets. Palmer winced and let it pop it to the ground.

Who made you what you are?

Palmer looked up, and Shinra still had not blinked; he remained on pause. Palmer pinched his eyes shut.

You have what you need. It's heavy—heavy.

Jarred awake, Palmer's hand jerked from where he had rested it. Spines jabbed up the arm that Hojo had subjected to his prodding. "Failure," Hojo had concluded. "Just as stupid and fat as Shinra always said you were."

Palmer hand grabbed the black hilt of what had once been Porscia-Jenova. The long blade jarred along the glass, leaving crevices, tinkling jacks around thin gaps to floor sixty nine. The fat of his arm jiggled like he held a bucksaw instead of a sword.

How would he use it? He couldn't lift it even a smidge above the ground.

You have what you need. Remember, I gave it to you. He gave you nothing.

After jamming his eyes closed, his lips flat, Palmer managed to heave that giant sword across the room and behind Shinra. The Old Man did not even blink, just sat there, waiting.

"When will there be another attempt at space travel?"

"Some day, when the people need dreams more than electricity, when the people need dreams more than they want their freedom."

Lamplight jigged across The President's back, the dip he lacked between his shoulder bones from too much time in the same chair. Palmer's hands tingled. The sword jumped above his head—

You have what you need.

Jaw on edge, Palmer jimmied the blade between The President's shoulder blades. The blade left a jagged wound in Shinra's back, steel exalted from the crack. Husk jerked and flopped forward, kissing glass. Blood dripped into Big Pops' suit, onto the jaundiced yellow of his desk.

Pinned down. Palmer released the sword. His right arm stopped prickling. Red paint on the pallor of his face. One last flash of panic plagued him before he realized—

Sephiroth must have done it, committed Masamune pillar to pitiable spine. Palmer had hit pay dirt.