"You can't fight without a reason, right? So, I won't hold it against you if you don't come back."

The words echoed in his mind as he approached the entrance to the top plate of Midgar. He knew he would go back. He would fight alongside the people who pulled him from his slumber. Perhaps misplaced loyalty was to blame. Perhaps the sense of camaraderie everyone had been mentioning was creeping in under his cloak.

He shook off these thoughts as he navigated the bustling streets of the dying city. The slums had been evacuated, but the upper level, the upper class, had refused to believe in the threat of destruction.
"If I'm going to die, I'm going to do it in the comfort of my own home! I'm not going down with a bunch of strangers, huddled together like cattle in a basement," he heard one man in a Venetian suit telling another.
As he attempted to slide through the streets unnoticed, he silently prayed that his destination still existed. It had been thirty-one years since he'd last been there, but the place was a Midgar legend, unlikely to go down easily.
He turned a rain-slicked street corner and sighed in relief. Grey Haus stood before him, smelling of steak, cooked vegetables, and decadence. His eyes closed briefly as he inhaled the aroma of the upscale restaurant, memories of countless meals eaten alone and with fellow Turks of the past flooding his senses. The images of the Turks of old rapidly transformed into the haunting images of the new Shinra elite: Tseng, Rude, Elena, Reno. His brow furrowed as he opened his eyes and continued into the restaurant.
It had changed very little in the last thirty years. The walls were a new dark red, the floor still shiny black marble. The tables were still dark wood, decorated with single candles, as silver hanging lamps poured pools of light onto the centers of the table, leaving the patrons in shadows.
He scanned the dining area quickly, and found the corner table in the rear of the building was once reserved only for Turks, which, more often than not, meant him and him alone. It was unoccupied.
"Hello, and welcome to Grey Haus, sir," a young Wuitaian woman greeted him. "How many?" Her accent was thick.
"One."
She raised her eyebrows involuntarily, but quickly regained her professionalism. A more common man may not have even noticed her brief surprise. After collecting a single menu, she began to lead him into the dining room.
"Miss, I was wondering if that seat was available," he commented, pointing with his right hand, so as not to draw any more attention to himself. Patrons were already sizing him up: messy, long hair; tattered cloak; boots that clacked with each step; a gun. They all disapproved, even having been shielded from his most frightening feature by the blood red cape.
"Of course!" she said, as she quickly led him to the back, glad to be hiding him away from the majority of the restaurant.

As he waited for his meal to arrive, he stared at the candle on his table. Images of old friends, long dead or retired, seeped into his mind. He recalled his first experience at this very restaurant as a new Turk.
"I've heard of this place. This is where the ShinRa host their annual Christmas party."
His partner smiled and nodded emphatically. "Best place for steak on the top plate! They have a reserved table for us and everything. We get taken care of here, man."
"I don't think I can afford this. I haven't even gotten my first paycheck."
His blond partner let out a laugh and put his muscular arm around his thin shoulders. "Live a little. I'll pick up the check, you can pay me back."
Just as he closed his eyes to let his mind continue to reminisce, the image of his blond mentor began to darken. A gunshot sounded in his mind, and his partner lay dead on a street. Frustration crept in as he failed to remember where his partner's death occurred. Before he could think of a more pleasant image, his former partner's face blurred, as though a wet watercolor. It reformed into familiar face, lying slain in the street: Cloud.
His eyes snapped open and refocused on the candle, ears tuning into the low jazz playing over the restaurant. As he picked up his glass of red wine, he reminded himself that he did not come here to worry.

Satisfied, he slid his half-eaten meal toward the edge of the table and leaned against the back of his chair. As he ran his finger around the base of of his newly filled glass, he felt a pair of eyes on him.
He was accustomed to being watched in public places. His appearance drew attention. However, this attention usually came in the form of quick glances and hushed whispers; not full fledged, bold staring. His eyes flitted around the room, finding no source for the burning sensation of being watched. A moment later, he disguised his attempt to find the eyes behind a drawn out sip of wine.
There.
A woman sitting alone at the small bar raised her eyebrows at him from behind square, mirrored sunglasses. She turned and briefly spoke with the bartender, pointing at the once Turk-exclusive table. Then, to his surprise, she stood, adjusted her long, black sleeves, and headed straight for him.
He stiffened as she approached the table with a half-smile playing on her lips.
"This seat taken?" she asked lightheartedly.
Stretching to sit as tall as possible, he remained silent. She was not leaving. He narrowed his eyes slightly as she sat down across from him.

"Last meal?" she asked, while eyeing his half-eaten meal.
"Of sorts." He remained on guard. Shinra walked this city in all forms.
"Yeah. Me, too," she thoughtlessly added. A new waitress arrived at the table with two stout glasses of clear liquor.
He analyzed her posture, facial expressions. She was remarkably relaxed.
"So, Vincent Valentine, what's the plan? For the night, I mean."
"How do you know my name?" he asked, fingers resting on the butt of his pistol, claws stretching out on his thigh.
"Well," she started, as she pushed a glass toward him and took one for herself. She raised the glass halfway to her lips. "There's a good chance we're both dying tomorrow. Surely you have some plan for your last night," she said, downing her drink in one swallow.
"Look, miss, I don't know how you..." he started. She interrupted his thought.
"I'm a Turk."
He drew his gun and aimed it directly at her left eye with remarkable silence. She sat up straight and tilted her head.
"...but I won't be tomorrow. Reeve Tuesti. Friend of yours?"
He lowered the gun and nodded.
"Mine, too. He's already out of Shinra. Free. I probably won't be so lucky. Then again, if you're unlucky tomorrow, I guess we all will be," she said with a noticeable bitterness.
He glanced around the restaurant as she spoke.
"Don't worry. These people have no idea what's about to happen. They believe the media is somehow making this up for monetary profit. These suits don't part with their money easily. Evacuation attempts proved futile up here. Fools."
"You're still here," he remarked.
She laughed a single, smooth laugh. "Touche. But, I'm on my way out. I had to enjoy one last fillet before I left Midgar forever! Juno, this chef, is a genius." She smiled to herself, and he noticed a quick flicker of concern on her brow. "Well, good luck tomorrow. I hope that robot pulls its weight, for once," she remarked, starting to rise from her seat.
"Wait."
She reclaimed her spot, resting her elbows on the edge of the table. Her dark brown hair was pulled tight into a braid that fell over her left shoulder as she leaned on her arms.
"Who are you?" he asked, not expecting a straight answer from a Turk.
"Well, that's complicated." And expected,he thought. "Today, I'm Penelope Marx. Tomorrow, I haven't decided."
"You're leaving Shinra. Why?" he inquired quietly but forcefully.
She smirked and cocked her head to the right. "Are you serious? Look at what they've done. When did you join AVALANCHE, again? Reeve told me you knew what was going on..." she joked.
"Why now? Why not months ago, when this started?"
"Ah. Good question, with a simple answer. Money," she responded.
He shook his head dismissively.
"Of course you think that's heartless. But I have a family that needs the help. And sure, there are plenty of jobs around this place. Why stick it out with the blue eyed devil? You were one of us. How many Turks did you see retire? Leave the company gracefully? Or on their own two feet?" she asked, her voice adopting a razor sharp tone. "You don't leave the Turks. The Turks leave you. In an alley, at the bottom of a river, in your own goddamn apartment," she spat, alluding to a string of so-called suicides among the Turks that had occurred ten years before, during a near overthrowing of the president by some displeased Shinra employees.
"So you think they'll come after you?"
She said nothing.
"It seems unlikely. Shinra is weak right now. I doubt they have the resources to spare to chase after a rogue," he said, unsure if he was trying to comfort her or simply make her leave his table. She shrugged her shoulders, as if he was missing some vital information.
"And who would want to? Rufus is dead, there is no leader. Shinra is crumbling." At this, she raised her head. Vincent knew immediately there was something he was missing.
"Well, either way, I'm leaving town. I have a hometown, people who miss me. And I want to see them again. And honestly, there is no better night. Do you know what today is?" she asked, a new excitement in her voice.
"I've lost track," he admitted.
"Today is the first day of Harvest."
He pulled his head back and repressed a groan. This holiday had not been meaningful since before Midgar was built. There were no more farmers in the area. "Who celebrates that?"
"True, it's a dying tradition around here." She scanned the restaurant filled with seemingly angry men and the women who tolerate them for their money, and laughed. "Everything seems to be. However, it's a huge time of celebration in my town. Music, games, dancing, fireworks. ...Drinking. What else could a girl ask for on a night like tonight?"
He felt an invitation coming.
"So, you just sit here are sulk, and think of me dancing my ass off under the midnight moon." She reached out to touch his arm, caught him pull back slightly, and stopped herself. Instead, she pulled her black sleeves back over her toned, fair arms. As she did so, he recognized the top she wore as the uniform of an Officer. She would have ranked even above Tseng. Of course she's worried about assassination, he thought. She's in too deep, even for times like these.
"Good luck, again," Penelope remarked, and headed back to the bar. Vincent watched her grab the trademark navy blue suit jacket from a silver coat rack. As she pulled the jacket on he caught glimpse of a gold pin on her lapel. Gaia, she's a Legend.
She slid three coins across the bar to the bartender; a man she seemed to know well. They exchanged farewells and Penelope headed for the door, removing a key-chain from her pants pocket.
Struck with an intense desire to follow Penelope to her rambunctious hometown, Vincent quickly weighed his options. Following her meant abandoning his plan for peace and reflection on what might be his last night alive. As the door closed behind her, he knew that peace would not come, no matter his choice.