It's here at last. The final, true version of A New Leaf. I never intended for it to be quite this long but I can't really break this particular chapter up. I considered it, but, well you'll see why this chapter has to exist as is next chapter...when I finally finish it...

That being said, don't expect too many updates anywhere close to this long. Normally my chapters will probably be 5-8k, 10 k max. If things are crazy or I'm trying to put a close to an arc, it may be longer, but probably not.

One more important thing: I realized writing this that it would probably help me a lot to have a beta reader. So if anyone's interested in the position, I'd really appreciate it. Even if you think you're not terribly good at grammar and revision, the thing I'm almost having more problem with is deciding what to do with an important plot point. I can't really say much more without spoilers. It really is a pivotal piece of the plot, so if you don't mind having a couple major spoilers on your mind while you're reading this, send a pm my way. It's not the only twist this series will have, but it is possibly the biggest twist.

Summary: Inconsequential changes; words spoken or not spoken. Decisions made or unmade. Differences so small, they shouldn't effect a single thing. But they do. Due to actions taken and not, a life is spared. SOLDIER First class Zack Fair is given a second chance at life; however things are not as they appear. Barely alive, Zack is found by Tifa, who takes him back to Seventh Heaven in hopes of answering some questions of her own. However, to her dismay, his memories of her are obliterated. In fact, he can't even remember who he is. Despite his lack of identity, Zack agrees to help AVALANCHE in their struggle versus Shinra.

Despite his talents, this is not an easy journey. Zack has several people watching his every move. Friends and enemies alike. A powerful new adversary emerges, bent on his ruin. Old enemies return. And midst it all is a mysterious man who might just hold the key to Zack's past. As Zack's memory slowly returns, he's forced to face some hard questions about who he is. But answering these questions comes with a heavy price; all the while attempting to foil Sephiroth's insane plans.

Disclaimer: I don't intend for this story to express any ill will toward anyone and the paradigms portrayed don't necessarily line up with my own viewpoints. Also, as I've said before, I was a toddler when production of FF7 began. A two/three year old did not make this game. Nor do I own any of the other games, books, movies, anime, or music that may be referenced over the course of this story. I'm not even the owner of my house alright? My dog is...

Part One: City of Twisted Steel

The sky is falling; the stars are unclear.

Sometimes I wonder where I belong

~Theme of Elfe, unofficial A New Leaf Theme

Prologue: The Nature of Destiny

There's an age-old debate on the nature of destiny. Are our paths etched in stone from the moment we are created or are we free to choose? Is our will truly our own? And if we make even the slightest deviation from our original paths, what would the repercussions be, to ourselves and everyone connected to us?

Pointless questions really. Destiny doesn't answer to any man and anyone who tries to change that may just find himself or herself trampled by it. For destiny is forever moving, spinning like the planet. Slow but evermore marching forward. All we can do is collect the pieces it allots us to create our lives with.

But this is a story where destiny does change. Where a couple, simple-seeming decisions ripple outwards and steer several lives off course. Some will find themselves better off than they would have been had things remained unchanged while others, meant to be happy, will experience sadness not intended for them. For there is a balance in all things and pain never truly dissipates fully. It just moves on to someone else, like a parasite.

One thing remains constant; the future of this world will be written in blood. That is inescapable, for this is no more and no less than a war and wars have casualties.

And everything starts late one evening, as a restless barmaid contemplates the events in store tomorrow, while a desperate young man slips through the city towards a destination unknown to him. One that could be his salvation or his funeral pyre…

There's pain. There's also more, but pain definitely takes a front seat to all other sensation, blotting out much of the world into a complete blur. Like a painting left out to soak in the rain, the colors running together in the same way that sound, light, shape, color and touch are meshing together until it's impossible to tell what the original picture is supposed to be. It's dizzying, the way the ground seems to sway and buck beneath his feet. In the back of his mind, he knows that the ground isn't moving, and it hasn't moved. He's the one doing the moving.

But even the simple task of walking upright is a challenge. He's dragging a leg, using a suspiciously heavy walking stick to compensate. He doesn't know why it's so important to keep moving, but there's this voice. This cool, soothing voice that urges him forward.

Every time he thinks he's ready to give in. That surrender would be a far better alternative than this suffering, the voice eggs him on. He feels comforted by its constant mantra. Watching over him and giving him the courage to face the pain. Encouraging him to keep at it with only a few simple words: Keep moving; don't stop. Help will come.

Help will come.

It's that final reassurance more than anything else that keeps him stumbling forward, blindly. Desperately through the alleyways. It's both fortunate and not for him that the slums are so cool, the afternoon rain further chilling what would already have been a rather nippy night. Fortunate in that the slums are relatively empty, even the homeless seeking refuge wherever they can in dumpsters or in tucked away corners. Unfortunate for obvious reasons; the chill saps his strength, stealing away what little warmth he had. He feels cooler with every step, conscious of the warm liquid seeping out of his chest. Slowly leaving him with nothing but ice.

At least the ground, while a smidge moist, isn't as wet and slippery as it was earlier, immediately after the storm. He more or less could have been playing slip-and-slide on stilts earlier, his already feeble legs completely thrown off balance by the addition of mud. He'd done more crawling than anything else.

It's a few more blocks before he realizes something: the pain has faded but the world seems to sway more than ever. It's more than that though; he can't feel much of anything, not even the persistent chill of night or the rough surface of the building just he slammed into. He should be grateful that the pain is abating but he's not. He's terrified. Why is he terrified? He doesn't know anymore but he does remember that not being able to feel is bad. Isn't it?

He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't even know where he is or what he is doing or why. Why is he trying so hard? What does he have to prove to anyone? Why doesn't he just let himself lay down right here? The wreckage-strewn ground looks so nice and—okay maybe it's not that nice, but he's so tired. His every muscle yearns for sleep and his brain foggily wonders why he has to keep moving. Sleep sounds so good right now. Can he have just a little nap? Please?

"No, to sleep to die. Death means not living and you need to live."

The voice tells him. But why does he need to live? Why is he fighting so hard when there's a nice patch of glass-strewn ground calling his name? Death is like sleep or so he's heard from…somewhere. And he's tired enough that an eternal sleep sounds like the most blissful heaven. He's been tired for a long time. A very, very long time. Silly, he should just give up.

"Surrendering you mean."

No, there's nothing wrong with sleeping when I needs rest. A man needs his rest after all, doesn't he?

"You're not just talking about a little catnap. You won't wake up and if you don't wake up, you won't be able to protect your friends. They will die without you." The voice promises.

What friends? He thinks even as the prospect renews the fire burning in him. He's a little confused; the different halves of his brain don't seem to be running on the same frequencies. One is suddenly chanting: "I can't let them down; they depend on me. They all depend on me. What kind of hero gives up?" while the other half of his mind demands to know what the fuck the first half is talking about. What friends? Why should he care about them?

But it is enough to keep him going. The promise of something beyond this aimless trudge through the city and the faint impressions of friendly faces and welcoming arms give him a second wind. And the voice seems satisfied as well. He can almost picture a small, fond smile as he continues forward.

At some point, some of the pain returns and this time he welcomes it even as he gasps from the sudden onslaught. It's reassuring although not pleasant. His body isn't in any greater hurry to give up than his mind is. But even so, there are now black spots in his vision that weren't there, and they won't go away. As a light fog rolls in, he finds himself slamming against every obstacle like the world's worst hurdle jumper. Every hit makes his knees buckle a little more and induces a weak wince.

Until he can go no further. His body is battered and torn, and he's having trouble breathing. Despite how cool it is out, he's sweating, and he feels so damn hot. He tucks himself behind some large object that his blotchy vision can't discern. He's hiding himself away from prying eyes, knowing he doesn't want to be seen in the same way he knows that the lack of pain is bad. He doesn't know why; he just knows.

He leans back in relief and…

Next thing he knows, it's clearly several hours later; the dim evening light that had helped guide him through the city faded into the amber glow of streetlamps and the ever-present green glow of mako. He's petrified; he blacked out! Few things are scarier than waking up from a black out in his condition. He shivers at the thought, knowing that death could have taken him before he even knew what hit him. Without his consent, the entire world would just be gone in the blink of an eye. The world is cruel, but he's pretty sure he would miss it a lot if he died.

But strangely he feels a bit better than he had before his blackout. Pain still mercilessly lashes across his system and blots out all other sensation, but it just feels like it has lightened up ever so slightly. Like the brief rest has refreshed him. The world comes in far clearer as well and somewhere in the distance he hears a clock toll midnight. He's also bleeding less, he realizes. He can feel the flow lessen, a pleasant tingle reverberating off of some of his punished nerves.

But even so, when he goes to get up, his body refuses, retaliating with a wave of extreme pain that takes his breath away and has him flopping gracelessly back to the ground. There's a scream of agony both mental and physical. His body flat-out refuses to move a single inch. And the tingling, which he senses is a good thing, has all but ceased. Until he returns to his position leaning against the wall, breathing through his mouth in small pants. Like a dog. Maybe it's better to stay here for now, so long as he keeps awake?

The voice comes again, somehow slightly worried beneath a layer of calm.

Yes, you can stay here. You've done enough.

The effect is instant; his tension dissipates. He allows himself to flop listlessly against the wall, comfort be damned. He lies where he fell, focusing on breathing and ignoring the rest of the world. The voice says he can stay put. The pain will slacken its hold on his senses. He doesn't have to get up. He can rest, finally.

Help will come.

2:41

The number glowed red, reflecting a little somewhat hellish light in a cone-shaped area. The clock's display was angled away from her face, but somehow the crimson light found reflective surfaces everywhere to bounce off of. Other than that, the room was dark with thick curtains drawn shut. She knew that if she were to just peel them back, green light would come pouring in, like unnatural sunlight. Imitation and poisonous, glowing and glaring even at this late hour.

The world outside was most assuredly not asleep and neither was she. Horns blared, cans rattled, and the low buzz of generators kept the city from ever being quiet. So different from the country where she was born, where the town slept at night. Man-made light—and even sometimes power—was completely snuffed out, swallowed in the shadows of the mountains and exorbitant energy prices. The only lights there were the stars and the moon when she chose to show her face and not blanket herself behind the clouds.

Not here. Not in Midgar. Tifa Lockheart doubted very much that, even if all the power suddenly turned off for a night, she would see the moon or stars; not with the air choked with pollutants. It just added to the sense that nature has forsaken the city. The lands just outside the city are a desolate waste, uninhabited and nearly devoid of life.

Midgar was a parasite. Sucking the mako from the planet almost as assuredly as its patrons sucked the blood of the people. And sooner or later, something was going to give. The world would fold into itself and the people would perish. Who would bleed out first? The people or the land? Either way, the answer wouldn't be good.

Why couldn't Shinra see that? Tifa wondered. Why do we have to resort to such extreme measures just to make a difference?

Tomorrow was it. They called themselves eco-terrorists but tomorrow would be the first time they'd transcended felonies and misdemeanors and become true criminals. Months of preparation, gathering intelligence and resources all boiled down to this moment. This time tomorrow, she or any number of her friends might be dead, imprisoned, or uncorking bottles of champagne and raising their glasses to a job well done.

Long ago the feelings of excitement for the day ahead had burned away, leaving nothing but trepidation behind. They were tackling a villain that was widely supported by the upper tiers of the population. Sure most of Midgar would be glad to see Shinra toppled, but the ones that wouldn't were the ones with the money. The effluent lived a life of luxury under Shinra's reign. The very same people could finance their mission…or supply their enemy with the means to eradicate them.

AVALANCHE had been in operations for a while now, but even their boldest strikes against Shinra had been of no more nuisance than that of a deer fly that just keeps nipping and leaving little red bumps. Obnoxious, but in no way truly detrimental. Shinra made no acknowledgement of their petty victories. But bombing a reactor was a bold move. They were heavily guarded; the source, ultimately, of every penny the mega corporation had been able to siphon from the people. Each had a small army protecting it. There were traps and defense mechanisms and any number of nasty surprised or little things that could trip them up. The reactors were big and complicated as well; they had to be able to get in and out of that place as quickly as possible. One wrong turn or faulty map and they would be caught or caught in the blast of their own bomb.

But even if they survive this relatively in tact, the danger wouldn't just go away. One reactor blown to smithereens, as victorious as it would feel, wouldn't even dent Shinra's empire. They were prodding a sleeping behemoth with a fire poker. Anyone who dicks with Shinra usually find themselves dead or in a lab before too long.

It was risky business, but they all knew the risks when they joined up. Tifa knew what she was fighting for was right. She was prepared to do whatever was necessary. She would die, if she had to, to make sure the world was righted again. And as long as Shinra was around, that couldn't happen.

But it wasn't herself that she was worried about. The thoughts that had kept her up into the wee hours of the morning were of Barret, Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge, who were as close to a surrogate family to her as she supposed she would ever get. Of Marlene, who, at barely four years old, might lose yet another parent or adult who was close to her. She hated the idea of any of them facing Shinra, hypocritical as it was. After all, each and every one of them had their reasons to fight. Their loved ones or morals offended or violated by those corrupt corporate bastards. They had every right to want revenge…to want to watch the company burn for what they've done.

And they weren't just fighting for Shinra blood. How could Tifa look Marlene in the eye if she didn't fight her hardest to give the little girl a brighter future? Because the way things were going, they'd be lucky if there even was still a planet left by the time Marlene was her age. Maybe that was being a bit melodramatic, but it didn't make the argument any less valid.

Still, would the world be any better for Marlene or anyone if they died tomorrow? Would Tifa be of any use to them if her mind didn't shut up and let her sleep already? No on both accounts, she supposed as she turned over uncomfortably in her bed. But sleep didn't seem to be in the cards tonight. She manages to quiet her mind for all of about a minute before her own relentless worry catch back up to her, and she finds herself once again churning over plans and possibilities and every last thing she could possibly think of that might go wrong tomorrow.

It was 3:10 before she finally realizes sleep wasn't going to come quietly tonight. She didn't even feel the slightest bit tired, only worried and anxious. She finally slid out of bed, yanking off her night garments and on a nearby pair of shorts from the hamper chased with today's sleeveless blouse. Securing her boots and a couple materia to her belt, she then donned her well-worn metal studded gloves. It was better to be safe than sorry in this city.

She didn't even pause to turn on the lights; so well acquainted she was with the cramped, quaint confines of her bedroom. She took the stairs quietly on the balls of her feet, careful to skip creaky stairs as she descended into the kitchen in the back of the bar. The sole window in the room allowed a stream of greenish light in, lighting her path through the cramped isles and allowing her to move with the upmost of ease.

She quietly parted the batwing doors into the main portion of the bar, gliding past the tables with chairs nearly hung off and straight out the front door. Only after she's in the clear, standing on the little porch outsider Seventh Heaven does she breathe a sigh of relief. She'd be damned if she woke anyone just because she can't sleep. They had a big day tomorrow, and having more than one of them sleep deprived wouldn't help.

Outside the faces are few and far in between. A couple vagrants here and there, drifting along the sidewalks or passed out against a stone wall. A couple of rough looking men in an alleyway sit around a pitiful smoky fire lit in a tin can, using wreckage from an old cart to feed the flames. The unkempt streets seemed so much deader when only the pale, sickly light of the mako reactors lights them. The alleys were far worse, strewn with shards of glass, pipes, and old, moldy boxes, their contents forgotten. Although if there had been anything of value in them, they would have been picked clean long ago.

A person could get away with murder in a city like this one. And they often did; no one ever cared enough. Law enforcement was corrupt as the rest; they were so underpaid for their work, there wasn't a single one that wouldn't turn a blind's eye for a couple coins. Tifa knew; she and the others had exploited that particular weakness a fair few times. And even if there were a few dedicated enough to actually protect the public down in the slums (the plates were well-maintained and pristine), there are just too many problems for one person or even a hundred to solve.

Yet another shocking difference from home. Back home, even an accidental death or a petty theft quickly became the talk of the town. Criminals were shunned from the community. People cared about one another; they had to stick together to survive. They looked out for one another and everyone knew everyone else. Living in Nibelhiem had its flaws but there was little Tifa wouldn't give to see her home town as it was, even for a day…

She shook her head. Not tonight. The dreams were bad enough but she can't let Nibelhiem's…fate slink into her head during waking hours. She needed to stay focused. More than that, preferably she wanted to wear herself down enough. And, well, what better way than to get in a middle-of-the-night workout?

Tifa let an easy smile light her face as she took a good look around. There. Those look sturdy enough. With a couple of athletic, well-timed jumps, she leapt up on top of a stack of crates in one of the alleyways. Keeping light on her feet as the crates groaned in protest of her weight, she took another quick jump and grabbed on to an old signpost several feet higher. This put her in an easy diagonal line with a nearby low rooftop—a low-end hardware store if she wasn't mistaken. She makes the landing easily, landing with a half roll to halt her momentum. It was a quick leap to the fire escape of the next building but the ladder was rusty and missing a few rungs. But all Tifa saw was a worthy challenge, years of practice allowing her to make the climb effortlessly.

Once she was on top of the much-higher department building, she surveyed her surroundings. Several buildings were now reachable, easily makeable jumps, bounds and climbs. It was all a matter of what she felt up to this night and at that moment she felt invigorated. Like she can take on a half a dozen Turks solo. One thing she wouldn't fault Midgar on: it makes an excellent jungle gym, of which she felt like she was queen.

Her mind was made up when a high, piercing scream cut through the night air, a chilling yet not especially uncommon sound in the slums. It's not often that she played vigilante, but she couldn't abandon someone who was clearly in trouble. She took a flying leap off the edge of the building, heading for where she heard the scream come from. She landed a bit rough on the building, but she didn't bother catching her breath before she started scurrying up a nearby wall, the stones sticking out just right to make climbing easy. She reached the top with her fingertips screaming but otherwise no worse for wear.

The scream came again, quieter but far more frantic and easily discernable from its close proximity. Fortunately she was close; in fact it was coming from the alley just on the other side of the building. She dashed across the flat rooftop and glanced down, hoping she wasn't too late. In the alley below, a young woman, no doubt the screamer, was cowering against the far wall. Blond curls was all Tifa could make out but really it wasn't the woman who drew her attention, but rather the trio of sleazy looking men who ringed her in a semi-circle. The gleam of silver made Tifa realize one was armed.

It was all she needed to see. She looked from side to side, trying to discern the quickest way down. She needed the element of surprise her, especially in case those goons actually knew how to fight. She found her ticket down in the form of a gutter a few feet from where she stood. She made her way over and swung herself off the side of the rooftop, shimmying down its length. She picked up the pace when the girl gave a short yelp as one of the men, the one with the weapon, chuckled and reached for her face.

She was going so fast, and she was so fixated on the travesty unfolding below her she didn't catch it until it was too late.

The rusty old pipeline gave a loud groan and stuttered. Then with little more warning snapped in two, sending Tifa tumbling toward the ground with a loud clang as the rusted piped came down with her. She landed roughly, the wind huffing painfully out of her lungs as the pipe clanged on the asphalt beside her. Fortunately she'd been close enough to the ground that she only sustained minimal injury; a couple bruises scrapes on her elbows, a shallow cut from where some spare glass found her exposed left wrist, and an achy feeling in her bones and teeth, which had jarred together with her impact. Unfortunately the commotion drew four sets of eyes to her as she tried to draw in enough oxygen to replenish what she lost.

"What in the—" One of the thugs proclaimed. He was sallow; with his nose squished so far into his face for a moment she didn't think he had one. His buddy, shifted to hold the girl by her neck in such a way that it suggested he'd break it without a moment's notice or regret. Or maybe he already had been doing that. Tifa couldn't tell, she was seeing stars. Literally, the girl was wearing a big fluffy feather boa, a barely-there mini-skirt and a matching tube top covered in stars. Her earrings were also giant metal stars, big enough that Tifa absently wondered why she didn't just take them out and brandish them as throwing knifes.

Tifa tried to stand, bracing herself up against the wall all the while huffing, "Le—let her(huff huff) go."

The four of them exchanged looked then burst out laughing. The one holding the girl, a man with a jagged scar cutting across one eye that apparently had taken the eye with it (and he didn't have the decency to wear an eye patch), gave her a yellow smile. "Honey, you got it all wrong."

Tifa gave him a huffy glare.

"I'm here because I want to be." The girl said with a sultry smile. Tifa's eyes snapped over to her. "I've been paid for my services. These lovely men have me for the night and wanted to do a rape scenario."

Then the girl let out a giggle. An actual giggle. Tifa was completely dumbfounded to say the least. A prostitute? This far away from the Honey Bee Inn? Doing a faux rape performance? Why? Isn't that more horrific than fun? Some people get their jollies in the strangest ways…

"I can handle SOLDIERs, sweetie. Do you really think I would mind these three bozos?" The woman gave the man holding her a quick kiss to prove her point, and he beamed at her. "It's cute; you trying to play hero though."

"It's true." Said the third man, easily the best looking out of the three even with his lazy, sleazy eyes. "The Don would never allow us to treat her any less than like a princess. However," The man continued, licking his lips and ogling at Tifa's chest with unabashed lust. "I wouldn't pass up such a ripe opportunity when it falls so willingly into my lap."

Willingly into his…oh you've got to be kidding me. Tifa thought as all three men turned toward her. Corralling her in like stray livestock. When did she go from a would-be rescuer to a possible victim? Sleaze's scarred buddy released Star Girl, who squealed and stormed out of the alley in outrage. Like Tifa had intentionally stolen her clients or something. Never mind that now all three men are menacingly stalking towards Tifa with obvious intent in their eyes. And Tifa has somehow managed to end up against a chain link fence, giving them an easy spot to corner her. Great. Fantastic.

Her mind went blank the way it always did in preparation for a fight. There was no room for idle thought in combat; only observations. Action and reaction. A timeless flow. There was no past; no future. There was only the next punch drawn or countered. She clenched her fists and allowed her muscles to loosen before slipping into a defensive stance. She would wait for them to come to her; make the first move.

The three men paused about five feet from her. The sleazy one, obviously the ringleader in this circus of fools, looked her over with an appraising eye and a mocking smile. "Oh? Itching to fight are we? Well boys, the heroine wants to play. What do ya say we give her a show?"

The other two jeered, but Tifa said nothing in response, her eyes narrowed. Her mind's eye could already see the three of them eating the dirt. They were just wasting her time. When it became clear that they couldn't cow her, Sleazebag sneered and nodded once to his friend, Noseless. Noseless took a half a step forward, cracking his knuckles.

"This shouldn't take long." He said with smirk. The two stood, seizing each other up for a moment.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Ladies first." Tifa said, smirking as the man's face turned scarlet in response while his friends cackled and wolf-called. Her little goad did its job though. He rushed forward in anger, aiming a fist at her face. She ducked down low, easily evading his attack. He huffed in frustration and aimed a clumsy kick for her stomach. She caught his ankle before it could reach its target. And she held it there, her grip firm and merciless as he hopped up and down trying to retrieve his limb. Much to his friends' glee.

With a half-smirk, Tifa released his leg. Thrown off-balance, he flailed for a moment before slamming butt-first into the ground. The crunch of glass and a painful, dog-like yelp announced that he'd broken an empty bottle with the impact. She smirked and sent a quick, jab-like kick into his head. He went flying, colliding headfirst into the far building with a wince-inducing crack. However, going by the string of curses he let out afterwards, he was addled, but very much conscious.

Tifa didn't have time to gloat. Noseless quickly faded from her concern as his Scarred buddy took a step to fill the space of her opponent. He was still brandishing the knife, holding it awkwardly between his thumb and his index finger. Without giving him time launch his first attack, she rushed him. He clumsily attempted to fend off her attack, slashing the knife but only striking air. With precision and speed that would make a Midgar Zolom jealous, Tifa caught his wrist and redirected his blade right into his exposed thigh.

The effect was instant. He crumpled to the ground, screaming in pain. "You crazy bitch!"

Tifa might have pointed out that he had been trying to stab her with it first had she not detected the final man encroaching fast on her right. Sleazebag moved with speed and fluidity that his companions lacked and wrenched her arm behind her. He slammed her against the far wall, the impact knocking the wind out of her a bit.

He was so close she could smell the whiskey on his breath. But she was hardly caught. For a repulsing moment, she propped her body flush against his. Using the steadiness of his stance against him, she managed to find a foothold on the wall and before he knew it she had literally flipped clean over him. Wrenching his own arm behind him before using his own momentum and her considerable strength to hurl him behind her like they were playing some demented kind of leapfrog. Of course, this game ended with him landing in the nearby dumpster, where he belonged.

The noseless man had shakily risen to his feet but from the way he flinched when she caught sight of him, she realized he wasn't going to try anything. They had learned their lesson.

Just to be sure she took a half a step towards him, fists raised. He yelped, covering his deformed face.

She took a moment to access herself, pleased with what she found. Other than the minor injuries from earlier, there wasn't a scrape on her. What's more she'd managed to take all three of them out without using her fists even once. These men were worse than gutter slime in her eyes, but that didn't mean she didn't necessarily want to kill them. Just rough them up a little. She even got a decent workout out of the deal, although she didn't sweat much between the chill of night and the ease of dispatching the trio.

"Who the fuck AREyou lady?" Noseless asked, as she dusted the dirt from her tank. She glanced at him, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"Just a simple barmaid." She left the alleyway far more gracefully then she entered it. This was hardly the first time she'd dealt with these bozos. Men who decide to try and subdue a pretty piece of tail in some alley. Actually it was them she had to thank for her bar.

Coming to Midgar over four years ago, she'd had nothing. Not a cent to her name; whatever money her father had set aside for her had literally gone up in smoke and flames. She didn't have family and very few of her friends had ever even braved the world outside Nibelhiem. One of the few who did died bloody in some big war years ago. After his corpse came back to Nibelhiem the boys in town were not so eager to leave the little niche their mountain town gave them. All except for Cloud, but she hadn't seen or talked to him in over half a decade. She'd tried to look him up but was met with nothing but a frustrating trail of dead ends that led her to believe he was either dead or in some serious shit. Neither idea sat well with her, but there was little she could do with nothing but a sling of cold trails to follow.

There wasn't much respectable work for a twenty-year-old woman to come by. She'd learned to be tough pretty quick. People weren't going to care about her as a person; only what she might be able to offer them. And all they wanted to see of her was what was between her legs. Despite her other talents, she couldn't count the number of times she was propositioned, sometimes by her own employer. It was like they thought pretty was code for easy and loose.

But she had gotten lucky in the end, and she really wouldn't have it any other way, despite the months of being hounded and groped. On a night very similar to this one, she'd been corralled by a group of knife-wielding men into an alleyway. You'd think they'd have heard of her reputation by then for putting guys in the hospital. The last would-be rapists had run away first kick. But maybe these guys thought they might have something the others didn't or that the knives might cow her. On neither account were they correct.

She'd knocked out about half of them before the ones remaining just up and took off. And they had a damn good reason to. A big, eternally glaring black man with a gun like a small cannon affixed to his arm and pointed at them would make anyone wet themselves then runaway crying. But not Tifa. She was sizing him up from the moment she caught sight of him, preparing herself for a difficult fight. She was ready to take him down for a moment before he gave her a gruff smile and laugh. He held up his hands in surrender and took her out to lunch on his own dime. And that was how she met Barret Wallace.

He'd been impressed with her swift dispatchal of the men. One thing led to another and before Tifa knew it she'd been invited to bunk at his place. Sharing rent, of course, with a couple of other people. In time she came to know them all too well. Jessie with her sharp tongue yet kind, sunny disposition. Biggs with his aptitude for technology and generally fun attitude. Wedge in all his modesty and endearing, self-depreciating sense of humor. And the glue that held them all together: gruff, kind and hard-working Barret and sweet little Marlene.

It wasn't long before she learned the group all shared something in common: a mutual hatred for Shinra. All of them had lost people dear to them or experienced Shinra's cruelty one way or another. Even Marlene. It didn't take long before Barret brought Tifa in on their little secret. They made up a terrorist cell, code name AVALANCHE. Supposedly Wedge had known someone in the original AVALANCHE terrorist group. Although he wasn't clear on all of the details, Wedge said the old cell was defunct. They all thought that AVALANCHE had the right idea: get rid of Shinra so the planet can recover.

Tifa had enthusiastically joined up without even a second thought. What else did she have left but getting revenge on the people who had stolen her life? She didn't want anyone to ever experience what she had again and the best way to do that was to eradicate Shinra.

As Tifa grew more and more involved and trusted in AVALANCHE, it became clear that they needed a better base of operations if their missions were to continue. A flimsy, five-bedroom apartment wasn't the wisest place to set up shop for an anti-governmental movement. There was no place good enough to hide their weapons and who knew who might overhear their plans through the cheap walls? All they needed was one snitch for their entire operation to go up in smoke. No matter how inconsequential their actions were over all, Shinra would crush them mercilessly just to make an example out of them.

That was when the perfect solution fell into their laps. A local bar, Seventh Heaven, was going out of business. The owner had a stroke and couldn't articulate anymore, and his thoughts got jumbled up easily. Neither of which were particularly good qualities for a bartender, so he was selling the place. The joint was quaint and somewhat beaten down, but with a little elbow grease and some tender loving care they managed to turn it into the perfect secret base. The four of them split the cost and before long they opened up shop.

That's when Tifa discovered how much she loved being a bartender. Sure sexual harassment was part of the gig, but she'd had a lifetime of experience to harden her shell and keep a smile on even when dealing with the most volatile, grabby drunks. She was magic behind the counter, mixing spirits like she'd grown up on them. And the biggest perks were the things she heard. Liquor loosens the tongue after all and what better reason do you have to listen in on hours of conversation than that it's your job?

It was a prime position for learning things about Shinra, Midgar, and various persons of interest. Intelligence gathered via this method had proven invaluable but it also helped her come to know things about the people. Like which people were sympathetic to their cause and which people would cause them trouble. Her bar keeping had given them many of the connections that kept their operation afloat.

But the best part of the job was easing people's troubles. Giving them a place to hide out for a little while and a little food or drink to ease their worries. Good food and alcohol can take the edge off of things. A place where they can pretend the world is a much nicer place, filled with smiles and laughing. It reminded her of their goal and gave her something to look forward to. A time when that would be true.

As Tifa's feet carried her to the main drag down Sector Seven, she wondered if she should go back. Although it was still dark out and she still wasn't horribly tired, perhaps that would change if she were in the quiet confines of her room. Even if she couldn't sleep there, Jessie would be up in maybe an hour or so. She wondered what time it was. At latest, it might have been 4 am or so, but Tifa didn't bring a watch and the face of the clock tower was obscured by the plate hovering above her head.

There was a clock at the train station a few blocks away and the brisk walk would be good for her. Maybe enough to help the adrenaline to finish ebbing out of her system. She walked at a fairly quick pace, not harried but purposefully. Just as she reached the train station, a loud series of bongs from the clock tower announced the fourth hour of the day.

A train shrieked to a stop nearby her, steam billowing into the air. The doors slid open and a few restless souls disembarked, exiting the train station quickly without even sparing Tifa a glance. Once their footsteps faded into the sounds of the city, there was no one, not even any security guards. The train huffed a few times before starting forward in a familiar cadence that slowly grew more and more rapid as it disappeared down the tracks, leaving Tifa true and well alone.

Maybe it was just her still jittery nerves and restless mind, but Tifa couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on her. She could feel someone watching her but she had no idea from what direction or who. Aside from an abandoned plastic bag, dancing in a light wind and the flicker of a streetlight above, there was nothing moving but Tifa herself.

BANG. Tifa nearly jumped out of her skin as her eyes darted toward the source, instinctively shifting into a defensive stance. A shaggy brown dog careened out of the nearby alleyway, yelping like the devil was after it. She relaxed minutely. This wasn't a typical haunt for any kind of monsters; the train station was one of the few places AVALANCHE cracked down heavily on monster control…among other things.

The mutt could have easily startled itself. There was no reason to look further into it. She almost didn't. She would have turned away and that would have been that. She could have easily just fled back to the relative safety of Seventh Heaven.

That is, has she not caught sight of something that nearly made her blood curdle in horror. Dark smears covered the alleyway. The flickering streetlight overhead provided just enough light for her to catch their reddish hue. Blood. Lots of it, puddles from the earlier rainstorm stained vibrant red from it. Handprints and other smears on the brick walls. All leading to the spot near the dumpster, where she could just make out the shape of what appeared to be the tip of a boot, the bulk of it and its potiential owner completely hidden from her sight.

It lay in an awkward position, too angled to simply be an abandoned shoe. Tifa inwardly grimaced. She'd seen bodies before. Even discounting Nibelhiem, she'd seen plenty of corpses. The dead weren't exactly an uncommon sight in a city where people starved to death on a regular basis. Where all kinds of treatable diseases ran rampant and slaughtered countless simply because treatment costs too much. And that didn't even take the crime rate into account.

Part of Tifa wanted to just keep on her way. Ignore it, like she'd been forced to do so many times before. The dead were past help, and she had more than enough phantoms to stalk her nightmares. She didn't need add the hollow face of some kid with his guts torn out to that collection. And yet...a soft scuffing sound drew her attention back to the alleyway just in time to see the boot dip out of sight.

The dead were beyond all help, but she could never ignore someone in need. Not after all she had been through. Whoever was behind that dumpster was still alive and conscious. She couldn't just abandon them…

"Hello? Is someone there?" She called out as she started forward tensely. Caution wasn't something she was going to abandon just because this person was hurt. In fact, you should almost be more cautious of injured people. Pain can cause people to do some crazy things; there's wisdom in never cornering an injured animal, and at heart, that is all people are. Animals. It just takes life or death situations to bring it out.

"Are you alright? I'm coming around." She called softly, hoping she wasn't walking into a knife. The possibility was very real; anyone hiding around in an alleyway injured like this wasn't likely to be someone particularly savory.

The moment Tifa rounded the dumpster she was blindsided.

She just barely got a glimpse of her attacker before he sprung to his feet and hammered her with a swift, practiced blow. The air left her lungs in a hurry. Even dazed, Tifa registered how impossibly fast it was.

Blindly, she struck back, but all her fists found was air. By the time Tifa's addled brain caught up with the rest of the world, the man had fled from the alleyway. Flecks of blood bespeckled Tifa's arm in the wake of his departure.

She didn't know why she went after him. She simply reacted, racing after the man who had attacked her. Turning sharply around the corner, back at the station, she quickly spotted him.

His gait was long but uneven as he hobbled away. One of his legs trails along behind him, nearly useless and soaked in blood. But he compensated for it by using the biggest sword she had ever seen as a crutch. Huh, with a weapon like that, he could have killed her in an instant. That thing could split concrete with minimal effort; cutting a human in two would be like cutting through butter. Even injured. She'd have to thank him for his consideration after she caught him.

Which, honestly, she could do with one leg. Tifa had always been a fast runner, but in his state she didn't even need to run. Drunk off of pain, he staggered across the platform and each step required a gargantuan amount of effort. She was on top of him in seconds.

"Stop!" She yelled. A flash of blue eyes met hers for a moment, cutting her momentum. Her stomach dropped as she took a hard break. For one heart stopping moment, the concrete platform was traded for narrow catwalks and the flickering streetlight open flame. Distant sirens for distant screams…

Distraction is no friend of injury, however. In that single glance, the man lost his footing, his good leg collapsing under pressure. There was no comedic flailing; he probably didn't have the energy. He simply fell in a heap of limbs, hitting the ground hard. He didn't stir again; he scantly even breathed. Not even bothering to fix the way his massive sword bit into his side.

Her initial estimation of the severity of her wounds was an extreme understatement. She had never seen someone this badly hurt. Not among the living at least.

Tifa had seen more than her share of horrific; she practically wrote the book on it. But this was in a whole new other class. There were literally bullet holes on almost every part of his visible anatomy, blood pooling on his back and on the walk into a color much darker than its usual crimson. There was even a scrape along the side of his head where it looked like a bullet may have clipped him. The injury that gave him a limp was also explained: not only had he been shot in the knee, his kneecap was gone. It wasn't a kneecap anymore, just a few fragments of bone reduced to little more than shrapnel.

No way this man should even be able to breath without a respirator, let alone deck her and run away. But he had. He was alive and strong enough to be on his feet…and that was the most chilling thing at all. He not only shouldn't he be alive; he couldn't be alive. There was no way.

Unless…unless…

Tifa froze, regarding him with the wariness of a hare before a fox. In that split moment, it was like the world had frozen before her, and she realized something.

She recognized him.

She had the moment she met his glowing eyes, but a part of her wanted to be wrong. She had ignored her growing discomfort until now; that little voice telling her to turn and walk away. It was practically screaming at her now, but for some unfathomable reason, she didn't walk away. In fact, she closed the last couple inches toward him and gently turned him over with the tip of her boot.

She wished she hadn't.

Seeing that face again…it brought the taste of ash and searing pain before her, flooding her senses. And yet wasn't the same face she remembered. His face was gaunter and crested with blood, casting odd, almost inhuman shadows across it. But there were the same full lips and the same thick lashes.

The same, but different also.

She never remembered seeing him so helpless. Not that she had known him particularly well in all honesty. He was SOLDIER and that meant he was larger than life. Dangerous. Genetically engineered to be the threat, not the threatened.

And yet here he was. Zack Fair, SOLDIER 1st class. The herald of the destruction of Nibelhiem. Lying before her, beaten and bleeding in the middle of the night.

She shook her head, retracting her foot like she'd just stepped in something foul. She shouldn't get involved in this. Whatever "this" was, she didn't need to bring home another problem. They already had more than enough on their plates. She should go home. Scrub her hands and try not to obsess over the white scar on her stomach. This wasn't her fight…

But at the same time, it was. The man laying before her…Tifa had thought, long and hard, about that day. And the biggest thing she didn't understand was how she was still alive.

News of Sephiroth's exploits had reached even the secluded town of Nibelhiem. One of his many nicknames was "the Silver ghost." For he would slip into an enemy camp and decimate it in hours, leaving not a single survivor and vanish before any sort of retaliation could be attempted. Before anyone even knew they had been attacked. Few saw the general bearing down at them with his blade in hand survived to tell the tale.

But Tifa had, somehow. The question was how? And why?

And no one had heard from Sephiroth since that day. Officially, he was only missing. Shinra had not disclosed what had happened to the general public, only that he was missing. Not dead. But Tifa had seen the maddened gleam in that man's eye. The malignant joy he had gotten from tearing her world into shreds. He was the kind that wanted to watch the world burn, relentless and unforgiving. There was no way he would surrender; no way he would stop. Not until he destroyed everything.

Which meant someone had stopped him.

Tifa's frown deepened as her eyes drifted back to Zack's prone form.

Her master had said something about two boys at the reactor with her. Both unconscious and beaten up pretty badly. He had only been able to take her with him; he hadn't escaped the fire unscathed. With his injuries she had been lucky he hadn't collapsed beneath her weight.

It was a no brainer that Zack was one of them and the other…one of the Shinra grunts maybe? Master hadn't recognized him offhand…

Had it been Zack, then? Zack who brought Sephiroth down? Had he saved her, even after what she had said to him?

If so, she owed him a life debt.

But Tifa could never trust a SOLDIER again. After all, Sephiroth was supposed to be the best there was. Unfailingly loyal to the company, powerful. The epitome of the dashing hero. And he did…that. He managed to singlehandedly massacre an entire town. Who's to say that Zack couldn't do the same thing; that any SOLDIER couldn't snap and go on a killing spree? They were given much too much power, like children with matches. She couldn't trust a SOLDIER, and she wouldn't help one. Not even if they may or may not have saved her life….no sir. Not even if they were helpless, bleeding, on the sidewalk, alone, at night, in a city with people like her who hated their guts, possibly mere moments from dying without her help...Damn it! Were the only two words she could think of as she eased him off the ground and slung his arm over her shoulder.

Barret was going to kill her.

Crash!

Her prediction proved more or less accurate.

"Absolutely not! That Shinra vermin is not settin' one foot in this place!" Barret roared angrily. Tifa tactfully refrained from pointing out that he'd already set far more than a foot in this place. Sarcasm wouldn't help the situation. Zack remained blissfully unaware that he was currently in the middle of a battlefield. She winced as another plate, thrown originally at Zack's head, hit the ground. She couldn't have Barret hurting Zack any more than he already was. Jessie stood against the wall, annoyed by the interruption and more than a little afraid of being hit by a stray piece of dishware. Barret was throwing the biggest kiddie tantrum a man almost twice her age can. She hoped he knew he was going to be buying new dishware. Those weren't exactly cheap.

It had taken quite some time for her to drag Zack back to the bar. Long enough that the sun was rising by the time she pulled him inside.

So naturally, Jessie was awake, sipping on a cup of coffee before the rest of the group woke up. Tifa imagined she made quite a sight, bursting into the bar at the crack of dawn with blood coating her arm, panting beneath Zack's bulky frame. The moment she saw them…well first the coffee hit the floor, leaving a sopping mess of glass shards on the floor. But Jessie didn't ask Tifa a thing. She'd run off to get a plastic tarp from the backroom and spread it across one of their tables instead. Then she helped shoulder Zack and lay him onto the table, where without question she began examining his wounds and fetching some medical supplies.

A word about Jessie: for everything that she is, occasionally snarky, difficult, and perhaps a bit too strong willed for her own good, never question her when it comes to medicine. Her mother was something of a miracle worker in the slums for people who couldn't afford treatment at a hospital. And Jessie inherited most of her skill, although not all. There were a few things she failed to teach Jessie before she died a few years ago, but patching up wounds wasn't one of them.

She returned with the supplies and instantly started to work on her patient, unperturbed by the ever-growing puddle of blood. She seemed very grim-faced and made a comment about all the bullet wounds. Too many to count, it would seem, as she dug out bullet after bullet; all of which were curiously the standard Shinra caliber round.

"Why is that so strange?" Jessie asked when Tifa made the comment aloud. Jessie turned toward her and stopped. Tifa suddenly took a real interest in her boots, which were both soaked in blood.

"Tifa, who is this guy?" She asked when Tifa didn't respond.

Tifa finally met her eye. "I think you already know."

Jessie gave an exasperated huff. "Of course I do. I'm not stupid; Tifa, this guy should be worm chow. The very fact that he isn't… If he's not what I think he is then some spirit must have a real hard on for him cause I don't see any other explanation. I guess the real question is why I'm trying to save a SOLDIER?"

Tifa was silent.

Jessie turned back to her work. "Huh, so he is SOLDIER. Why the bullets though?"

Jessie didn't get too much further with her examination than that. See, Barret had just come down the stairs just in time to hear that last comment. He came charging out of the kitchen, gun arm ready for action and a stack of plates in another arm he'd clearly been going to use to set the table.

Only, Tifa was in the way. And she wasn't going to move so Barret could turn the oblivious SOLDIER into a lump of charcoal. The plates were option number two. Barret knew better than to hand-to-hand fight Tifa. But if it one hit Tifa it would just knock her away long enough for him to get rid of the SOLDIER. But fortunately for Mr. Comatose, in spite of her lack of sleep, Tifa's reflexes were still sharp enough to deflect Barret's assault.

Jessie hadn't been so lucky; the first plate caught her on the shoulder and almost caused the tweezers she'd been using to dig out the bullet to cause some undue harm to her patient. She'd since given up and was currently clutching her injured shoulder and glaring at Barret. Soon a large pile of broken glass littered the floor in front of her.

"Barret, stop." Tifa said calmly as she could, but she was a little irked that he wouldn't even give her a moment to explain. The broad man didn't seem to hear her though, too busy cussing out Shinra and firing his latest plate. Tifa caught it easily this time and hurled it back at him, hitting him square between the eyes. He finally stopped, bellowing out a string of curses as a shallow cut materialized. It was enough to make the gruff man set down the plates, clutching his injury and fuming so much Tifa worried he might actually catch fire.

"Good. Now that I have your attention, Barret please. Be reasonable."

"Reasonable my ass. Yer not very reasonable yerself. Bringin' that Shinra bootlicker into this place and then chucking a plate at my damn head." Barret grumbled, rubbing the spot where the plate hit with his good hand.

Jessie cleared her throat in the background, glaring at Barret so fiercely she actually managed to cow the man before taking the temporary cease fire as her chance to continue her work on Zack. Faint remorse crossed his countenance before he turned to glower at Tifa.

"Jessie makes a good point. You weren't exactly trying to help me wash dishes by throwing plates at me either, Barret." Tifa replied.

"I wasn't tryin' to hit you! I was aimin' at this pile of worm dung."

"And that's much better? Attacking an unarmed, unconscious man? Great example for Marlene." Tifa replied with a touch of ice. Barret had the good grace to look chastised for a moment. "Now, please Barret, listen."

Barret started to grumble till Tifa pinned him with a look that plainly said one thing. 'Shut up while you're ahead or you'll get another plate thrown at yours.'

"This 'bootlicker' saved my life. (maybe) And I can't very well leave him to die out on the streets. What's more, these are Shinra caliber." Tifa raised the little bowl full of bloody bullets for Barret to see.

"So?"

"So these were in him. All over the place. Who uses standard Shinra caliber guns?" Tifa said.

Barret frowned. "The military."

Tifa nodded. "And don't they keep a tight lock on their weaponry? To keep the peace and all that?"

"Yes but—"

"But what?"

"It could just be some freaky deaky trainin' exercise."

Jessie laughed. "You're kidding, right? This kid's vitals are awful. Even with mako-enhanced healing and materia he'll be lucky to ever have full motion in that knee of his. And I haven't even finished looking him over."

"Besides," Tifa reasoned, "why would they waste this many bullets on a training exercise?"

Barret is a little flabbergasted by their logical defense. "They throw away everythin' else. Why not bullets?" He finally countered.

"Why not people? Why not SOLDIERs?" Tifa was surprised that it was Jessie who said it. But one look at her face tells her more than she wants to know.

"What's wrong?" Tifa asks, turning back toward Zack.

Jessie traced line across un-bloodied skin. There's the white raised scar in a highly precise line. Almost surgical. It isn't the only one. In fact, there are dozens crisscrossing his entire body. His arms, his legs, his abdominals… Tifa felt a shiver creep down her spine. She knew SOLDIERs underwent some kind of procedure for their enhancements, but some of those scars were fresh and…she didn't remember him having a scar on his throat…Testaments, she realized, not to any sword fight or battle, but to…torture. "They're consistent with a scalpel. I'm almost certain."

It was the most chilling proclamation yet. Tifa thought back to just hours before, when he'd bolted away from her. Running even though it most assuredly hurt like a bitch. Even though every step made him worse off than before, extenuating his already massacred body. And that wild, wide-eyed look he'd given her when he looked back at her. He looked…afraid. Tifa may not want to ever trust a SOLDIER again but damned if in that moment, she didn't pity him.

Tifa turned back to Barret and finds his expression somehow softer and slightly disturbed. Like he has to work at keeping the angry glare on his face. "Look Barret. He's not going anywhere and he's hardly a threat like this. I doubt he'll be too fond of Shinra when he wakes up and really it won't matter if he still goes back to Shinra. It's not like we're inviting him into AVALANCHE or anything. Just giving him a place to stay until he's back on his feet again."

"I don't—"

"Barret, if he goes I go." Tifa said firmly. Both Jessie and Barret give her an incredulous look. "He….I think he might know the answer to some questions. Some things I need to know. I might never know without him."

Barret looks at her for a long moment. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"As a heart attack." Tifa answers, sensing some give. Barret runs his hand down his face.

"Fine. He can stay." Before Tifa can thank him, however, he continued. "But be forewarned. If this snot betrays us, I hold you responsible. I love ya Teef, but inviting a viper into our den is a mistake. Mark my words."

It was the closest thing to a threat Barret has ever issued to her, and she was somewhat shocked. His trust in her seemed unfailing until today and seeing this side of him…the one that is ready to throw her out or potentially worse if this goes sour… was unnerving.

But nonetheless she answered. "Okay."

She hoped she made the right decision. She was risking a lot on an unknown. A wild card. That was what Zack was. A gamble that he might have the answers she sought. He was there that night. He would know who the other boy was. Because she had seen something. Maybe it was just a dream or wishful thinking. Longing in her heart manifested. But after…Sephiroth… there had been a moment where she woke. For just a moment, little more than a sliver of the outside world before consciousness slid away from her once more.

But there was no mistaking what she had seen. A face looming over her with a worried frown pressed on pale lips. Bright golden blond hair and eyes as blue as ice…he'd gotten teased for each and every single one of these when they were little. The other kids would say he was paler than a corpse and that his hair looked like a chocobo's rear end. That his eyes were freaky and why was he always staring off into space without blinking? He never did know…all of those traits he had gotten mocked for had been exactly what drew her to him.

The way he appeared before her with the light was distorted in her incoherent mind; it had almost seemed like a halo. Had she been right of mind, she might have recognized him. As it was, she thought he was an angel. That she had died. Come to collect her and bring her to kingdom come. That's usually what happens when people get stabbed, right? And she thought it wouldn't be so bad to go to heaven if angels looked like him. Then there was nothing more.

He left her and she never saw him again. She had gone to Midgar to seek him out, reminded of Cloud and his oath to her. After all, he was one of the last things she had left, and she needed something to hold on to. She wanted nothing more that to find her secret childhood crush…that quiet, socially-awkward boy that no one seemed to like. But she hadn't seen him. Even on a brief under-cover mission in Shinra HQ a few weeks back, she hadn't seen his distinctive mug. Hadn't been able to find his file on the system. She knew from the few letters he sent her that he had made it into Shinra, but there was no record of his existence.

She was hoping Zack had the answers. When she woke, she assumed Zack had gone back to Shinra, able to just shrug and move on from Nibelhiem. Chalk it all up to a bad memory he'd only relive when he had a little too much alcohol. Never mind that she'd relived it every moment of every day, and she probably would for the rest of her life.

But those bullet wounds made her realize maybe she wasn't the only one whose life had been ruined that day. She wasn't the only one who was suffering. You don't shoot someone this much and expect them to live. This is only something someone would do to another person fully intending to end their life. And then there were the scars…something horrible had happened to him. The last few years hadn't been easy, but she imagined they were a leisurely stroll in the park compared to what he had been through…

Jessie continued to work diligently until every bullet was removed. Tifa didn't stick around the whole time. Part of it she helped clean up the mess Barret had created and at one point she redressed into something less…red, but the rest she was there; ready to help Jessie with whatever. A bucket of warm water, rubbing alcohol, a second little bowl for the rest of the bullets when the first was filled to the brim...

Meanwhile Barret was working on cooking breakfast and trying his damnest not to be in too horrible of a mood. It wasn't going particularly well, but Tifa could tell he was trying. She appreciated the effort.

Some time after Barret had calmed down, Wedge came down. Tifa had been in the kitchen after sweeping up a big pile of glass so she missed the initial reaction to their new table centerpiece. She'd just gone out into the room to find Wedge sitting backwards in his chair, frowning slightly as Jessie worked. Marlene was the next to come down but Barret was quick to steer her right back up again. A child didn't need to see that much blood. Biggs didn't come down but that wasn't surprising. That man was not a morning person and often woke at noon or later. Even then he often stayed holed up on his room working on some project, unless he had work.

With Wedge and Tifa's support and much of his other wounds bandaged, Jessie decided to tackle his knee at long last.

"Alright. I don't know what his pain threshold is like but I know this knee is a nasty bugger." Jessie started. "I need you guys to hold him steady. I have to get the bone fragments and bullet out and well its probably going to hurt like a motherfucker. So Tifa, get his shoulders. If he doesn't wake up, join Wedge at his legs and try to keep them steady."

Both nodded and went to their stations. Jessie took a deep breath then her tweezers dug into the mess of gore that was his knee. And well, he didn't stay still. And as Tifa could attest to earlier, he's still bloody dangerous. Tifa's spot at his shoulders gave her the most warning; she saw his eyes the moment they popped open, and she wanted to run.

Venomous green eyes, slit like a snakes. Like a monster… They…weren't they blue? She swore they were blue! Why that color? Her heart lurched in her chest, caught by the predatory stare.

Her every instinct screamed at her to get away. The world was spinning and everything was smoking and he was there. She still remembered his voice, slick, deep, and his words every bit as precise as the rest of the man. An economy of motion; deadly precision. The look he'd given her was almost welcoming as his blade bit in to her stomach, those horrible, slit viridian eyes mocking.

She wanted to gouge them out; the ones from her nightmare and the ones chasing her into reality. She would prefer it very much if she never saw those eyes again and yet here they were, on a man different than the first. Tifa braced herself against the edge of the far table, her knuckles white as she tried to right herself.

"Tifa? Are you okay?" Wedge called out, looking at her with a concerned expression. His attention on his distressed friend, poor Wedge had absolutely no chance. Zack gave them no warning; he just abruptly started thrashing so wildly Jessie had to withdraw. Wedge wasn't nearly as quick and unfortunate enough to be on the end with his feet. Which, stupidly enough, were still booted but obviously the boots were loose on Zack's feet. And so the second AVALANCHE male in less than two hours got himself clobbered, this time by a wild flying boot. To the face. Tifa rushed forward to run interference, helping Wedge up.

"He's going to hurt himself! Tifa! Wedge! Help me restrain him!" Jessie yelled before hurriedly abandoning her tools and setting about securing his left shoulder.

Reluctant as she was, Tifa steeled herself and returned to Zack's front, frantically tried to talk Zack down, babbling out gibberish in a soothing tone. "Zack it's okay. You're okay. We're trying to help you. Please believe me. Calm down…just listen to the sound of my voice."

"Angeal, please no! Come back!" He shouted out deliriously. His eyes were unfocused and rapidly jumping around the room as he writhed on the table. The terror in those eyes somehow helped give Tifa strength. Sephiroth, after all, had never looked at her like that. "No, don't touch him….no…NO!"

"Zack, please, you're going to hurt yourself. No one is trying to hurt you here. Calm down." Tifa continued, massaging his scalp in small circles. He continued to babble out nonsense to her ears but it slowly became slower, his cries more subdued as his unnatural eyes focused on her face. Calm. Placid. His eyes locked on hers, his flailing lessened then ceased entirely and he continued to stare at her. As she watched, the green leeched from them, leaving them bright, violet blue once more.

Then, still looking right at her, he muttered. "I…I'm sorry."

Tifa took a sharp intake of air. His eyes were still cloudy, and yet she couldn't help but wonder if he was, in fact, talking to her. She continued to run her fingers through his hair, and he just stared at her, his eyelids drooping ever so slightly. Finally his eyes slid close with one last murmur.

"Aerith…"

The three of them exchanged looks.

"What happened to you?" Tifa said, looking down at his now still face. Her hand brushed his forehead, finding it a little warm to the touch.

"Well, shit. That was just plain old bad." Wedge says, doing his best to wipe the boot-shaped impression of grime away from his cheek.

"Yes, that's what I was afraid of…I do have some sedative. I was hoping we wouldn't have to use it since it's a little expensive but…" Jessie says slowly, digging around for a syringe and a small bottle. "It might be for the best if I do."

Tifa frowned. "Thank you, Jessie. And you too Wedge."

Jessie shrugged, pulling back the plunger in the bottle. "You're welcome. Don't go around telling Barret I'm doing this for you though. He probably won't be too thrilled with me wasting supplies on your friend here, but I can't leave that knee like that."

She tapped the syringe against the table and squeezed out the air bubbles, and then, using a little blob of rubbing alcohol to sterilize the area first, drove the plunger into a thick vein on Zack's arm. Wedge made himself none too subtly scarce as she did, his fear of needles winning over his obviously mounting concern for a man he'd never met before.

Wedge was just that kind of person. The kind that had managed to talk himself out of killing a spider in the shower drain once just because he couldn't reach it and smash it right away. It wasn't that he refused to kill anything or that he was squeamish; he simply hated to see suffering. If he let his mind think about it, gave it time to empathize with whatever it was that he was killing, he would lose his will to do so. Wedge didn't like pain. Didn't like seeing someone else in pain anymore than he liked being in pain himself.

Comparatively, the rest of Zack's treatment went fairly quickly. Jessie dug the final bullet left in his knee and every injury was cleaned with hydrogen peroxide and treated with an anti-bacterial cream to prevent infection. Some of the more serious wounds were stitched; others just wrapped in gauze. Fortunately, according to Jessie, despite the number of his wounds, he would heal rather quickly.

"SOLDIERs really are something else, aren't they?" Jessie said, tracing the bandaged lump on his temple.

"What do you mean?" Tifa asked from where she stood pouring drinks for them both at the bar.

"Well, every wound that looks like it might have been life threatening is already healed. This nick on his head here's a lot deeper than it looks. Right through the skull. Or it was anyway. It's practically gone now. Some of these damn holes even started closing while I was working on them."

The news about his head startled here. "So will he be okay?" She asked, gesturing to her own head.

"Oh yeah. From what I can tell the bone saved him from any brain damage. You said he was up walking around when you found him?" Jessie said.

"More than that. He actually slammed me into a wall." Tifa admitted.

"Un-fucking-believable. No way with that knee he should be able to even move."

"You're telling me. He was lugging this around with him too." Tifa gestured to the massive sword on the wall by the door. Jessie gaped.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah seriously. I had to drag it back here with me. Shiva if it wasn't heavy either." Tifa answered.

The two women finished their drinks. Deciding they'd waited long enough, Jessie called Wedge to help heft the unconscious man up the stairs. There weren't unfortunately any unused bedrooms left on the second floor, but since he was Tifa's guest (kind of sort of) she decided to let him stay in her room. On the bed of course, which was covered in a plastic sheet in case his wounds opened up again. Tifa herself would just have to make due on a loveseat in the room.

"Barret's not going to be happy, but I think we need to reschedule the mission." Jessie said after they'd tucked the unconscious SOLDIER in. "We can't just leave him here with Marlene. That fever of his worries me a bit."

"Ugh…I guess I'll have to tell him." Tifa said. She was not looking forward to that conversation…

Dusk brings out a whole new side to Midgar; different from the gelid bleakness of deep night or the hazy bustle of day. Night had fallen but it had yet to snake its icy fingers around the city entirely; the twisted steel of the metropolis still retained some of its heat from the merciless sun. Lacking the deep heaviness of midnight, with the last traces of sunlight still staining the sky, this is the hour of sin. Friend to those who desired comfort in their clandestine activities, the gloom just deep enough hide them from prying eyes but not so deep that they lose themselves within it. When wine stains silken bed sheets and secrets are born; when rage and pure villainy create malicious crimson smiles across the bodies hapless victims.

To that end, it seems rather appropriate. It's fitting for him to be cloaked in the sin and shadow; he melded into the underworld as if he belongs, donning a shawl of dark gray and hiding his face from sight. The fabric clung to him as if he was adorned in the shadows themselves, only his luminous eyes visible as he moves with a fluid, purposeful gate. He drew no more attention to himself than the other patrons prowling the sidewalks. Hiding in plain sight, waiting to strike. Like any demon should.

But it wasn't merely the poetic implications that have him preferring the chill of night to the dazzle of daylight. Night was far more amicable to his status; the city sounds abate somewhat and the crowds are far thinner. Truth was his eyes had been a smidge sensitive as of late; the latest procedures were to blame. The gentle incandescence of the moon was far kinder to his pupils than the harsh radiance of day. Loath as he was to admit it, he was still adjusting to the degree that his senses had been enhanced; overwhelming one could hamper his ability to perform. And he needed to be on his toes for this; this was far too important to slack off.

However, he fully expected tonight to be fruitless; they expect the impossible of him. A wolf cannot hunt a hidden rabbit without smoking it out of its den first. That or collapsing the tunnels entirely and forcing the screaming, maimed vermin to either suffocate or flee into his waiting claws. Either way was fine by him, but just listening at the rabbit hole and expecting to happen upon his prey was unlikely to turn up any results. No, his adversary was wiser than that. Even delirious from delicious agony and heavily injured, he did not leave an easy trail.

Injury had surely taxed him; there was plenty of blood to attest to this fact. A sloppy winding trail through the sodden backstreets of Midgar; the scent and acidic tang of mako ensured that the blood could belong to no other. He knew what Fair's blood smelled like, could pick it up easily. However, from what he could tell, the bastard had gotten smart at one point. He must have stopped long enough to allow his body to heal enough that when he made his next move, he did not bleed like a stuck pig. For there may have been a light trail immediately after the fact, but it had long gone cold. Crimson smears and droplets had worn away from daily bustle of the city, beaten into oblivion by the soles of innumerable shoes.

There would be no tracking him. The city was far too vast, and his leads had long since dried and withered into husks. No one seemed to have any useful information; as per usual in the slums, no one saw anything. They were all innocent down here, so innocent with their bloodstained lapels and soiled souls. Despite Fair's personality, he knew very few people who were still living and outside of Shinra that were willing and capable of sheltering him; the only true possibility had turned up empty. The Ancient's house was, according to the Turks, clean. He wasn't sure he believed that and was of the opinion that they should simply burn the place to make for certain but alas, the Turks were too soft to see it his way.

And so the only method currently at his disposal was hit or miss, grasping at straws and hoping to find the winner. Combing the streets, keeping his senses open. It was the only action they would let him take; those smarmy suit-monkeys were in charge of the case. He wasn't allowed to interrogate or act even if he found a lead until he was given the green light. He was collared like a dog and the very thought made him sick enough to almost neglect the case entirely.

He wouldn't though. He couldn't. For there were few people on this miserable planet that he wanted to see suffer more than Fair. He was nothing if not vindictive. Nothing existed for him anymore; there was no turning back the clocks. No undoing the wrong that had been dealt to him. The only thought that drove him anymore was the lust for vengeance; to make the ones who had done this to him feel the same pain and humiliation. He lived only to see them bleed, ooze, beg for their miserable lives. To hear the symphony of their screams and wallow in their anguish. And Fair was at the top of his list, followed closely by the one at the other end of his leash.

Really, Hojo should be far more afraid of his creation, the incorrigible maniac. For he would bite the hand that feeds him poison someday, even should it cost him his life. But not yet. Not quite yet. Hojo's untimely demise would put an end to his more pressing vendetta, and he would not go to the grave until he was certain that Fair would follow soon after or even before. Wait, perhaps no, death was far too kind. Let him watch everyone around him shrivel up and writhe in agony beneath his knife. Make him wish he could die just to end the suffering he has in store. Perhaps then he will grant that wish or perhaps he shall extend the man's pain indefinitely. He did not know the word mercy. Not for Fair.

And so he would search. He would tear apart every home in the city, down to the studs if he had to. He would make the screams of the innocent so unbearable, the rippling inferno exploding in the city so unavoidable that Fair would have to slip out of the woodwork. Like the slimy little worm he was. Oh if only; he must be patient however. The company has yet to really realize the danger Fair could pose to their little empire. They were dawdling, sending Turks to do his job. The President doesn't seem to realize the Turks likely have no interest in capturing Fair. Tseng and several others had befriended ex-SOLDIER when he was with Shinra.

There were far easier alternatives to this foolish trudge through the city. Dangle the right carrot and he could have his prey by supper. Or in this case, the right flower, he thought with a slight malevolent curl of his lips. But those were sordid dealings and those useless buffoons sitting behind their big corporate desks refused to let him do as he pleased. It wasn't like he had any intention of killing the girl, just feigning mortal peril. Fair would come running the moment his precious flower was in danger of wilting. He was certain of it.

It couldn't be helped, he realized. He needed to be patient; he would find some weak point he could exploit eventually. And then he would get Fair to come to him. Set the terms of their meeting himself. The thought made him smirk as he continued through Sector Seven.

As the growing night expanded its greedy grip upon the city, a dark-shrouded man wanders past a hole-in-the-wall bar, thorough which he hears raised voices. He doesn't stay and eavesdrop, finding the arguing unpleasant and grating upon his ears. Unaware that his quarry sleeps restlessly mere feet from where he now stands, dreaming of a phantom with the eyes of a cat relentlessly hunting him while the cityscape around him burns…

Till next time,

~Crisi

V 2.1 edited as of June 24th.