Final Fantasy VII Stark

_You say, you say,  
Everything is different today_

_---  
_

"No."

She swears the other woman is about to have an aneurysm, because people's eyes don't just twitch like that for no good reason. The thought makes her smile the slightest bit, however, her I-only-wish-I-was-your-manager does not seem to find it so entertaining.

"What do you _mean_ 'no'?" she hisses, clenching her fists so tightly that the knuckles turn white.

"I won't do it," she echoes.

Aeris looks as though she doesn't quite know what to say. It was very unlike Yuffie to be disagreeable when it came to her contract.

"You can't just _refuse_ to perform," she sputters, entirely unsure of what else she's supposed to do.

"Well, I am."

Yuffie watches the heiress wheel on her two brothers looking so flustered and desperate that she almost feels sorry for her. But then she remembers that _this_ is the woman running her life and immediately changes her mind.

"Just where does this brat get off giving _me _orders?" she shrieks at them, tearing at the skirt of her pink gingham dress.

But Cloud is too busy admiring his reflection in the window to acknowledge his older sister's tantrum, and Sephiroth looks so infinitely bored that he couldn't care less if he tried. Yuffie's glowing smile widens just slightly.

"Quiet down, Aeris. I can't stand it when you screech like that."

"I think my ears might be bleeding."

Aeris looks so completely dumbfounded by her brothers' reactions that Yuffie cannot help but press her fingers to her lips to stifle a giggle.

"What am I supposed to tell Daddy?" Aeris screams, stomping a foot on the floor in her brothers' direction.

Sephiroth does not even bother to look up from his newspaper.

"That you are so entirely incompetent that you cannot even control a sixteen-year-old girl."

The brunette looks as though she's just been slapped in the face as she resentfully turns her attention back to Yuffie, determined to prove her brother wrong.

"You _will_ _at least _perform this weekend," she snarls, approaching the other girl so rapidly that Yuffie nearly thinks she will barrel right through her.

Aeris is so close to her now that the overpowering scent of her perfume makes Yuffie's stomach turn. But, she swallows it down and cracks another small smile before placing an ethereally white hand against the older woman's face.

"Of course I will," she chimes.

She gives Aeris a soft pat on the cheek before turning and disappearing through the conference room doors in a swirl of white gossamer ribbon and a swish of short dark hair. The heiress twists a long brown ringlet around her finger, gnawing on her lip as she watches the luminescent little girl step into the elevator at the end of the hall. Oh, how she'd love to take a black permanent marker to all her pristine white clothing and shred every last one of her ribbons. What had _she_ ever done for the Gods to make her so perfect and beautiful?

When the elevator doors have shut, Aeris turns back to her brothers and scowls bitterly.

"I. _Hate_. Her."

Cloud, having finished fixing his hair in the window, glances back at her and makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

"Oh, get over it."

* * *

He swears, if the phone rings one more time, he will rip the damn thing out of the wall and put not one, not two, but _three_ bullets through it. He growls quietly under his breath and snatches it off the receiver.

"_What_?" he snarls.

The voice on the other end is sickeningly sweet and he immediately regrets bothering to answer in the first place.

__

"Oh, Vincent, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?"

He runs a hand through his black, razor-cut hair and leans back in his leather office chair with a heavy, frustrated sigh.

"What do you want, Aeris?"

He listens as she huffs sourly into the phone.

_"Why the foul mood? Something bothering you?" _

Spoiled brat, he thinks irritably.

"Aeris, I don't have time for this," he informs her flatly. "Tell me what it is that Hojo wants and let me get back to work. I have too much to do to waste what little time I _do_ have playing your childish games."

__

"I don't think I will, not if you're going to be like **this**. You can come and talk to Daddy yourself-"

"Aeris," he barks, "put your father on the phone. _Now_."

There is a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line before she answers.

__

"... Fine."

He can already feel the slow, aching pulse resurfacing inside his skull as he massages his temples. These headaches have become his constant companion as of late.

__

"Vincent?"

He suddenly remembers how much he loathes this man's voice, and would almost prefer the phone be given back to Aeris instead.

"What is it, Hojo?" he grumbles, closing his eyes as he continues to rub his throbbing temples.

_"Business,"_ he hisses. _"Will you come to my office, please?_"

"I'm afraid I'm a little preoccupied at the moment," he replies irately. "What is so important that you need to see me immediately?"

__

"I have another name for you, several in fact. Shall I fax them to you, or would you prefer to come in and have a briefing?"

"Fax them. I'll come in for a briefing later. I have too much to do right now."

__

"Very well. You should be getting them now."

He can hear the machine on the desk beside whir to life as it prints out the information.

__

"Oh, and Vincent, before you go, I should tell you that there is one name in particular that needs to be dealt with in a timely manner. Before this weekend, preferably."

He snatches the paper from the fax tray once it has finished and looks it over briefly, wondering why it really makes a difference.

"Which one?" he asks, scanning through the different names, half expecting to see one he recognizes.

__

"We'll discuss it when you come in. But until then, I will let you get back to work."

"Fine."

__

"Sometime this evening please, Vincent."

He hangs up without even bothering to respond and rakes his fingers through his hair again before swiveling around in his chair to look out the massive paneled window at the other end of his office. He hadn't realized how late it was.

She is not going to be happy, he thinks. This will be the fourth time this week he has worked late and consequently missed dinner. And he feels badly, because he knows how much effort she goes to.

He groans quietly and turns back to his desk to reach for the phone. He dials his number without even looking before holding the device to his ear and resuming his paperwork. She answers before it can even ring twice.

__

"Hello?"

He gives the list another glance before he answers.

"Tifa, I'm going to be late tonight."

* * *

"I understand," she replies. "It'll be ready when you arrive home."

Her lips downturn as she takes her hand violently over some utensils to let them fall to the floor loudly; the strenuous action causing her to miss the back half of his generic apology in a fit of coughing. A small consequence for the satisfaction of watching them crash to the dark wood below.

Composing her health, she touches the phone to her ear again, clearing her throat and cutting him off in the middle of his same excuse.

"It's fine, Vincent," she tells him, forcing a smile even though he's not there to see it. "Go, time is money."

Tifa feels another wave of nausea wash over her, a burning sensation creeping up the back of her throat. Her hand instinctively braces along the kitchen counter, and - as if he's standing inches from her -he questions:

"How are you feeling?" His tone is business-like and she's able to imagine him sitting behind a mahogany desk, signing away millions; which is much more pleasant than the scene she can feel coming.

_Horrible. _

"Fine, thank you."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, the distortion of shuffling papers audible before he responds with a "good" and goes silent again. The conversation ends in a drawn pause and small click as he hangs up.  
There are no goodbyes in his household. But Tifa Lockhart is fine with that. In fact, she's _used_ to it, and frankly, she likes it, too.

And then she vomits.

Bending over the sink as she retches, the bile burns in the back of her throat and leaves a foul after-taste on her tongue once it has passed. The putrid smell is rising as she stays in her position, waiting expectantly for the dry heaves to come; which they do, twice, but eventually the nausea settles and the brunette pulls back from the sink to touch her lips with thin fingers, her other hand tangling in the ends of her hair along her collarbone as she stares into the mess and thinks how today would be the day Vincent notices the smell - or more correctly - the day he chooses to stop ignoring it.

Somewhere in the hallows of the large house, she can hear the familiar sound of a distorted mechanical voice, reminding her that she's forgotten her medication, as usual.

Tifa turns to the stove, picking up the sauce pan to dump its contents over the bile in the sink, taking a note of her satisfaction in listening to the sizzle and hiss as the two man-made liquids meet in her chemical reaction. But she reminds herself that it's only to hide the smell and flicks the faucet on to wash away the evidence of her _accident_. There always was a strange art in pretending that she didn't know that he knew, and she isn't about to disrupt the balance now.

Feeling better as she watches the last hints of the sickness disappear down the drain, Tifa begins putting the finished dinner away into plastic containers, cursing her carelessness as she finds that she will have to clean the ones from Monday's meal with none available; which she does so in an _elegant_ manner of ripping them from the shelves and tossing them (literally) the four feet into the sink.

_It's not as if he's doing this on purpose, _she tells herself while washing away Monday's ingredients. _It's not as if he wakes up and decides: "Well, guess I'll be working overtime today! **Yay**!"  
_

Rationalizing helps, and even though she knows it's simply a coping method of the loneliness, she finds a balance in pretending that she doesn't know that she knows. Such is the pattern of her life.  
Her arm is beginning to throb dully through her fingers, making her usually dexterous work slow and painful; and somewhere, the distant alarm is still going off.

She leaves her task in the kitchen to wander out into the main foyer, clinging to the mantel as she ascends the grand staircase to follow the noise. Down the hallway her door hangs ajar with a flickering reflection on the mahogany; she must have left the television on in her room. And as she passes into the darkened enclosure she finds that to be the truth, moving to gather several bottles off the top of the box, her free hand finds the switch to silence her alarm.

_"We're here live at Shin-Ra Stadium for Yuffie Kisaragi's banquet tonight - or at least that's what I thought we were here for, what about you?" _says the reporter on the T.V., touching his headpiece before he looks to the larger man next to him.

_"I thought that's why we were here, too, but the banquet should have started thirty minutes ago." _

She turns to look down at the screen curiously as she opens the bottles and sorts the correct dosage into her hand.

_"Ah - wait... it appears Aeris is taking the stage-" _

The two men exchange confused looks before the camera switches to live feed of some pink slip of a girl entering stage-left, waving. She cheats her height in stilettos and her eyes with heavy make up and false eyelashes. Even her smile is sugar-laced and forced as she approaches the microphone.

_"Evening everyone." _Her voice is a whispery sigh. _"First off, thank you so much for being here to help Shin-Ra celebrate twenty years of Genetic Perfection!"_

Tifa scoffs at the term, taking several pills in a single swig as her hand finds the volume on the front panel.

_"But, sadly I have some bad news_."

The girl's marionette-like expression twists into a mock pout before she continues.

_"Yuffie has come down ill backstage and despite how much she would like to perform for our **wonderful **employees for tonight's banquet, her doctors are refusing."_

A hiss and a loud chorus of 'boo' picks up on the live broadcast as the girl on stage nods along to the outbursts in a sad expression. And, as the camera cuts in for a close-up on the woman, Tifa can see the slightest flare of despondency flicker through the woman's heavy emerald eyes.

_"Luckily, the doctors say she should be up and running for this weekend's performance!"_

She pumps her arm enthusiastically.

_"But for tonight, I will be the replacement, so are you all ready to rock-"_

The screen suddenly cuts from the arena into a moronic and overly loud commercial slogan.

_"Mako, numbing the bad to let you keep the good!"  
_

Hitting the power button the room is snuffed into darkness and Tifa suddenly recognizes the late hour; she'd need to make something that would keep until Vincent arrived home later this evening.

* * *

"You can't be serious."

That's it, he thinks. The final straw. The man truly has utterly lost it. But as he sighs and spins 'round in his chair to face the computer panel on the wall behind him, Vincent realizes that he is, in fact, entirely serious.

"She's beginning to become more trouble than she's worth and I think I'm ready to be done with her.

"She's your poster child," Vincent rationalizes, but the man at the desk in front of him only glances back over his shoulder and laughs.

"And you think I won't be able to find another one? I assure you, Vincent, there are millions of sob stories no different than hers lingering in this city."

Vincent frowns, "Fine. But, remember this Hojo: I am an agent of repossession, not a murderer."

His superior gives him a vile smirk from over his shoulder before spinning back around in his chair.

"Is there really a difference?" he hisses.

"There is," Vincent assures him darkly. "My victims are those that have fallen behind on their payments and as such are in violation of their contracts.

"_This_ girl," he growls, pointing at the image of her eyes-closed smiling face on the screen, "is not a repossession. She is an assassination, which is not in my job description."

Hojo laughs at this, the taut skin of his face pulling tighter over his sharp features.

"Just because she does not have any payments to make does not mean she has not signed a contract and is not violating it," he drawls, shaking his head in amusement.

Vincent falters then, his body tensing beneath his navy suit jacket, "What do you mean?"

"She is very much so in contract with Shin-Ra, and that contract requires she be compliant in doing exactly what she has been doing for the last year," he informs the younger man, resting his elbows on his desk and tenting his fingers. "But lately, she's become rather rebellious and frequently refuses to honor our agreement. She may be my 'poster child', but as I said, she's more trouble than she's worth."

Vincent scowls blackly at his employer. His supposed loophole had just been closed with his neck still in the middle.

"Very well," he concedes reluctantly. "Her death will be the headline of Saturday's paper."

"Very good. You never disappoint me, Vincent."

The thought makes him sick.

"May I be excused, sir? My niece will be unhappy if I'm much longer."

Hojo has turned back to his computer, seeming already bored by the situation.

"Yes, you may be on your way. You have other work that needs seeing to before you return home, and I wouldn't want you to keep poor Tifa waiting."

The sneer on his face as he looks up at the young man in front of his desk is enough to make Vincent's stomach roll before he turns on his heel and stalks from the office.

* * *

Tifa Lockhart was never one for petty grudges or tantrums, so why would she take up the habit now? Exactly; which is how she found herself downstairs again, taking several assortments of vegetables under the current knife as she continued to fix a salad for Vincent. She rationalized that it would keep late into the night, and not the fact that he _despised_ carrots, and broccoli, and lettuce, and everything in the salad - or the fact that she was still quite upset with him.

_But the salad is **not** an item of revenge_, she assures herself, despite the obvious.

Her wrist applies pressure in smooth ticking motions against the carrot, getting a satisfying _crunch _before the tap of metal on the cutting board, a sound all too similar as Vincent's gauntlet connects effectively to the base of the neck to sever the spinal connection. The victim sputters and gags on his tongue in obnoxiously loud agony, taking a fist full of the crimson fabric as his eyes start to gloss over, but the expression is soon lost as three barrels are pressed against his skull before the swift tug of the trigger.

There is silence as Tifa rubs at the top of her brow with the back of her hand, but her own skin seems insufficient, and she lightly takes the back of the knife to the spot. The metal of the first tool he touches is dull, which causes him to remember that he should really be cleaning them properly for future use, seeing as his current scalpel has merely caught and mangled the skin when he tried to slice through. Tossing the blade to the side Vincent takes a newer model along the seam of the man's shirt, the soft muffled sound of skin and fabric splitting beneath the blade, effectively leaving a scarlet trail in the instrument's wake as he slides it down the spine like a paintbrush.

Tifa sorts the correct amount of the colorful vegetable onto the flat of the blade, flicking the pieces into the glass bowl beside her before taking it in both hands and tossing the mixture into some form of art. The hues of reds in the peppers matches the stain on his scalpel as he sets it down before immersing his hand in the body to sort through the chest cavity, double-checking the paperwork at his side for the correct organ. He finds the soft mass of tissue pressed against the ribcage with little difficulty and a sharp jerk of his arm, snaps the organ's bodily connection.

With some amount of strain, Tifa rips a sizeable sheet of plastic wrap off the roll before cursing under her breath and forcefully shoving the box back into the drawer. _Damn thing_, she thinks. Covering up a salad should not take that much effort. Vincent's process is much more brief, as the unraveling of the man's intestine takes just moments before it has been pulled from the gaping incision in his torso and is hanging bloody and limp from his gauntlet.

Irritably, she takes another glance at the clock. How the man can stand to be at the office for twelve-plus hours a day is absolutely beyond her. 10:07. _He has fifty-three minutes_, she thinks, scowling as she crams the salad bowl into a small open crevice of the fridge.

He gazes briefly at his watch as he cleans himself of the blood. 10:08. _Fifty-two minutes_, he thinks, expressionless as he kicks the body aside and continues down the alley.

* * *

He has never been a patient man, and she is certainly beginning to try what little patience he has left. And if he thought the headaches had been hellish before, he might as well be a menopausal woman dealing with her first true migraine. This room is so blinding that he would swear he can feel his retinas burning out in the back. Never in his life has he seen anything so impossibly white.

Every last wall, piece of furniture, and inch of carpet and tile is so painfully, perfectly white that it doesn't seem real. Who could possibly live like this, he thinks. And it isn't just the room, it's the entire apartment down to the linens and place mats. Even the arm chair he is currently lounged in is so pristine that he is strangely relieved he had taken the time to hose off his cloak and boots before tracking down her penthouse. The thought of getting blood all over the white upholstery is curiously disconcerting.

Honestly, he thinks, how long does it take one person to shower?

The water has been running in the master bathroom since he arrived, and he's been listening to it for a good thirty minutes now. But, despite his escalating level of impatience, he simply isn't the kind of man that forces himself into a woman's bathroom while she is showering. And though he would never admit it aloud, he knows he is stalling because he does not _really_ want to do this. Hojo's reasoning is not enough justification for him to just kick down the bathroom door and put three bullets between her eyes.

So, he sits and waits, one leg propped on his knee and an arm upright on the armrest pointing an oversized triple-barreled handgun at the ceiling. He thinks vaguely of Tifa, hoping she's taken her medicine and gone to bed by now. It's much too late for her to still be awake, but it would be just like her to stay up and wait for him. She's becoming more and more difficult by the day, and being late constantly is only making her worse. He knows she has never been particularly fond of him, but what else is he supposed to do? He cannot just toss her out into the streets, though there are times when he wishes he could. She would die in half a day, and not necessarily from her illness.

Across the master suite, he can hear the distinctive mechanical thud of the water shutting off inside the bathroom. He takes a slow, shallow breath through his nose, curling his finger around the trigger before standing up out of the chair. He would ask himself why he ever let Hojo swindle him into this job a year ago, but he already knows the answer. He crosses the space silently to stand outside the wash room.

_I'm so sorry_.

The door swings open and steam barrels out in thick swirls that rise up to the ceiling, but he is not at all prepared for the figure that emerges amidst the vapor. Stark naked, dripping wet, and glowing white.

A child.

And he thought Hojo had been joking.

Her eyes are closed as she takes one dancer's step closer to him before hesitating within a hair's breadth of his chest. He can feel the soft tuft of air against his chin as she exhales softly and tilts her head to one side. He watches with apprehension as her eyes remain closed, but a delicate, doll's smile curves the corners of her lips. The cynic in him wonders from the way she holds herself if she _is_ made of porcelain.

"Hello."

Sweet Gods, he thinks, she even sounds like a doll. Her voice is like a windchime: small and silvery and sweet. Even though he has never once heard her sing - or at least not that he can recall - he thinks she sounds like music.

"Good evening," he replies smoothly, his lips curling into a charming, but dangerous smile out of habit.

He is even sure to lower his voice an octave or two for added affect, watching her lips pull apart as she bares her teeth in a brighter smile. Though she has not even opened her eyes, he remembers why women were always far easier to work with. Yet, he still feels unjustified in being here with murder as his intent. But, as he looks her over a second time, he remembers why. Her frail little body with its soft, adolescent curves. Her hips have yet to fill out, her breasts have only just begun to swell, and her limbs are thin and wiry.

A child.

How can he possibly be expected to slaughter a child?

He watches as she tilts her head back and her eyes - as if the lids were weighed down by the vast length of her eyelashes - slowly flutter open.

"Did I keep you waiting very long?"

He thinks he has never seen anything more terrifying in his life. The whites are brighter than fresh snow at midnight and her irises are the color of quicksilver. The unnatural glow of them blurs her pupils, and he cannot tell whether or not she is looking at him. And as she blinks, their overwhelming brightness and her butterfly lashes make them seem much too big for her delicate face.

He wonders for a moment if - in all her perfection - she truly is a doll.

"I'm afraid so," he coos. "You've put quite a delay in my schedule."

He is not prepared for her to lift one of her fragile, white hands and place it on his chest without any restraint. She is smiling so vividly and her eyes are so blindingly bright that he nearly finds himself afraid of her.

_What is this child?_

She holds her head at a slight angle as she gazes up at him as though he were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen, "I'm sorry. How rude of me."

He forces another gentleman's smile, ignoring the hand resting below his pectoral.

"It's unfortunate," he continues darkly, "because now I will have to work much quicker."

He is certain to make eye contact the best he can, because, while he is unable to distinguish whether _she_ is looking at _him_, he wants to be sure she understands that _he_ is looking at _her_.

She obviously must, because a look of enlightenment appears on her face and without hesitance she raises her other hand - still dripping water from her fingertips - and lays it on his chest as well before closing the last precious inches of space between them to press herself against him.

"So, you must be here for these," she murmurs.

She bats her long eyelashes for reference.

He gazes down at her, entirely unsure of how to react. He has never come across someone before with so little regard for the idea of personal space. She is not abashed in the least by the fact that she is naked, or that there is a strange man in her apartment, or that she is pressed up to that man and he can _feel_ the dampness of her skin soaking through his shirt.

"Clearly you received the memo," he replies quietly, lifting his own right hand and brushing his thumb across the top of her cheekbone.

Her skin feels like glass.

She seems to be looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes as her lips quirk into a more sultry grin.

"Oh, I've known for some time now."

He decides against his better judgment to play along with her little game. If she is so intent on testing him, he thinks he may as well raise the stakes. She hasn't a clue the magnitude of the corner she is backing herself into.

He sweeps his fingertips across her cheek to gently stroke the short, dark, still-damp hair that hangs heavily around her face.

"You were expecting me, then," he affirms, tracing the shell of her ear with his index finger.

She has leaned in close enough now to touch her nose to his chest and he can hear the soft sweep of her eyelashes against the fabric of his shirt when she blinks.

"Well, not you specifically, I suppose," she amends, her voice a heady whisper as she lightly caresses his chest with her thumb.

He only hums quietly in response, skimming his fingers across her shoulder and down the length of her perfect white arm. He drops off before he reaches her hand, and instead settles for sliding his arm around behind her and resting his own hand on the back of her thigh, close enough for his fingers to graze the inside. He is growing tired of this game very quickly, and decides to see if he can push her just a little further. Slowly, he lifts his left arm and drags the razorsharp fingertips of his gauntlet featherlight across the supple skin of the side of her breast. And looking down at her to gauge her reaction as he does so, he is disappointed to find that she is still smiling, entirely untroubled.

"So," she continues, her voice still a soft, sweet murmur, "how are you going to do it?"

He hums again, but low in his throat this time as he proceeds to trace lazy circles on the sensitive skin with his clawed fingers.

"How would you like me to do it?"

He is mildly surprised when she giggles and raises herself up on her tiptoes and is suddenly close enough to brush her lips against his chin and he can feel the soft swell of her breasts pressing against his chest.

"I'm not sure," she breathes, letting the tip of her nose skim his jawline. "Were you planning on shooting me in the head first or gouging my eyes out while I'm still breathing?"

The rational half of his brain is taken aback at how she has managed to play him all this time and is dying to put an end to the utter nuisance that she is, but his demons refuse to accept defeat and he lets it roll off his back with a low, dark chuckle. He ducks his shoulders just enough for his lips to find her ear and he exhales softly, enjoying the way she cannot help but shiver.

"Which would you prefer?" he growls. "I can be a very creative man when it's required of me."

She barely raises an eyebrow when his fingers inch closer to the inside of her thigh and the claws of his gauntlet slip beneath her breast.

"Why don't you put that creativity to good use?" she hisses. "I've never given much thought to how I'd like to die."

Her voice, once laced with sugar and silver, now drips venom from every word and he wonders belatedly if he's pushed her too far. Though, he supposes it doesn't truly matter, because by the end of their little game she won't be alive to care.

As he opens his mouth to reply, the soft, but frantic beeping of his wristcom interrupts him. He snarls quietly, cursing Tifa's incredibly poor timing. He should have known she would wait for him instead of just taking her medicine and going to bed.

Ignoring the alert, he leans in just a fraction of an inch closer before he speaks again.

"I'm afraid it looks like we will have to reschedule."

The shiver he evokes as his lips brush the shell of her ear are more than satisfying. He sweeps his hands across her skin as he pulls away from her, giving her one last sneer before he turns and heads for the door in one fluid motion.

If only she hadn't still been smiling.

* * *

_He's late_, she thinks, which doesn't surprise her, but it certainly should. Or at least she pretends it should. And it is her pretending that has her standing by the door with a heavy shawl bundled on her shoulders, hands holding the salad.

_It shouldn't be this hard_.

Tifa shifts her weight a moment to balance the salad as her hand touches the front door and nudges it open to the world, which to its credit, is silent in the late hour. The door hangs ajar to stretches of the garden and a single street light reflecting in the wrought iron gate of the manor, a common scene suddenly so alien. Standing in a hiatus of her anxiety, she is overwhelmed in the elements of the muggy night, instantly she takes on a sweat and thinks again how _ridiculous _she's being.

And then the clock chimes eleven, clarifying that he is, indeed, late.

Hunching her shoulders, she steps from the house onto the brick walkway, letting the heavy door click quietly behind her. Curling around the salad bowl defensively, she slowly weaves between the gardens and to the mouth of the adjacent street. Turning one last time to the manor's mahogany entrance, she admires the Gothic features in the window architecture and the curved balcony dressing below her room. _How marvelous_, she thinks sourly, _at least my prison has some curb appeal._

In one final stroke of the clock, she turns and begins down the empty street. The road falls out beneath her steps in a blend of concrete and asphalt, dressing itself in brick buildings and rows of houses mocking the elegance of Vincent's mansion. The styles trace in white trim and perfect lawns and she finds the scenery calming, winding a random spiderweb pattern through the neighborhood as her eyes gaze up into the dark ink spill of the sky; the glow of the city chasing the cosmos back into an abyss.

All is quiet save for the distant pulsing of traffic and with the minimal populace that wanders the streets, her thoughts idly touch skywards with her eyes. There are no stars in the city, which leaves her to consider that she has her past to thank for that observation. Whether or not that is a good thing, she has yet to put into question, but Vincent makes it very clear that it's not a topic of discussion - the past. Frankly, that doesn't bother her.

She got tired of crying. And he got tired of listening to it.

Tifa's eyes feel along the horizon line of the suburban landscape to find the massive skyscrapper that is her destination. The Shin-Ra building stands straight and piercing into the darkness, thick coils of smoke billow from its bowels and congest the massive screen that is still currently featuring Aeris' concert. Thankfully, she cannot hear it.

She turns down another nameless street, keeping her gaze on the tower of steel and glass, and huddles the salad bowl closer to her breast. By now, her bare feet are dirty and sore from the pace and the once smooth concrete had transitioned into a rougher urban landscape. The establishments start to sag on their lots and the white trims trade for graffiti and iron. Homes change to stacks and she's suddenly overcome with the idea that she can't recall the intervals of her left and right turns.

For such a simplistic plan of taking a straight shot to an 'in-plain-sight building', Tifa begins to feel the swell of panic in her over-confidence in delivering the salad to Vincent, especially since she takes a moment to conveniently remember that he takes a car to work.

For an obvious reason.

She curses to herself quietly before she takes another corner sharply, her hands freeing themselves from the weight of the salad to twist and play with the device around her wrist. Somehow, in the face of her rash and impulsive move, the action of feeling along the seamless cuff of her wristcom calms her rising fears, soothing the constriction that had begun to form around her lungs. She coughs twice in a nervous manner.

Her long gown begins to catch and fray along the cracks and other abnormalities of her new landscape; which causes her to curse more loudly as she rounds yet another corner. Bundling and fussing over the heavy fabric while juggling the food in her arms, Tifa eventually gives up trying to save the dress and checks skyward again for her destination only to find that she'd entered a district with tall enough buildings to lock the view away in small slips.

_Perfect_, she thinks. She never saw the point in industrial lifestyles and putting nature's view on a price tag.

Her shoulders sag in frustration before she turns to backtrack to a clearing in the urban area. However, once she turns to exit back out the street, she comes face to face with a rather larger male, his posture filling the entrance of the narrow through. He pushes closer to seven feet than six and approaches her slowly, hands stuffed into his pant pockets.

"Well hello," he says deeply.

His facial features are distorted in shadows but his tone is enough to cause Tifa to backstep and consider Vincent's lessons of 'stranger danger'.

"Er - Evening," she manages, choking on her nerves.

Without another word she wheels back around and starts a brisk pace down the street, glancing over her shoulder to clarify that the man is, indeed, following in a slow saunter. He passes under a streetlamp to flash dull features and a sick smile.

_I'm overreacting, _she assures herself. _There is simply no other direction for him to travel. He was just being polite._

Despite her rationalizing, when she breaks to a cross street and randomly cuts right, she takes on her best sprint within the current attire. As she throws one last glance over her shoulder, the man is now also sprinting, gaining ground easily in long strides.

Panic again begins to mess her breathing, her legs tangling and congesting in her gown as she crosses suddenly into the opening of what she hopes is another street. In her frantic haste, she takes the corner into a solid object with enough force to knock it, and herself, flat to the pavement. The pain is instant and pairs with a tearing noise and she thinks - in a moment before hitting the ground - that she really liked that dress.

But she never hits.

Instead, Tifa finds herself sprawled along a collection of loose fabric and lean muscle - and more surprisingly - a man.

"Well, _excuse me_," he says in surprise as his neck cranes to look down at her with aquamarine eyes.

"Uh," is all she manages before the brute that had been chasing her finally finds his way into the alley.

The Chaser slides to a halt once he finds the girl with his eyes, quickly flitting between her and the man who had effectively saved her face from the pavement. The redhead acknowledges the entering Brute with a tilt of his head and a crooked grin. Upon eye contact, the newcomer suddenly draws his once smirk into a concerned and almost _apologetic _face.

"R-reno-"

"_Hey_!" the man apparently known as Reno cuts him off coolly. "Listen man, can you maybe take a walk around the block? We're kind in the middle of something right now."

He motions with a free arm to the left wildly before winking at the guy who then exchanges looks between Tifa and the redhead several times.

"_Oh_! Of course!" The male assures Reno enthusiastically before ducking out and retracing his steps back the way he had come, "I'm _so sorry, _man!"

"Wait! We're not really having sex!" Tifa impulsively calls out to her would-be assailant in a distressed tone as he disappears around the corner.

Her brain reels for some more intelligent thing to say but she's sure she took the cake on that last one after thinking about it a moment. And Reno, who is now propped up on his elbows studying her, seems to agree with that thought in his smile.

"_Sooo, Beautiful, _you got a name?"

Tifa snaps back to him in a horrified expression before clumsily pulling herself off the lanky redhead with the aid of a dumpster. Her pace compels her obvious discomfort of the situation; which Reno seems to find rather enjoyable as he doesn't attempt to right himself back on his feet, and instead continues to lay on the ground and watch her. And truth be told, he got a rather nice angle on it with the fresh tear in her dark gown showing some leg.

"I'm so," she searches in the air with her hands for the correct word before suddenly doubling over in a fit of coughs.

By the time she comes to, he's bent down to her level and holding her disheveled salad out to her.

"Sorry? Thankful? Seduced by my _wondrous_ charm?" he tries, his hollow face lit warmly by a playful expression.

"Er - late."

Tifa takes the bowl tentatively, furrowing her brow a bit as she clears her chest.

"Well.. thanks anyway - but I really should be going now."

With that, she gives one final nod before flicking her hair over her shoulder and moving to start back out into the city.

"Late for _who_?" he asks, maneuvering himself fluidly in her path. His tone manages to come off light and even uncaring to her answer; which she finds quite paradoxical to the personal question asked.

"My... uncle," she finishes awkwardly.

Tifa sidesteps around Reno and out into the street before she glances up and down and begins in the wrong direction.

"Ohhh, _uncle," _he makes air quotations around the word, "I get it."

Tifa gives him a concerned look, obviously not 'getting it'. "He works at Shin-Ra..."

He keeps a few paces behind her, hiding his hands away in his overcoat, but she is able to track his movement with the simple shuffle and click of his costume. And so she was being followed. Again. But at his current position she is able to sneak sidelong glances at him, examining how he straightens the thick fur collar about his neck and carries an assortment of random objects that bounce and jangle from his hips. She notes how heavily everything weighs on his frame and can't fathom how he manages to maintain the outfit in the humidity.

Obviously he is a local - what from his _eclectic _style and demeanor - and is perhaps used to this sort of environment.

"So, you _really are_ going to see your uncle?"

"That's what I said."

Tifa pauses at another through-street, rocking on her toes before she takes another wrong turn; which Reno notes silently.

"That guy a buddy of yours?"

"No."

"Know why he was chasin' ya?"

"Probably for the same reason you are."

At that, Reno stops dead in his tracks and gives another grin.

"Well, aren't you fiery," he raises both eyebrows and begins to dust himself off, "At least we can rule out that he wasn't trying to steal your shoes."

"Listen-" Tifa starts, spinning off her heel to face him with the full intention to set him straight in answering all questions so she could kindly 'be on her way'; however, miscalculating his pace, she turns only to brush against his jawline and lay her breast on his chest as he is mere inches from her.

In their contact she instantly tenses, eyes widen, and mouth parts ever so slightly. Reno's reaction is similar as he smirks before closing the last few hairs to duck his head and steal a kiss.

It is only a second of bliss as he tenderly tastes along her mouth, his teeth lightly finding her bottom lip and tugging to pick up a sweet flare of honey.

And then she cracks his skull open with Vincent's dinner.

In her force, the glass easily shatters over the tangles of scarlet; which effectively allows her a getaway of turning and bolting down another random concrete path. Another pattern she is beginning to see in her life, and in her sprint, she considers to curse Vincent for always being right.

From behind her, she can hear the redhead cursing loudly as he begins to give chase.

"_Fuck!" _he groans, rubbing his scalp between closed eyes before cracking one to watch her.

_"Hey_! You don't want to go that way!"

"Just leave me _alone_!" Tifa throws over her shoulder, thick tears forming in her eyes as she continues to stumble and frantically stagger away.

She clips a dumpster in her haste, cringing painfully but continuing to push her limits down another side street. Stumbling over a curb, her next step catches in her gown and as she tries to surge forward, the neckline yanks down, causing her to collide with the asphalt in a loud crack. With no man for a landing pad, the pain sears through her arm and her body crumples around her injured wrist as it has surely broken on impact. She lays there and cradles the limb tenderly waiting for him to approach, his steps heavy with tiny clanks of metal.

"You okay?" He bends down to her back and touches her shoulder, "I'm not gonna hurt you, Doll Face."

Through the pain, Tifa begins to feel the vile building in the back of her throat, her muscles tightening as the cough begins again in her chest. Her mind races through several scenarios under the stranger's touch but everything jumbles and distorts in the panic, pain, fear, and paranoia. Her body seizes once before she feels the burning sensation rise and spill from her mouth to the asphalt, the color a deep onyx as the substance settles in the cracks and curve of the sidewalk.

Reno is immediately alarmed, reacting to sweep her long dark tresses from her face as Tifa continues to contort and tense her body as she retches. This time the liquid is thick and heavy, piling against gravity as it falls from her body. The surface is almost metallic in texture and reflects the above streetlamps and crowding florescent as Tifa stares down into it. Her heaves shake her entire frame, and through the layered silk of her gown, Reno can feel her back flex as she battles for control.

"Shit, girl," the redhead's voice is a whisper, "the stigma."

There is silence a moment as the wave of nausea seems to have passed, in which Tifa chuckles a dark: "thanks", and brings the back of her wrist to wipe her mouth.

"_Heh_, no problem."

He takes his other hand - the skin callused and rough as it brushes the hollow of her cheekbone- to catch any stray hairs to pull back between her shoulders. They feel like feathers, and he takes a simple pleasure to roll some strands between his fingers.

"It's Reno, by the way."

"Tifa," she says faintly before collapsing down into the bile, unconscious.

Reno quickly pulls her body from the mess, marveling how light and thin she is under the heavy ebony fabric. His hands frantically work within the cloth to find a heartbeat, tangling in the layers and intricacy of the design before finally tearing a large portion of it from her frame. The large swell of her breast pricks in the new sensation of air and her chest falls evenly in shallow breaths. He thinks nothing of averting his eyes from her nakedness, instead focusing on counting the beats under his palm.

_"Warning, please administer medication immediately," _starts a small mechanical voice from the titanium cuff around her wrist, "_pulse is decreasing, please administer medication immediately." _

_"Tifa! What the hell are you doing?" _The device replaces the mechanical voice with a much more familiar male's, _"Why haven't you taken your medication?" _Who is obviously angry.

Reno smirks.

"Well evening, Vinnie." He taps the cuff twice, "Imagine meeting you here."

There is silence a moment and the redhead can imagine his _friend's _face flicking through several emotions at this turn of events.

_"Reno?" _

And perhaps he can even distinguish an eye twitch in his tone.

"Yep!" he assures cheerfully before continuing, "Looks like I found something of yours."

* * *

**Inspired by: _Repo! The Genetic Opera  
_Written by: Cheerie Mai and Clan Dragoodle  
**


End file.
