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Eagle Day

Summary:

What if the Turks' efforts to get to Zack and Cloud.... succeeded?

An exploration of a better timeline.

Notes:

Rated teen primarily for swearing. Please note that some racist remarks about people from Wutai are made in this piece; I hope the context will show that the stuff Rude says, at least, is not meant to be taken at face value.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

1: Priority S

Tseng comes to as he feels a hand brush his shoulder. He’s at his desk. The overhead lights are still on; a cup of coffee at his two-o-clock is cold now. Reno’s in civilian clothes that look slept in; his eyes are shadowy.

“Boss man,” he says. “Word just came in, routed through Schoolboy, from his contacts out on the back forty. We found the motorcycle.”

“Where?”

“Right outside Basie. Must have taken the Northern Ferry out of Mideel from Eustace Point, right? Dicey,” Reno says, reflecting. “It’s not like the open road. You got bored travelers all around with nothing to do but look at you, and the whole trip takes a couple hours. Dude with a Shinra-issue buster sword, looking SOLDIERy, catatonic noncom on the back of his bike? Must’ve made an impression…”

“Yes,” Tseng says.

“We’ve got ‘em on this continent, that’s something. Cissnei’s on site, sectoring the terrain, making inquiries. We think they crossed over about three days ago. If they’re on foot, they’ll be going slow but they got good cover in all those little canyons. In a vehicle…”

“In the right vehicle,” Tseng says, “they could cover a few hundred miles in a day.”

“Hell of a search perimeter,” Reno says. “You want me down there? I could Section K a helo, gas up at the Mine transit station, give us, say, 48 hours airborne before Heidegger twigs.”

“Yes. I want hourly updates. And Reno? One other thing.” Reno waits, hand on his hip, head cocked to one side. “He’s intuitive, like you. A lateral thinker. Don’t underestimate him. He’s flying in the tall grass and has no illusions left about Shinra.”

“You’re saying he’s thinking like a Turk.” Reno rubs his face. “Thanks. That’s good intel. I’ll be in touch.”

He closes the door gently behind him; Tseng hears the latch bolt click into place.

He glances at his desk clock—1:48 AM—and gets to his feet. He lifts his cold coffee to his lips, staring out his office window at the streetlights, barely visible in the rain battering the streets of Midgar.

 

2: This Gets Bad

“Well, well,” Kunsel says. “In the commissary, no less. Like a regular person!”

Tseng, joining him in the line, looks up from his phone.

“Just serendipity,” he says.

“Oh really.”

“Afraid so.” As they reach the buffet, Tseng, plate in hand, serves himself seaweed salad and opens a large plastic clamshell to disclose ranks of cut rolls interspersed with paired nigiri. The oversized filets draped over the rice are long enough to drag on the serving tray, gleaming in the stark halogen lights; very profligate, Tseng thinks. Very Shinra.

“Oi,” Kunsel says. “Not if you value your insides. Not today.”

“Not even the kappa maki?”

“They’re probably okay,” Kunsel says, supplying himself with pickled plums. “But no raw fish today, buddy, all right? Trust your uncle.”

Tseng lifts an eyebrow at the negitoro and turns away.

“Got a moment?”

Kunsel smiles.

The corner table Kunsel’s chosen, Tseng notes, has a particular relationship to the intersecting sight lines of the security cameras. A nearby table crammed full of Requisitions personnel is throwing an elaborate birthday party for one of the old-timers. He sits with his back to the cameras, picking at his salad, listening to the way the noises of celebration spread out around them.

Kunsel is tearing into his chili fries like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

“The definition of above my pay grade, frankly,” he says with his mouth full.

“It never stopped you before.”

“Vibes got bad when I looked into it. So I quit asking.”

“You quit asking,” Tseng repeats. “But you didn’t stop wondering.”

It takes Kunsel awhile to reply.

“No,” he says softly.

“Have,” and the weight of the question is in Tseng’s mouth, on his tongue, “you been in touch?”

Kunsel breaks eye contact, looks down at his chili fries. Tseng watches him struggle to compose himself.

“Yes and no,” he says finally. “Let’s say messages were sent, updates. Confirmations,” he pushes a stray lock of hair back behind his ear, “were not received. Not per se.”

“Not per se.”

“Well, conduct tells a story, doesn’t it? The places he doesn’t go. And the places he does.”

“You think he’s headed back here. To Midgar.”

“You don’t?”

Tseng closes his eyes briefly, thinking of letters, bundled and boxed, in his desk drawer; of the Shinra Mansion, and the time, not quite five years ago, that he first attempted to change this course of events. He remembers the dread he felt then, the powerlessness.

“I think it’s possible,” he tells Kunsel. “But I also think he wants to live. And coming back here would make that difficult.”

“We, ah…” Kunsel spears a french fry. “We would like it, that he lives. Yes?”

Tseng’s finished his meager lunch. He sits unmoving across the table, eyes downcast, hands folded as if in prayer.

“How do we make that happen?” he asks.

For a moment, Kunsel looks a decade older.

“We are talking a certain kind of way, now, Mister Tseng, right here in the commissary,” he says. “Your hatches battened down? Your guys safe and secure? This gets bad.”

“My guys are never safe and secure,” Tseng says. “Though believe me, I have tried. The Turks are hanging by a thread. Reassignment is the best case scenario for my guys.”

Kunsel grimaces.

“You have my sympathies,” he says. “But before we phase-two this conversation, you may want to think about that a little.”

Before Tseng can answer, someone gets in his light, standing behind him, looming over the table: Kramer, a civilian up-and-comer from Heidegger’s office. Scarcely thirty, he’s already adopted his boss’s mannerisms, and his suit jacket is padded out at the shoulders. He smiles broadly.

“A SOLDIER and a Turk! Now that is an interesting combo. You sure don’t see that every day. You must have a lot of valuable gossip to share, eh, Kunsel? Tseng, how’s Administrative Research? I would’ve figured you’d be much too busy to eat in the commissary. You always struck me as a guy who doesn’t wanna be around people,” Kramer’s smile gleams, “while you eat.”

“It’s a day of celebration, Mister Kramer,” Tseng says, pointing his chin at the next table over. “You didn’t get the memo? It’s important to acknowledge these milestones. Builds company morale.”

“Kramer! My man! Have lunch yet? Try the sushi,” Kunsel says.

 

3: Heidegger’s Dream

“This will require some tact,” Tseng says. “And some inventiveness.”

Rude lowers his sunglasses to give his ops supervisor the side-eye. The wind at the edge of the plate is sending the rain sideways, right up the sleeves and under the collar of his waterproof jacket; Tseng’s wool overcoat is sodden.

They are out on a maintenance run, presumably adjusting the security perimeter at the very outmost edge of the Sector Seven plate. Their presence in this remote and unpopulated corner of Midgar is plausible, if unusual. That their work requires them to disable the security feeds where they are standing in order to update the firmware is surely only coincidental.

“Let me make sure I understand,” Rude says. “Some guy interrupts your lunch, and now you think Heidegger is watching you? You really think he has the brain cells to suss out what we’re trying to do? You think he's gonna try to shut us down?”

“He doesn’t need to know our plans to pose a problem. All he has to do is act on existing prejudice,” Tseng says. “But I don’t mind Heidegger watching me. Not at all. In fact, that’s the point. If he’s watching me, he’s not watching the Wastelands.”

Rude extracts a handkerchief from an interior pocket, wipes down his sunglasses, and returns them to his face. They immediately bead over with precipitation again.

“I thought you wanted me out there, on search duty, with Reno.”

“I do. You’ll coordinate with him soon. But first, some diplomacy. I want you to throw him a bone. Tell him…” Tseng pauses, chuckles at a private thought. “Tell him I’ve lost my balance.”

“Wh—what?”

Tseng gives Rude an amused glance.

“Oh,” Rude says, figuring it out. “Risky. But it might work.”

“Be sure to build up his confidence.”

“Massage his ego, you mean.”

“If you like.”

“Hate that fucking guy,” Rude says.

“I know. Unfortunately, he likes you. Because you’re a man who keeps his thoughts to himself in public, he projects his fantasies onto you. He imagines you are violent, incurious, like him; he fancies you are stupid enough to control. That is helpful. That’s why it has to be you.”

“Great,” Rude says.

 

4: Battalion C

Under the Plate, the rain’s given way to yellow mud. Tseng glances regretfully at his shoes as he steps beneath the plastic tarp that shields the tables of the Golden Eagle. This tiny Sector Four diner sports no sign, not even a fork-and-knife to let travelers know that food is to be had here. The reason Tseng knows it exists at all is that it is run by Nix—ex-Shinra Army, and quartermaster for the Turks when Tseng was a recruit. Nix, presiding over the narrow outdoor bar, makes eye contact as a server comes to take Tseng’s order.

“Banh mi with cured pork, for two,” he says. “Inside.”

Tseng tilts his head incrementally; Nix nods, almost absently. “Break time,” he tells a kid drying glasses, and tosses him a folded bill. “Bring me some smokes when you come back.”

By the time the kid’s on his skateboard and the server has disappeared through the beaded curtain that leads to the kitchen, Nix has closed up the bar.

Kunsel arrives, emerging from a loose cluster of laborers crowding the street, headed for lunch. In jeans and a sweatshirt, with his hands in his pockets and his mouse-brown hair in his face, he cuts no memorable figure.

“This way,” Tseng says, holding aside the beaded curtain as the server starts folding up chairs.

“We are not actually open to the public,” Nix explains.

“Noted,” Kunsel says.

They are seated at a card table parked against the kitchen wall and draped with a last-minute tablecloth. The air is heavy with steam and smoke from the grill. Nix brings the banh mi on paper plates, and a pitcher of cold barley tea.

“Thank you,” Tseng says. “I will be in touch. A different channel this time. Schoolboy will provide additional authentication.”

“That’s smart,” Nix says. “I’ll wait for word. And, sir…” he turns to Kunsel. “Can I just say. It’s a tremendous honor, sir. We’ll never forget what you did for us. Our lives for yours, sir. Count on it.”

“Um, no problem,” Kunsel says faintly, eyebrows all the way up. As Nix departs, he murmurs, “What was that about?”

“This is the Golden Eagle,” Tseng says. “Named for Eagle Day.”

“Oh. Oh! Oh, fuck.”

“As you surmised, he was there,” Tseng responds. “Sergeant Nix takes his obligations very seriously. Despite Shinra’s best efforts to bury that particular adventure—even cashiering some of their best to make it all go away—there are those who remember still.”

“Angels,” Kunsel murmurs. "Unforgettable for us too. We lost Shinji that day. That shit was awful."

Tseng pours the tea into tall glasses.

“What have you learned?” he asks.

“Worrisome things,” Kunsel says. “Battalion C’s at full deployment, all 1,200 guys, with troops on virtually every road and byway into Midgar. They’re trying to blanket the area—all chokepoints, all the time. Crazy numbers,” he concludes, shaking his head.

Tseng does not change expression at the mention of the word ‘battalion,’ but his fingers tighten around his glass of tea.

“Right,” he says. “A logical strategy, playing to Shinra’s strength. But it assumes they’ll stay on the main roads. What about the canyons?”

Kunsel shrugs.

“It’s case-by-case; depends on the initiative of the CO.”

“Can you obtain,” Tseng asks, “the leadership structure for these deployments?”

“I could. But, well, that’s very needle-haystack, Mister Tseng,” Kunsel says. “Do we have time to psychoanalyze a dozen people, and then guess which of a hundred different canyons will see patrols? What we really need is eyeballs on the ground, inside the deployments.”

“I agree,” Tseng says. “That’s not why I wanted those names. But it is why I suggested we have lunch here.”

Kunsel tilts his head inquiringly.

“How many of the rank-and-file,” Tseng asks, “would you say were… impacted, one way or the other, by Eagle Day?”

Kunsel ponders his sandwich and considers the question.

“Lotta ramifications to Eagle Day. All told? More than a hundred, I’d say.”

Tseng nods.

“So,” he says, “more than a hundred regular Army guys who either were there, or saw how things went for their friends. Saw a SOLDIER die on their behalf, and a certain individual of our acquaintance, barely out of Third Class at the time, disobey a direct order from the top to save those rookies. A number of whom are now members of Battalion C.”

Kunsel’s eyes are suddenly wide.

“Those,” Tseng says, “are the names I need. Nix has many. I need you to get the rest.”

“They’d be our eyes in the battalion. In the deployments!”

“Yes. Even before things went bad with the Big Three, Heidegger was playing the Army off SOLDIER. He’s stoked fear and hatred in the rank-and-file, the guys who saw the demigods go crazy. And he likes their fear. It helps him maintain his power—over both sides, the Shinra Army and the SOLDIERs. We need to break that grip. From the inside.”

 

5: Gertie

Reno, waiting in the passageway to the South Hangar for the transpo requisitions office to come back from lunch, is looking at a text on his phone.

The ground team has three homework assignments. First, locate. Second, divert attention. Third, make him understand—possibly in a situation where words cannot be exchanged—that we mean to get him to safety.

A flicker of motion in his periphery draws his eyes away.

“You again?”

“Aw, man,” Reno says, “I thought you loved me.”

“With a passion,”Astor says, deadpan. She’s an unassuming 5’4” with narrow shoulders but has a way of using her personal energy to obstruct transit through any corridor she decides to stand in, which is paradoxically why, Reno supposes, she is such a good Transportation Maintenance Officer. “Fuck’s sake, Reno. Didn’t we just have this conversation? About two days ago now? Remember what I said then?”

“You said no then,” Reno says. “For some crazy reason I can’t figure out. But everything’s changed since then.”

Reno extracts, unfolds, and brandishes the triplicate paperwork. Astor whistles.

“Not every day you see that kind of override, yeah?”

“I’ve never even seen that seal stamp in person before,” Astor confesses. Reno grins, forcing his shoulders to stay down and his gestures loose and casual. He and Rude have curated a sweeping collection of seal stamps for moments just like this one.

“Tell your grandkids about it. I’ve got a specific bird in mind. Is Gertie free?”

Astor snorts.

“What do you think? Of course she’s free.”

Reno straightens out of his slouch, doing his best to look affronted.

“Oh, please. Turks can paint any number of beasts on that thing’s undercarriage, it’s not gonna enhance performance. She’s a clunker. You want her? You got her.”

Reno points to the hand-written note under Line Six. Astor rolls her eyes.

“Now he wants supplemental fuel tanks? Forget it, son. Take your bird and fuck off.”

“Not tanks, Astor,” he says, putting a little whine in for effect. “Tank. Just one. Just a little jerry-can singleton thirty-gallon tank… “

“Your K’s a 40-hour ticket. Even if this particular Alpha drinks like an alcoholic on a bender, you’re not telling me you’re gonna need that much storage.”

“Things happen?”

With that, Astor gets beady-eyed.

“Can’t shake a feeling you are not being straight with me. This is damned peculiar. That’s fancy paperwork for one of our oldest birds. You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Well, see…” Reno, thinking fast, lowers his voice, and sidles in close. “We got a big fish—big fish, follow me? Big, big investor, can’t tell you his name. His son wants to play pilot. What’s Old Man Shinra gonna do, say no to a prime backer? Of course not. He asked me to solve the problem, ride herd. I figured we need a chunky, safe choice that’s not gonna cut into the supply of B3s and Stingers. Enter Gertie.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, Astor. My whole fucking weekend, too.”

Astor cracks a smile.

“I will die a happy death thinking of you babysitting a rich little wannabe hotshot trying to fly that decrepit machine,” she says, signing off on the requisition.

 

6: Schoolboy Crush

Morley Cut is an ancient two-laner that drives straight across the Morley Sink, an enormous, shallow basin situated south and east of Midgar. The Sink’s cluttered with boulders like the discarded toys of giant children; its far edge is faint and grey now under a heavy curtain of rain. Schoolboy’s analysis—taking into consideration numerous factors that include the rain, the road quality, and the availability of cover—places the likelihood at 22% that the fugitives will push north along this line.

Cissnei, in a junker ATV, speeds up the wipers, cursing as water kicks up off the road, clouding her view.

“All well out there?” The light tenor voice crackles a little over the onboard comms.

“Hey! Nice to hear your voice. Visibility’s nil out here, sweetie,” she says. “Hope your drones brought you some good news before the rain started up again.”

“To be honest, results were mixed—lots of tule fog in the eastern canyons, and once it started actually raining, I had to pull them back. At any rate, we have to be careful not to spook the deployments—or draw their attention where we don’t want it to go.”

“I hear you have some very cool bird-shaped drones now. That flap and everything!”

“Oh, you like them?” Schoolboy quickly reins in his enthusiasm, dropping his voice to a lower register. “They’re still in beta, of course, but I won’t deny allegations that a few of them were sitting on cellphone towers not far from your location.”

“Awesome,” Cissnei says. “How are the eyes at ground level?”

“Thirty-six in the deployments, including three platoon sergeants.”

“Thirty-six out of a thousand,” she murmurs. “Angels, that’s not much. Hope it’s enough.”

“No, but see—something’s happening in there, in the battalion. Kunsel tells me they talk to one another, out on patrol, in private. And thanks to them, the grunts are starting to question the orders. Not all of them—but some of them.”

“Slow ‘em down, make ‘em wonder, eh?” Cissnei sighs. “Well, it might work.”

“We do expect there will be some hesitation to execute, especially once they’re face-to-face,” Schoolboy says. “But that’s not all. There are at least three superb signal analysts out there in the mix, and they have counterintelligence backgrounds. We also anticipate some malicious compliance.”

“What are you thinking?”

Cissnei can almost hear Schoolboy smiling over the comms.

“I proposed granular search techniques. Very granular search techniques.”

Cissnei giggles.

“No stone unturned. Nice!”

Schoolboy coughs delicately.

“Well, it turns out I have a bit of a gift for malicious compliance. But it’s not all obstruction and misdirection. We have enough penetration now to ensure that we are informed of any course changes ahead of central command. Once that intel is in hand, I can act more quickly than Heidegger can. You’ll be looped in before he is.”

“That is a very satisfying idea,” Cissnei says, then frowns. “Hey. You gonna be okay helping us this way? I mean… our guys in the battalion have some cover. You’re kind of hiding in plain sight. I wish we could protect you better.”

“Why, I,” the Schoolboy stammers, “honestly, please, not to worry on my behalf. It’s—I’m delighted to help you—your efforts, I mean.”

“Just be cautious who you talk to, OK? Tseng’s people are kind of a different breed at Shinra. Ever since Veld—”

“One moment!” the voice cuts in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got coordinates for you. Rendezvous at Sutler Ridge, to the south. A friend’s incoming—with new transportation.”

"You’re the best,” Cissnei says.

 

7: You know what he can be like

“The thing is, see,” Rude says, and pauses.

Heidegger’s inner sanctum bears little resemblance to the metal-clad main offices where troop movements are coordinated on stacked monitors staffed in rotating 24-hour shifts. In here, floor-to-ceiling windows let in a cold, hazy light filtered through a mist that opens and closes around the Shinra Building, giving him fleeting glimpses of a breathtaking view of Sectors Four and Five, hundreds of feet below. Rude’s Turk-issue shoes—shined for the occasion—sink deep into the burgundy pile of the carpet.

Heidegger, backlit by the pale wash of light coming through the windows, is pacing back and forth behind a vast desk of cherrywood so highly polished that Rude can see his reflection in the surface as he moves.

“It’s been six hours since I sent my query,” he barks. “And now you’re here. I assumed you brought a message from him in person. What is this?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’d tell you his reply if I could. But I can’t get through. He won’t pick up. I mean—I don’t think—the truth is we haven’t seen him for days.”

“Days,” Heidegger echoes. He stops pacing, and starts to bounce a little on the balls of his feet.

“Truth is, I came for advice,” Rude says in a low voice. “Didn’t know where else to turn.”

Heidegger crosses his office and firmly shuts the door. Then, he turns to his liquor cabinet. Rude hears him humming tunelessly as he tinkers around with bottles and glasses before he steps back to his desk with a heavy crystal carafe and a pair of snifters.

“Cherry brandy!” he says. “Quite a treat. Have some.”

“Thank you,” Rude says, recoiling inwardly. “But, ah, sir, what’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Heidegger says, pouring generously. “No occasion at all. It’s raining! Shall we toast?” Rude dutifully lifts his drink, and they clink snifters. Heidegger waves him into a seat.

“Wonderful! Now. The whole story. Don’t leave anything out.”

Rude hears the leather creak as Heidegger sits back in his upholstered chair.

“I shouldn’t,” he says.

“Loyal to the end, eh? Don’t you get sick of it? Sick of him?”

Rude takes off his sunglasses, turning them over in his hand, shaking his head.

“Angels know I’ve tried.”

“Of course you tried. I always thought you were Army material,” Heidegger says. “But Veld, blast him, got to you first.”

“He’s been… distant. Cryptic. Now he’s barricaded up in there. Last time I went by, the door was locked. I knocked—he didn’t answer, I just heard this sad, old-timey music coming from inside. And I’m standing there, like… what is this?” Rude is warming to his story, now. “What is he thinking? Where’s his sense of duty? Why don’t we get any orders? Things are tense right now, we need guidance… nothing. Maybe he misses Veld? Maybe it’s something more existential?”

Rude prepares his finishing move, one he meditated on at length before approaching this office, weighing the selling points against the potential blowback. Laying it on too thick, maybe. He takes a deep breath.

“Sir, do we really know his mind? He’s inscrutable, his ways are strange. He’s from Wutai.”

“Exactly!” Heidegger shouts. “Exactly my point, all along. He could be cracking up, as those people often do. No steadfastness, no honor! A weak link! Or worse! He could be spying—spying on us right now! You have an obligation to this company to uncover his corruption. Watch him closely, and report back to me. Be diligent! But be careful. You know what he can be like!”

“All too well,” Rude answers.

 

8: Not past tense

“What a world,” Cissnei says.

The rain’s abated, surfaces still damp to the touch. Cissnei’s stretched out on a high, flat outcrop of rock, booted feet crossed, flak jacket bundled up beneath her head. The sun’s going down, angled light spilling over the crenellated rock formations of Sutler Ridge, turning the edges red. “The perfect soldier turns out to be a monster. The trustworthy scientist is a psychopath. The solution to all our energy woes is destroying the Planet. And the big hero is now Public Enemy Number One. What is this timeline?”

Reno, freshly arrived, is sprawled beside her with a bag of chips and a six-pack of energy drinks.

“Probably not the worst timeline of all,” he says. “At least that’s what I tell myself. There’s hope. There’s Gertie!”

“You and that wretched helicopter,” Cissnei says. “You could have snagged us one of those B3s, instead of the putt-putt.”

“Hey, now,” Reno says, his mouth full of potato chips. “Gertie is our friend. Trust in Gertie. Pass the chili crisp.”

“You’re eating it with chips?”

“Absolutely.”

“Barbarian.”

“No, seriously. Try it.” Cissnei cautiously dips a chip into the jar.

“Ugh,” she says. “That’s delicious and so annoying that you’re right.”

Reno grins a wide, wolfish grin, unwraps a sausage roll, and stuffs half of it into his mouth.

“People don’t realize how much Turks business is just lying around on boulders, eating snacks,” Cissnei observes.

“Where would we be without snacks?” Reno asks. “The waiting would drive us insane.”

“True.” Cissnei helps herself to the other half of Reno’s sausage roll. “Just… I can’t stop thinking about him alone out there… he must be exhausted, and he’s got no friends, no backup—just that poor messed-up kid he’s trying to keep alive.” She scrubs at her face. “Why did it happen to the nice one, huh, Reno, tell me that? He was always the best of us. With all the assholes in this world, why him?”

“Don’t talk about him in the past tense, Cissnei,” Reno says, suddenly serious. “He’s not past tense. Not yet.”

“Never thought you cared much one way or the other, to be honest.”

“Well,” Reno says, “I do. First of all, he saved our bacon more than once. Remember the Point Man fiasco at Fort Condor? We’d all have been superfucked without him stepping in that one time.”

“Entirely superfucked,” Cissnei agrees.

“Plus, I mean, Kunsel’s great and all, nice guy, and the king of schmooze for sure. But him? He was so fucking earnest about… he likes people. Seriously. He likes Tseng. He was ready to just… be Tseng’s friend, no questions asked. Friendship like that’s a rare fucking commodity. The Planet needs people like that. Feels like the more of them go away, the harder it is to keep it in the world, you know?”

Cissnei peers at him over the top of her energy drink.

“Keep what in the world, Reno…?”

Reno’s quiet for a second, watching the sun sink behind Sutler Ridge.

“Decency, I guess. Goodness. Heart.”

“What the fuck, Turk?” Cissnei says. “That’s crazy talk!”

“I’m a crazy guy,” Reno says. “So pass the damn chili crisp.”

 

9: The difference between life and death

At 9:30 AM, sensing the return of foot traffic in the outer hallways, Tseng turns up the volume on his MP3 player. “Lonely Debutante” by the Kalm Fellas begins to play, loud enough to make the windows shake and the nested jade bowls on his sideboard start to rattle. Reno calls it ‘grandpa music’; Tseng finds it oddly comforting, if alien.

He pours boiling water into his cup noodles, and carries them back to his desk. He’s been locked in his office suite for twenty-seven hours. He’s spoken to no one in all this time but Kunsel, on an encrypted line, and the Schoolboy, who probably, Tseng thinks, couldn’t be kept out of any Shinra comms system, no matter how arcane the security measures involved.

Sitting at his desk, Tseng eats his noodles, studying his phone. Reports are coming in hourly from a constellation of points in the Midgar Wastelands. He weeds out false alarms and spends some time identifying patterns in the mis-information being fed to the COs. It seems the prevailing opinion among the Eagle Day survivors is that the targets are approaching Midgar from the southeast, for the Army is slowly but surely being herded north, as ‘sightings’ pop up in an erratic but increasingly definite pathway reaching from Cooper’s Snug through the rocky Parsims region, apparently headed for the winding maze of the Riddlebacks.

Tseng extrapolates a likely point of convergence for the Army’s forces, and takes note of the coordinates.

Clearing the empty noodle cup away, he stands to stretch; his neck aches. No one, as of yet, has been able to provide what Tseng would consider a proper, confirmed sighting; the weather’s been against them, and it’s dangerous for Army scouts to approach too closely, for fear of tipping off the commanders. This means, of course, that the targets have no idea that friends are out there; no idea that anyone is on their side.

Tseng thinks of experimentation, of injuries; years lost under the knife.

He turns back to his desk and pulls up personnel files, locked behind a firewall of the Schoolboy’s design. Corporal Meeks. Duty Officer Herrigan. Private Umhof, Private Hickory, Private Milwha—the last one only seventeen on Eagle Day. Intelligence Analyst Korrigan, nickname “Semi Sam.” That one lost his brother that day. Transpo Specialist Hismee. Corporal Sandoval, rehabilitated and returned to duty after losing most of the fingers of her left hand. Field Scout Hri. Sappers Hornby and Fisk.

As he peruses their names, Tseng feels his heart beating. Thirty-six: thirty-six people to make the difference between life and death.

 

10: You thought of everything

“Sir, as per our recent conversation: further efforts to penetrate inner sanctum have been rebuffed. No orders have been issued. No response to emails, calls, or texts; will not open office door. Office is too far up to depart premises through the window, and no helicopters spotted outside, so chances are good he is actually inside. After persistent knocking, music volume increased. Pursuant to your suggestion that the songs may be coded messages to Wutai sleeper cells in the Shinra Building: primarily country music featuring artists from Icicle and Kalm, most of it dating from approximately 35 years ago, an era when Wutai was in an isolationist phase. Perhaps a warning to remain quiescent. The lyrical content focuses mostly on—”

“Boobs,” Reno supplies helpfully.

“Broken hearts,” Rude types, shooting Reno a look over his dark glasses. “The semiotic significance at this time is unclear. Perhaps he is signaling failure to his minions. Updates will be forthcoming in the event that anything changes. R.”

“You are disturbingly good at this,” Reno says.

“Cherry brandy,” Rude mutters. “Quite a treat.”

It’s just after 10 AM. The weather has started to turn, and steam is rising from the asphalt. An hour ago, Cissnei dropped Reno off before refueling and heading for an unspecified destination in the south. Reno’s antsy, hopped up on energy drinks; Rude’s skin is tinged with grey. He set out at 9-o-clock the previous evening to make this rendezvous, and now his face feels like it’s made of rubber.

“Any chance all this is gonna… you know… go sideways on the boss?” Reno asks.

“I’ve got eight different texts from Heidegger freaking out about secret messages in country music,” Rude says. “If there ever was a legitimate concern that Tseng was in cahoots with Godou’s Tower, this shit will make that allegation look unbelievably foolish. Meanwhile, he’s distracted as hell, he’s taken his eyes off the ball in the Midgar Wastelands. Fucker’s been trying to deep-six Tseng for years now. He gets stupid about it? Good for us. Bad for him.”

“Remind me not to piss you off,” Reno says, wide-eyed.

“At the moment, you’re on my good side,” Rude says, “which is why I brought you a present.” He jerks a thumb behind him at the flatbed truck and its tarped-down cargo. Reno leaps onto the flatbed.

“Hey, holy shit,” Reno says, poking around in the flatbed. “Look at all this. So helpful! You thought of everything.”

Rude looks up from his phone.

“Schoolboy’s signal,” Rude says. “It’s on.”

 

11: Congratulations, assholes

The rain finally stops for good on the sixth. With visibility improved, there’s a flurry of activity as units are sent into position all over the northern quadrant of the Midgar Wastelands, with forward scouts reporting sightings of a bright red motorcycle driven by a muscular individual with a buster sword and a military bearing, a passenger in unknown condition huddled in the sidecar.

The main force finally gets a bead at approximately thirteen-hundred hours on the seventh, as analysts ID footage of the vehicle, traveling at high speed on Highway 8 straight for the Riddlebacks. All civilian traffic is stopped at Two Rock, and a blockade is established at the Nerton Spillway, the northern exit point for the Riddleback canyon system. In a pincer movement, a separate force enters the canyon from the south in a group of armored ATVs bristling with ordnance. “Got you now, motherfuckers,” Battalion Sub-Commander Jepler, in extremely high spirits, riding in the lead vehicle, is overheard to say to Korrigan, his aide.

The driver of the motorcycle is unusually skilled: he accelerates through the switchbacks and cuts straight across Grease Springs without losing speed, but the ATV team finally closes the distance, and at 13:22, they draw close enough to attack. At 13:23, warning shots are fired. One strikes the motorcycle’s front tire. After a brief struggle for control, at 13:24 the target brings the vehicle to a halt in the mud of Snake Basin, half-in and half-out of the overspill of the Snake Creek.

“Hold your fire!” Jepler shouts, sidearm out, safety off, as he jumps off the ATV. “He’s mine. Hold your fire!” There’s a scrum as dozens of troops exit the ATVs, slipping in the muddy clay of the basin as they assemble.

There’s a cackle, then, the sound nearly lost in the hum of Benders powering up and the rachet of two dozen high-powered rifles locking onto their targets. The person in the sidecar snakes his arms out from beneath the blankets, and slowly puts his hands in the air.

“What the fuck,” the forward scout says, as Jepler comes up behind him. The motorcycle’s driver removes his helmet, revealing his shaven head, and adjusts his sunglasses.

“Identify yourselves,” Jepler says, slithering a little in the mud.

“You serious? You actually require identification?” the motorcycle driver asks. “We’re on Turks business here. Need to know only. And you just blew our cover and fucked up our transportation. Congratulations, assholes.”

Well behind the thicket of long guns, leaning against the tail-end ATV, Korrigan, personal phone in hand, is texting, a little smile on his face.

 

12. The last cold drink of water

It’s with them still.

Zack estimates it’s been tailing them for at least fifteen minutes since he first sighted it on the horizon and dragged Cloud beneath the piled burlap sacks to hide. He’s starting to scan ahead for cover, searching for a plausible place to get off this flatbed truck.

It’s a problem.

If he bangs the cabin window and has the geezer pull over, they’re vulnerable—and the geezer, whose only mistake was stopping to give him and Cloud a ride, is certain to get caught in the middle of it. Although—he squints at the bird, just a spot in the far distance now—it’s not clear what kind of fire is coming from on high with this one. Helo’s an Alpha, elderly, which worries him; it suggests that Kunsel’s recent note was fairly prophetic and they really are throwing the kitchen sink at them.

The alternative to pulling over, Zack reflects, would be a quick and nasty departure from the bed of the truck, which might ding him up a little, but would definitely do Cloud no favors. The geezer is proceeding at a handsome clip down Starmouth Lane—maybe he’s got a date in town?—and the whole area is exposed. The nearest cover is some sad-looking scrub about a click off on the ridgeline over yonder. That’s five minutes away, even for him, wide open with Cloud on his back to catch a bullet for him, or worse.

He hears the oncoming whirr over the grumble of the truck. He’s been hoping to wait them out, lie doggo until they give up and go away. That, he finally acknowledges, is not happening.

He heaves a sigh, watching telephone poles flicker by, watching the light glimmer on the distant ridge. He thinks of the last shower, the last bed, the last cold drink of water, and how strange it is that they should be so. Birds bobbing on the wires as they drive past. He thinks of green eyes, and smiles.

The helo swings in closer. Cloud stirs beside him, murmuring. Zack leans in.

“Home soon?” Cloud asks. Words, the first in more than a year; Zack blinks back tears.

“Home soon, buddy,” he says. “Just a little more now. Sit tight.” He pats his arm, and stands up, balancing on the balls of his feet. Watching steadily as the helicopter approaches, he unsheathes his buster sword.

The sun is bouncing light off the windscreen of the helicopter; Zack can’t ID the pilot. He looks up, blinking in the light, breathing hard. No one’s pointed a Bender at him yet. No one’s called his name out of a loudspeaker. The truck bumps along Starmouth Lane, forcing Zack to adjust his stance. When he looks back up again, the port door’s opening. The helo coughs and dips, then stabilizes.

As a cable ladder is unrolled and slowly descends, swaying, toward the truck, Zack readies his sword. The helo is now directly overhead; he gazes straight up at its belly.

A painted crocodile grins back down at him.

“Gertie?” he croaks.

 

13. An unusual happy ending

When Tifa comes back from her break, there are Turks sitting at her bar.

This happens from time to time; without being entirely rude, she generally tries not to encourage the custom. To put it mildly, Turks are bad for business. But these guys—a pair she’s noticed before—seem resolutely off-duty and signally uninterested in the other patrons. She pours their drinks, crosses the bar to give them space, but keeps an ear open.

“And then,” the big one says, “he emerges from his private office. Suit impeccable. Hair perfect. And there’s a big pile of brass in the front room like a welcoming committee, all swagged up with their security detail, right?”

The skinny one makes a face.

“SOLDIERs and everything?”

“Oh, you bet. Full swag. And Heidegger comes pushing to the front, face bright red, and he’s yelling, ‘Why didn’t you come out! Why didn’t you come out!’ and Tseng is just standing there, completely chill, like he’s been relaxing at Costa the whole time, and the fucker’s waving his arms around, and Reeve’s getting this incredulous expression, like, what is this? Lookin’ like he wants to stick Heidey’s head in a bucket of ice water.”

“Who doesn’t?” the skinny one asks.

“Then Scarlet goes, “is the Wutai sleeper cell in the room with us right now?”

“Oh, shit.”

“And, like she’s giving them permission, the SOLDIERs start to snicker. Now the whole detail’s trying to keep a straight face. Heidey turns around, shoves security out of the way, and stomps off to the elevator all by himself, And that,” he finishes, taking a swig of his pint, “was the end of that.”

“He brought the whole family to the office for the big reveal?” the skinny one asks.

“Only one missing was Hojo.”

“What about the Old Man?”

The big one smirks behind his sunglasses.

“Funniest part. The music’s still playing in the background, right? And he looks at Heidegger and he says, ‘Isn’t that Clem Handy? You think there are secret messages in a Clem Handy song?’”

“Oh, lord, sorry I missed that,” the skinny one says, setting his shot glass down on the bar.

“So I guess the Wasteland Wanderers are no longer in play,” the big one says. “Big missing in action energy. A lot of quiet mouths on the SOLDIER side, according to Kunsel. He’s telling people he thinks they’re back on the Western Continent by now.”

“Yeah, just heard from Cee, it’s all cool. It’s weirdly easy to disappear down there, specially when your really sneaky searchers aren’t, you know, actually searching anymore. In short, they are safe as houses,” the skinny one says, “if you follow my meaning.”

“It’s a pretty house,” the big one muses.

“Not as pretty as the one who lives in it.”

“Well, I know of someone else who feels that way. Glad they get to see each other again.”

“An unusual happy ending,” the skinny one agrees. “And it’s all thanks to those Eagle Day critters. They love him, man. They’ll never let Shinra have him back.”

“Tseng calls ‘em The Thirty-Six, like they’re ancestral heroes.”

“Well,” the skinny one says, “you think about it, they kind of are.”

The big one lifts his pint, the skinny one his shot glass.

“Here’s to the Thirty-Six.”

“Fuck yeah, the Thirty-Six. May they live forever.”

“Speaking of that,” the big one says. “We know the big Z’s nigh indestructible, but how’s the kid doing?”

“Cloud? Sources tell me he’s recovering. Apparently obsessed with motorcycles now? Talking about starting up a delivery service or something.”

“I would actually call that kind of a win,” the big one says.

Tifa takes an inadvertent step back from the bar.

The skinny one leans across, and gestures her over. His grin is friendly, conspiratorial. The big one’s ears abruptly turn pink, and he hunches in on himself on the barstool.

“Hey,” Skinny says. “Rumor has it you mix killer drinks. What about it? You got block ice up in this joint? Can you make me an Asylum?”

She blinks, stares at him. He quirks an eyebrow.

“You okay there, kiddo?”

“I’m fine. One sec,” she says. “I’ll just… get the grenadine.”

“Don’t understand you, man,” the big one says. “That shit makes my tongue numb.”

“That’s the point.”

Tifa drops beneath the bar and opens the mini-fridge and sits there on her haunches, breathing deeply, shaking a little, with the door open and her eyes closed and the cool air blowing on her face, a childhood conversation playing in her head like a movie.

Is it him? she thinks. What if it's him?

It feels like five years later when she gets up, game face on, grenadine in hand.

“Asylum it is,” she says.

 

14. Epilogue: up in heaven

On the third cinnamon roll, Zack finally starts to slow down. Elmyra Gainsborough, busy steaming milk on the kitchen range, lifts her eyebrows.

“Oh, dear. Only three? Don’t you like them?” she asks.

“Make no mistake, ma’am,” Kunsel says. “He’s on the moon. This is Zack’s lunar landing face. He’s just standing around up there, up in heaven, taking it all in.”

Zack wipes his mouth, and opens his eyes.

“Mrs. Gainsborough,” he says, “that’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten, and I’ve eaten the white apples of Banora right out of the orchard.”

“This young man has good taste,” Elmyra says, as Aerith comes down the stairs.

Zack pushes back from the table, suddenly mute, watching her approach the kitchen, taking in the way the light catches the strands of her hair. It's longer now, and she wears it differently; there are little lines at the corners of her eyes. He wonders what his own face looks like. As she draws near, he looks up at her, his expression grave.

As she moves past, her hand rests briefly on his, warm.

“How’s Cloud?” Kunsel asks.

Aerith pours strong coffee in a tall glass, adding steamed milk, a sprinkle of cardomon, and a dash of whiskey. She grins.

“Complete sentences!” she says. “So many! He asked for this—even told me how to make it! I’m so proud of him. He said it was a Nibelheim specialty. It’s got to be a good sign.”

“Sogdian Coffee?” Zack asks, eyes alight. “He made me some of that when we were on that security rotation at Rocket Town.”

“Oh, hey, that looks good,” Kunsel says.

“I’m not making any more,”Aerith sings. “Only for Cloud. You jokers can make your own.”

Then she pauses, and Zack sees her face change, as she leans toward the kitchen window.

“That’s interesting,” she says. “Look who’s in the garden.” Elmyra glances over and stiffens, and her hands twist in her apron.

“Oh, no. Why does he keep coming back here?” she whispers.

About 100 yards back, standing in waist-high bellgrass with drifts of yellow flowers all around, is a dark-haired man in an indigo suit, his face turned away from the house. The wind's in his long hair. He doesn't move, doesn't speak.

“You want I should make him go?” Kunsel asks quietly.

For a moment, Aerith is still, watching the flowers stir.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I can’t really explain it, but I’m pretty sure it’s okay.”

Zack slowly gets up from the breakfast table, a smile spreading across his face, and goes outside.

Notes:

Dear lonelysheepling, here is a very Tseng and the Turks-oriented response to your fabulous prompt! I realize many other very interesting stories could have branched out, exploring the lives Zack and Cloud would be free to live, if Tseng had succeeded; I hope you don't mind my focusing almost exclusively on Tseng's devious op to save Zack's life.