title: tiger and the tree
written: 2007
context: Nothing in particular. Anna isn't a real character, just one I made up to fill a gap in his backstory.

I don't use that word lightly. Good. Rarity makes things more special, yeah? And goodness in my life, in our lives, is such an extreme rarity. That's not to say we're evil shits all around the clock but things like selflessness and altruism don't have much place in the day-to-day world of corporate espionage. I used to have compassion, when I was young and stupid and didn't know that compassion got you killed. I used to be warm inside. Warmth is where the bad ideas grow, like bacteria, the stupid and wonderful ideas that tell you to be human, to not pull the trigger, to stand on the roof and feel the wind in your hair and wonder at being alive. That's how they get you. The bad ideas tell you there are things worth dying for.

There are people worth dying for. But no things, no ideas. Not ever.

I don't think about these things. I don't want to give that impression. I'm no philosopher, I don't debate morality or listen to my inner child moan where it's bound and gagged in the corner. I don't rage against the dying of the light. That's all bullshit. I just know that the squidgey warm feeling I get inside when I've done something stupid and human is uncomfortable, like wet socks or a chestcold. Dampness. Vulnerability.

The kid wandered off, afterwards. Just looked at me with eyes like glowing disks and wandered off without a word. For all I know, she might not've been able to talk yet. When I was growing up down here almost no one could read. That's progress for you.

But she looked like Anna for just a second as she left, all moon-eyes and dark hair and waifish gait, stumbling away into the cluttered razor-edge nighttime slums. She looked like Anna, Anna who was still alive somewhere, who had met no end that needed avenging. She was young and afraid and already dying behind her eyes and the man who was holding her against the brick wall had looked like one from my own nightmares, and the two things weren't connected, but they were enough.

I might get in trouble, later, for this mess. For interfering beyond the scope of my duty. For wasting company time; that would be a good one, wouldn't it? If anyone tells ShinRa what they'd seen me do, if anyone feels the need to snitch on the killer of a childkiller in their midst.

But they won't.

This is a village, under the plate, full of junkmetal huts and teeming primates, jabbering and pointing and hustling their children out of sight and looking at me with a low, cool glare of justice done. I know what village justice is; it's a thing of rocks and blood, of a single gunshot in the night. Village justice only cares that the wicked get what they deserve. And if the blue-suited demon stood on their side this time, it will not be remembered by tomorrow, but neither will it be betrayed today.

I tucked my pistol back into its holster, one round lighter. Wasting company equipment, that's another one they could get me on. I was bleeding and my jacket was torn and there was a bullet somewhere in my shoulder, broken glass between my ribs. Anger makes you sloppy. Ego makes you sloppy, too, and the body was left for the scavengers, my slug still somewhere inside it. This wasn't one I was ashamed of.

I wandered away then, seeking the shortest path between this shithole and a medical facility. There's a limit to dignity. It's not about appearances anymore when you've got bits of a vodka bottle working into your lungs.

The girl just disappeared into the metal jungle like she'd never existed. Tomorrow will bring her more death and danger and oblivion and hard reality. I bought her a day - only a day. The rest, she'll have to buy herself. But she has a chance.

Anna would not approve of my methods, but I kinda think that in some small way, she'd be proud.