Author’s notes: Hello! Sorry about the wait, RL takes its toll. Thanks to all of you that are still reading! As a side note, this crossover thing is making my head hurt- time paradoxes especially- organizing this plot in my head is not going so well. As I’ve told my online buddies, I’m very tempted to just bang my head on the keyboard and label it the last chapter. We’ll see what the muse says. It’s very much a love/hate relationship with this stupid story. Thanks to my wonderful betas this time around, who double-checked my in-game content (as I’m pretty much running blind off internet references at this point, although I have played ffVii and watched advent children). And sissyhiyah, I have to say you were somewhat of an influence in the creation of Arsen Briyak as a kick-ass-take-names side character-your stories of kickassery inspired me! Thanks to all who read and reviewed the last chapter- I’m so glad you’ve come along for the ride.

I’ve joined NaNoWriMo this year as altol- feel free to add me as a writing buddy on there and watch me struggle to write original fiction.

Disclaimer: Arndt’s thoughts on Quistis’s neck are borrowed, remixed, and rearranged from Thomas Harris. Nothing else is mine, except for Serabin, I suppose, but I’m willing to rent him out by the hour.

…….

Behind closed doors your words ring hollow
What you said they'd be
What behavior? Who are you- but I like it
Now I'm done with nothing new,

Sometimes green, sometimes blue
And I'm guilty….
And you're guilty too

-Gravity Kills, Guilty

….

..

The Quad was warm and bright with sunshine, and students not in classes milled around the entrance, reading books and chatting with classmates.

Instructor Arsen Briyak was in his late twenties, and generally well-liked among the students. He was in excellent shape, fair, and a recreational sadist, which made him an excellent instructor in exploiting enemy weaknesses because he so naturally enjoyed pain in normal settings. He had suffered a piece of shrapnel to the eye in a reconnaissance mission gone wrong four years ago, and aside from the eye patch he was forced to wear to put the students at ease, he was now mostly confined to the realm of teaching, an assignment he enjoyed more than he thought he would. Maybe it was the pain and agony of exams.

“Good afternoon and welcome to Combat 305: Combat Strategy and Execution. We’re out here in the Quad today because one of the support walls in Gym A is being repaired, due to the stupidity of one J.C. who thought it’d be fun to junction a GF unsupervised. As you all probably know, said JC is being shipped home in a ziplock bag.”

Uncomfortable murmurs and a few inappropriate laughs. Briyak had the urge to laugh himself, but he stifled it: after nearly killing a student while showing the moron the correct way to apply a pressure point drop, he had to watch his P’s and Q’s and not do any more hands-on demonstrations for awhile. One of Briyak’s favorite methods of teaching was to instruct by trauma, letting his students learn by nearly blowing themselves up. He found the lessons stuck better in that format. Unfortunately, that method usually meant that some of them succeeded- something Kramer didn’t much appreciate on the records.

“As I’ve had all of you before in 105, I’m not going to waste my time and yours going over the rules. Let me simplify the syllabus for 305 into something uncomplicated you can all appreciate- you all show up, you all participate, you all survive, you all pass. You fuck around, you fuck up, and you’re out. You’ve all enjoyed a two-week respite after your last semester exams, courtesy of our generous headmaster, and as a result you’re all no doubt rusty as shit.”

The students grinned sheepishly among themselves. Not only were most of them a little rusty- most of them were also hung over as hell.

Instructor Briyak cool blue gaze swept over the crowd of students in front of them. It was a pretty good class, a pretty even balance of brain and brawn. There was Gavin Arndt, a bit of a pompous ass but reasonably skilled with bolt magic, there was Leila Greenes, overconfident and not a particularly strong caster but currently being watched for a possible reconnaissance op in the future, and there, among Brit and Graily, who looked as if they’d hijacked a case of vodka between them and drunk it directly before class, was Quistis Trepe, one of the only students in the crowd whose eyes were neither bloodshot nor half-lidded, her cool blue gaze rapt and ready.. Briyak was willing to bet that unlike the rest of her fellow classmates, Quistis had spent the last two weeks holed up in the Training Center, sharpening her skills. The kid was too dedicated for her own good. Two years younger than most of the other students, Quistis had taken Combat 205 during the Spring Interim and passed with flying colors. Trepe was talented, sure, but Brayak wasn’t sure that the higher ups were doing her any favors by pushing her forward. The girl was still damned young even by SeeD standards, and she often met with resistance and jealousy in the older students, particularly those like Gavin Arndt, who was at the top of the class himself and didn’t appreciate the competition from a little girl. Arsen knew differently- no one with eyes like an arctic wolf could be considered a little girl, not even by ruthless SeeD standards.

“Today, we’re going to be splitting off and sparring in pairs, and I’m going to be making notes of your few strengths and your many weaknesses, all of which we’ll be studying over the next few weeks. But first, a demonstration. I want to see how rusty you’ve all gotten during the break. Let’s have you, Arndt, and you, Quistis, out here, and bring your weapons.

Fuck the class rivalry, thought Briyak, let’s let them have it out and be done with it. Either Arndt’ll learn some humility, or Trepe’ll learn her place in the class pecking order.

The crowd parted, and formed a wide circle as the two students stepped out from the group.

“I want level two Magic and skin-sticks only. KO’s by mag only.” A low murmur went up, and Quistis and Arndt exchanged surprised looks. Combat 305 was going to be markedly different from 205 with Instructor Green: in 205 they’d focused mainly on support magic, and had not been allowed to mark their partners with their weapons. Skin-sticks was a slang term used by the instructors to refer to light epidermal marking in combat- nicks and shallow cuts that could easily be healed on-site and were non-life threatening in nature.

“That’s right,” said Briyak, “It’s about damned time you got a taste of real combat- you’re finally going to start being marked for your mistakes. And if you think I’m going to be standing by with a healing drought to ease your scrapes like Instructor Green, think again. You fuck up, you can bleed through the rest of the lesson and limp yourself down to Kadowaki’s office to get patched up between classes.” Briyak was a firm believer in pain as both teacher and motivator.

Gavin met Quistis’ gaze from across the Quad- he smirked, holding his staff behind his head and stretching his arm muscles along the weapon’s length. Finally, Trepe was about to get a firsthand lesson in why women shouldn’t be in SeeD. Trepe was good eye candy, sure, but he’d never understood the reasoning behind women in the military. Mixing snatch and artillery was never a good idea, in his opinion- women didn’t have the stomach for the bloody work, and it was distracting to have them on missions.

Gavin’s opinion was hardly a secret- he’d expressed it on several occasions, all of on which Trepe had loudly disagreed. He was glad it was her in front of him, now- humiliating her would be all the sweeter, and then he could make her eat her words, preferably with a side of angry surrender later in his dorm room. He never met someone more in need of a good grudge-fucking than the resident Ice Queen.

Gavin’s hatred of Quistis, as fierce and degrading as it expressed itself, was shallow and baseless in nature, and rose out of a very real threat to his ego rather than any real wrong she had done him. Arndt was a predator by nature- it was in his nature to simultaneously appreciate Trepe’s slender neck and look for her jugular.

Quistis uncoiled her whip and snapped it once, her expression unreadable as she walked forward.

“No books to help you out here, Trepe,” said Arndt, low enough for only her to hear. “Only you and your little piece of knitting yarn. Want me to make it quick?”

Instead of getting pissed, as he’d hoped, the young woman simply smiled. “Yes, thank you, Arndt. That’s very kind of you.”

If Briyak noticed the exchange, he ignored it. “I’ll give you both five minutes. I want to see good posture, good follow-through with regard to the critical zones, and special attention to control in casting. Go.”

Arndt lost no time in attacking, his bladed bow staff whirring through the air and coming within inches of Quistis’ left ear, catching a small chunk of hair. Golden threads fluttered to the ground, caught in the draft the two bodies made as they darted. Quistis swung her weight to the side as Arndt lunged- there was no time to wind up the whip for a counter attack this close, but she swung hard with her leg at her opponent’s knee, knocking Arndt off balance and landing him in a heap on the ground in front of her.

No sooner had he landed then a sting traveled the length of his arm. He looked up, realizing that Trepe had deflected his move and counter-attacked with the whip almost simultaneously as she swung back. Damnit, the bookworm had been practicing over break.

Quistis took a step back, winding the whip between her hands and waiting for the next attack. She cocked her head at him slightly, as if to say, I thought you were going to make this quick?

Snickers rose up from the crowd, and Arndt’s face burned. He’d be damned if he’d let some under-aged bitch make him look like an idiot in front of his classmates.

Briyak rolled his eyes. “Arndt, cover your side when you lead in, and get your ass up. Trepe, quit fucking around. That was a perfect spot for a KO- remember your follow-through.”

Expression no longer taunting, Arndt sprang to his feet, a fire spell burning in his palm as he raised his hand to throw the flame into her face. But Quistis was raising her hand, too, and in the span it took him to mutter the spell, he heard the roar of his own fire as it was blown back at him- the flame flashing across his face in one painful gust. And here came the crack of that whip again- blinding pain on his cheek and then the warm gush of blood wet on his face. He threw another bolt spell at her face- she flicked her whip up, the silver barb catching the bulk of the forks as they arched down.

Quistis was standing back, her small smile still in place. She was making no move, simply holding the whip at the ready.

Those pretty blue eyes were now looking down at him.

The bitch was looking down at him-

Instructor Briyak knew what Arndt was going to cast before any of them did- he could see the dark sheen in the young man’s eyes, the dark vapor in his hand as he put his hand out to Trepe, his lips curled in a hateful sneer, the words coming faster than his breath, faster than he could think-

“ARNDT YOU BLOODY IDIOT, I SAID LEVEL 2 SPELLS ONLY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING-“

Gasps rose among the students as they, too, realized what Arndt was doing. Quistis, however, stood her ground, her calm mask unwavering.

“Death!” snarled Arndt, swinging his staff towards Quistis’ face as he cast, advancing, and for an instant, everyone’s vision went dark as the spell took effect. Briyak knew instantly that Arndt had botched the spell- the cloud was diffused and thick, not at all the potent shroud that Death was supposed to be. Screams punctuated the terrible silence, but Briyak could only wait for the cloud to clear.

Death was higher magic, and higher magic, cast wrong and cast angry could kill the enemy and the caster both. Briyak swore that as soon as the dust cleared he was going to kill the little shit if he wasn’t already dead-

The dark was dissipating, and as Briyak’s vision returned to him, he was floored at the sight before him. Arndt was standing as if frozen, his staff hovering only inches away from Trepe’s neck. Following the shaft, Briyak could see the reason for it- Quistis gripped the blade of his weapon in her fist. Blood dribbled down her arm, her eyes as dark as the smoke in the air as she stared blankly into Arndt’s wide-eyed gaze. She did not move. Her head was cocked to the side like a dog listening for a far-off noise.

The crowd had gone completely silent.

And then Quistis blinked.

Seeming to come back to herself, she released the staff blade and all at once Arndt collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been sliced, his weapon clattering beside him. Quistis stared at the bloody palm of her hand for a moment, then closed it, the color slowly returning to her eyes.

“What the fuck was that?” bellowed Briyak, thundering forward.

Quistis seemed unphased. “It was his spell, sir, I just rebounded it back at him.”

“Holy shit, he’s dead,” muttered a student.

“Cool,” whispered another.

“No sir, he’s only unconscious,” said Quistis quickly. “I didn’t use the full force of the spell, just enough to knock him out.”

Briyak felt for a pulse in the idiot’s neck. Sure enough, his heart pumped through his throat, strong and solid.

Hushed murmurs were traveling through the crowd. Other students who had apparently come to watch were either staring at Quistis or laughing at the crumpled figure Arndt presented. Briyak quickly realized he was one of the few staring at Quistis and got to his feet, turning on the crowd. “Those of you in Combat 305, get in pairs and start squaring off, and I’d better not see any of this bullshit! For those of you not in Combat 305, bugger off!”

Briyak’s temper was legendary- the crowd scampered back to their original places and activities and his students hurried to pair off. “Shit,” muttered the Instructor, running a hand over his face. There was going to be a massive amount of paperwork for this incident, not to mention dragging this imbecile down to Kadowaki’s office with another explanation as to why one of his students was unconscious….

“Sir?”

Instructor Briyak’s head snapped up. He had forgotten Quistis was there.

“Sir, am I in trouble?” she was holding her bloody hand behind her back, looking worried for the first time all lesson.

Instructor Briyak sighed. “Trepe, what have I told you about taunting your enemies? It makes them dangerous. You learned that way back in 105.”

The young woman bowed her head. “With all due respect, simply beating Gavin was tantamount to taunting him,” replied Quistis, her eyes cast down at the ground. “Gavin’s hubris made escalation inevitable.”

Briyak fought a smile. Smart and a smart mouth- he knew there was a reason he’d liked Trepe since 105. “Get down to the medical ward and get your hand stitched up, Trepe.”

“But sir, you said-“

“I know what I said, now get down there and get stitched up before I make you run laps instead. And don’t bother coming back to class- your sparring partner’s out cold anyway. I want a two page report on the importance of follow-through in initial attacks, including both physical and psychological advantages of first strike. I want at least one citation on Lockmar- he’s got some excellent stuff on critical zones. The whole thing on my desk tomorrow at 1100 hours. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” A pause. “Ummm…should I bring Arndt with me?”

“No. Leave him here. He’s…atoning.”

“Yes sir.” Unable to hide her small smile, Quistis turned and started for the infirmary. Briyak smiled after her and shook his head.

The rest of the class period passed thankfully without further insult or injury, and when Briyak dismissed them, they were already chattering excitedly about the ass-handing of the century. The Instructor almost felt sorry for the Gavin Arndt when he woke up. Almost. Arndt was going to be running laps for the rest of his natural life, and Arndt was going to personally recommend him for solo missions. Any soldier who turned on their comrade, no matter the reason, was dangerous and unreliable. Briyak made a mental note to put ‘biter’ in Arndt’s file, a shorthand slang for instructors that basically meant ‘does not play well with others’.

Briyak wondered if he should note it in Trepe’s file, too.

Briyak was still trying to sling the still-unconscious student’s arm around his neck when he heard another voice behind him. The man’s goopy muscles made the maneuver difficult, and even someone as strong as Arsen was struggling with the dead weight.

“Do you need some help with that, Arsen?”

“Yeah, sure, thanks Glyphias,” Briyak replied, turning to regard the other instructor. “This one’s a little limp.”

Arsen and Serabin had been classmates in their early JC years. Instructor Glyphias was a regular Spartan in training and a bit of a stoic otherwise, but Briyak liked the other man well enough. “Had a bit of excitement today in 305.”

“So I saw,” replied Glyphias, hefting up the other half of the student’s limp body. “That was our resident blue mage, wasn’t it? Miss Trepe?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Knew about the ability from her file, but it’s different seeing it in person, yeah?”

Serabin smiled. “Quite impressive, yes. And quite unfortunate for Mr. Arndt.”

“I’d say he had it coming,” replied Arsen, adjusting his hold on his student’s limp limb as he steered the unconscious corpse through traffic. “Wouldn’t you?”

Glyphias chuckled. “Probably.”

Students parted in the hallway around the two instructors and the unconscious student. Given the nature of their dangerous training, knocked out or injured classmates were not an uncommon occurrence. Once the student was deposited in Kadowaki’s bemused care, the two Instructors headed back to the Quad.

“Thanks for the help,” said Arsen, checking his watch.

“Not a problem. You can return the favor the next time I take the JC class on a tour of the Training Center.”

“Great, yeah, no problem. Good for the laughs, that, specially with the T-Rexaurs.” Arsen paused. “Do you understand that whole thing anyway? The Blue Mage thing? Never really got it, not even when they were talking about it last year in the advanced theory talk with that guest lecturer Odine guy.”

Honestly, the history portion of paramagic had been the only thing of interest to Arsen. He wasn’t really concerned with how the whole process of magic worked, so long as he could fry people with it. Glyphias, however, looked as if he’d paid attention to the whole thing.

“My understanding is limited to those texts that have documented the abilities and the history of the craft,” replied Serabin. “I know next to nothing about the practical theory.”

“What did you read, then? I’d never heard of one at all before the girl.”

“That Blue Mages throughout history are extremely rare. The ability to learn a spell by experience- some call it an ability to read the essence of magic itself by touch, rather like the blind read brail.”

“So you, I mean anyone can learn it?”

“By studying, one can fashion a kind of crude imitation of the craft- gross approximations of the magic by study. To my knowledge, Cadet Trepe discovered the natural ability early, then pushed herself to hone it.”

Arsen glanced at Serabin. “You’ve studied her profile, then?”

“Partially. Miss Trepe’s progress is of great interest to Cid Kramer. She was one of the children at the orphanage that he and Mrs. Kramer ran, years ago. Word has it she’s being watched for a possible Instructorship position down the line.”

Arsen shook his head. He remembered the blankness of the girl’s gaze, the way she had curled her bloody palm and held it to her chest as if she had snatched something out of thin air. “The look on her face when she was holding Arnd’t blade in her bare hand…it was like….nothing. It was completely empty. You should’ve seen it.”

“I did,” replied Serabin, then paused. “Hundreds of years ago, there was a civilization that kept a crude book of magic, a recording of their worship and use of the craft. In the ancient text, the Blue Mage is described as ‘the unhealing wound’ or, translated another way ‘the ever-hunger’. The magic was said to create holes in the person- gaps for the magic to live. It was a discipline, a lifelong dedication- keeping a part of yourself empty and incomplete and forever wanting in the pursuit of something greater than yourself.”

Holes? Constant hungers? Hell. That was a bit much, even for Arsen. “But who’d choose to develop something like that?” asked Arsen, frowning.

“Someone with wounds and gaps enough already to make one more inconsequential, I’d imagine,” replied Serabin grimly, shrugging.

….

……..

….

"Wow, Quisty, what'd you have for breakfast?" Selphie, watched, amazed, as her friend once again heaved into a patch of tall grass.

The two women, having landed successfully (meaning Selphie had kept the landing gear intact this time, and Quistis hadn’t had to pick her stomach out of her shoes), the two women immediately set out to the draw point sites in the area, assessing current concentrations.

Xu had sent them on a two day field trip. The first day, Quistis and Selphie would do an assessment of all the local Draw Points. The second day, Selphie would meet to finalize contracts for the rights to use, and Quistis, while attending another bloodletting, would take a field trip to see the new extraction sites.

Although Shinra was rapidly placing extraction sites at each of the known Mako-draw points globally, there were a few untapped resources left, and it was those Xu most wanted analyzed. She had sent small recon teams around Gaia, and had saved the sites closest to Shinra for last, as she would have to acquire permission to be on the premises.

The procedure was fairly routine for Selphie, who had done most of the other site analysis: Selphie would draw a couple of spells from the site and assess their potency relative to her other data. Quistis stood as record keeper, since she was on doctor’s orders not to handle anything above a weak mag-saline solution. Things were going swimmingly, and the two chatted amicably as they worked, making plans to for a shopping trip on the way back and talking about what they wanted to do for dinner.

At least, that had been the procedure...until Quistis had started throwing up.

One minute, she had been calmly calculating the estimated radius of the draw point area, and the next, she was standing with her hands on her knees, heaving up into a patch of tall grass.

Selphie leaned over, holding Quistis’ clipboard out of harm’s way. "Hey, that kinda looks like French Toast....oh, I love French Toast! We used to have French Toast Fridays at Trabia Garden! Butter, maple syrup, a big sweet pile of powdered sugar on top..."

Quistis threw her friend a dirty look before doubling over once more, her complexion an unhealthy pale shade of green.

Selphie leaned over, patting Quistis on the back in what she must have thought was a helpful manner. Really, the jarring raps between her shoulder blades were making Quistis feel as if her brain were about to shake loose and drop out her open mouth. "You must have the flu or something! I've never seen anybody throw up THAT much all at once! Wow! You probably just set, like, a world record or something!"

"It's just...your damned flying," muttered her friend, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and holding her head. She had thrown up so many times, and in such rapid succession, that her throbbing head felt about to burst. "I'm still….recovering...from your Hyne-damned flying."

Selphie grinned, thinking that living with Seifer was definitely having an adverse effect on her friend’s vocabulary.

“….feel like I threw up my brains….” Muttered her friend, squeezing her eyes shut as she held her head in her hands.

"Quisty, you're so funny! Like that big brain of yours would fit out of your mouth! Feel better now?" she asked, gazing concernedly into her friend's miserable eyes.

Quistis nodded, straightening up and holding out her hand for the clipboard. "I'm...fine. Let's just get these readings over with. I want to lie down."

…….

….

…

…

The Centra ruins were as dry and desolate as Rinoa remembered them, and she was glad that she had dressed for the occasion. She wore a light shroud around her shoulders and red scarf had been tied over her mouth and nose to keep out the sand. She had slung a day pack around her shoulder: in it she carried a bottle of water, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and a notebook. Zack was happily spending a day with ‘Gramma Edea’ and Squall was in Balamb pouring over the Shinra contracts with Xu, blissfully unaware of her little outing.

She was pleasantly tired from her adventure- being pregnant made climbing extremely awkward, but Rinoa had been active through her last pregnancy and this one was no exception. She now sat beneath the archway at the base and ate her lunch, munching on her apple beneath the scarf as she thumbed through her sketches. She was a fair sketcher, though the graphite shadings did not quite do the colorful ruins justice. The light and the tarnished copper set amid the cold stone of the statues was both beautiful and heartbreaking- it was the echo of a desperate and now long-dead people, victims of the first lunar cry. The romantic in her whispered that if she listened carefully, she could hear their echoes on the wind. The boring, practical side of her told her that the only thing that remained of the Centra people was now the bones and dust and sand that swirled around in the wind and put grit in her sandwich.

It was thrilling to be out on her own little adventure, all by herself. It wasn’t as if she was a stranger to voyages, but understandably, Squall was very reluctant in letting her alone, despite her assurances that she could protect herself. Although she appreciated his concerns, sometimes the beach house, the miniature world they had constructed for her to play wife and mother and house in, sometimes it felt very much like a cage. What was the point of having wings, after all, if you were never meant to use them?

At any rate, Squall thought she was at the sea cottage playing house, and Matron thought she was out for a day of shopping, little lies that hurt no one and left her room to breathe.

Having finished her lunch, she opened her sketch pad to a new page and set about a new drawing. She was shading the beautiful statue carved into center of the base- she put her thumb to a stone thigh, creating a realistic shade along the limb.

Though Rinoa strove for normalcy in life, being a Sorceress had undeniably changed her. There was something visceral about the curse, something base- an unnamable force in her now that defied logic and encouraged her to do so as well. She often experienced visceral reactions to things through her senses, basic reactions as simple as revulsion or curiosity, with no real idea of their origins. She had long ago ceased questioning the logic of her source, however, but instead indulged the sensory whimsies- and they were never wrong. Now was such a time.

Something did not sit well with Rinoa about the Centra ruins- something empty about the way the tower stretched up into the sky. She felt, rather than saw, that the ruins went much deeper into the earth, that the source of them lay beneath her feet. But how to get there?

Perhaps Gast would know- per his publications, she suspected Gast spent every second of available time camped out at the ruins. And yet, there was no documentation in his research- at least, not his public research. Rinoa found Dr. Gast’s research fascinating. From what little she understood of it. The good doctor was attempting to prove that a culture he called the ‘Cetra’, or ‘Those of the Planet’, were in fact tied to or the same as the Centra civilization, the name a simple error in translation. He was trying to amass a specific lineage using genetic sequencing and archeological findings. These people, claimed Gast, had been the first users of para magic and had made various documentation with regard to its use that was ground-breaking even in the present. The old texts, called the ‘Chronicles of Avalon’ documented the use and worship of magic in ancient culture. In the chronicles, the writers called magic the ‘voice of the planet’- the very heart and essence of life. Rinoa was less interested in its religious implications- she was more interested in Gast’s claim that the Cetra had utilized and harnessed very old, now unheard of forms of magic- magic that had died with the people themselves.

The ruins themselves were evidence of that. Red and blue wires ran like veins through the spindly tower, and some of the apparatus were powered by the ghosts of paramagic. These people had understood the lifeblood of the planet- what else had they understood?

The place had the ghosts of magic running through it as surely as it had the echo of desperation in it, a hopeless taint that covered the walls as surely as blood spatter. Walking through the rooms, she could see that the place still maintained its connection to the core power source- but where was that source located?

The energy of the place hummed beneath her feet- she could feel her awareness of it prickle against her feet, her hands, her lips. The center was beneath her, of that she was certain. But how to reach it?

Simple. Follow the magic.

For someone like Rinoa, in whom magic ran like a kind of second lifeblood, following the trace of magic was as easy as extending any one of her five senses.

Packing up her lunch and her sketchbook, she slung the pack around her shoulders again, and, walking at a leisurely pace, ran her fingers along the walls, following where the echoes led her.

…………..

………

…..

…

Serabin emerged from the Shinra basement pulling down his shirtsleeves, buttoning his cuffs, and fighting an ever-present urge to vomit. He had just attended his very last immersion session with Hojo, and could not say he was particularly disappointed about it. Lucretia was pleasant-enough company when she was in charge, but he would not miss Hojo's penetrating stare or the long hours spent submerged in a solution that made his skin feel as if it were on fire. Lately, towards the end of the session in the tank, Serabin had started to develop an odd ringing sensation in his ears, as if a nest of hornets were buzzing in his grey matter. He would be glad to be rid of the feeling. Even now, he was looking forward to flying back home, taking half a bottle of aspirin and a few Demerol with half a bottle of pinot noir, and sleeping for at least twelve hours.

Shaking out the static in his casting arm, he showed his clearance key card to the guard at the elevator and waited patiently as the floors flew past him. It was amazing how quickly the building had gone up. What once was a spindly steel skeleton was now a towering structure teeming with personnel, ringing phones, and security devices. Serabin found that he liked Shinra Corp as an emerging giant about as much as he had when it was a climbing science lab- which was to say, not at all.

President Shinra's office was appropriately on the topmost floor, 70 stories up. A large silver desk took up most of the pace in the room, and large windows interspaced amount the pillars showed night in every direction. Below, the slowly expanding city twinkled like distant grains of sand. Serabin could see no stars- the lights of the emerging industry blotted them all out. To Serabin, it was a bleak view...but the president seemed to like it well enough. Yet another thing of many that made them different.

Serabin found himself often missing the view from the orphanage all those years ago, the shack on the outskirts of Dollet with its clapboard walls and the never-ending spread of stars outside his bedroom window. The world had seemed endless then, magical, not something that could be held down and chained by greed.

Shinra was standing at the window, his generous frame garbed in a rich red velvet smoking jacket, his hands laced behind his back. Absently, Serabin wondered when and where he slept.

Shinra's beady black eyes met his in the window's reflection. "Hojo informs me that, barring your participation in our public demonstrations next month, your contractual obligations to us have ended."

"He's correct."

"Hojo also says that your trials have ended...successfully. Would he also be correct on that account?"

"He would."

"Ah, excellent, excellent! In that case, might I ask for a small demonstration?" Shinra turned from the window, meeting Serabin’s eyes for the first time. It was interesting- while Hojo’s sharp gaze made Serabin feel as if he were being dissected, Shinra’s heavy gaze made him feel as if he were being suffocated. He didn’t know which he preferred less.

Serabin's eyes narrowed as he heard Shinra’s request. He wanted to reply that he was not a dancing puppet, and if Shinra wanted a demonstration of what the trials produced, he could squeeze his bulbous ass into the tank himself. But the good President was right- his contractual obligation to the company had not yet ended. The man was smart to preface the conversation with that small reminder.

"Yes, of course," replied Serabin, rolling up his sleeve.

The fire materia he had stocked?

No, let the president feel a little sting.

A small flick of Serabin’s wrist, and the room lit up like a floodlight. Crackling forks of lightning sparked to the ceiling, nearly blinding in their intensity, a few of the bolts missing Shinra by mere inches as they plunged into the floor.

Serabin closed his fist, and the room once again returned to its normal brightness and silence. He was still getting used to the materia- it generated much faster than it had when he had drawn its raw form, and with an intensity that far surpassed the unprocessed kind.

Shinra's bushy eyebrows had inched into his hairline, but he showed no other signs of the fear Serabin had been hoping for, just the hunger and greed he was used to seeing on the President’s face. "Impressive, thank you. I had heard about your presidential nomination for Esthar. You're really accepting?"

"Why wouldn't I?" In truth, Serabin hadn't yet decided, but he didn't particularly want Shinra knowing his next moves, whatever they were.

The President chuckled. "Oh, I don't know, I suppose I was under the impression that you wanted to do some good in the world."

Serabin returned his sleeve to its former position, buttoning the cuff and shaking down his jacket. "And is that what your company does? Goodwill towards the people under the clever guise of war profiteering?"

Far from being offended, Shinra laughed. Serabin supposed that when you were as rich and powerful as Shinra was, it was difficult to be insulted. "Son, you're too smart to be that naive. You're still loyal to Garden, to your friends, and I understand all that, but I'm afraid your loyalty is misplaced. You and I both know that Garden's on its way out. I'm offering you a chance to be a part of the future, to train the new and upcoming keepers of peace and order. That doesn't appeal to you?"

Serabin lifted a shoulder in response. "You might say I'm weary of exchanging one power for another, especially one that has less legal tethers and far more pervasive financial influence over political matters."

"Ah, then why not be at the reigns of such a beast, and direct it according to those morals you’re so fond of? You, out of everyone, I think, would be best to control it. Shinra is able to offer an impressive financial incentive-"

"And I'd have hoped you would have researched me enough to know by now that gil is no incentive to me." replied Serabin coldly, "And that I do not care to shackle myself to the helm of an institution that subscribes to profit as if it were a moral aspiration."

At this, Shinra positively roared. "And that's why it has to be you, my boy! Just think of the manner of minds such incentives would attract! The greedy, the power-hungry, the foolish and the gluttonous- would these be the men you would want to see at the forefront of our world's greatest new military progression?"

"I'll think about your offer, Shinra." replied Serabin cooly, his expression unreadable.

"Excellent." The president turned back to the window, once again lacing his hands behind his broad back, which Serabin correctly interpreted as a dismissal.

Serabin hesitated at the exit. "Miss Trepe is here today, is she not?"

"Ah, Quistis Trepe. Like yourself, quite the jewel in our military sect down in the Shinra Science Division. I'm afraid you just missed her, however. She's assessing the local Mako points with a Miss Tilmitt today, the last I heard, although they may be back at their lodgings by now."

"You're very well-informed of your operations, even from way up here.”

Shinra's smile grew, but it was no longer in the realm of kind. "We keep a constant eye on things important to the progress of our company, especially things so important to our progress as Miss Trepe."

Serabin's smile grew to match the President's, lighting his eyes in a strange, unearthly glow. Shinra noted that while the color of the young man’s eyes was returning its normal green, its color had deepened, sharpening the gaze to an almost predatory point.

"I'm happy to hear that it's a constant consideration,” replied Serabin. “I'd hate to think of what might happen if the welfare of someone as important as Miss Trepe slipped through the cracks. Good night, Shinra."

The young man gave him a brief bow, then left.

After the door had closed, Shinra looked back out at the ant-sized specks of the developing city below, letting his thoughts run unbidden through his mind. He had not missed the cold flash of defiance in Serabin's gaze when he asked for a demonstration, nor had he missed the protective flare in his gaze when he mentioned Quistis Trepe. Shinra was a man that understood people- their desires, their motivations, and most of all, their weaknesses. It was his business to understand, and his skill in reading, controlling, and diverting the motivations of others was what had led to his early and sustained success. Having observed Serabin since the Third Sorceress War, Shinra believed that he understood several very important things about the man.

One, despite his upbringing and intelligence, Serabin was somewhat of an idealist when it came to matters of war and business- he thought that the same honor and principles should apply to each, and they simply didn't.

Two, Serabin was a man that both desired power and despised it. He craved power for himself, or he would not have gone through the long, painful hours of Mako immersion and put up with the wheedling of Hojo, whom the young man openly detested. However, Serabin also hated to see power abused, and did not much care for Shinra, Inc- he certainly didn't care for Shinra himself.

Lastly, Mr. Glyphias had a blind spot and a protective streak a mile wide when it came to one Quistis Trepe. Shinra filed away that particular information in case it came in handy some day.

Shinra had learned long ago the age-old strategy of keeping one's friends close and one's enemies closer, and had found it extremely useful.

As things stood now, Shinra wanted Glyphias as close as possible.

.......

….

…

…

Serabin left Shinra headquarters with a bitter taste in his mouth, one that had nothing to do with the slightly salty mako solution that took days to properly wash off his skin.

Shinra was a pompous, greedy bastard, but he was not stupid. His offer of leading Shinra's rapidly developing security force had nothing to do with Serabin's merit as an individual and everything to do with Shinra's desire to keep a constant surveillance on his activities. Serabin wondered at the wisdom of tying himself to such an institution, but there was little choice. It came down to a question of taming the beast or slaying it, he supposed, and Shinra was growing too quickly for even the Gardens to oppose. And then there was the question of Quistis. What would Shinra do with her, once they had finished with her? Furthermore, would they ever be finished, or was she to be kept as a lab rat, poked at prodded for the good of Garden, which was by rights and reason now a vulnerable and possibly dying institution?

Serabin had immediately understood Shinra's reason for leasing the land rights to Garden. It was not in the interest of fair trade- it was because Shinra planned to acquire the Gardens as eventual outlets of the Shinra Supervision and Security branches. When Garden was gone, what would become of the heroes? What would become of Rinoa, whose safety would be then secured only by the protective flanks of her friends and not the steel walls and high ceilings of the flying fortress?

Serabin's helicopter loomed in the distance, and he turned back for a moment to gaze with narrowed eyes at the tall, towering structure of Shinra Headquarters. Was Garden truly doomed, and with it, the Liberi Fatali?

Only time would tell- for all of them.

…….

….

Selphie Tilmitt was an expert hotel magpie. She could strip a fancy hotel room of all its french-milled soaps, 400 thread count pillowcases and instant coffee packets faster than a black widow on a date. She was in the middle of stuffing the hand towels into her bag when she decided to duck into the bathroom and check on her friend.

"Quistis, are you going to take these soaps? 'Cause if not...." Selphie walked into the bathroom, stopping as she saw her friend once again hunched over the toilet, her forehead resting against the cool porcelain. Her eyes were half-closed, and her face the color of a bleached rag.

"Sick again?" Selphie's brow furrowed. "You know, Quisty, I hate to say this...but do you think it could be....?"

Though the vomit-addled fog of her brain, Quistis saw the direction in which Selphie's thoughts were headed, and gave a rueful laugh as she intercepted them before they could become the wild intangible spinnings Selphie was famous for. "What you’re thinking is medically impossible," she muttered down into the bowl, her words muffled as she hit the flush handle.

"But, you're getting sick in the mornings-"

"And the evenings, and the mid-afternoons, and sometimes in the middle of the night," replied Quistis. "I'm just sick, Selphie, that's all." She sighed into the toilet bowl, half expecting to hear the echo of her poor stomach.

Selphie raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you should check, just to-“

"No. Now help me up. I think I'm done throwing up for the moment." Her friend helped her to her feet, giving her a hug as she swayed. Quistis winced at the contact, but patted Selphie’s back as she pulled away.

"I think I'm going to lay down for awhile, okay Selphie? You go get breakfast, and I'm going to leave to see the on-site extractors while you're at the meeting. I should be back at around 10 o’clock tonight." Instead of showing her the local extraction sites, Hojo had apparently arranged personal transportation to take her to Nibel, their largest current site and the area which was to be their grand opening for their energy program. Quistis was uneasy about the 10 hour commute, but her stomach seemed to have settled a little since her last purge. Besides, there were always airsick bags.

Selphie patted her friend's shoulder. "Are you sure I can't get you something? Orange juice, cereal, maybe some eggs benedict on toast, or hey! I saw this waffle iron downstairs, sort of a do-it-yourself thing by the orange juice and the coffee. I could make you a big strawberry waffle with a big dollop of whipped cream-"

Her friend's pretty complexion paled, then turned a mottled green as she once again ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

"Guess not," sighed Selphie, walking back to raid the mini bar.

……

Up, up, and up, and Rinoa found herself invigorated rather than exhausted by the long climb. In the main room now, the tall windows casting a dusty light along the circular room, illuminating the intimidating throne. Many wires here like veins running to the center of the room below the stone chair, the stone chair that had sat a burdened king to a dying people. Traces of a guardian force here, the dark and solid signature of Odin- Odin, long dispatched by Hyperion’s steel.

A veritable house of ghosts.

The magic was strong in this room- it buzzed against her palm as she ran her hand along the cold mineral skin of the throne.

Here.

Here, thrumming light-a heartbeat under her hand.

She could not move the throne physically, but a small flick of her wrist, and the stone chair flew like a paper plane across the room, shattering into stone splinters against the opposite wall. And beneath it-

Rinoa smiled. A stone staircase, winding down into darkness.

Yes.

Here.

…

…

It was a 7 hour ride by Shinra’s sleek helicopter to the Mt. Nibel site, and an additional 1 hour drive through sand and sun by jeep. Quistis’ escort was the same one that had first picked her up at Shinra’s launch pad- a polite, handsome young man with dark hair. Like the others, he was wearing a sharp blue suit with the Shinra logo emblazoned on the breast pocket.

Her escort had kindly invited Quistis up into the copilot’s chair and outfitted her with her own headset. Initially, she had gripped her economy-sized garbage bag in her lap, but the nausea seemed to have left her alone for the time being, leaving her free to enjoy the ride.

Her young escort occasionally pointed out things of interest below, and Quistis found herself enjoying the view. It was very different from flying in the Ragnarok, which, while instilling an appreciation in Quistis for higher speeds, did not provide for much scenery when they were in a hurry. Relaxed, she had stared for hours at the glittering blue ocean, occasionally nodding off against the window pane.

A hand gently brushed her shoulder and she came awake, blinking as the inside of the helicopter came into view. “Miss Trepe. We’re preparing to land.”

The landscape around Mt. Nibel was far from welcoming- the barren land was primarily comprised of dark cloud and craggy pale cliffs. The sunlight peeked through the cloud cover in intermittent bursts, covering the ground in a kind of pale-half light that reminded Quistis of a cemetery shrouded in mist. Some of the jagged masses protruding from the ground might once have been trees, but they had long since calcified and become part of the stone.

A nervous feeling that had nothing to do with her daily bouts of nausea had also begun to crawl up into her throat. Her hand shook a little as she removed her headset. Why had they flown her all the way out here? Why not show her a local site, instead of shedding the gil it would take to transport her all the way out and back?

She shivered. Something about this area…something wasn’t right.

The landing site of the helicopter contained a few all-terrain vehicles, a small radio center, and a couple of make-shift toilets. Her escort handed her a heavy hooded coat, and the two set off across the desolate plains. They passed the drive in silence- her companion seemed distracted, and Quistis was afraid to open her mouth for all the sand.

At last, the jeep parked by a large, craggy cliff. Her companion muttered something into his radio, and quickly exited the vehicle to open her door for her.

“Thank you.” She said, offering him a smile as he helped her down.

The young man nodded politely, handing her a mask and a pair of safety glasses. “Please, Miss Trepe, put these on. There is extensive drilling here, and the resulting dust has been known to cause internal bleeding if inhaled.”

Lovely. She was liking this place more and more.

“Thank you,” replied Quistis, snapping on the mask and the goggles as she followed behind him.

The cave was a direct contrast to the outer landscape- it was beautiful and full of color. The inside featured a dome ceiling full of stalactite. The occasional patch of sunlight filtered down in soft shafts of light where the stone walls broke open to the sky above.

It would have been peaceful here, were it not for the hammer of the drills and the echo of voices. The ground seemed to hum beneath Quistis’s feet as she looked around.

To her disappointment, she saw that Hojo was already there, marking something down on his clipboard and in deep discussion with Lucrecia, who looked troubled when she glanced in their direction. Quistis turned to ask her companion if he might show her around, but he seemed to have disappeared.

Well, shit.

Quistis sighed and started forward, ruing the day she had agreed to a personal tour.

Hojo’s eyes narrowed as Quistis approached in what might have been amusement. It was difficult to discern anything on the man’s face besides a keen, penetrating, and utterly inhuman interest.

Lucrecia smiled as she saw Quistis, bowed to them both, then walked over to talk to another scientist, pointing emphatically at one of her charts as they talked.

Hojo turned a page on his clipboard. “Miss Trepe. So happy you could make it.”

"I appreciate the invitation." She looked around, removing her mask so that she could speak without garbling her words.

“It’s Shinra’s pleasure to have such a vital contributor pay us a visit,” replied Hojo without a trace of sincerity. “If you have no objections, I’ll draw a small blood sample now. The usual pint will not be required this time.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” replied Quistis. To her intense relief, instead of taking her arm in his clammy grip, he summoned a waiting tech, who tapped her arm, inserted the syringe, and gathered one small vial before applying a gauze patch and securing it with medical tape, instructing her to fold her arm for a minute or two. It was a refreshing change from the usual hour spent on one of the lab’s cots, immersed in the sterile white room with nothing colorful to stare at but her own blood.

Hojo pocketed the vial. “You will excuse me if I work as we converse?”

“Of course.” Anything to get that penetrating stare off of her. She followed as Hojo walked. “These are your extraction units, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“The tanks and the pumps…” Quistis narrowed her eyes. “But your refinement process occurs back at the Shinra Science Division?”

Hojo scrawled something on the clipboard. “Yes.”

“The transfer…the extraction…how do you accomplish this without a bio medium?” asked Quistis.

“Simple.” Hojo removed his glasses and ran a cloth over them, fogging the lenses with his breath before each swipe. “We don’t.”

Something cold settled in her, but she struggled against it. “Then I’m afraid I don’t follow. The initial means of extraction are the mechanical pumps, which use high pressure to extract the energy from the planet…but, to which medium are they then affixed? Magi…Materia can’t be affixed sustainably to a non-living source, and there’s been no recent findings that prove differently.”

Hojo’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but it was not a kind version of the sentiment. “Been attempting a little science yourself, Miss Trepe?”

Something Quistis vaguely recognized as pride began to boil under her skin. “I dabble,” she replied coldly.

Hojo put his glasses back on. “This place, Mt. Nibel, as it has come to be called, is one of the few places that house a true Mako fountain, or Draw point, as I believe you SeeDs still call it. The mechanical pumps you see here extract the energy and are replaced every 2-3 months, when they are transported back to Shinra and decompressed in the reactor.”

“But that doesn’t answer my question,” insisted Quistis. “I see machines, but no biomedium.”

Hojo did not look up from his notes. “As I said, have a look for yourself.”

Quistis approached one of the machines, already frowning. There was a clear glass shield at the top, like a diving bubble she’d seen for oceanic exploration. Climbing the short side ladder, she peered down into the top of the machine.

Wiping away the dust from the surrounding rocks, she peered in-

-and looked directly into a pair of pale eyes.

She jerked back so fast she almost fell off the ladder, her hand clutched at her chest.

“That- that was-” She turned on Hojo, her eyes blazing as she jumped to the ground, advancing on him. “That’s a human being!”

“No,” replied Hojo calmly, turning a page in his report. “That is a collection of conduits, all with artificial heartbeats and without brainwaves.”

A collection? There were more?

“And how many of them were clinically dead before you put them in there?” she spat before she could stop herself.

“Hard to say,” replied Hojo boredly, marking something else on his sheet before turning a page. “At any rate, most of the specimens you see within are the recipients of death sentences issued by several major governments. At least, here, they can be of benefit to society, which, I assure you, is more than they ever were while breathing. At any rate, we have all the appropriate documentation signing rights to their cadavers over to us, should you care to see them.”

Quistis gaped at him. Hojo had told her that she would have difficulty believing the extent governments would go to obtain affordable energy…and he was right. She now fully understood why Hojo had gone though all the trouble to ship her out here to see this- he wanted her to understand the full extend of Shinra’s reach, and he wanted her to tell her friends. The knowledge made her stomach squirm again, and she grit her teeth to hold back the sickness.

Hojo handed his clipboard to a waiting tech. “Replace A-4. It’s a defective specimen, and the deposits aren’t holding. Use one fresh off the line this time. The ones in storage don’t have the same voltage potentials.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the tech, bowing her head and hurrying off.

He turned back to Quistis, folding his hands in front him. “You asked how the machine works, I believe? The machine itself does little- it extracts the energy by compression, feeding it into the tubes you saw connected to the specimen. As you said yourself, mako energy has a high affinity for the voltage generated by living cells. The energy feeds into the spinal cord and diffuses into the plasma, supersaturating the cells to amazing levels. There is no mag-poisoning in this case, as you would call it, as the energy is passively generated without the cellular voltage adjustment that causes the damage. The entire extraction device, which we call a temporary E.G.G., or Ergo-Generating Graft, is then transferred to our plant, where we decompress the entire capsule in the generator at a very high level of pressure, creating the materia spheres.”

“But that-”

“Ceases the artificial life functions of the specimens, yes.”

Quistis narrowed her eyes. “Does Gast know about this?”

Hojo chuckled. “Gast helped to design the technology that runs it. And so did you.”

Quistis shook her head, trying to dislodge the feeling swimming in her gut.

Hojo smiled, enjoying her discomfort. “We have your case study to thank, after all. It seems that mag-poisoning is generated mostly by the certain metabolic activity inherent in living cells. Normally, the energy won’t interact with the cells, but supersaturated levels seem to block vital voltage gateways and interfere with cellular activity, ergo the ‘poisoning’ effects you experienced. In limiting the metabolic functions in the recipients, or containers, we eliminate the problem altogether, tripling the rate of absorption.”

Quistis stared down at the machine again. It was revolting, yes….but….amazing, too…..

Her stomach squirmed suddenly, and she feverently hoped she did not throw up in front of Hojo.

But Hojo was already leafing through another report, and did not seem to register her discomfort. “I’m afraid that I must attend to a minor malfunction in t-E.G.G. 6. We’ll depart back to the lab in a moment- in the meantime, as an honored guest of Shinra Coorporation, I am obliged to tell you to look around to your heart’s content, and to enjoy your time here.”

Quistis looked after him. What to do now?

Enjoy your time here.

….right.

Quistis leaned on the machine. She hated it here. She hated Hojo, she hated the underground lab with its tanks full of twisted, mangled creatures, she hated that she was bound to his place until Shinra tired of the contract. She was tired, she was miserable, and she wanted to go home and rest against Seifer’s solid shoulder and put her feet in the ocean and forget that these parts of the world, this greed and manipulation and these men like Hojo, existed at all-

A body drifting in the liquid suddenly bumped against the tank, its unblinking eyes swarming closely to hers. Her fingers flexed out, startled, and the specimen twitched again, the grey limbs spidering out in a kind of grim imitation of life.

Hojo had already walked away, fortunately, and did not see her put her hand over her mouth as she stepped back.

Quistis stared after Hojo a moment before looking back into the tank, pressing her fingers against the cold glass as much to steady herself as anything. Twenty pairs of eyes looked listlessly back at her, maybe more. Their expressions were dead, as cold and grey as their naked bodies. Wires pierced their spines and major pulse points- she could see the energy gathering in point-source pools that gave the deteriorating tissue a faint glow. Perhaps they had been criminals, but…did they deserve this?

They were only bodies, perhaps, but to be used in this way...there was something unnatural, terrible, about the corpse batteries drifting through the milky fluid.

Hojo had said that Shinra acquired most of the hosts through government ‘donations’ of convicted criminals….but where did he get the rest?

She flexed her hand again against the glass, feeling cold and clammy as she stared down into the lifeless eyes beneath her, feeling the vibrations of the earth in her feet, in her hands, and in her head now, whispering, the corpse’s pale eyes now boring into hers-

“Knowlespole…."

Frowning, she glanced behind her.

“Time…..must make time…….not enough time-“

No one was there. She turned back to the tank, to the cold and clammy feeling and the awful thing in the tank, its eyes on her-

“The north…Knowlespole…falling star……if….if we go……go to the frozen north…destroy the star….we destroy the destroyer-“

A hand on her shoulder. A voice in her ear, and she was at once withdrawing her hand, her vision focusing again on the body in the tank, which was floating away now, drifting aimlessly through the blue liquid-

“Miss Trepe.” It was the young man from earlier, the one with the dark gentle eyes. “The others have finished and are returning to camp. Please. I’ll escort you back.” He seemed to hesitate. “Are you all right, Miss Trepe?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she murmured, peering at his name tag for the first time since their introduction. “…Vincent.”

…

..

It was nearly twilight when Rinoa emerged from the ruins, winding the cloak around her head to avoid the stinging wind. There were deep circles under her eyes, and her cheeks bore the stains of tears, but they were quickly drying.

She took with her only her sketchbook and a soft smile as she began the long trek back home.

She had found what she was looking for.

………….

…….

…

Hojo liked to do his work in the containment room now, with its soft blue light ribboning off of the walls and the gentle hum of the nutrient tanks. He liked the quiet, as the room itself was off limits to all but the highest security clearances.

Mostly, he liked to watch the specimen, liked to watch the light play upon her flesh, liked to look at his treasure and experience the thrill when he thought of what lay ahead, the great things he would do.

Tonight, his pleasure was interrupted by Gast’s thin shadow in the doorway. The good doctor looked as if he hadn’t slept in days; his clothes were rumpled and dark bags hung under his eyes. He was holding a sheath of papers- they stuck out at odd angles from under his arm.

“Is there something I can help you with, Gast?” asked Hojo, glancing up from his paperwork.

“I went to Esthar last week,” replied the doctor. “I met with Odine.”

Hojo set down his pen. “And?”

“And he told me everything. What you’re doing….these things….” Gast shook his head. “It’s madness, Hojo.”

“You came here to tell me that?” asked Hojo, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. “You’ve been saying it all along, haven’t you?”

“This is different,” replied Gast. “The t-E.G.G.s, the unsuccessful trials-“

“The t- .E.G.G.s were based off of your research.”

“The trials were intended to be transferred to living, acquiescing people! You took that research and-

“I took that research,” replied Hojo calmly. “And I made it efficient. Your problem, Gast, is that you treat science as if it’s a fairytale book with a happy ending. Science is extraction. Manipulation. Degradation. It’s meant to be efficient, not whimsical.”

“I’m-“

Hojo adjusted his glasses. “You’re involved, is what you are, in every awful inch of it."

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “And maybe I no longer wish to be.”

Hojo rolled his eyes. “You’re well-funded here. You can take all those little excursions you like to Centra, take a stick and pick through the ashes of a people irrelevant to the present-“

Gast’s gaze darkened. “There’s every evidence, both in written an oral traditions, that the survivors dispersed and formed new civilizations, populating-“

“-and abandoning their old cultures and irrelevant traditions, thus making them effectively extinct in any present meaningful context,” replied Hojo boredly. “You’re missing my point. Where do you think you’ll take this newfound moral outrage? To Shinra? He’s copied on every gil that runs through this place. Shinra wants people that produce results, not foolish crusaders, and could care less about how it’s done, so long as it is. You could appeal to the governments, to the same people that fund our little research here, or perhaps you could go to an independent contractors like SeeD, which will be the equivalent of a flying paperweight once Shinra mobilizes the military contracts.”

Hojo turned in his chair to regard Gast fully. “Perhaps it’s time for you to abandon your pretty little notions of the world, and become either a productive member of the scientific community, or a philosopher king that gathers dust in the archives.”

“You lecture me about science?” seethed Gast. “You fool, you’ve been running blind tests, you’re exposing people to things you don’t fully understand, and you’re putting us all at risk in the process!”

“Risk and reward, Gast,” replied Hojo blithely. “And the next time you go on one of your little outings, at least be productive. You might have saved the lab the expense of transporting Odine here.”

“You’re having him transferred?” Gast had no idea how Hojo had managed to go through the court and the psychiatric ward, but he had the feeling that the transfer did not bode well for Odine. Like all of Shinra’s assets, apparently the good president wanted to keep a closer eye on his prized scientific contributor.

“Yes, it’s much more convenient to pick his brain here than to collaborate long distance.”

Pick his brain. Gast tightened his hold on his notes.

“You’ll excuse me now, Gast, I have to see about these latest readings. We can go over our plans for the site unveiling tomorrow.” With that, Hojo turned back to his makeshift desk, the blue light of the tank casting an eerie glow on his sleek dark head.

Hojo heard Gast leave, and smiled to himself. A promising enough mind, but an idiot just the same. If Gast kept in his current directions, sadly, he would not have much of a future with Shinra Corp- or, in fact, a future at all.

Hojo’s pocket beeped, and he slipped his hand in to grab his cell phone and flip it open. “Yes?”

“The tests have been confirmed, Dr. Hojo.”

“And?”

“Positive, as you thought."

In lieu of a goodbye, Hojo simply closed the phone, leaning back in his chair. Excellent. The project could soon begin in full swing now, with the new materials soon to be at hand.

He gazed at the thing in the tank, and the thing in the tank seemed to gaze back at him- waiting, as he was waiting.

Of course, it was only a trick of the light.

………………

……

Blue.

Blue.

Blue.

Quistis Trepe sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by the color. In front of her, a mess of packaging, torn boxes, and small cylindrical plastic containers lay strewn about, all the clutter interspersed by the bright lines and circles.

Blue.

Quistis pushed her hair back from her eyes, then pressed her palm to her forehead, bracing herself against the table. She grabbed a box, looked at it, then set it back down on the table again.

The first box had been placed in her travel bag by Selphie as a kind of joke, and Quistis, bored at home with only the dogs for company, had later thought it would be a waste not to try it out. It wasn’t as if she would have any other opportunity in her life.

“Not possible…” she murmured, staring at the color.

And yet, there they were, lined up before her….10 different pieces of evidence that all flew in the face of her logic and denial.

“Not possible,” she said again, louder this time, as if her words would scatter the ridiculous scenario into a strange dream.

Cerberus put his head in her lap, wagging his tail.

She’d had to go on two trips to the store after the first one, which seemed to greatly amuse the clerk.

But the first one was a mistake, it wasn’t possible….

But every single one….

She reached for the phone.

It was time to call Doctor Kadowaki.