Old Glory

For Seventhe

Her hazel eyes were dull in the dark of the room, but they'd caught his attention instantly. That, and the smell. He'd known from the moment he'd walked in that something was off. That particular something was currently sitting in the corner of his room, unflinching, waiting patiently for his arrival.

She didn't smile straightaway, didn't lunge for him either. Her face was schooled into a blank mask, and she lifted her chin when his gaze alighted on her still form, resting in the armchair. She was smooth, young, and barely clad. But not trendy. No, her attire was functional. Somehow that didn't seem right on someone so small.

"Don't move," she said, and Knox paused in his step. And raised an eyebrow, curious. She still hadn't moved from her spot, hadn't made for any weapon or defense.

Clearly, she'd expected him to cooperate. This grabbed his interest. "Who are you, and why are you here?" he asked.

She tilted her head, raising her chin higher. "You mean, you don't recognize me?"

There was something velvety and almost smug in the way she spoke just then, and Knox leaned to the side and let his old eyes adjust to the shadows. He did recognize her then, but only vaguely. Her image could be found lying around; most everyone could place her somewhere in their mind. "Kisaragi."

"That's right."

This slip of a girl was trying to play his game, and by now Knox was getting rather irate. "What do you want?"

"Oh, it's very simple," she said, finally rising from the chair and striding carefully into the center of the room. "I want vengeance."

The young Wutaian shifted her weight then, crossing her arms and grinning broadly, as if she was waiting for some climactic reaction to come from him. He just wasn't getting it; he nearly bit back a laugh, but only smiled and shook his head. "Talk to Rufus, then," he said, and brushed past her towards the kitchenette, flicking on a faint light.

Knox heard the girl's soft footsteps dancing about his floor as he rummaged around in the mini-fridge. Silly little ninja.

"Stay right where you are," he warned.

The pattering stopped.

"Now tell me," he said, straightening as he retrieved a bottle of vodka and a can of juice, "how did you get into my hotel room?"

She smiled. "You left the window open."

Right. That would teach him to try and get some fresh air. It was closed now, he knew, because he felt no other disturbance in the room. He glanced at the damp puddle on the floor beneath the sill. There was an underlying smell there, that he had recognized before, but there was something else, too. Something crisp and pungent...

The girl reached into a large holster at her thigh, and produced a large, angular blade. Knox heard the resonance of sharp steel exiting its tough, leather casing, and turned to watch with some morbid fascination as her arm flicked out to the side, and the weapon splayed out into a fan-like array.

The old man frowned at her, eyes narrowed in question. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I already told you."

He blinked. "You're serious."

"Yep." Gloved hands tightened around the base of the fan as she brought it level with her chest, and that was when Knox caught the insignia etched into the side. His mouth parted in dumbfounded realization, and he set the glass he'd been preparing on the counter.

She was so young, so alone. It was almost inspiring, if only it wasn't so very backwards. He swallowed the dryness in his throat. "...You're going to make me fight you?"

"Come on," she said, lowering her head behind the crooked spines. Her eyes were narrowed, her smile slight and mischeivous, even playful, he couldn't help but think. "It's not like I'm not going to give you a fighting chance." Oh, she didn't know what she was doing.

Until she tossed him his sword. She'd been admiring it earlier, before he came in. The sword had been crafted in Wutai; it was fitting, somehow. And then it was like a moment of clarity, and he knew he didn't have a choice in the matter, not if she'd come thus far and been thus prepared, knowing all of this. She'd known it was there; she'd had to look for that sword and dig it out of its hiding place. Somehow, that was also fitting.

The sleek, ivory sheath landed in Knox's hand with a solid thud. His fingers closed around the decorated material as he reached up with his other hand and grasped the hilt, pulling the blade halfway from its casing. The thin steel had a smooth glide and felt natural, comfortable in his hand. He stared at his reflection for a moment, dim in the overhead lighting.

"I don't want to fight you," he said, frowning.

Her neck twitched as she prodded. "Then why did you do it, Corey Knox?"

He was silent for a moment, considering his words. "There are things you don't-"

"Let's have at it, then."

There was the sound of metal sliding upon metal, and her hands parted, an identical layer of the weapon in each. Knox's eyes remained trained on her crouched form as he slid the blade from the sheath completely. He sliced the air in front of him once, testing its weight in his hand. It had been far too long.

And then she rushed him.

The solid clanging of steel on steel resonated throughout the room, bouncing off the thin drywall which separated shabby block from block. It was sad, that it should come to this, and in such a bleak setting. She was young, angry - rash, he could see in her eyes - and inexperienced. "You don't know what you're playing at," he said calmly, parrying her three successive strikes.

"Don't I?" she nearly spit out, backing away. Knox had only checked into the room earlier that day; she'd been watching him longer, then. Studying him. He took note of her body's lean as she bent at the knee and rushed him again.

Clang-Clang-Clang! Right, left, right, and then she turned and rounded on him. The blade cut through the air with little resistance, and he backed away just in time only to catch his sword on the last blow. The force of the powerful strike reverberated in his arm, throbbing at the awkward turn of his wrist. He recovered his footing then, just as she sliced downward, and with both hands on his sword's hilt - and an amazing reserve of strength, given his position - he was able to lever her away from him.

She swayed as she backed off, light on her toes and they began to circle around the center of the room. There was a slight bounce in her step, an eagerness in being unable to wait until she got her hands on him and showed him the true meaning of suffering. He could see it; he was young and furious once, too.

"We don't have to do this," he said.

She grinned. "What's the matter? Can't keep up, old man?"

"You know," he said, returning the grin, "there was a time when we respected our elders."

"That's rich," she hissed, "coming from a street-punk like yourself. Blasphemer!"

She was knobby and disheveled, her nostrils flared in indignance. It didn't look right on her. Knox's eyes itched; his head felt funny. "You could learn much."

She laughed, short and soft. "I didn't come here to learn."

It was a poor circle, at best. The room was littered with unnecessary furniture, and it was hard to keep one's eyes focused on the enemy when watching his feet. But though Knox was old and weary, his mind was quick enough to catch an opening when he saw one.

He came at her quickly; she dodged to her left, right into the dresser. Her back arched painfully against the wooden edge as his weight forced her down beneath his blade. Her arms bent up beneath him, elbows crushed against her sides as her spine ground against the furniture, holding onto the last. Their weapons scraped together, a jarring sound which she felt in her jaw and her rapidly weakening legs. She was frightened, aware of her awkward handling, shaking wrists beneath the flared plating of the blade's handles. Just one slip, and...

She pressed up beneath him, and her foot caught the inside of his leg. Knox's body leaned to one side and his sword fell onto the wood. He pushed himself to the side as she slid up and out from beneath him, the last of her blades catching on the hilt's quillion and narrowly missing his hand. Knox stumbled back and took a knee on the floor, and she bore down on him, their weapons clashing against each other once more.

She had the advantage in her position, and before long Knox was lying beneath her. Again, there was that pungent, nauseating wave of something too flowery, and his throat felt scratchy. With a last push, he shoved her up and away, his sword flying free as it slid from her hold. She scrambled back to avoid the hit, and Knox rolled to the side, righting himself. She didn't take the opening, and instead rushed to her feet as well, not wanting to be the last one on the floor.

Clang-Clang-Clang! Again. Right, left, right. Turn and round. And then he jabbed at her.

She didn't see it coming; she leaned to the side, evading the blade. Her own came up to meet it too late, and it caught beneath his, the edge of the sword caught between the spines on her elaborate fan.

It happened in the blink of an eye. She dropped the blade in her right hand, and grasped for the spines on the left. Turn, twist, duck and catch...

The room was silent, then. Yuffie let loose the breath she'd been holding, and for a moment it was the loudest thing on all the planet. She shut her eyes tightly when she heard the loud thud behind her, and felt the hot moisture squeeze out the corners and spill over onto her cheeks. Knox was dead; she was half-avenged.

She turned then, to face the body on the floor. Crimson had already begun to pool beneath him, and she moved closer. He was a mess of that, crimson and grey-white, and... navy. He'd worn navy that day. Yuffie smiled sadly to herself.

He might have been the type she would have respected. Stubborn and experienced, full of old wisdom and secrets. She might have learned a lot from him. Under different circumstances, she might have wanted to know him better, because he seemed the type. It was a waste, really.

She shook her head, reminding herself why she had come. Yuffie bent down over the man and lifted his right hand from where it rested next to his head. She pondered its absence of warmth as she worked the gold band off from his smallest finger and pocketed it. The flats of her shoes were already sinking into the carpet by then, and she felt his then-warm life seeping through the cloth on her feet.

She backed away quietly, and made a hasty exit.

«

"Come here, Yuffie."

Li Hisa, the glorious, strong-willed fire of Wutai, was dying. She'd seen many things in her lifetime; she was Godo's eyes and ears, a wise and understanding counsel. Hisa had been beautiful and delicate in life, but despite her appearance, she was known as the unyielding backbone of the Wutaian Empire. It was she who had led the nation in its revolt, and it was she whom her people loved and to whom they gave their undying loyalty.

An eight-year-old Yuffie approached her sick mother's bedside.

"Oh, Yuffie," Hisa sighed, taking her small hand in hers. "The old ways are fading."

Her daughter clasped her hand in both of hers and held it beneath her chin. "...Mom?"

"The ShinRa... they don't care about our ways. They don't care about our traditions, or the things that make us who we are, the things that make us proud. You are old enough to hear this; listen to your mother, Yuffie."

Yuffie lowered her elbows to the bed and rested there, waiting patiently.

"I am going to tell you a story, my little flower. A story about how all of this... almost wasn't."

Her daughter sat back on her knees, and Hisa's arm dangled over the side of the bed while she held fast to her fingers. Yuffie listened intently.

"Back when I was a little girl," Hisa began, "there was a huge celebration. The entire Mok-Li clan was gathered in the house of Da Chao, in honor of your great-uncle Shiou's birthday. There was food and drink, and entertainment.

"Uncle Shiou loved Kabuki theatre. I remembered telling my father how beautiful the women were. I was surprised when he told me that all Kabuki performers are men."

Yuffie's eyebrows shot up. "Nuh-uh," she said, disbelieving.

Hisa laughed softly. "It's true. These full-grown men dress up in lively colors and festive masks. They look like tidy, painted dolls. The acting was so passionate. I got caught up in the performance, the rustle of fabric, the rise and fall of their voices. The subtleties drew us in, made us believe it was real."

"They were good, huh?" the little girl asked.

"The best ever," her mother said. "No one ever suspected that they were wolves in sheep's clothing."

Hisa's daughter blinked in confusion, and the woman smiled sadly.

"Many of the Kabuki players were ShinRa agents," she explained. "They held us down and blocked off the exits. Two of them were Turks. They were loud and violent, and they barked orders at the rest of the men. They killed our entire family. First the men, and then the women. In the end, the only ones left were myself, and my cousin, Ling.

"They didn't kill us, although the one wanted to. He said that the family needed to end in that room, but the other one said that he couldn't bear to kill children. The first man told him he could do without his conscience - that's the voice inside that tells you what is right and what is wrong, Yuffie - but the second man reasoned with him. He told him that we would either become slaves to the family that ShinRa put in power, or we would become part of the family. We were children, so he didn't think we were any kind of threat."

Yuffie gasped. "What happened?"

"The ShinRa put your father's family in power," Hisa told her daughter. "Ling was taken into the fields to work, and I was married to your father once I was old enough to have children. My cousin... died, sick and hungry. Not too long after, I had you.

"Your father... he knows what happened. The ShinRa is bearing down on his family now. And now that he is in the position to do something about it, we have decided to break free of them. Imagine that; by letting me go, ShinRa bought herself a war."

Hisa laughed softly, but the laughter died into a coughing fit. Yuffie rose up to kneel at her mother's side. "Mom," she whimpered.

"Yuffie," she said. "Do not forget where you came from. Be proud of who you are. When this war is over... you must remain strong. Your father sometimes needs reminding. You are not only a Kisaragi, but you are a Li. You are the very last of our clan, the oldest clan of Wutai. We are a proud people, and our traditions are very important to us. Never let that fade away."

Hisa's little girl nodded, tears flooding her eyes.

"Wutai is our mother, our child." She took Yuffie's hand in hers, kissing it, and held it to her chest. "Take care of her, and defend her with honor. She is a part of you... as I am... and will always be."

Her name meant 'long-lasting'.

»

Working for Reeve had its benefits. Travel came easy and free; besides being incredibly mobile, Yuffie was granted access to a plethora of long-secured files, top secret information from the old ShinRa company. Past employee records, military reports and mission files were no exception.

All right, so perhaps that wasn't exactly true. But Yuffie was a ninja who didn't give up so easily. After all, she'd been a thief first and foremost.

It was in a musty office room that Yuffie learned of the two Turks that had massacred her mother's family. She'd read up on their histories, their field reports, and had even found a weakness or two.

Gardenia. She'd since felt badly about the lotion, especially when he didn't go for his gun - assuming he still carried one - not even in the end. But that wasn't wrong, she told herself. No, that was resourceful; and Yuffie couldn't afford to die this far in the game, not when she had yet to face the other and the one who'd sent him. And she was so close.

She would never have thought of it, not in her wildest of dreams... or nightmares. Not until she remembered something he had once said.

"You look familiar."

It was a silly, stupid thing, hardly even worth remembering. People said that sort of thing all the time, and it applied all the more in her case. She was Godo's daughter; of course she looked familiar. Most everyone knew what she looked like, unless they'd been living under a rock (or a plate, which it turned out most of them had).

But he'd been in a coffin himself when they'd found him, completely isolated for thirty years. She hadn't given it a second thought, really. Then, one day, these thoughts unexpectedly clicked into place.

There was no way he would have known anything about her family. Unless...

And this time he was the one in the magnificent red garb and the placid mask, instead of his men. He'd gone and snuck into her life somehow, albeit unintentionally this time, and without any plans to deceive. Nevertheless, there it was, right in front of her. Neatly documented in black type. Packaged, in a little manilla folder.

Perhaps part of her anger was directed toward her father, for giving into ShinRa's demands and letting the last of their proud culture slip away. Especially after everything her mother went through, what Wutai had gone through. Tears and bloodshed, ShinRa and an older Avalanche throwing fuel on the fire.

So maybe it was a little personal. But really, when wasn't it?

They had all gotten a little personal, back then. Complete strangers, travelling the world together, risking life and limb for each other as they fought some epic battle that was to decide the fate of the entire planet and everything - everyone - on it. They grew on each other. It was hard not to, when they saw each other each and every day, sometimes packed into close quarters. But there were some things they just didn't talk about.

Like family.

It was probably because Yuffie was the only one who had any left, that no one ever really brought it up. Cloud and Tifa's stories were no secret; their families had been destroyed by something larger, too. But they didn't reminisce. Not with the group, anyway.

Family. That thought brought her back to the present.

"So, how have you been?" Tifa smiled at her from across the table, smiling rightly as she sipped her decaffeinated tea. Yuffie could only stare at her perfectly round belly as she stamped down the nauseous flutter in her own gut. She'd thought it was going to be easier than this.

Maybe if she'd done it quickly, in and out without making her presence known. Yeah, she could have done it then, right? But no. She just had to second-guess herself, had to walk in and say something to her friend. Her very pregnant friend, whom she hadn't seen in all the time she'd known about the baby. Why in the hell did she- "I'm... fine. You're looking good."

"I feel great. It's been really easy. Kind of surprising, actually."

Yuffie nodded, hearing but not really listening.

"I've never felt healthier in my life," Tifa said, clearly happy about the whole thing. "I almost don't want it to end."

The ninja blinked. "You... don't want it to end?"

"Well, of course I realize it's going to be so much better after!" she laughed. "Oh, I can't wait to meet her. I know Vincent can't, either. You know, we almost thought we couldn't have a baby."

As she watched Tifa smile and rub her swollen stomach, she realized it would never have been easy, even if she hadn't been pregnant. Tifa was her friend. Tifa was in love. Tifa... was family now. "That's... wonderful. I'm really happy for you."

She almost didn't hear him coming down the stairs.

"If we set aside five percent of everything each month, by the time she's grown-"

Yuffie's head shot up at the voice. Vincent was staring at her from his spot on the steps. He blinked - once, twice.

"Hello, Yuffie."

She hadn't thought he was home.

Even the sound of his voice set her on edge. Yuffie swallowed as Vincent walked over and sat next to Tifa, absently resting one hand on her stomach. He narrowed his eyes, smiling just barely. He was going to say something to her, but she wasn't going to let it get that far.

"I have to go."

"Already?" Tifa set down her tea when she saw Yuffie stand to leave.

"Yeah. I, uh... I forgot there was something I need to do."

Tifa frowned. "Oh. Well, let me show you out at least."

"No! Don't get up." Yuffie held her hands out in protest. "It's okay. Thanks for the tea. I'll see you again sometime."

"Okay, then."

Vincent placed a chaste kiss on Tifa's forehead and stood to walk Yuffie to the door, but she didn't wait for him. She blocked out his, "Thanks for coming to see Tifa," willfully, a voluntary tightening of unseen muscles, a fluttering in her ears. And then she was running down the sidewalk towards the bus station.

»

Yuffie sat upright in the dark, cross-legged on her bed. She listened intently to the storm outside, rain trickling down the windowpane of her hotel room, until it faded into the background as still and silent as the freezing air inside. She breathed in, then out.

In. Out.

If it had been anyone else, she knew she would be thinking about baby-shopping and decorating. She'd always thought she would be like an aunt to Tifa's children. Hell, even if it was Vincent and someone else, she would have been thinking on much different terms if she hadn't known what he did.

But he was, and she did.

And she damned the part of her that knew... if she took Vincent out, she would be doing the very same thing to Tifa's daughter that he had done to Hisa. It would be vengeance, but it wouldn't be fair. She... she hadn't done anything wrong.

...Gods, and she didn't even ask what they were going to call her.

No, she didn't want to know. Not yet... not really.

Yuffie opened her eyes, staring blankly at her own reflection in the empty television screen. She briefly wondered if Vincent had ever figured it out. If he'd known who she was, and thought better than to say anything.

For weeks she had hung about their house, simply watching. Waiting. Open windows and unlocked doors, but then, what did a man like him have to fear? This not-so-average man with his not-so-average lady by his side, running their very average business and living their very average lives. It was sometimes so hard to believe that they were even the same people she'd known before.

It was so hard to imagine that he-

Even he could...

She was surprised to find that he'd been actually living, contrary to her predictions. He cherished his time with Tifa and their unborn child, from what she could tell. She'd thought they would be miserable together, but she was wrong. And where before she hadn't understood his reclusive tendencies, she now knew why it had nearly broken Tifa to drag him out of his shell.

And she couldn't help thinking he really, really didn't deserve all he'd been given.

She'd been there on and off for weeks, and he hadn't done anything about it, but Vincent was no amateur. Not unless domesticated life had made him soft, and she doubted that; Turks had these behaviors drilled into them day in and day out. He must have known. He had to have known. Why didn't he-

It didn't really matter, in the end, did it?

»

She was back.

Vincent looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading when her shadow fell over him. She was standing behind the front door-screen, a look of resolution in her eyes. He'd known she'd been shaken by something the previous day, though he couldn't be certain what it was.

Of course, there was that. He couldn't really not think of it, couldn't remember a day since he'd realized who she was when he hadn't.

He motioned for her to come in.

Yuffie crossed the floor in long strides to stand in front of him. She held out her closed fist, and his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes questioning.

"Take it."

Vincent held out his palm, and she dropped something warm and heavy into it. He looked down.

She was almost upset with herself for the small bit of pride that welled up inside of her when his face softened in recognition, his expression suddenly sober and then all at once uneasy. "...Do you know what that is?"

His lips drew into a thin line, and he looked up into her hardened eyes. "I suppose you'll be wanting to talk."

Yuffie snorted. Maybe she should go through with it; there was that damned Turk arrogance, even in the face of what she'd done to his comrade. An ugly part of her wanted to cut him down right then and there, just to show him that he hadn't earned himself any special favor, and it was foolish of him to count on that.

But another look at him told her that maybe that wasn't it, exactly. He almost looked... resigned. Grim. He didn't want to fight her, she knew. Maybe his heart just wasn't-

"Where is Tifa?"

He folded his hands beneath his chin. "Out."

"...By herself?"

"No."

Enough of that. Yuffie sat down at the table, across from him. "You know why I'm here, then."

Vincent wet his mouth and sat back in his chair. "Yuffie, I'm sorry for what happened. I never did meet your mother or her family personally. If I-"

"Stop," she said, and held up her hand. "I don't need to hear that."

"...Then what do you want from me?"

Yuffie frowned. "You can't give anything back, now," she said. "I only came to give you the ring. And to tell you that I'm going after the other one, too."

His eyebrows shot up. "Yuffie-"

"You gave the order," she said. "I ought to stick my blade in your throat right now."

"...That would probably only endanger you," he grimaced. "If you wanted to kill me, you should have caught me by surprise."

"I'm not going to kill you." Yuffie stared hard at the table. "Gods, I want to hate you. I mean really, enough to want to kill you, not just like I already do. But I can't."

"Because of Tifa?"

"Yes. But that's not all." She took a deep and shaking breath. "I'm here because my mother lived. And your baby needs a father. It's a trade, I suppose, but there's nothing fair about it. I should spare the Turk who reasoned that she be set free, but I didn't ever find out which one of them it was. So I guess I'll just let you go, instead."

Vincent frowned. "I don't see how you came to that conclusion."

"It's not a conclusion," she said. "It's just how things are. Whichever man it was, he might be dead, or he might still be alive. Either way, he's dying in your place." She stood up to go.

"Yuffie," he said, rising level with her.

She paused.

"Maybe you should reconsider that."

Yuffie turned to look at him over her shoulder. "Tifa needs you," she said, with a small smile. "Besides," she added, walking to the door, "I may still change my mind."

He was silent after that.

"...I'll be seeing you, Vincent."

Let him count his days, she thought, as she stepped out into the street. Maybe he'd grow to appreciate them even more. Or not. Yuffie knew something about Vincent and guilt. Really, she couldn't think of a better punishment.

End

Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.