An office. Just like any other office you've ever seen. Grey walls, blue carpet, four small desks, nothing fancy. A plaque on the door shows it is office number forty-two. A window on the eastern wall overlooks a huge city, the neon lights casting reflections in the glass. There is a clock on the wall, showing that the time is 19.00. There are no ornaments or pictures on the walls, they are completely bare. In the corner is a cupboard, one of the doors slightly ajar, showing that it is crammed full of paperwork.

At the desk farthest from the door sits a man with long black hair. His eyes, set in the expressionless mask that is his face, are completely devoid of emotion. A t closer examination, one might discover a hint of sadness and hidden anger. He is bent over his work, scribbling away on a piece of paper. When he is done, he throws the paper at the desktop, to join the veritable mountain of paperwork that litters his desk. At a glance, it seems to be recites and shopping lists. A strange thing. When one looks closer, the items listed are not the kind you can get in an average grocery store. It's better not to investigate.

At the desk next to his sits a young girl with blond hair and wide, brown eyes. Her eyes are glued to the computer screen in front of her, where numbers and letters disappear and appear faster than anyone can read. Every now and then, one might be able to discern a number or two, but the girl seems able to understand it, because her finger type away on the keyboard almost as fast as the numbers appear. Her face shows only boredom. She gets up and walks over to the black-haired mans desk to get some of the recites. On her way back, she almost trips over the third person in the room.

He's slumped over his desk, with his head pillowed on his arms and his flaming red hair spilling out over the desktop. His clothing is rumpled and creased. He's asleep. Beside him on the desktop is an empty bottle of whiskey. In the thrash-can beside the desk, a few more resides. Obviously, he's drunk, but the other occupants of the room don't seem to think it is anything to comment on, or they are used to it. This man doesn't have any paperwork on his desk. Either he's already finished with it, or he never had any to begin with. The latter seems more believable, since he's spilled some of the whiskey on the desktop.

The fourth, and last, occupant of the room is standing by the window. He's tall and bald, but those are the only two things worth mentioning about him. He's got his sunglasses on, even indoors. Not that he's need them if he went outside, it's currently raining. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's staring out the window. He doesn't move, he doesn't make a sound. Shortly, if you were blind, you'd never know he was there. There is nothing remarkable about him, and the other occupants take no notice of him.

At face value, this office could be occupied by ordinary accountants, or lawyers, but that is not the case. The four people in the room could be orderly civilians, going about their everyday work, but they aren't. They aren't any of those things.

They are Shin-Ra's assassins - no, assassins isn't the right description, killers is more like it. Assassin is too romantic a word to describe them. They simply kill anyone who dares to stand in their employer's way, and does so quickly, quietly, and neatly.

Pleading for mercy will not help you. To them, mercy is a sharp blade or a quick bullet. Bribing them will not work; they are incorruptible; they've hit the rock-bottom of corruption, they can't go any further down. Not even being in Shin-Ra's employ will help you; the President has been known to kill even those who are standing on his own side, simply because they were in the way.

They are known as the Turks. Not even to most drunk are stupid enough not to be intimidated by them. The mere mention of their name is all it takes to sober anyone up. You would be wise to fear them.

A word of advice; don't run. Running will only give you time to regret your decision. They will find you.

It is their job, after all.