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         "This way, Mr. and Mrs. Strife," the red uniformed Dyson trooper directed them calmly, beckoning with one hand for them to follow him down the narrow metal hall to one of the many conference chambers in the center of the massive complex of buildings owned by Dyson Corporation, known collectively as 'The Hive'. The name fit.

         Once, there had been only Wutai, a rapidly shrinking, isolated town on its last legs. After losing a war with Shinra Corporation so long ago that scarcely anyone remembered, the once thriving town had fallen on hard times. And then, just when it had looked as though all hope for Wutai to regain the prosperity it had once held had left, a mysterious, wealthy businessman had appeared on the scene, and, through an equally mysterious set of circumstances of which no one was really completely sure, had somehow managed to acquire the entire town from its Mayor, Lord Godo. And so Reginald Dyson had entered the corporate scene.

         From that point on, Wutai had only grown. Using his own vast amounts of personal wealth, Dyson had revitalized the flagging areas of Wutai's economy, and had begun churning out items from his newly constructed factories that had, literally, surprised the hell out of everyone on the planet. Dyson Corporation had become the one and only producer of materia still in existence.

         How Dyson was producing it at so vast a rate was a mystery. After Shinra had been cut off from its Mako resources, new materia had all but ceased to enter production--the only new materia that could be found was the naturally formed variety, which had to be dug out of thickly hewn caves in expensive mining operations that sucked up far more money than the materia that they yielded could produce. Without access to Mako energy, which the Planet had seemed to consciously cut off from just about everyone after the Sephiroth affair, Shinra was in no position to do anything about its newly formed rival.

         They had, of course, immediately cried foul, claiming that Dyson Corporation was once again engaging in forbidden operations, sucking the life energy from the Planet just as Shinra had been doing in the heyday of its glory, before Sephiroth, AVALANCHE and Meteor had brought their empire crashing down. There had been an investigation. Cloud had been the head of this investigation, appointed by Reeve to look into the matter. What Cloud and his people had found, of course, had seemed just as impossible to believe as the sudden appearance of the fledgling Dyson Corporation as a significant rival to the much older Shinra.

         Apparently, there was a vast store of materia underneath the ground of the island on which Wutai stood, a network of massive caves literally filled to the brim with almost pure materia, the best raw material that any manufacturer could hope to fine. Upon hearing of this discovery, Mayor Godo had almost committed seppeku, so ashamed at having sold his town off for a price that was barely a fiftieth of what the materia store below it was worth that he could not bear to live with himself.

         Yuffie and Cloud had managed to stop him at the last second, and had somehow talked him out of suicide, but after the results of the Dyson investigation Mayor Godo had become a broken man. He had retired to his pagoda in the center of what had originally been Wutai and proclaimed that he would never emerge again. And so, for more than ten years now, Dyson Corporation had been growing by leaps and bounds, and the once proud Mayor Godo had remained true to his word.

         Like its namesake, The Hive stretched out around the city of Wutai for miles in all directions, reaching all the way to the eastern and western coasts. Its size rivaled that of the once great Midgar, and its continued expansion was only limited by the fact that Dyson had run out of land to build upon.

         So it was land that Dyson was seeking now. Land for factories and strip mines. Land which Cloud knew that he had to acquire from Dyson Corp, somehow. If he did not, Nibleheim would be destroyed again.

         The Dyson trooper stopped before a set of oaken double-doors, shouldered his rifle, and pulled one of the obviously heavy doors open with a barely audible grunt.

         "You may enter," he said, somewhat less courteously than Cloud thought was appropriate, but then again, they were coming here to see Dyson Corp, not the other way around.

         Cloud nodded at the man and stepped through the doorway, Tifa right at his side. Unbidden, he found himself thinking of Devin and Aeris. By now, she and Red were probably staking out the SOLDIER offices in New Midgar, waiting for Cloud's missing son to show up. Cid was surely engaged in heated strategy sessions and debates with the Shinra Corporate Council, as they decided what they were going to do in response to Dyson's 'supposedly' unprovoked attack of the previous day. Barret most likely had his hands full in North Corel keeping his miners in line, and Vincent-- well, Vincent had disappeared, as was typical for him.

         Don't think of them now. Concentrate on the meeting.

         "Greetings, Mayor and Lady Strife," one of the trio of executives who sat at the end of a long table across from them said loudly as they walked in. He motioned to a pair of empty chairs that had been pulled back from the table immediately in front of them. "If you would please be seated."

         Cloud did as asked, Tifa less than a step behind him. Calmly, he rested his arms on the table and clasped his hands together, one over the other, settling himself into a comfortable and dignified position which he hoped he would be able to retain for the extent of the surely arduous meeting. He didn't glance in Tifa's direction, keeping his eyes focused on the executives ahead, but he knew that she had surely done much the same thing.

         "How was your trip in, Mayor Strife?" the unknown executive asked pleasantly. "What did you think of our newest Airship?"

         Cloud inwardly grimaced. So the executive wanted to make small talk. Small talk, when his son was in New Midgar trying to sign up to get himself killed! He forced himself to stay calm. This was Dyson's show, for now, and this game was being played by their rules. Already the exec was showing him that, repeatedly addressing Cloud by his name while denying him knowledge of his own. A small point, of course, but the intricacies of negotiation often began with tiny victories. After his first several of years of governing Nibleheim, Cloud had learned this very quickly.

         "It was a pleasant ride," he responded agreeably, hoping that the response was positive enough to satiate the unknown Dyson exec. The ship which had brought them in, the Repulsor, was no Highwind III--but, nonetheless, it did have it's merits. Dyson's airship technology was still at least five years behind that of Shinra, but the newer Corp had caught on to the basics much too quickly for Shinra's taste, and although their ships couldn't go wing-to-wing with a Shinra Airship on their own, the cheaper and smaller Dyson airships were easier to produce and, in sufficient numbers, could bring down even a mighty Shinra vessel. As had happened with the Valiant yesterday evening.

         Don't bring that up, Cloud reminded himself sternly. It's not the issue. Nibleheim is the issue. Stay focused.

         "So how does it compare with the Shinra Airships in which you are surely more used to traveling?" The face of the Dyson exec was pleasantly serene. "Better or worse?"

         Cloud thought for a second before replying. The Dyson exec was testing him, trying to see how much of a backbone he had, get a feel for how he would behave in the later, actual negotiations. He quickly made a decision. If he lied in Dyson's favor the exec would label him as spineless, which could come in favor later if he wanted the element of surprise. Of course, such a sudden turnabout could also backfire, making a simple challenge seem unreasonable when compared to his previous, more conciliatory behavior. On the other hand, if he was too openly critical of Dyson Corp, the exec would surely sour to him and become harder and harder to negotiate with. No, best to go with a happy medium in this case.

         "It's not as advanced as the Shinra flagship, as I'm sure you'll admit," Cloud answered cautiously, keeping his face carefully neutral. "But it is light years ahead of what I'd expect, given the time you've had to work on it. Assuming you continue to move ahead at the rate you've been going, in five years you'll be the ones ahead in technology."

         Good, Cloud. An honest answer with a bit of distracting positive future predictions tossed in to ease the pain. That should do it.

         "Agreed," the exec answered with a sudden smile. It seemed Cloud's answer had satisfied him. "We're still relatively new, as you know, but we're learning. There comes a time when the older leaves fall from the tree, used up. Even if the older leaves have been there the entire winter, they must eventually make way for the new, stronger leaves, which are needed to replace them. If the old leaves refuse to fall away, the tree dies, and so the whole suffers.""

         Whatever, Cloud thought distractedly, silently amazed at the unknown executive's capacity for mindless chatter. Just as long as you aren't growing your new leaves anywhere near my town, I'll be just as happy without them.

         "We here at Dyson Corp are in the business of brushing away the old leaves to make way for the new." The executive pressed one hand flat on the table for emphasis. "Which brings us to the matter which has brought you here today."

         That quickly? That is unprecedented. I thought we still had an hour of mindless chatter and opening negotiations to fence over. Cloud's heart quickened momentarily. If this whole fiasco ends quickly, maybe we can still get to New Midgar to get Devin...

         "Right," he agreed. Best to get straight to the point himself. "So I'll make this simple, gentleman. How much do you want?"

         The executive blinked politely. "Excuse me, Mayor?"

         "How much do you want?" Cloud asked again, unruffled by his feigned confusion. "I came here to buy the land on which Nibleheim now stands. As you know, I am a very wealthy man, even wealthier than your founding father, Reginald Dyson. You've recently informed me that you want to build a strip mine in the middle of Nibleheim. That is unacceptable. So, I assume we can come to an agreement. How much do you want for the land?"

         The executive turned to the man at his side, who leaned over and whispered in his ear. Cloud paused, annoyed, and risked a quick glance over at Tifa. She shrugged in confusion, showing that she knew just as much about what was going on as he did.

         The executive harumphed and straightened his tie, a gesture which Cloud was not sure signified nervousness or simple preparation.

         "I must apologize, Mayor Strife," he said politely. "First of all, let me introduce myself. I am Gerrett Faulk, Director of Operations at The Hive. I am what could be termed Mr. Dyson's 'right-hand man', if you wish to use such a dated metaphor. Metaphors are fine for philosophical discussion, Mayor Strife, but fall far short in matters of business."

         Cloud continued to stare at him calmly, saying nothing. This guy could probably talk all day and not say one thing that's even the slightest bit useful.

         "I fear that the executive with which you spoke in Nibleheim was not completely honest with you regarding our interest in your fair city." Faulk's tone remained politely apologetic. "As you know, when a Corporation gets as big as we are sometimes our departments fail to communicate. The executive who visited you was told to arrange a meeting with you in whatever way possible, but it appears that he may have been--what is the word--unscrupulous? Yes, that's it. Unscrupulous in his methods."

         Cloud continued to stare at Faulk without moving, his icy-blue eyes slowly turning cold.

         What did he just say? If these Dyson executives dragged me out here on some bureaucratic mistake...while my son is halfway across the world getting himself into the worst trouble he possibly can...

         "Apparently, the executive with which you spoke informed you that we wanted to build a strip mine in New Nibleheim," Faulk explained. "Granted, I am sure this--er--calling it a lie is too extreme, but, certainly, it could be called an exaggeration..."

         At that, Tifa leapt to her feet, and Cloud belatedly glanced at her.

         "What are you saying?" Her brown eyes flashed dangerously. "Are you saying that you dragged us out here at seven in the morning as some sort--some sort of sick practical JOKE?"

         Faulk did not seem to be at all perturbed by Tifa's outburst. "Of course not, Mrs. Strife. Please, sit. Once again, I apologize for our executive's unscrupulous methods in arranging this meeting. He will be given a stern talking too, I assure you. But the matter that we wish to discuss with you is far more urgent."

         "And that is?" Despite her annoyance, Tifa grudgingly returned to her seat.

         "A strong woman, your wife," Faulk commented agreeably to Cloud, who was still staring at him stoically. "Charming, as well, if a bit impulsive..."

         "Get to the point, Faulk," Cloud snapped, tired of feigning diplomacy. His son was out there in New Midgar, right now, heading for a SOLDIER recruiting office and trying to sign up to get himself killed...

         "Of course," Faulk agreed, again apologetic.

         Does this man ever stop apologizing? Cloud thought irritably.

         "As you know, tensions between ourselves and our only main rival, the old and decadent Shinra Corporation, have been building by quite a good degree in the past several months. Shinra, like an old, starving dog, if you will allow me to meander into metaphors again, Mayor Strife, is getting more and more desperate as conditions worsen, clawing at any scraps which come within reach. When an animal descends to such a condition as Shinra is in now, a wretched state, by anyone's standards, it is widely agreed that it is kinder to euthanize the animal than to let it continue to suffer. Such is the case with the Shinra Corporation. They are starving, and quickly growing rabid. Their recent unprovoked attacks on several of our peace-keeping Airships and factories are direct evidence of that decay. So, just as with the metaphorical animal, Mayor Strife, they need to be--how best to put this?--put to sleep."

         "What are you saying?" Cloud asked in disbelief. "Are you saying that you want to try and topple Shinra Corp?"

         "Topple, Mayor Strife?" Faulk's eyebrows rose in surprise, and he quickly shook his head in a negative. "Nothing so vague. No, Mayor Strife. We do not wish to topple Shinra Corporation. Doing so would be the equivalent of kicking the starving dog several times, and then leaving it to continue to beg for scraps. No, Mayor Strife, what we want to do is a complete euthanization. We want to be humane, Mayor Strife. Quite simply, what we plan to do is wipe Shinra Corporation and all of its members from the face of the Planet."

         Cloud's eyes widened in disbelief, and he felt Tifa tense beside him, warningly. His mouth suddenly dry, unable to believe his ears, he somehow managed to organize a reply.

         "And just how do you plan to 'erase' Shinra from existence, Mr. Faulk?" He shook his head once as he continued his attempts to reconcile all of what Faulk had just said with the words that would have been uttered by a SANE executive. "In case you haven't noticed, New Midgar isn't exactly an undefended country hamlet."

         Faulk beamed, and Cloud found the smile more like that of a slothful, well-oiled snake than the smile of a well-meaning business executive.

         "Of course, that is precisely the reason we have called you here, Mr. Strife!" He was still grinning from ear to ear. "Shinra is quite large, true, but they operate on a rather small command structure. No more than twelve people head up the entire corporation, if I remember my facts correctly, and of those, only Mr. Reeve and Mr. Highwind are the true forces behind the rest, who operate largely as the cogs between the batteries and the machinery."

         Where does he come up with all of those blasted metaphors?

         "You see, all that needs to be done to disorganize Shinra is to take out the command structure," Faulk continued eagerly, talking like a child citing every possible advantage he could come up with for buying him a new toy for Christmas. He silently tapped two fingers from his left hand on the upturned palm of his right in time with his words. "Just as before, when the mighty Sephiroth crippled Shinra by destroying it's President, we will do the same. If Mr. Reeve and Mr. Highwind are taken out of the picture, then the rest will fall into disarray, and will be remarkably easy to remove." The fingers ceased their tapping and both hands sunk smoothly flat against the table.

         "What are you saying?" This time, it was Cloud who rose to his feet. "Are you saying that you want to assassinate Reeve and Cid Highwind?"

         "Unfortunately, Reeve has left us little choice in the matter." Faulk's grin fading ever so slightly. "He has repeatedly refused every offer we have given him, no matter how grand, to purchase all of Shinra's stock and possessions, despite the fact that we offered to buy him his own island on which he could retire into a life of pure luxury. He has also refused to cease his unprovoked attacks on our ships and resources, and such bitter squabbles cannot be tolerated. He has proven unreasonable at every turn, and though we have accorded him every courtesy he has simply refused to give up his decaying corporation." Faulk's eyes turned chillingly cold momentarily, a change that was so completely opposite of his previous expression that Cloud could scarcely believe he was seeing it. "Mr. Reeve has left us no other choice. He must be eliminated."

         Then his eyes lightened and his smile returned. "Mr. Highwind, however, is an entirely different matter. Unlike Reeve, we are sure that he will prove most amenable to our requests for him to step down as Admiral of Shinra's fleet, and surrender their resources to us."

         "And why in the hell would Cid do that?" Tifa asked angrily, on her feet now as well. Her chair was gone, pushed far to the side as if she was loath to be anywhere near it.

         Faulk blinked in surprise at her outburst. "Why, the answer is mere child's play, Mrs. Strife, in more than one manner of speaking. We will soon have his son."

         At that, the hairs on the back of Cloud's neck bristled, and he felt anger the like of which he had not felt in a long time begin to burn inside him.

         His son...his child...you cowards. You craven, half-assed cowards!

         The sound of the doors behind them caught his attention as they opened. He spun around quickly, reflexively reaching back for the Ultima Weapon, which he then realized had been left in the Repulsor. He hadn't thought that he would need to take such a powerful weapon to a mere business meeting. It appeared that he had thought wrong.

         In precise march-step, twenty Dyson troopers double-timed their way into the room, filing out on either side of the doors until they stood in lines of ten on either side. The leaders of each side saluted Faulk sharply, and he returned the gesture with a smile and a nod.

         "And, Mayor Strife, I am sure that you will agree that the last part of our plan is by far the most creative," Faulk declared cheerily from behind the long desk which separated him from the two people he was addressing. "Even if Reeve learns of our attempt to unseat him, he will do nothing against us, certainly not strike at The Hive directly. For, you see Mayor Strife, even though Reeve has no children, the one thing he does prize above all else is friendship. Even though you have had your--er--should I say differences?--in the past, your relations for the past twenty years have been more than amicable. That is why we called you here today, Mayor and Lady Strife. You are to be our guests at The Hive until such time as the Shinra threat is eliminated. We will, of course, inform President Reeve that we have you in our safe- keeping, to prevent him from doing anything rash."

         His voice turned momentarily cold again, and Cloud suppressed a shudder. The man was insane. Simply insane.

         "If Reeve should remain disagreeable after that, well, I'm sure you'll understand," he said with another snake-oil smile. "It may be necessary to have one of you euthanized, as well."

         "You vicious son of a bitch!" Tifa bit out angrily, rounding on him and leaping up onto the table before Cloud grabbed her and pulled her back down.

         "What the hell are you doing, Cloud?" Tifa cried angrily, struggling against him.

         "Tifa," he said calmly, trying to get through to her, trying his best to suppress his own mounting rage. "Tifa, don't. Look."

         As one, all eighteen Dyson troopers had brought their rifles up and into a ready position in time with his wife's rash maneuver. Their commanders were both posed silently, arms up like waiting guillotines. Guillotines that, when dropped, would signal the men under their command to open fire on the two unarmed founders of Nibleheim.

         "As I said, impetuous, but she can be reasoned with." Faulk had not even stirred from his seat during Tifa's aborted attempt to throttle him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mayor Strife, I have business to attend to. My men will escort you and your charming wife to the spacious accommodations which we have arranged for you to occupy during your stay with us. I assure you, we will do our best to see that your stay is as brief as possible. Have a nice day."

         Cloud stared at the man with an almost feral intensity, his eyes a mixture of newborn hatred, amazement and anger. The anger was at himself, for being so stupid. Twenty years of domesticity, twenty years of not having to watch his back. It had dulled his instincts. He would never have walked into a Shinra meeting unarmed and unguarded, not even after Reeve had taken command, not in the days of AVALANCHE, the days of the Cloud Strife who had slain the mighty Sephiroth.

         Somehow, after surviving a brutal confrontation with Sephiroth in the depths of the original Nibleheim reactor, surviving the near total disintegration of his memory by Hojo and Shinra Corporation, surviving a desperate battle to save the Planet that had been fought against odds and a rival who was anything but unforgiving, and surviving the mind control and hateful vengeance of Messiah that had followed the death of that rival, the Cloud Strife of old had begun to consider himself immortal, untouchable. Such an attitude had been sure to get him in trouble, eventually. It had only been a matter of time.

         Reeve, he thought, sadly. Forgive me for being so stupid.

         Devin Strife awoke when the first rays of the bright desert sun hit his eyelids, coming awake quickly and just as quickly wished that he had stayed asleep.

         His muscles were cramped and sore from their drenching and exertions yesterday night, complicated by the fact that he had slept in a closed doorway just inside one of the alleys off the main street, huddled in the black cloak, the only item he had managed to take from the thief who had stolen his money, wrapped around him as a makeshift blanket.

         Worse, he felt as if someone were banging a very large hammer against his forehead and temples, banging it VERY hard. He idly reached up to his brow, grimacing as it came away with a few flecks of clotted blood. Nothing wet, though--the wound had clotted overnight, it appeared. He had not thought it serious, as he'd taken far worse scrapes in the past, but still, a boot to the head was not something that one could just shrug off with the advent of the new day.

         He slowly got to his feet, suppressing an anguished groan at his sore body and the pounding in his head. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind as best he could, remembering why he had come here, why he had endured all of this.

         Today is the day I join SOLDIER.

         He half walked, half limped forward until he reached a darkened window sufficient to provide him with a makeshift mirror, and peered into it cautiously.

         His heart sank. It was a wretched looking, dirty young man of seventeen who stared back at him, his face splotched with dirt, along with his short brown hair, which also sported a nasty mess of clotted blood. Dried blood covered his upper lip, as well, and he realized belatedly that he hadn't even noticed that his nose was bleeding the previous night. Payback for all the time he had given the boys of Nibleheim bloody noses, evidently. Covered in slick rain, it had been cursedly hard to tell what was water and what was blood.

         His gray shirt was soiled, but the riding pants had come out relatively unscathed, although they had picked up a trace of trash odor from the other material in the alley in which Devin had slept.

         I can't walk into the recruiting office like this, he thought in dismay. Why, they'd laugh me right out to the curb.

         He had planned, of course, to use his hard-earned gil to buy himself a nice new pair of clothes to wear to the SOLDIER office on the day of his recruiting, get a haircut and treat himself to a solid breakfast that would give him more than enough energy to pass any physical examinations the recruiters might put him through. But that crazy girl with the wild green eyes and long brown hair had ended all of those plans. Remembering the way she had looked at him the previous night, raising his money pouch high and grinning, he shook his head in disgust. Girl or not, if he ever ran into her again, he was not going to pull any punches.

         Thinking of a comfortable inn and a warm breakfast made him realize just how sore and hungry he really was. Without warning, a sudden, maddening burst of anger surged through him as his mind replayed the rapidly worsening events of the previous night over again in a rush, and with an angry cry he smashed his hand into the brick wall of the building, hitting hard enough to bloody his knuckles. He concentrated on the pain, savoring it, refusing to be beaten. The wall had hurt him, but it would never beat him. Grimacing against the pain reverberating down his arm, he hit the wall again, and again, until finally his knuckles cracked in protest.

         Satisfied, his rage momentarily subdued, he let the wall live to see another day and flexed his hand experimentally, seeing if he had broken anything. It hurt bad enough to lessen the pain in his head, and he was glad for that. But nothing seemed broken. Good. Chances were he would be punching more than walls today.

         He turned away from the wall and stalked into the street like a man possessed. It was considerably more crowded in the early morning, but the people he passed gave him a wide berth, with good reason. From his bedraggled appearance and the unfocused anger burning in his light-blue eyes, it was immediately apparent to everyone he passed that it would be wise for them to stay out of his way.

         He tried not to look at two New Midgar policeman as he passed them, sitting outside a small breakfast shop ahead and to his left. He could sense their eyes on him, watching, evaluating, and he kept his face a calm mask, knowing that they would come over and interrogate him at even a hint of nervousness. Without an ID, he had no way to prove that he was in New Midgar legally, and that spelled trouble with a capital T. Even though it would take less than an hour to verify his identity once they brought him to the police station, they would of course notify his parents that he had been mugged, and then any chance of joining SOLDIER would be out of his hands for good. He couldn't let that happen. So he feigned indifference as he walked past them, staring ahead coldly, and thanked his lucky stars when they deigned not to follow him.

         At the SOLDIER office, it would be different. Once he arrived, he would explain that he had been mugged and had lost his ID. The SOLDIER officers would surely be more discrete than the normal police, anxious for new recruits, and so they would take the time to verify his ID, and once that happened, he was as good as signed up. And his life would finally be out of his parent's hands and firmly in his own.

         But what to do about his appearance and clothes? He sighed, glancing around. As he did so, he noticed a deep puddle of relatively clean water to his left, captured in the previous night's fearsome storm.

         A trace of a shower is better than none, he decided grimly, and he walked over to the puddle and knelt down, reaching his hands into the chilling water and splashing it onto his face. The sensation of the cold water on his bare skin was painful, but invigorating, and he continued to splash himself, hoping to get most of the smudges of dirt off. Absent-mindedly stroking the tiny chunks of clotted blood in his hair, he tried to ascertain the full radius of the wound he had received from his mugger's boot.

         Satisfied that it was small and thoroughly clotted, he splashed some more water into his hair, slicking it back against his forehead and pushing what he could of the blood clots and dirt out. He continued until his hair was thoroughly soaked, and yet it still refused to surrender completely, spiking near the top of his head and in the back. The Strife family hair, at least on his father's side, had always been ridiculously spiky, and it behaved the same as it always had today.

         Once he had gotten himself mildly cleaned up, ignoring the various glances of passerbys at the strange man washing himself in a puddle, he found a nearby plate of glass and took another look at himself.

         Considerably better, he thought in satisfaction. No dirt on my face, not that I can see in that dark glass, anyways, and I don't look like I've got a gaping head wound anymore. Not bad for a puddle.

         He was at a loss as to what to do with his clothes, but decided that he might as well leave them as is. Getting drenched and mugged was a good enough excuse to deflect any possible complications that might result from his less than stellar attire.

         His stomach growled loudly and angrily, demanding food. He had none to give it. He would just have to go to the SOLDIER office on an empty stomach. Surely, they would find something to feed him.

         So that was it, then. It was finally time. Finally, after two years, he was minutes from joining up.

         He walked back out into the street, stopping the next man who walked by, a conservative looking fellow dressed in a suit and tie, who stared at him warily, as if expecting Devin to beat him up at the drop of a hat.

         "Where's the SOLDIER recruiting office from here?" Devin asked, eyes flashing.

         The man stared at him silently for a moment, as if trying to think of some excuse to be on his way, but he apparently could not come up with any good enough to say no to Devin's intense stare.

         "Head up here two blocks and take a left on Bolt. Follow that down three blocks till you hit Sector 1 Main, and then take a right and follow that. That'll get you straight there. You can't miss it."

         "Thanks, old man." Devin grinned disarmingly. The man's wary expression did not change, but a bit of relief came to his eyes as he recognized Devin's words as a dismissal, and he hurried on past without even a word of goodbye.

         Devin began to head up the street, following the man's instructions to the letter, hoping that he hadn't merely lied to get away. But, true to his word, Bolt Street appeared three blocks down, and he turned onto it, heading eagerly for what he had been told was Sector One Main. He was in Sector Twelve, now, as he hadn't wandered too far from the site of his mugging the previous night, so the proximity of Sector One made sense.

         He recognized the street before he was close enough to read the sign. A massive, crowded road big enough for six Shinra automobiles to drive abreast, it was filled with people coming and going to wherever the morning was taking them. Devin glanced down at the black cloak under his arm and briefly considered putting it on, but decided against it. For now, he would carry it. Until he reached the SOLDIER office, where he would trash the wretched thing.

         He merged into the crowd with little effort, and the throng took little notice off him, everyone intent with their own affairs and showing little interest in poking into the affairs of others. Just the way Devin liked it.

         He was not able to choose his own pace, forced into the slower march of the crowd, but he kept his eyes open, searching the sides of the street for the SOLDIER recruiting station over the milling shoulders and heads around him. He was minutes away, now, maybe less. The excitement that was building inside him was growing hard to contain.

         He nearly missed the office as the crowd swept past the building, but caught the writing on the large red placard above the office at the last moment, crushed in between the signs for a weapon shop and a bakery.

         Odd combination. He began to push his way over, ignoring a few cries of angry protest, and with one final rush was finally free of the crowd, and on the steps of the SOLDIER recruiting office, its doors wide open in an invitation to all.

         He'd waited two years for this moment. He had expected that when he'd found himself standing on these steps he'd have time to savor his victory, breath in the air of the new life that was waiting for him once he walked inside. He had fantasized about this moment more times than he could count. Boldly, proudly, he had stalked up the steps of the SOLDIER recruiting office, which he had seen only once before on a visit to New Midgar with Cid and his mother when he was ten, and slammed his ID card down on the desk. He'd stared the recruiter straight in the eye, and confidently, calmly, informed him, "I'm here to join up."

         The fantasy had replayed itself many times and with many different variations, but none of those had been anywhere near the reality of what now stood before him. The SOLDIER office was just as he envisioned it. The open doors were just as he had envisioned them. The waiting desk was just as he had envisioned it. There was only one thing that was out of place from his repeated fantasies, but that one thing threatened to crush them all for good.

         Standing with hands on hips between Devin and the open doors, tapping her foot impatiently, Aeris Caitlin Strife was staring directly at him with a mixture of shock and concern easily readable on her tender features.

         "Devin!" she called out, starting down the steps. That cinched it. Without a sound he melted back into the crowd behind him, letting himself be swept away in their mass. He heard Aeris cry his name again and saw her dive into the crowd after him, and he rushed away as fast as he could move, heedless of the angry people whom he was knocking aside in his haste to escape.

         I can't let her catch me. I can't let her ruin it!

         He glanced down furtively at the black cloak, and without another thought slipped it on, grateful to see that it was large enough to cover his shirt and most of his pants. He pulled the hood up over his head and, when the opportunity presented itself, ducked out of the crowd into a nearby alley. Then he threw himself to the ground, put his back to a wall, and curled up into a half ball just like the homeless drunks he had seen the previous night.

         He couldn't risk looking out into the crowd without giving Aeris a chance to recognize him, so he remained motionless in the alley, his heart pounding. Seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. He let himself begin to breath easier. He'd lost her. He still had a chance to live out his dream.

         Or did he, he reflected angrily. Aeris was no dummy. As soon as she'd lost sight of him, she'd probably doubled back to the SOLDIER office, just in case he tried to backtrack. She would be waiting there for him to show his face again, and he knew with grim certainty that she would wait in front of that door until doomsday, if that's what it took to stop him. His sister was nothing if not efficient.

         Dammit, Mom and Dad, why can't you just let me live my goddamn life?!

         A rough hand tore at the collar of his cloak, and he barely had time to process what was happening before he was unceremoniously dragged to his feet and thrown against a nearby wall, deeper into the alley. Reacting on instinct, he tried to cushion the collision as best he could and rebounded, taking a swing at his unknown assailant. Nothing landed, as the man stepped backward and out of the range of his swing.

         "That's him!" a voice cried.

         Angrily, he wrenched back the hood of the black cloak and found himself face to face with one of the meanest looking men he had ever seen. At least a foot taller than himself, with a build that rivaled Barret's, a green tattoo started below his left eye and stretched back over the glistening dome of his bare head. His ears were pierced in just about every place imaginable, and a gold bar was stuck through the center of his nose. Two other men, obviously his flunkies, stood at his sides, but there was no doubt in Devin's mind who the leader was. Why had they attacked him?

         "That's him, Bull," the man on the left said accusingly, urgently. He was a smaller man with a nervous twitch in his cheek and wild, uncombed brown hair. "That's the thief that took your money!"

         Belatedly, Devin realized what had happened.

         "Woah, man, hold on," he began, as he began to take the cloak off and throw it to the ground.

         Bull didn't give him a chance. He rushed forward and threw one of his huge, meaty fists into a screaming arc at Devin's head.

         So my little robber is well known in these parts, is she? Well, if that's the way you want to play it...

         Devin ducked the clumsy blow and finished shrugging off the black cloak, giving the man a sharp jab to put him off-balance and dancing back further into the alley.

         You've got one more chance, big guy.

         "Hold it!" he yelled again. "I'm not your thief. That's her cloak, but I got it..."

         Bull yelled again and charged him as mindlessly as his namesake.

         So much for diplomacy.

         Another clumsy blow was directed at him, this time headed for his gut, and he spun to the side and cracked a left-hook straight into the thug's nose. The blow staggered the man, and he stumbled back with an inarticulate cry of pain, clutching at his broken nose.

         His eyes seemed to glow with an almost feral rage as his hand slowly came away from his nose, which was gushing with blood, and Devin winced despite himself when he saw that the blow had literally torn the man's nose bar out through his left nostril.

         Well, that's what you get for sporting jewelry in a fist fight...

         The thug took one more look at the nose bar clutched in his hand, and then his eyes turned to Devin. Wordlessly, he let the bar drop and reached into a pocket in the side of his pants. With a practiced flick, he pulled out a wicked switchblade, nearly eight inches long, and brought it up before his eyes slowly, continuing to stare at Devin like some sort of enraged animal. Then he suddenly grinned, and stuck out a calloused red tongue, which he ran across the sharp edge of the blade with an almost tender zeal.

         Oh great, not only is he big and mad, he's psychotic as well. This day is going even better than the last one.

         Devin reached down for his own belt knife, a full inch shorter than the one wielded by the tattooed man, and drew it without hesitation. This was a matter of pure self-defense. He only hoped he could somehow knock the man out without killing him, and avoid getting slashed in the process. That blade looked truly wicked.

         Devin looked past the tattooed Bull to see a throng of people gathered at the end of the alley, watching the rapidly escalating fight in detached interest, but not lifting a finger to help him. He heard someone shouting for the police, but he couldn't depend on them to arrive before the tip of Bull's knife did.

         "I'm not your thief, man!" he cried angrily, holding his own knife ready as he stared angrily at his attacker. "She mugged me too! I got her cloak, but she got my money. I didn't steal your goddamn money!"

         Bull shook his head slowly, and spoke for the first time since he had pulled Devin off the street. His voice was low and a deep baritone, practically a growl.

         "Don't matter what you did before now, kid. You're gonna' die now. And it ain't gonna' be pretty."

         Then, before Devin could respond, he lunged forward with the knife.

         Devin reacted as fast as he could. With a practiced flick of his wrist he brought his own blade up to deflect the lunge of his adversary, but the man moved with the counter and brought his knife hand around and into a wicked sweep before Devin could get a blow in against him. He jumped back to try and avoid the blow, but felt the tip of the knife slice through his thin shirt and tear into the left side of his chest.

         He cursed soundly. Just a nick, but he'd been lucky. This man might be a sorry fist fighter, but when it came to knife- fighting, he was obviously far more experienced than Devin could ever be.

         He's killed before. He'll kill again. He's got size, reach and experience on me. Only one thing to do in this situation.

         So he did it. Forcing Bull back with a quick feint of his belt knife, he spun around, breaking into a fast run that took him away from the enraged man as fast as his sore legs could carry him, jamming his knife into its sheath to free his hands.

         He knew the other was after him without looking back. He refused to glance back and check on the other's progress, concentrating instead on the trash strewn alley ahead. A trip and spill now would be the end of him. He leapt over a discarding packing crate, and grabbed a battered trash can as he flew past, throwing it to the ground behind him.

         A loud crash and a screamed curse told him his improvised obstruction had, at the very least, slowed his pursuer. He passed another can and gave it the same treatment, but Bull evidently learned from experience, and no crash and curse greeted the arrival of the second can.

         Devin's heart was pounding as fast as his head, and his breath was burning in his lungs as he rushed forward. Only a block ahead the alley ended in a thick brick wall at least twelve feet tall, a wall that Bull was surely anticipating as the end to Devin's quick flight. He heard the footsteps of his pursuer begin to slow, knowing that his prey would soon have nowhere else to run.

         You keep thinking that. He continued full tilt for the wall, as if he intended to smash through it by sheer will alone. As he came within meters of the forbidding mass of stone, he prayed that his sore muscles would be up to the task, and jumped into a running leap as high as his legs could take him.

         Not high enough, and he knew it. But he wasn't attempted to jump over the wall ahead, not in one leap, at least. Instead, his legs flew into the ragged brick wall to his left, smashing into it almost three feet above the ground and finding grip there just long enough for him to throw himself off of the wall, and gain a few more feet of air.

         This is gonna hurt!

         The impact of smashing full force into the brick wall was a considerable shock, to say the least. Somehow, he managed to keep his hands from relinquishing their recently acquired grip on its top, which he'd only barely managed to grasp despite the skilled bounce he'd executed to reach it. Fortunately, he had managed to jump and ricochet just high enough.

         He heard an inarticulate shriek of rage from behind him, and he quickly shook off the dots clouding his vision, pulling himself up by using every last bit of strength in his body. And then, with a cry of triumph, one leg was over the wall, and a second after that he was standing on top of it.

         Bull stumbled to a stop below him, glowering up at him in anger and disbelief from nearly five feet below. He might be tall, but he wasn't tall enough.

         "You'll need to get that fixed," Devin taunted, tapping his nose with his index finger, to show Bull just what part of his anatomy he was referring to.

         Bull stared up at him in uncompromising hatred. "This ain't over, you little wretch," he snarled. "Nobody punches out Bull Jennings and lives to see another day."

         Devin would have replied if pure survival instinct had not saved him. Seeing a twitch in the muscles of Bull's neck, he threw himself back off the wall an instant ahead of Bull's hurtling switchblade, which the other had darted at him with inhuman speed and accuracy.

         He landed on the hard concrete ground on the other side of the wall and crashed to one knee, scraping it badly, and spun away to dodge Bull's switchblade, as it smashed against the wall above and then clattered to the concrete.

         For a second, he stared in numb shock at the weapon that had almost ended his life. For the first time, he'd felt Death's icy hands on his shoulders. And he hadn't liked their touch.

         "This ain't over, kid!" Bull shouted from the other side of the wall. "I'm gonna' get you! And when I get you, I'm gonna' gut you, kid, end to end! I'm gonna' start with your face, then I'm gonna do your chest, then I'm gonna' do your legs, then I'm gonna'..."

         "You're not gonna' do crap without your knife!" Devin shouted back over the wall, shaking off his narrow escape from Death. "It's a good blade! Here, you want it back?"

         The shock of Bull's fatal attack faded into bright red rage. Devin tore the switchblade from its place on the ground, and with one practiced swipe smashed it slantwise against the brick wall. It hit at just the right angle and with just the right amount of force to snap the blade in two. Cheap metal, this.

         He gave the knife another whack, shattering its famous grip into its two respective pieces, and then tossed the whole ensemble back over the wall, to where Bull was surely waiting, fuming over his escape.

         "You little shit!" he shouted angrily as the bits of the knife landed. "I'm not just gonna' gut you! I'm gonna' torch you! I'm gonna' burn you up! I'm gonna'..."

         Devin shook his head in disgust and headed out of the alley, content to let Bull shout threats across the wall all day, if he wished.

         Where the hell am I? In his harrowing escape from Bull and his flunkies, he had gotten completely turned around, and he had no idea where this alley was in relation to the rest of the city.

         As he stepped out into the throng of people on the street, seemingly unconcerned at the haggard young man who had just emerged from the dark alley to their right, he ignored the throbbing cut in the left side of his chest, knowing that it wasn't deep enough to be life-threatening. He let the flow of traffic pick him up, heading in the general direction of the Gold Saucer, content to let it push him along until he decided what he was going to do.

         There were two SOLDIER recruiting offices in New Midgar, as far as Devin knew. Aeris already had one. And knowing his parents, they would not have let her come here alone. So one of the others was here as well. Who? Barret? Cid? Red?

         Well, one thing was for sure. He'd have a better chance sneaking past one of them than he would with Aeris, who would recognize him regardless of any disguise he wore. But the others-- they hadn't seen him in a few years, had they? Yes, that would be best. That's what he'd do. He'd find a disguise, and then sneak past whomever was at the other office. He would not be denied. He would not let his parents get away with controlling him again!

         So vehement was this thought in his mind that he barely noticed the head of long brown hair which passed by him several persons to his left, but as he did so his head snapped around and he immediately reversed direction. He recognized that hair, recognized that sauntering gait, recognized that red tank-top. He couldn't see her face or her eyes, but he knew who she was. The cause for nearly all of the misfortune he had suffered since he had arrived in her fair city.

         He smiled with grim purpose. One thing's for sure. She's going to damn well regret the fact that she had the bad luck to cross paths with me again.

Continue to Chapter 4