Big Bob smelled a rat the very moment these three entered the bar.

It was just half past three in the afternoon and the bar had just opened. The usual crowd had already begun to gather up - some wanted to have some snack, some needed to have a talk in the shade, there was even a young couple in the corner who obviously couldn't think of a better idea of a date location. But the room wasn't half full yet, so Bob looked up every time the door opened. He looked up this one time, too - and saw them.

One thing Big Bob most certainly had was intuition. When you weigh over 300 pounds, you can't really escape trouble unless you start running before it happens. Bob was of those early starters. He had been one of the first guys to leave Midgar, back when no-one could have predicted the catastrophe. All because he'd had that tingling feeling. Trouble. "Smelled a huge fat dead rat," as his skinny brat of a brother would say. Bob never took offence, parrying, good-naturedly enough, that his rat scan had never ever let him down once.

And now he smelled a rat that wasn't just huge. It was fuckin' obnoxious. These early guests meant trouble. For him. For his bar. For everyone.

And the guests behaved themselves. Chose a booth in the corner beside the counter, settled down there and minded their own business, talking quietly among themselves. And yet, every pair of eyes in the bar was set on them.

They were so... different.

They were young. Too young. Bob wasn't sure even the oldest of them would have been allowed into a bar before, when you still had had to be 21 to enter such joints. They weren't just young - they were green. And alike as three peas. Like brothers. And still they differed from each other, and differed a lot.

All three of them had their hair a very strange tint of silver, and Bob could bet his balls on it that it was shimmering softly, almost invisibly, in the semi-darkness of the room. All three of them were wearing black leather - leathered up head to toes. And all three of them were armed. On that, Bob could bet his balls, too. There was something in the manner of one's presence when one had a weapon on him. Some special air.

These kids had that air on alright.

The one who looked the oldest seemed also the strongest - a tall, big guy. His face, a little angular, was framed by short sideburns, and the silverish hair was neatly cut and combed back into a slick hair-do. He swayed in his chair, his whole posture reeking of impatience and boredom. Bob watched him closely - out of the three he looked the most dangerous. Bob knew such types - in the heat of the battle those punks would throw fuckin' tables across the room just for the heck of it, and they'd get into a fight for the same reason, too. The bar had just been redecorated, and, actually, Bob hadn't paid that much for the furniture to watch it getting crushed.

The second one looked calmer. He must've been as tall as his older companion, but he was skinnier, smoother, looked graceful and lean... but not delicate. Of those Bob had also seen quite a few. He wasn't taken in by the serenity of these huge eyes, two dark whirlpools on the impeccably regular face. The guest sat unmoving, leaning his elbows on the table, resting his head on his interlaced fingers, his long hair a cascade of silver against the black leather of his coat... and Bob hoped he would remain this way. People like this guy had stretchy patience, but once it was used up, they rarely used words to answer even mildest insults. They used knives. Or swords. Or guns. Bob had already noticed just how suspiciously the longhair's coat bulged at the hip.

The third one was the youngest. And at the first sight looked the safest. But it was the sight of him that made the alarm in Bob's head go right off, screaming danger, screaming red alert, shutting the whole world out. Bob was used to trusting this alarm of his. But still, he just couldn't get it.

The kid was hardly over 16, after all.

He was toying with an ashtray absent-mindedly, talking to the longhair, his voice scarcely audible. His own hair was cut just above the shoulders rather raggedly - it looked like it had been cut with an army knife in the same absent-minded manner. It was parted asymmetrically, covering half of his face in a shiny, silky silver curtain. He was way shorter than his companions, and his face hadn't lost that childish gentleness of smooth lines and rounded angles.

But he worried Bob. He worried Bob a lot.

The three didn't pay any attention to curious stares. They were not that far from where Bob was polishing glasses, and although he couldn't make out what the longhair and the youngster were talking about in half-whisper, he could hear the oldest one just fine. When the waitress came up, the longhair looked up and asked for water, and the oldest one protested. He wanted some beer. And then the youngster cut him short, pretty sternly. And the big guy did shut up. Immediately. That amazed Bob. And worried him even more.

The youngster finally did feel one particular stare. Bob's very own one, to be sure. The kid turned around. Bob hurriedly shifted his stare onto the counter. Still polishing the glass, he could hear the noise: the chairs screeching, light steps approaching. The silver-haired guests were approaching him.

Damn, Bob thought. And yet again: Damn.

"Good afternoon."

The voice was gentle, suave. Not too low-pitched. Young. It was the youngest one speaking. Bob looked up.

And met his stare.

It was like a hit in the face. Like an electric shock.

The kid had green eyes. Think river waters green, river waters reflecting summer trees. Bluish green. Transparent. Deep. A catlike slit. And they shone. They flashed in the dark. Strange eyes. Scary eyes.

Bob had seen such, just once.

"Would you help us a bit? We're looking for a certain person."

The other two had the same kind of eyes. Yes, he had seen it. Just that one time. And although those eyes were blue, although Bob couldn't remember them having those snake-slit pupils, - this light, living light, Mako light gushing out of eye-sockets, that was something Bob just couldn't forget. And so he knew the name even before the kid said it aloud.

"Cloud Strife. Ever heard of him?"

The bar noise died on the spot. Even those who hadn't bothered to watch them before were now turning to the counter. But somehow it didn't give Bob any security.

Look out, Big Bob. Look the fuck out.

"Heard a bit," Bob responded as carelessly as he could. "He's a hero now, y'know. Everyone has heard of him."

The lucid green was alluring. Mesmerizing. Frightening. It didn't let go.

"Can you give us a clue on where we can find him?"

"Why'd you even need'im?"

The big guy let out a low growl and moved. Just moved. Such a lazy shoulder movement. Bob froze. This one movement showed so much concealed power that it would be enough to erase three of bars like his off the planet in a second. Not a punk. Not just a punk. When punks are that strong, they have other names for that.

"Easy, Loz!" the youngster snapped without turning around. "It's okay. This is no secret." His eyes, two emerald flashlights, were burning Bob right through. He paused. And then answered: "He is our... brother. And we need his... help."

Pauses, those little pauses. Cloud wasn't a friend of Bob's. But he wasn't an enemy to him, either. Bob was grateful. He liked this planet, liked the fact that it still existed... he liked to be alive. And all of that he owed to Strife. Just like everyone else did.

Nope, he wasn't Cloud's enemy. And these three hellkids weren't his brothers, Mako eyes or not. That one thing Bob was sure of.

Cloud didn't have any family left.

"Your brother isn't seen in the city that often," he said, hoping his silence didn't last too long. "He lives somewhere on the outskirts, I hear. Doing the hermit kind of stuff. And I don't really know where."

And that even wasn't a lie.

Unblinking green-eyed stare nailed him to the counter. Cold eyes... so cold... almost dead... how come they had that fire in them that was so furious, so scorching, so alive? Was this kid really that young? These eyes could've belonged to a thousand-year-old.

"And you don't know how to get in touch with him."

"Never needed to," Bob shrugged. Don't look at me like this, boy. Don't look at me as if I were a fish on a cutting board. Kids shouldn't look at anyone like that. Even in times like ours.

The kid smiled slowly. Not a nice smile. Not a young one.

"Well... thank you, anyway. Sorry to have bothered."

Bob watched the three walk back to their booth and hardly believed his luck. His legs were failing him. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and went back to glass polishing. His hands were shaking. And they hadn't even done anything to him yet. Not a single threat. Death walks close by, Bob thought. You can hear it breath. And you can never tell if it wants to reach out and touch you.

There were loud whispers heard everywhere in the room by now. Part of the reason was Cloud's name - a name too well-known to go by without notice. But only part of it. Now, when people got over the surprise, the stares turned appraising. Bob always admitted honestly that there were not too many do-gooder folks among his daily clients. And the guests were expensively dressed. A single long coat, like the one the longhair had on, cost enough to buy everyone's booze in Bob's bar for a week running.

Besides, one of the watchers was Sweetheart Eddie. Now, this one was hardly interested in the coat. He was more likely to go for the coat's owner. Young and pretty was just his thing, all that hair, these big eyes... Well, to do Eddie justice, he would take the coat as well. After throwing what would be left of the kid into a canal.

Bob could almost hear their thoughts now. The two younger brothers didn't look the real thing to them. But the oldest one looked dangerous enough for even Eddie's crew to stay right where they are. Now, if he were out of the picture...

Dimwits, Bob thought gloomily. Blind brainless dimwits. And like hell I'll warn you. If you get your balls shot off, serves you right.

He was going to warn someone else.

"Get me Timmi," he told the by-passing waitress.

He didn't know where Cloud could be found. But Tifa Lockhart very well might know. And it wasn't hard to find Tifa.

"Off to Tifa's bar," he told Timmi when the kid showed up in a minute. "Go and tell Tifa to pass it along to Strife: someone's looking for him. Looking hard. If she asks any questions, tell her about those guys in the corner. Got it?"

Timmi cast a glance in the pointed direction and nodded. In a second he was out of here. Bob smirked. The kid was fast. And smart. Bob hadn't regretted hiring him a single time. And people had been trying to talk him out of it - "a slum scum, a slum scum"... Eh, take Cloud or Tifa - neither of them was born into a royal family, but they made it pretty big, as far as Bob was concerned...

He glanced into the corner, and his speculations stopped dead. As if cut off by a butcher knife. The longhair was staring at him. Never taking his eyes off. Bob couldn't decipher the expression in those huge emerald eyes. And he was smiling. Such a small smile. Just a corner of his mouth up.

The youngster was whispering something into the big guy's ear - Loz's, if Bob had gotten the name right. When he moved away, Loz grinned and got up, giving his chair a kick.

"Needa take a leak," he announced loud enough for the whole bar to hear. "I'll be right back, bros. You won't even have time to miss me."

Bob knew that was bullshit even before he heard the roar of the starting motorbike from the yard. He won't get Timmi, he tried to assure himself. Timmi must be halfway there already. This musclebrain won't even see his back... The thoughts dissolved in the roar dying away in the distance. And the trouble sense was still right here. And it was growing worse.

He wasn't the only one who'd heard the bike. Sweetheart Eddie livened up, and not him alone. Bob focused his attention on the glasses. Whichever way the coming brawl would end in, he wasn't going to be sorry. He didn't like either of the sides much.

He finally had to be sorry. Awfully sorry. If he'd known just how much sorry he'd be, he'd have finished Eddie right in his booth. Because it all started with Eddie's looking for trouble. And finding it.

Eddie waited for another 5 minutes just to make sure Loz wasn't coming back and, triumphant, led his gang across the room over to the corner booth occupied by his future victims. The said victims didn't give a long flying jump. The youngster was explaining something to the longhair. The latter was listening, smiling in the same mysterious way and sipping his water from the wineglass.

This way or the other, Eddie would have found the reason to pick on them. But they had already given him the reason. The most nice-looking one.

"So you're looking for Strife, eh?" he specified with mock friendliness, standing over their table, hands on hips.

Eddie was one big bastard. Over 6 feet tall, broad shoulders, sturdy as an old oak. His head clean-shaven, an old scar stretching from the corner of his mouth to the side of his forehead all across the cheekbone, he look such a classical bad guy, it wasn't even funny. A scare for kiddies.

These kiddies didn't get scared. The youngster looked up and responded calmly:

"Why, can you help?"

Eddie sneered. Bob, who was watching the whole scene from behind the counter, shook his head unbelievingly. Couldn't Eddie see those eyes? Couldn't he sense it? Was he really that dumb?

To look at Eddie's sneer, he didn't sense anything at all. He was anticipating fun.

"I'm going to help you to understand a couple of things, sucker. A lot of people in this fuckin' city care for Cloud. And we don't want any trouble for him."

Bob saw the kid's face change. Just for a second. Maybe, a corner of his mouth twitched. Or his jaws clenched. For a moment. Because in the next moment he was answering Eddie's remark, calm as ever:

"No trouble. We just need his assistance."

The longhair smiled just a tiny bit wider.

Eddie shifted his focus immediately.

"And just why are you smiling, sunshine? Somebody told you a joke? Or is it that you like me that much?"

The longhair didn't respond. Only his smile grew yet wider. Just a tad.

"I see. You must be mute, eh?" Eddie grabbed his pointed chin and jerked his head up. "Or you just don't want to talk to me... huh?"

The expression on the longhair's face didn't waver one bit. He kept smiling, looking Eddie straight in the eye. Bob felt surreal. As if a grotesque play were being staged right in front of him.

"Let my brother go," he heard the kid say, still calm. "Keep your hands to yourself. And move off."

"You're not old enough to give orders to your teddy-bears, let alone me," Eddie snapped at him lazily.

Bob couldn't see the youngster's face behind Eddie's back. But he saw his hand. Saw it sneak to his hip in a smooth, easy movement. Saw it move the short coat lappet out of the way...

"So what do you say, sunshine?"

Bob watched on, mesmerized. Watched on as the graceful hand clad in black glove fell onto the hilt that peeked out of the sheath. Why didn't I spot it before? It is long... A long blade... He watched on, as the long graceful fingers habitually circled the hilt...

"Let him go. The last warning," the words were icy. They breathed off cold.

Eddie swirled around, annoyed.

"Hey, you, fuckin' sonofa..."

One movement. It was just one single movement, Bob understood, terrified. It began with the catlike jump that brought the kid to his feet and ended in a blurred line that the sword drew in the air. It took less then a second.

"My sentiments exactly," the kid purred.

His brother gave Eddie a light poke on the chest with two fingers. The poke made Eddie's head fall off his shoulders. The body stood for another second, then began to fall down as well. The hand holding the longhair by the chin slipped off. Mr. Handsome stood up, shoving his chair out of the way noiselessly. Bob had been right. The guy did have a holster on his hip.

Eddie's corpse plopped down on the wooden floors heavily. The head rolled off and stopped a few inches away from it. And Bob couldn't take his eyes off the small round bloody slice lying between them. So reminiscent of a slice of sausage, it was even funny in its own tragic way.

Two long blades. The kid had a double-blade.

Everything around them stooped in mid-motion, as if Bob were in a waxworks museum. Eddie's thugs weren't moving, not yet able to realize what had happened. The on-lookers weren't moving. And Bob wasn't moving either, clutching a cloth in his spasmodically clenched fist. Absolute, deafening silence filled the room. And in this silence, everyone heard the longhair's voice.

"Don't really like to be touched without much reason," he revealed softly. "Thanks, Kadaj."

"Don't mention it, Yazoo," Kadaj gave his sword a light shake. One of the blades was dark, the other one light. Blood was steadily dripping from the light one, falling to the floor in heavy drops. The dark one didn't have a spot on it. Not a single bloody smear. As if it had just been polished to shine. Bob clenched his teeth, otherwise their chittering would echo all around the bar.

Eddie's boys finally came to senses. Their rush forward was simultaneous. Messy. And suicidal.

Kadaj stayed where he was. Yazoo jumped, did an impeccable somersault in the air - quite a trick to do in a coat that long. He landed on one of the tables - no noise, bending his knees to soften the fall. He didn't lose his balance for a second. A gun, dark steel shining, seemed to jump into his hand by itself.

This all took one moment to happen. And the next moment the brothers started to kill.

Bob blinked. Kadaj turned into a small black whirlwind, a mini-tornado in the middle of the room. And grown-up well-armed people were drawn to him, just like leaves and dust would be drawn into a twister. They made a circle shield around him, surrounded him in a wall of bodies... and then, all of a sudden, they began to fall out of this wall. Fall right down. And die. Bob saw it with his own eyes: Toby Halfpint jumped out of the circle, skidded in a puddle of blood, fell to his knees, failed to keep his guts, falling out of the long cut in his stomach, and died. Nite Highjack, shoved out of the fight, backed away towards the wall, clutching at his throat madly, his eyes bulging, wheezed, gurgled and died. Smiler Tucky made it almost to the counter on all fours... only it was all threes now. Tucky looked at the spot where he used to have a shoulder and an arm that were now cut off clean almost at the collar bone. Gave a short howl. Died.

Yazoo, unlike Kadaj, didn't move much, unless he had to change a firing angle. He kept his position on that table and was shooting. Shooting from the stretched hand, his eyes narrowed lazily, almost carelessly... but he didn't miss. Not once. Bob looked harder and realized that he took down only those who also had guns or crossbows. Or those who were trying to get to Kadaj from behind. But not a single one of those who Kadaj could take out himself. Doesn't want to spoil his fun, Bob thought, feeling dizzy. Let the kid play...

They wiped out the most of Eddie's gang when Brad and his crew entered the fight.

Brad was Bob's friend. A good one. Bob didn't have any idea on how Brad earns his living. Nor did he want to have one. He could guess, by the silent respect other bar visitors paid him, but he didn't want to guess either. Brad was a friend and he was always willing to help - that was the only thing that mattered.

Brad helped him about the bar, too. He took care about things out of order. He let the small brawls happen, figuring that a little fistfight at the end of the evening never killed anyone and, moreover, could be entertaining. But when it came to crossfire, unwanted hurts could happen, and really, bullet holes hardly improved interior decoration.

And so Brad came up to the table, upon which Yazoo had chosen to take a firing stand, jumped onto it and put one hand on Yazoo's shoulder, grabbing the barrel with the other one.

"Enough," he said. "Stop bangin'. Your brother can handle it alone. And, by the way, you wore out your welcome."

Yazoo turned his head slightly. Just as serenely as anything he did. He looked Brad in the face. And made a small finger movement on the gun handle.

Jinnnnk!

Brad grew pale. Swallowed hard, looking down, at the stumps of his fingers, neatly cut off by the blade that popped out of the gun. He backed off, slipped, fell to the floor and only then screamed.

One could hardly blame him for it. He couldn't have possibly expected. No-one in Midgar slums had ever had money to buy a personal gunblade before.

"I said I didn't like being touched," Yazoo reminded coldly, raised his gun and shot half of Brad's head off.

Brad's crew was better coordinated than Eddie's gang. And better armed. They reacted almost immediately, raining lead on Yazoo. Or rather, on the spot where Yazoo had just been standing, because after finishing Brad off, the silver-haired killer lost no time, jumping off and darting behind one of the tables that got kicked over in the fight. Bob lost sight of him.

And the following second, the last of Eddie's guys disposed of, right onto Brad's boys, like thunder from the skies, there came Kadaj.

Bob closed his eyes. Everything inside him went numb. Even the fear disappeared. He killed Brad, he thought. The thought was floating through his head slowly, again and again, like a spoilt record. This brat killed Brad. Cut off his fingers and blew his brains out. Killed Brad. Gods...

This all had gone way too far.

Slowly and deliberately, feeling distant, as if what was happening didn't concern him at all, Bob lowered his hand to feel under the counter. Sensed the smooth coolness of metal. Good ole revolver. He kept it there on Brad's advice, "for force majeur cases". Always hoping he'd never had to find out just what force majeur meant.

These underage motherfuckers killed him, they killed Brad...

Bob was good at shooting. At shooting tins. Standing tins, tins thrown up in the air, tins dragged along on a rope - that was Brad's idea, he wanted Bob to get more practice in shooting moving targets... Now he wasn't aiming at a tin, though. He was aiming at a living human. A teenager. Little more than a child. But he didn't feel sorry.

They're not human. They're beasts. Beast cubs...

Kadaj was slowing down by the minute. Maybe he was finally beginning to tire. His head, a bright silvery spot... an easy target. Bob took aim. Carefully. Allowing for all the factors. He knew he wouldn't miss. He knew he'd get it. His finger tensed upon the trigger...

And stayed there as Bob turned to stone on feeling the cold muzzle at the back of his head.

"Don't even dream of it," Yazoo said behind his back.

The numbness left him. Bob remembered with painful clarity that he had a wife and two kids, and that he had never intended on dying at 48. And that he had never considered himself a hero.

"Drop the gun. And don't move."

The revolver slipped out of Bob's fingers and hit him on the foot, sending a bolt of pain through it. But Bob didn't even squeak. Even though he never believed it would save him.

They stood there, he and Yazoo, chained together by the darkened steel of the gunblade, and watched Kadaj take care of the last of his adversaries. Bob had been wrong. Kadaj wasn't tiring. He slowed down on purpose. For the sake of the game. And frankly, there was no need to rush. Deft easy movements, black leather, flashing steel, the shimmering silver of his hair... he was a dream. A vision. He was unbelievingly beautiful. And nightmarishly horrible.

It didn't take long. And when Kadaj turned to face them, looking away from the piece of battered meat on the floor that had been a human being just a second ago, Bob saw his happy smile and suddenly wanted Yazoo to pull the trigger, wanted to die and not see it. The smile was nice. Joyous. And unmistakably boyish. Scrap sixteen, Bob thought. Thirteen, not older than that... And that thought almost drove him insane.

Kadaj's smile slowly died away.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked Yazoo crossly. "Feeling sorry for this boar pig or what?"

"Saving ammo," Yazoo answered plainly. "Your weapon doesn't need recharging. Mine is of no use without it."

Kadaj pouted. In an absolutely childish manner. I'm gonna shit my pants, Bob thought. I'm gonna shit my fucking pants.

Kadaj came up closer. And his eyes grew old again, grew deep, two wells of green.

"Since you're still alive," his voice was gentle and suave once again, "since you're alive, be so kind and tell us where you sent your messenger. And what for. I'd like to know where to meet up with Loz. Just to save the time. And then, maybe - maybe - I will forget about your brilliant idea of shooting me in the back. It well may be."

Bob shut his eyes. And told him everything. About Tifa. About Cloud. About their orphanage. About every little thing he had ever heard of them. Told him that all like a confession, like a testimony, in one breath. Very willingly.

His story was met with silence. No interruptions. Then he heard a rustle. Yazoo sighed.

"You insist?" he asked.

"It's up to you," Kadaj replied dryly.

Steps. Floor boards screeching. Silence. The roar of a motor, first deafening, then trailing off and dying away.

Another sigh. And the click of a gun being cocked.

Bob screwed his eyes tight.

Seconds crawled by, sticky, viscid, one after another. The smell of blood. The smell of spilled wine. The noise of wind behind the walls.

When Bob opened his eyes, he was alone in the bar room.

In a second, the second motorbike roared behind the door.

Bob never told anyone, what he thought of then. Not even his wife. Not even many days later, when they changed the wall paneling and the floors - they had to, because the wooden planks had adopted the blood smell forever. Not even when he already stopped fearing he might go broke - despite his expectations, people kept coming in crowds. Human beings, the sick breed... always interested in someone other's death. But even then Bob didn't tell a single person, that when he heard that motorbike, he suddenly remembered just where else he had seen such eyes. And where he had seen such hair. And even that chilling insane smile. Remembered old newspapers with a certain face on their front pages, the face Kadaj would be a carbon copy of in a few years, when he'd get older and his features would grow sharper, tougher, more defined. "GENERAL SEPHIROTH OFFICIALLY PRONOUNCED DEAD", the headlines on those front pages had said. Bob remembered it with the same painful clarity.

Later he tried to forget it for a long, really long time.

That day he waited for Timmi, waited 'til late at night. Until he finally realized Timmi wasn't ever coming back.

******

"You didn't obey me."

Yazoo looked up humbly. Kadaj was scowling. He was really good at it. Always. Yazoo wondered for a short moment: Was I the same when I was thirteen? Was I that furious? No, he answered himself and chased the thought away. He had never been this way. And he never would. He knew himself too well. Maybe it would do him good if he could explode every now and then. Just go off and lose his mind for a while. But he couldn't. And he knew it wasn't his fault.

They made him like that.

Someone, somewhere, made a mistake while deconstructing Sephiroth's genes into a puzzle only genetics could understand. Sephiroth could be calm. Could be mad. Could be patient. Could be resolute. Sephiroth could do everything. Yazoo got only half of that.

"You said 'It's up to you'", he reminded Kadaj softly.

"You knew what I wanted you to do."

Yazoo sighed.

"Yes."

"Then why?"

Whatever I tell him now, he's not going to be satisfied by it. Yazoo suddenly felt tired in that sleepy, dumbing way. They had settled down at a small clearing in the middle of a trashed cobbled square, and the only thing Yazoo wanted right now was to lie down on the cold stones and look, look, look at the dirty grey sky... not doing anything else. Dirty grey sky, dirty white clouds shoved by the wind across the sky like a heap of torn rags... Half-ruined towers of old office skyscrapers rising into the sky - also dirty. And covered in moss. Shin-Ra. The ruins of science and technology kingdom. Wasn't it ironic - to run from this place like hell for leather, to hide, to cover their tracks for years - and then to come back... home.

I wonder... is that true that everyone has the home he deserves?

"Just don't start about the ammo again. Don't insult my intelligence."

But it's true, Yazoo thought wistfully, looking into Kadaj's darkened eyes. It's the only truth there is. He had never cared about the barman. He didn't give a shit about him. Didn't give a shit about his trembling lips, shaking hands, screwed eyes, cold sweat on his forehead. Yazoo didn't care about any of those. But he hadn't wanted to waste another cartridge, and so he hadn't shot him. And he hadn't wanted to waste time either, so he hadn't popped the blade out to cut his throat. If only he could turn back time, he would've done both. To be on the safe side. To avoid another one of Kadaj's fits was worth a whole chamber.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I thought he wasn't important."

Kadaj bent down to face him. Such a weird feeling - to actually look up at him. Get used to it, Yazoo. He's going to grow up pretty soon.

"They're humans, Yazoo. They're not worth your pity. Because you know what, you're not getting any from them. They hate us. All of us. You saw it yourself, we don't even have to do anything to get attacked. The fewer of them left, the better. Even Loz knows that."

Loz was sitting on the ground a couple steps away, holding his knees to his chest. Yazoo knew such long talks exhausted him. Once, when Kadaj got too keen on telling him off, he finally broke down and cried, and they had to comfort him together. Loz was the second half of Sephiroth that Yazoo lacked. He was a brilliant fighter - great technique, amazing reaction, superhuman strength... When he went rampage, even Kadaj tried to stay out of the way. But in some ways he was the youngest of them, much more of a child than Kadaj. At times Yazoo felt sorry for him.

But only at times.

Loz had done good today. He had done everything he was supposed to. He'd followed the kid right to the "7th Heaven" and got rid of him before that woman, Tifa, could see him. Today he didn't deserve any scolding. And he knew better than to interfere, afraid that it might change for the worse. Sometimes Kadaj shifted his scowling focus really randomly.

"I know, Kadaj," Yazoo threw his hair back with another sigh. "I know. Okay. I'm really, really sorry."

Submission move. As far as he knew, wolves revealed their unprotected throats to the pack leader to convey the same idea.

Kadaj smiled. The smile wasn't mad, didn't have any evil in it. But it wasn't the smile Yazoo would have preferred to see. If Kadaj smiled the way he'd smiled back then, in the bar, over the corpse of his last rival, - then Yazoo would know the incident was over, the matter dismissed and he'd be left alone. But this smile was different. It was slow. Mysterious. A little bit flirty.

"Oh, you shouldn't be apologizing. Not to me, not you... brother."

Yazoo tilted his head, wondering what Kadaj was up to. Kadaj gave another smile and sat down beside him, graceful as ever. He stretched out a hand, running the tips of his fingers over Yazoo's hair.

"You know, you're just adorable when you give in. Sometimes I only get into an argument with you to see you do it," the fingertips wandered over Yazoo's cheekbone.

Oh no, Yazoo begged silently. Not this. Not now.

Kadaj was smiling.

"But I really AM sorry," Yazoo said helplessly.

Kadaj pretended to be hurt. At that, he was really good, too.

"Hey, was I saying I'm mad at you? I was saying you were adorable, that's all!"

Yazoo closed his eyes.

"You decided I was punishing you, is it that? You silly thing. I just want to have some fun. I'm bored. You're not gonna refuse, are you? You're not going to refuse your little bro? I'm also tired, you know... Please?"

Yazoo shook his head. And almost against his will whispered:

"Won't refuse."

Why is he doing that to me? Why does he have to call me a brother? This way it only hurts more... But Yazoo knew Kadaj didn't say that just to hurt him. Oh no. It simply was what he believed. His idefix. His paranoid. Or, maybe, just his true faith. He called him a brother, as well as Loz, as well as Sephiroth, as well as Strife - as little of Jenova as there was left in that guy.

Because he had faith in Mother.

Yazoo had faith, too. He believed they would find her one day. He believed everything was going to be the way Kadaj had planned. But whatever connected them, whatever that frail and unbreakable, sick, morbid, twisted, painful bond was that intertwined them all, that bound them together, - it wasn't a family bond at all. You had to share a womb with someone to call him a brother. Or have the same father as him. Or at the very least spend your childhood with him.

No mother ever bore them in the womb. They'd never had a father. And they'd never had a childhood either.

"Thank you," Kadaj leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Yazoo bit down on his lower lip. Kadaj smiled again and rose to his feet. Yazoo did the same, automatically smoothing out the folds in his coat.

"Loz!"

Loz jumped to his feet, obviously pleased. No surprise - for once, the long, confusing conversation was over. And then, unlike Yazoo, he always liked it when Kadaj decided he wanted to "have fun".

And why wouldn't he like it, really? Yazoo thought bitterly, turning away from this display of childlike happiness. He raised his hand to undo his coat.

"Don't do that, Yazoo," Kadaj said. "Don't spoil the game. Go to the bikes, you two. It's pretty dirty here.

Why so? Yazoo asked himself for what must've been a hundredth time. Why do we obey so unquestioningly, so eagerly? Whatever he says, whatever folly he comes up with... Oh, but Kadaj hardly ever came up with any follies. And that was part of the answer. The answer Yazoo really knew.

They, he and Loz, took after Sephiroth, each in his own way.

Kadaj was Sephiroth.

The best of them. The best try. The try that exceeded all expectations. He was stronger than Yazoo, even now, - and he still was growing. He was smarter and calmer than Loz - the very thought of comparing the two was laughable. And he was possessed. He was insane. And that divine insanity turned him into something close to a god.

Mother's little boy. Her favorite - right after Sephiroth.

"Undress him, Loz."

Maybe Kadaj wasn't mad at Yazoo, just like he'd said. But that he wasn't punishing him was certainly a lie. Why would he order it like that otherwise? Yazoo hadn't been joking there, at the bar. He really didn't like to be touched by strangers. By stranger hands. And Loz turned a total stranger for him in such moments. Yazoo felt a lump in his throat as Loz's fingers tugged down on the zipper of his coat, - zipped up to his throat, as always. He grabbed the bike saddle with both hands - just to keep them occupied. Loz wouldn't even notice it if he started trying to fight off - and Kadaj would get really angry.

Earlier, just one year earlier, he would have made them put on a fight instead. His taste for entertainment was definitely going through puberty changes.

The day was ending, and the air was getting cool, moist, it made Yazoo shiver when touching his bare skin. Yazoo shifted uncomfortably when Loz pulled his black undershirt off him. Sighed once more. Fifteen minutes, he reassured himself. No more than fifteen minutes, for all this torture. Loz could never keep it up any longer than that.

"Wait," Kadaj ordered, and Loz's hand stopped at the zipper of his pants. "Cuddle him. He's cold, don't you see."

Oh thank you so much, Kadaj. Thanks a lot. Yazoo clenched his teeth, feeling Loz's hands on his back, his shoulders, his waist, Loz's lips on his neck... It wasn't really that bad, never was too bad - Loz had warm palms, and he was careful, but it shouldn't have been like this. So forced. So hurtful. So humiliating.

Kadaj was sitting on the shattered remains of a stone fence. Watching.

"Don't sit on cold stone," Yazoo told him, despising himself for doing that. "It's gonna get you sick."

Soft laughter.

"Don't get distracted, brother. Kiss him, Loz."

Yazoo let him do that. Relaxed as much as he could.

"Hey, Yazoo, respond somehow. It's getting boring."

Yazoo put his hand on Loz's shoulder unwillingly. With the same unwillingness answered his kiss. Loz drew him closer, pressing into him, grabbing him by his waist and by his hips, and Yazoo felt that heavy, tugging warmth spreading up from the bottom of his stomach.

That was yet another thing he despised himself for.

Loz tore away from his lips and kissed him on the shoulder. Yazoo threw his head back obediently, giving him a better access to his neck and his chest. Kadaj was silent, letting them improvise. Yazoo wasn't sure if it was good or bad.

At least he didn't feel so cold anymore.

Loz's hand sneaked down to the zipper of Yazoo's pants once again, and this time Kadaj didn't stop him. Yazoo let out a muffled groan when Loz's fingers found him, found the spot where the desire he despised was pulsing, throbbing, a perfect crossover of pain and pleasure. He buried his face on Loz's shoulder. A thrill ran through his body when Loz nibbled on his earlobe. But he didn't make a single sound.

Not a sound, when Loz laid him out on the icy, biting-cold steel of his Shin-Ra bike. Not a sound, when he pushed into him, too impatient, causing too much pain. Not a sound, when pain gave way to pleasure, shameful, unwanted. Not a sound, even when it suddenly got too hot to breath, and Kadaj came up to them unheard, brushed the hair out of Yazoo's face and kissed him on the forehead, and Yazoo's sight blurred and darkened, and he arched back, clawing at Loz's shoulders.

Not a sound. Just the burn of his lips bitten right through. The taste of his own blood in his mouth. The feel of someone else's skin under his nails. And those eyes. Green. Shiny. Deep. Strange. Close. Hated. Beloved.

Understanding.

******

Yazoo lay on his side, rolled in a ball. Not the best position for him just now. But he knew pain would vanish fast. In an hour at most. And he liked this pose. It was cozy. Warm.

Kadaj was sitting on a stone ledge not far from him, cleaning his sword. The kind of weapon Yazoo would've never chosen for himself. And not just because it would mean getting much closer to your enemy than Yazoo liked it. No, Yazoo couldn't get the very idea of a double-blade. Two blade, one hilt - the air resistance doubled, the speed of the blow reduced by two. It was all about tenths of seconds, of course, but they could matter, too.

Though, of course, they didn't matter when it came to Kadaj. Yazoo hadn't seen anyone else that good at swordplay. And Kadaj had only started to train with a sword two years ago. He learned so fast. And was still learning. Still getting better.

Loz had gathered up some dead grass and chunks of wood and was now making a fire in the center of the clearing. It was almost dark and Yazoo could only see his silhouette in the shadows cast by the ruins. He'd have to concentrate to switch to the night vision mode. It took effort. Yazoo wasn't going to waste it. He had seen more than enough of Loz for tonight.

He looked at Kadaj again. Kadaj was polishing the Shadow Blade intensely. A totally redundant thing to do. The Shadow Blade drank in everything it got. At times even brain smears or small pieces of meat would get absorbed before Kadaj could clean them off. Dark, evil magic at work. Kadaj's ability to handle it set him yet another notch above them. Yazoo had no idea of how he did it. And he wasn't really interested.

I hate you, he said mentally. Tasted the words. Considered the feel they left in his mouth. And threw them out of his head. It wasn't true. He couldn't hate Kadaj. He remembered him as a little kid - and he remembered what had been done to him. They would do things to him for a really long time, even after they had left him and Loz alone. He remembered Kadaj being strapped to the table and cut open - neatly, accurately, methodically, scientifically - just for them to see how fast the wounds would close - and the wounds would close fast, and would do it yet faster with each time, because the object was developing... He remembered Kadaj being injected with something that made him shiver in his bed for hours and just once he'd gone down in cramps, and it had taken both Loz and Yazoo to hold him down. He remembered Kadaj - the best of them! - going through the second, experimental session of Mako therapy and then screaming in his sleep every night, for a week. He remembered Kadaj crying. He and Loz hadn't been allowed to approach him then, and some doctor had been scribbling in his notepad and had said a few times, "So much emotion from a clone, this is highly interesting!"

No, Yazoo couldn't hate him. And couldn't blame him. If anything, he loved him in his own quiet way. He didn't have anyone but him and Loz in the whole big world.

Kadaj had touched him today.

Somehow that small detail didn't let Yazoo be. Kadaj would get "bored" every now and then, too often if you asked Yazoo... but until today, he just watched. Always. He had made them do that for the first time about a year ago, and he had never once did anything while watching the show. He would always find a spot in the distance from where he could get the full sight of them, and froze there, like a statue, never changing his pose, never moving at all. Not even touching himself, and Yazoo had expected him too at first. But Kadaj just watched.

Until today.

Kadaj met his stare. Yazoo didn't look away. Kadaj ran the cleaning cloth over the blades for the last time, sheathed the double-blade and got up.

Yazoo closed his eyes, listening to his light steps. A soft rustle - Kadaj settled down on the spread blanket beside him. A tentative touch on his hair. Almost insecure. Yazoo drew a deep sigh. He didn't back out of the touch this time. It didn't feel uncomfortable now. The bad part had passed. Now it was all right again. Yazoo didn't know just how long it would last, but for now, everything was okay.

He didn't expect Kadaj to speak up.

"It won't always be like that."

Yazoo glanced at him questioningly.

"It won't always be like that," Kadaj repeated, running his fingers through Yazoo's hair. "I can't do that myself. I'm... too young. Underdeveloped. But soon I'll grow up. And then he won't touch you ever again."

Don't be like this! Yazoo wanted to shout at him. Don't be so... reasonable! So cold. You are thirteen, dammit! Do something! You could... before... Race with Loz along the old highway! Steal my gunblade to shoot crows!

"You think that would make me feel any better?" he asked, allowing himself just a tint of irony.

"I don't know," Kadaj said simply. "But me - yes, it would."

Yazoo rolled over. Looked him in the face. And found out that he was crying.

"I can't," Kadaj hissed, turning away from him. "I can't be any other way. I... I'm scared. I hear Mother... all the time... I hear her call... and I'm happy, that I hear that call... but... for some reason... I have a feeling..."

"Kadaj..."

"I have a feeling... that I have very little time left. Understand me, Yazoo? Maybe I won't have the time to grow up. But I don't have any time for being a child now. I never had it. And humane... " he hanged his head. "You have to be human, to be humane, I guess. And that I never was."

Yazoo didn't answer. He just sat up, disregarding a bolt of dull pain, and hugged him. Loz had made a fire and was now watching them from a distance, obviously confused. Yazoo waved his hand at him.

"Come on here," he called. "Group hug!"

Loz came up, and Yazoo tugged on his hand, making him sit down with them. Put one arm around his neck.

"Everything is going to be just fine," he said. "You hear me, Kadaj? Everything is going the way it is supposed to be. Because I'm the best gunslinger on this damned planet. And Loz is the best at martial arts. And you're the best at swordplay. And the best leader ever. We're the best. And we'll always be. Understand me?"

Kadaj backed away a little. Yazoo narrowed his eyes, making his pupils widen, to see his face in the dark. And what he saw was a smile. A smile he had never seen on Kadaj's face before. A sunshine smile. I be damned, Yazoo thought, I be damned if it's not the most beautiful smile in the world.

Loz put his hand on Kadaj's shoulder. And that one gesture said more than Loz ever could if he tried to put his idea into proper words.

"Thank you..." Kadaj whispered. Paused a little and then added: "Forgive me?"

I don't know, Yazoo thought, hugging his companions tight. I don't know if Sephiroth could ask forgiveness. I don't know if he could make gestures that spoke better than words. And I don't know if he ever bothered to comfort anyone. Maybe he could. Or maybe he just couldn't. And, frankly, I don't care.

Because here and now, settled in a hug in the midst of ruins towering above them, by the crackling fire, sharing the silence that was so unbelievably intimate, - here and now they weren't anyone's clones. They weren't objects of any experiment. They weren't parts of anyone else.

Here and now, for the first time in their lives, each of them was no-one else but himself.

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