chapter four: shinra's great triumph

"I found out too late
Only fools feel safe
In a house made of jokers and kings...
I tried to escape her
And these bits of paper
But the memories I just can't outrun
So I'll keep lighting matches
And when one of them catches
This thing will finally be done..."

--Moxy Fruvous

Ellis woke out of an uneasy, undefined dream, to a moment of pure vertigo. He blinked at the ceiling briefly, owlishly, swimming in blurred shadows without his glasses, lying still in the strange bed. Trying to remember where he was.

At last it returned to him, all at once, and he couldn't help but smile a little to himself. He was alone in the bed, he realized; morning sunlight was streaming through the windows, and he assumed Ruth must have gone down to the lab. She worked odd shifts, sometimes. Maybe it was better not to see her until they were both back in the workplace, but he couldn't quite convince himself of the idea.

That was pleasant, at any rate. He stretched slightly, comfortably; there wasn't even the slightest trace of a hangover, he was satisfied to note. Unexpected, but pleasant. I don't think I've felt this good first thing in the morning since I joined the Project... I only wish I knew a proper way to say "thank you".

There was something on the pillow next to him, and he rolled onto his side to squint at it carefully. His glasses, for one; he recognized the shape, and put them on gratefully. Bless her, he thought with a slightly embarrassed smile, as the room came into focus. I can't imagine where they wound up last night...

Nearby there was also a slip of paper, and he picked that up as well, holding it before his eyes. It was, he discovered, a note.

Guess I can't call you Sawbones anymore, huh? More like Jumpbones... Sorry I'm not here--took the graveyard shift, since nobody else is doing it. Didn't want to wake you. Hope I see you later--

Love, Ruth

An unconscious smile had claimed his face by the time he looked up from the paper, and he let the note fall on the bedside table by his hand, lying back slightly on the bed. The pillows were soft and warm under the small of his bare back, and he let his eyes slip closed for a moment, lingering briefly over everything in this small, peaceful space. It felt so good here, among Ruth's few whimsical personal effects, and the stillness of the upper mansion. Safe.

Then finally, reluctantly, he stretched and rolled out of the bed, and dressed quickly. He ought to go back to his room if he planned to sleep this morning out; this might not be entirely approved of, Ellis was forced to admit ruefully to himself. He didn't want anyone taking particular notice of where he came to work from, for Ruth's sake or his own.

He wouldn't really know it until some time later, but he needn't have worried.

Mike, to his surprise, met him on the short landing between the two sides of the mansion, under the huge, Gothic frosted window that loomed above the floor. In the flat white morning light that diffused through its panes, he looked exceedingly strange: pale, drawn taut, haggard and wild-eyed. Ellis frowned, and opened his mouth for a question--but Mike cut him off, seizing his shoulder as though drowning and desperate.

"Ellis, thank God you're here," he choked out; even his voice was shaking, overwrought. "We need you--the basement--"

Ellis stared at him, trying to make sense of this sudden change, Mike's words. What in the world could do this to him? Do I even want to know?

"Good God, you look like hell, Mike," Ellis blurted, feeling idiotic, unable to keep concern from edging his voice if he'd wanted to. "What's the matter?"

"Ellis," Mike said again, urgently, achingly, as though he hadn't even heard. "You've got to come to the lab right away. It's--it's Ruth." His face began to crumple, and he dropped his eyes from Ellis's with helpless misery, repeating the words as though unable to stop even as nameless dread crawled up Ellis's gut. "Oh, God, Ellis, it's Ruth."

*

"Damn, this is gonna be a mess."

Rip stood bonelessly from his crouch by the specimen tank, shaking his head a little. "What a way to wake up in the morning," he agreed drily with Megan, accepting the latex gloves she passed him with a nod and a grimace. Vincent hung back, broodingly, staring dismally at the scene at the back of the lab. He spun when the door opened, and moved to intercept the newcomers.

"Ellis." The other two Turks looked over, briefly, as Vincent moved to block the two interns at the entrance to the lab. "Maybe it'd be better if you didn't come in," Vincent told him quietly. "There isn't anything you can do--it's really a mess in here--"

"Let me by, Vincent," Ellis's almost too-calm voice cut across. He was already shouldering swiftly around the Turk as he spoke, stepping into the lab. Vincent did not protest, but his eyes were a mute, unhappy reproach on the intern's back, as Ellis stopped, looking at the disaster before him.

The lower front wall of the specimen tank that contained Jenova was shattered, a ragged hole gaping in the thick glass. Broken, sharp spikes protruded from the edges of this, like silvery teeth in some slick, dangerous maw. Sprawled on the lower row of these, impaled, half in and half out of the tank, was Ruth's body.

Fingers of glass pointed up through her chest and belly, stained translucent crimson, runners of blood still drooling down their smooth sides. The sea-green shirt of her uniform was drowned in brownish-red from the neck nearly to the hem, splashes and puddles of same congealing on the floor around her. A few more glass slivers rose through her throat, at odd angles to each other; glass and blood littered her hair. Ruth's eyes were open, locked on nothing, and her mouth was parted slightly, a thin line of escaped blood crusting over her jaw. Her arms spread stiffly to either side, legs kinked awkwardly across the lab floor. The fluid in which Jenova had been suspended in the tank had leaked out under Ruth, soaking into her clothes, and the specimen hung limp now from its support tubes, hovering ominously above the dead woman.

Ellis was silent for a very long time, looking down on this scene with arms crossed, like a judge. His face was ashen, mouth visibly tight... but when at last he spoke, his tone betrayed nothing but that same impeccable, medical calm.

"What happened?" he asked evenly. Rip looked at him hard, and Ellis met his eyes with such force that at length the older man was forced to drop his gaze.

"From what we can tell, it was an accident," Rip answered measuredly, looking at his hands instead as he adjusted his rubber gloves. "She was working alone; looks like she was cleaning the floor, slipped, hit the tank and then fell on it."

Ellis nodded slowly, and said nothing for another heavy, lengthy moment. "Why was no one else down here?"

"Everybody was taking the night off, like Gast said," Mike put in from behind him. His voice sounded choked, weak, almost as if he were near tears; he stared at the floor, unable to look at the body. "You know that. And Ruth--she--she always worked whenever she felt like it anyway."

The other intern only stared at the tank, barely acknowledging that Mike had spoken. Finally, he turned to the Turks--almost turned on them--with eyes of ice. "An accident, you said," he repeated flatly. Rip nodded.

"You have a second opinion?" Megan inquired, with a tinge of acid. Ellis ignored her.

"Like Kal was an accident." A corner of his mouth twisted unpleasantly. "Is that what Shinra's been telling you to say?"

"Ellis--" Vincent began sharply. The younger man shook his head, bitterly, cutting him off.

"Never mind," Ellis said quietly. "Do you need any help with the examination?"

"No, we got it," Rip replied, a bit tautly. "If you two want to step outside, we have to start cleaning up--"

"Actually, no," Ellis cut across again abruptly. "Thank you. There are a few things I need to collect in the library. Excuse me, please." Mike turned and left the lab, silently, his head down; Ellis walked around the tables, stiffly, avoiding the scene, and into the library. He was able to keep the thin veil of calm around him as he entered the room, numb inside himself, and sat at the table again, staring down at the papers under his hands.

Then he looked up at the doorway, pulling off his glasses, and remembered: remembered how she'd stood there only the night before, the way the shadows had fallen across her face as she told him to come with, could almost hear her laughing, Anyway, you still owe me a beer, Sawbones, her arm in his as they ascended the stairs. And that became too much.

His control finally broke, and Ellis let his head fall on his arms on the desk, still and silent. He couldn't see, couldn't think, couldn't move. Everything was darkness.

Ruth, he found himself thinking, incoherently, over and over again. Oh, Ruth.

Only when he finally raised his head to replace his glasses, mechanically, did he realize the dampness he felt on his face was that of tears. One hand rose to wipe them away, unthinkingly, as he picked up his book of research notes, the groundwork for his thesis. Ellis flipped through it, staring at the pages crowded with neat, sterile, scientific words... and abruptly flung the book across the room, hard.

*

Gast sighed slightly, pulling a heavy plastic sheet over the examination tray and Jenova with a sense of vague, strange regret. The specimen had to be temporarily relocated; it would be some time before they could get a new tank.

Another day, another death. He rubbed his forehead, leaning heavily on a lab table, forgetting for the moment any sense of proper behavior in the lab. It would seem we're dropping like flies... I suppose it's simple paranoia, but I can't help but feel this is something more than just coincidence. He shook his head a little, closing his eyes. God. The poor girl.

The Turks had finished what meager investigation of the scene they were to make, and had removed the body. Gast suspected that they had done little more than a perfunctory once-over of the evidence, and that, at the vice-president's quiet direction, this event had been named an accident long before it was ever inspected. Jon Shinra didn't like to be upset by things like death; and so the Turks were sent to make use of their well-honed abilities in making this the least offensive sort of death possible.

And the daily exercise in idiocy goes on.

At a footstep over his shoulder Gast turned, and saw Ellis framed in the doorway to the library, looking wan and drawn. Gast started a little when he saw the other man, and then offered a slight, rueful smile. Ellis did not return it, and there was a brief, uncomfortable silence.

"I didn't know anyone was here," Gast said at last, a bit warily. "Didn't the Turks clear the lab?"

The younger man nodded briskly, finally stepping into the main room. "I needed to take care of a few things in the library," he explained shortly. Gast nodded in understanding, looking around a little.

"Well, they've finished cleaning up now," he said after another pause, with forced efficient calm. "I'm certain--"

"They're reporting it as an accident." It was not a question, and Gast did not answer. Ellis's mouth tightened--his first sign of expression. "Perfect. Just what the vice president wants to hear. Do you see this?"

He marched--almost stormed--over to the broken tank, and stopped at the wall next to it, gesturing violently at a set of four fresh scratches--deep, long, ragged tracks, cut into the plaster for nearly six inches each, arcing down toward the bottom of the tank--in the wall that formed half the corner in which the tank was nestled. He turned back to Gast, eyes a barely-contained blaze. "I noticed plaster under her nails, when the body was still here," Ellis told him, with deadly quiet. "One doesn't gouge a wall by grabbing for a handhold while falling. These were dragged through the surface.

"In forensic terms, that more than constitutes a sign of struggle. The Turks can ignore it if they want--or if Shinra wants--or they can explain it away however they like... but this was no accident."

And with that, he marched out of the lab, leaving Gast to stare at the marks on the wall with haunted eyes.

*

Vincent paced around the tiny specimen room, looking thoughtfully at the two remaining Jenova rats. Officially, he heard from Ellis that they were still in good health... but privately, Vincent thought they didn't look very well. It wasn't that they looked unhealthy, exactly; their coats were sleek, bodies full and fat, and they scampered over their wood shavings (and frequently over each other, without even noticing) with the same energy as ever as he looked on now. He imagined their physical health probably would check out, indeed. No, it wasn't that they looked unhealthy. It was... their faces, he supposed. Their eyes. They looked almost--haunted.

There was sound from the main room of the lab, and Vincent turned; the door to the specimen room was closed, but he could still hear footsteps, and faint, indistinguishable voices. As they neared slightly, he could begin to make out words: "...certain? ...perhaps today... look terribly well..." "...patronizing, Simon... already told you..." The second voice was clear to him even through the wood, and he breathed a tiny sigh of mixed relief and trepidation. Lucrecia, at last; he'd been wanting to talk to her, worried about what had happened to Ruth, and what might happen next...

Vincent turned the knob gently, slipping out the door into the lab with silent grace. Lucrecia was seated on a stool at the end of the table; she looked a little unusually pale, and he frowned slightly in concern, still unnoticed. Then Hojo came around the table, and Vincent saw the hypodermic needle in his hand, which Lucrecia turned toward with patient anticipation, and his concern shifted to a much more immediate alarm.

"What's going on here?" he demanded sharply. They both turned and looked up at him, almost guiltily--and then Hojo straightened with dignity, resting the needle on the table.

"Mr. Valentine," he acknowledged drily, ignoring the question. "I thought the investigation was complete." The acid in his tone was impossible to miss; Vincent ignored it, however, taking a few more steps into the lab with smoking eyes.

"I stayed behind to speak to Lucrecia-- What is this?" He gestured, almost violently, at the hypo, though there was no real need for him to ask; the color of that substance was difficult to mistake. "Jenova cells? What in the hell are you doing?"

"I don't think I need to explain myself to you," Hojo said icily.

"I disagree," Vincent shot back. Lucrecia whirled on him, her voice sharp.

"Vincent--"

"You were going to inject her with those?" Vincent more accused than asked, ignoring Lucrecia for the moment to glare at Hojo. "Why?"

The scientist met Vincent's gaze, folding his arms impassively. "We're collaborating on a separate set of experiments from the rest of the project," he returned, and now his voice seemed frozen solid. "Although I hardly see how this is your concern--"

"Of course it's my concern," Vincent snapped, cutting him off. "I'm trying to help preserve peace and safety in this building, and this is the most wildly unethical thing I've ever heard of."

"I think you may be overreacting." Hojo's voice was a low near-growl, biting off each word.

"I don't think I am." Vincent's eyes locked on Hojo's, burning into him. "You can't possibly have any justification for this-- You barely even know what that thing is, and you're pumping its cells into her?"

"We are all consenting adults here, Mr. Valentine." They were both almost shouting now, voices raised well above normal.

"And you have no reason to be endangering Lucrecia just to experiment on a human subject!"

"We are both scientists," Hojo hissed, losing any calm left, slamming his hand against the lab table. Vincent advanced on him, threateningly.

"But I am not," he growled, with soft menace.

"That is very true," Lucrecia interrupted, tautly, standing up between the two men and turning to stare Vincent down, eyes aflame. "And perhaps, Mr. Valentine, if you are so upset by what's being done in this laboratory, it would be best if you did not come here anymore."

Vincent looked at her hard for a long moment; he seemed briefly stricken--and then his lip curled slightly, in a tiny sneer. "Yes," he agreed, with a nasty edge to his voice. "Perhaps it would."

And with that, he stormed out of the lab, slamming the door behind him.

There was a taut, uncomfortable silence. Finally, Hojo let out a slightly shuddering sigh, his unconsciously fisted hands loosening, and dropped onto a stool, any trace of his characteristic quirky dignity vanished. He rubbed his forehead.

"Perhaps we should skip the injection today," he said in a low voice. Lucrecia's mouth tightened, and she went to his side, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"For God's sake, don't let him get to you, Simon," she told him wearily. "We'll do the injection today as we do every day."

Hojo shook his head a little. "It isn't just our flat-earther friend," he argued, a bit wryly. "You honestly seem unwell today, Lee. I'm concerned."

"I'm perfectly fine," she returned, almost violently. "How many times must I tell you that? Now just inject the serum, if you please, and let's have done with it."

Hojo looked at her for a long moment, not quite convinced... but finally he took up the hypo again regardless, pushing doubts aside to complete the injection.

*

JOURNAL--DIRECTOR MIKHAIL COLBY Operation going fairly well so far; as well as can be expected. But we're going into the third month now, and tempers and attention are typically short. The creature we found has been stored in the back of camp; a couple of the men are keeping an eye on it, off and on, but I have to admit I can't imagine what would happen to it. I think I'll be happier when that thing's sent out to the Science Department, though. It makes me edgy to have something so important to Shinra lying around a mining pit.

A little of the equipment needs replacing; the cold's bad for machinery. We'll have to get some crews out here to help. Maybe we can come up with a heating system; but we're all pretty busy here. Some other time, or maybe somebody back at the tower could look into it. Also, some of the men in the back tents of the camp have been complaining of hearing whispering at night. I'll look into it--I suspect a practical joker.

*

"Jeffrey." Jonathan Shinra looked up in mild politic surprise as Gast closed the office door behind himself, shuffling his decorative paperwork. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"You're holding a company ball at the mansion," Gast said flatly, not quite a question. The vice-president looked at him oddly, folding his hands on his desk.

"Yes. For your own project, you may also be aware. Your Hojo has certainly distinguished himself along the way to his doctorate; his findings are sure to be quite an asset to the company, and we wished to celebrate. That's all. Is there a problem?"

"Are you certain that's wise?" Gast asked quietly, ignoring the question. Shinra frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Gast steadied himself with a slow breath and tried again. He was trying very hard to be rational and polite--the only way the boy would listen at all--rather than flying into the rage he felt threatening at the edges of his mind. He simply couldn't believe this... just a week after those two deaths...

Of all the arrogant, foolish, ignorant, status-seeking... Easy, Jeffrey--

"I only mean, sir, that it might not be entirely safe to hold a social gathering in the mansion just now," he answered calmly, with effort. "Lately, our--status here has been more than a little uncertain."

The older man shrugged slightly, giving Gast his neutral, warmthless smile. "I hardly think that's precisely true," he argued pleasantly. "It's not as if there's any immediate danger here, is it? You surprise me, Jeffrey; I thought you'd be more pleased by this announcement."

Gast felt almost ready to scream. "I might," he said carefully, trying not to grit his teeth, "if it came at any other time. But sir, I may remind you that it is entirely possible that there is some danger here; there have been two deaths in the mansion barely a week ago--"

"Which have been fully investigated," the vice-president interrupted, somewhat coldly, "and which were ruled to be no more than a suicide and an accident."

"I have reason to believe that may not be the case," Gast returned with deadly calm.

That shook his superior, at last; Shinra sat forward in his chair, eyes flaring. "How interesting that the Turks found no such reason," he snapped, voice all acid and sharp edges. Gast's control stretched too far, and broke.

"Of course they didn't; you sent them in to cover up anything you didn't want to see!" he shot back. The vice-president stood up abruptly, planting both hands on his desk and sending paper flying, his chair screeching back across the floorboards.

"If you came in here simply to fling insults and accusations--" he blustered angrily. Gast cut him off, slamming a hand down on the desk himself.

"Damn it, Jonathan, this isn't a game. Two members of my project are dead." His eyes locked onto Shinra's, silent sparks flying between the words. "You can dance your idiotic corporate waltz as much as you like at home," he continued in a low, hard voice. "I won't interfere. In case you hadn't noticed, I don't particularly care how you choose to waste your life. But don't you dare shake your hands and kiss your babies on my time, and don't you even think of doing it when people's lives are at stake. This is worse than irresponsible, Jonathan, far worse; it's positively reprehensible, and I won't stand for it."

For a moment, he thought he might actually have gotten through. The elder stared at him for a long moment, his expression cooling, becoming almost thoughtful; then he seized the desk chair back from behind him, and sat down again, slowly.

"I would suggest that you take care how you address me, Jeffrey," he said quietly, at last, dashing Gast's few struggling hopes. "Your recent conduct has been highly questionable anyhow; you should be cautious of whom you choose to make enemies."

Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him. This will never end.

Gast inclined his head slightly, stiffly, again nearly bowing. "I apologize, sir," he almost spat, icily. "But unfortunately, we rarely have any choice in those who become our enemies... nor those on whose payrolls we happen to find ourselves."

And he left, before Shinra could say another word.

*

Hojo glanced up from the culture he was studying when the lab door banged open, pushing his glasses absently up his nose. Gast stalked darkly into the room, letting the door slam itself behind him, and dropped himself on a nearby stool, leaned back on the table, and rubbed his head. He looked ill-humored, sullen, and distinctly disgusted.

Of course, that's fairly standard for a return from the vice-president's office, Hojo thought to himself, returning his attention to the culture. The agar was looking a bit abused; he ought to add a bit to it. Ball or no ball, I think Jeffrey may be at that man's throat as long as he lives...

"I trust our friend upstairs is as high-minded and open to criticism as ever?" he inquired drily. Gast snorted rudely.

"One of these days," he said, voice low and almost reasonable, "I am going to walk into that office with a shotgun, and bring all our problems to an abrupt and satisfying end."

"That sounded like a yes," Hojo returned, replacing the lid absently on the plate. "I applaud you, personally. Think of the benefits to the gene pool; you'd best do it soon, in fact, before he can start tossing the Shinra Seed about."

This time Gast really did laugh, and shifted to his feet, restlessly. "That was an image I didn't need, Simon," he rebuked ironically. "By the way, so I don't forget--congratulations nonetheless, Doctor Hojo."

Hojo glanced up at him, with a brief smile. "Thank you."

"Of course. What are you doing, may I ask?"

"Checking the cultures," Hojo replied dismissively, setting another one aside. "They're going to need some fresh medium again today; busy cells."

Gast sighed, irritably, letting his weight fall slightly against the wall of the lab. "This is ridiculous," he snapped, glaring out at nothing in particular. "Emerson's on double shifts already, and still no more than half the minor tasks necessary to this laboratory ever get done. We're going to pieces down here."

"We are a bit shortstaffed," Hojo agreed, turning in his chair to look up at Gast. "Perhaps you could speak to management about the problem."

Gast chuckled forcedly, rubbing at his temples. "I'm afraid I didn't precisely curry any favor today," he admitted ruefully. "It might be ill-considered to go back with demands... Damn it, there are ten of us; one would think we'd be able to get something done."

Hojo shrugged eloquently, even as Gast deposited him bad-temperedly onto another stool. "It appears to be yet another case of 'too many scientists, not enough hunchbacks'," he replied mildly.

Gast glanced at him, surprised into a half-smile with real--if dry--humor in it. "Ah, yes. I see. Where are all the hunchbacks, anyway? I must have put in an order at some point..."

Hojo stood. "I'll check the supply closet."

Gast's chuckle trailed after him through the entry and into the hall. Hojo smiled a little and shut the door behind him--and then was stopped by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He looked up, frowning--no one else should be coming down to the lab today--to see Vincent descending the last of the spiral, coming face-to-face with Hojo across the hallway as he approached.

"Good afternoon," Vincent said with slightly surprising neutral geniality, before Hojo could begin speculating on the older man's purpose in coming back to the lab. "I was hoping to find you here."

"Were you," Hojo said flatly, not a question.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day," Vincent continued, appearing not even to hear. "I overreacted to what was none of my concern, and I beg your pardon."

Hojo gave him a wary, measuring look; he thought he could detect the distinct odor of a rat. "Then you have it," he answered simply, at last. Vincent nodded slightly, with a small, tight smile.

"Good. Thank you. I also wanted to congratulate you on your doctorate; that's quite an achievement. I hoped perhaps we could be--friends. Put all our differences behind us."

Now Hojo was certain of that odor. "I assure you, the thought sends me into ecstasies," he replied drily. "Was there anything else, Mr. Valentine?"

A brief pause.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Vincent said mildly. "Just some--advice I thought I'd pass on. In the spirit of friendship."

He stepped closer, a bit menacingly, cornering the other man with only that casual movement. His dark eyes loomed with quiet danger, fixing Hojo with their gaze.

"I suppose you can hide just about anything you want to under the name of science," Vincent stated simply, voice deadly soft. "Particularly here. And I suppose, in many cases, you can get away with it. But not this time. I will be watching you, and very carefully; and whenever you happen to miss your step--and I don't doubt you will--I'll be right there digging a grave for you to fall into. Yes, you've gotten rid of me for now, and I'll stay out of your way. I have no real choice. But I am not gone for good, and you'd do well to remember that..." His voice, still perfectly calm, lowered perhaps a little more, almost whispering into Hojo's face now. "...And if anything--anything at all--happens to her, rest assured I won't hesitate to shoot off your balls and feed them to you."

That said, he gave Hojo a small, knowing smile, turned, and walked away toward the stairs.

"What's a little posturing among friends, Mr. Valentine?" Hojo called drily after him. Vincent did not turn.

"Give my regards to Lucrecia," he replied instead, mildly, starting back up the stairs.

"Of course," Hojo responded softly, mostly to himself, staring at Vincent's back for a long moment with arms folded over his chest. When at last the Turk was gone, he shook himself slightly and turned toward the supply room to fetch the agar at last, uncertain quite how to feel.

*

The ball was, of course, an enormous success.

Some hundred distinguished guests attended, all with important names that meant little to nothing to the members of the Project. No expense was spared on the event; it was held in the main hall of the mansion, fashionable electric torches and chandelier ablaze, lighting the room's delicate decorative curves of white fabric and glass. What appeared to be a small symphony orchestra played in the corner, at a calculated volume loud enough to be clearly audible, but soft enough to easily allow conversation at the carefully arranged tables that ringed the room. Most of these were occupied only with the various corporate guests; however, at one end of the room stood a slightly larger, elongated table, seating the vice-president and close associates, and just next to that, at another, sat--somewhat sullenly--the scientists of the Jenova Project. The interns, although generically invited, had staged a quiet boycott of the entire event. Gast doubted they were missed. He only wished he could have done the same...

The band paused in the middle of something dry and pretentious, as the vice-president stood up at his table, holding a glass and clearing his throat obtrusively. The room quieted, attention of the tables and the few couples on the makeshift dance floor shifting to the hall's end. Shinra looked around judiciously at all the guests, wearing his politician's smile like an article of formal clothing.

"If I may, I would like to thank you all for coming tonight," he began perfunctorily, "and welcome all our guests to this celebration." Scattered applause, but not much of it. "I'd also like to congratulate Dr. Simon Hojo, the assistant head of our project, on receiving his doctorate of biology this past week..." Hojo only nodded slightly and forced a small smile when the vice-president gestured in his direction, and the applause turned to him. "...and to thank the other members of the Jenova Project, for their thorough and illuminating work on this fascinating topic."

He smiled again, with what almost seemed like warmth, lifting his champagne glass. "And now, a toast," Shinra announced. "To Shinra's great triumph: the constant gain of knowledge, our most important resource; the Jenova Project, which has brought us these new ideas; and the many benefits that are sure to come from what we have learned and are still learning."

"Isn't that actually three toasts?" Beckett muttered at the scientists' table, under the applause that thundered forth at the vice-president's words. Fred turned slightly in Gast's direction, lifting an eyebrow.

"You don't look impressed, Professor," he noted drily. Gast gave Shinra a dark glare across both tables, draining his champagne.

"Shinra's great triumph," he almost sneered, "is a pack of lies and a pile of money to fling at every problem that comes its way."

Wil shrugged. "That doesn't make much of a toast," he pointed out. At the head table, Shinra sat, and the music struck up again, the dancing beginning in more earnest now; Gast turned at last to the rest of the scientists, lifting his own glass ironically.

"To bands that play on as ships sink," he pronounced. The table clinked glasses together in silent appreciation.

A hand on her elbow stopped Lucrecia as she walked across the hall; she turned, fabric of her simple white gown swishing around her ankles, to see Vincent standing behind her, looking slightly out of place in one of the white tuxedoes the Turks were wearing like a uniform, expression unreadable. "Would you care to dance?" he inquired, neutrally.

Lucrecia glanced back at the table to which she was en route, as if in search of rescue; if so, she was disappointed. Hojo was deeply engaged in what looked to be a less deep conversation with some wealthy scientific benefactor, and she turned back to Vincent with a stifled sigh. I suppose it'll look a bit ridiculous if I turn him down--but I am much too tired to deal with him for long. I wonder why that is?

"I don't see why not," she agreed with equal detachment, and he clasped her hand and back at a decorous distance, leading into a box step with his typical peculiar grace.

"I trust your husband passed on my apologies?" he asked after a long moment, in a murmur, once they had claimed a space such that they would not be overheard. Lucrecia nodded crisply, looking over his shoulder rather than at him.

"He did. And they are quite accepted." Lucrecia couldn't see it, but she could feel his eyes studying her, looking critically over every inch of her face. She looked at him at last, to catch him in the act, and he merely looked back at her, meeting her gaze with his own, intense and suddenly concerned.

"I'm glad. Are you well?" The shift was so abrupt she was barely able to react. "You look pale this evening."

"Quite well. Thank you." She could feel her voice cool. "May I remind you, Mr. Valentine, that if one doesn't pry into others' concerns, one never needs apologize for it."

"I'm not prying," he returned reasonably, dismissing the statement without even seeming to notice it. "I'm just interested in your welfare. You're thinner; aren't you eating well?"

"I am fine, and I hardly think that's your affair," she snapped edgily, losing patience quickly She tried to pull back unobtrusively, but his hands held her fast.

"You look like you've been sleeping poorly--"

"Let me go."

The words came out higher and sharper than she'd intended them--almost panicked--and Vincent was startled into releasing her; Lucrecia stepped back, quickly, lifting her chin and composing her dignity. More than few of the other guests had gone quiet, and were staring, but she ignored them.

"I assure you, Mr. Valentine, I am in perfect health," she said loudly, not caring that she was making a bit of a scene. "Thank you very much for your concern, but there is absolutely no need for it." And with that, she spun on her heel and walked away.

Or began to. She'd taken no more than a few steps before a wave of black, smothering vertigo crashed into her. One hand lifted to press a few fingers uncertainly to her forehead; her legs weakened, wavered, and at last gave, tumbling her toward the floor. Vincent caught her halfway down, arms curling protectively around her.

"Lucrecia!" He clasped her reflexively, staring anxiously into her clouded, semiconscious face. "Lucrecia, are you all right?"

Her lips parted, eyes remaining closed. He leaned in, listening, hoping to hear her speak...

"Simon," she whispered plaintively. He recoiled as though struck.

"I'm here," Hojo's voice answered reassuringly, and he emerged from the gathered crowd to bend and place supporting arms around her, helping her stand, taking her from Vincent without even appearing to see him. Lucrecia leaned on his shoulder, weakly, and he led her carefully away toward the table. The other guests' overlapping, politely concerned inquiries floated back to Vincent, fading as they moved away, as did Hojo's answers: "Yes, she'll be fine in a moment..." "Thank you, just a little overexertion..." "No, quite all right, no need..."

And then, shatteringly: "Yes, I believe it's merely the pregnancy."

Vincent stared after them dumbly, left behind in a circle of well-dressed visitors, unable to make his mind process what it had heard. It seemed impossible... but some small imp of the perverse, buried inside, pointed out that it was only too possible, indeed. His first, useless thought was that he was now twice an idiot.

Pregnancy. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it unthinkingly. God. She's pregnant. With his child. I... they... He shook his head slightly, to clear it.

I have to get out of here. Now.

Blindly, he pushed back through the crowd, not seeing or caring past whom he shouldered his oblivious way; all he could think of was escaping the stifling heat and noise, escaping to some kind of clarity. No one even saw him slip out the front double doors, beyond the artful glow of the lights that lined the buzzing, life-filled hall.

And that was, however small, a relief.

*

When Vincent reached the accustomed patch of wall behind the mansion, he found Ellis already there, sitting with his back up against the stones. The intern said nothing, barely even looking up, as Vincent sat silently beside him. The older man was still for a long moment, and then reached reflectively into his coat to pull out a cigarette, lighting it up. Ellis made a small, disgusted noise.

"The ugliest habit ever invented," he said witheringly. "Promotes oral fixation, rots out gums, starts cancer in any number of places, does absolutely disgusting things to the lungs, to say nothing of one's breath. Do you have another?" Vincent wordlessly handed over a second cigarette, a bit of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you." He lit up, dragged deeply, coughed a bit, and handed the lighter back. There was silence for a moment; a comfortable silence, if not a contented one.

"Why the hell are we all here, anyway?" Vincent asked at last, in defeated tones, staring off into the dark. Ellis glanced at him, flicking ash off the tip of his cigarette.

"You mean here as in this particular hellhole, or here as in on this planet in the first place?" he inquired ironically. Vincent shrugged.

"Either one."

"I don't know." He took another drag, raising his head to the sky and shaking it a little. "But I'm getting damned sick of this mess, I can tell you that."

Vincent nodded, perhaps a bit savagely, in silent agreement. "Maybe it's about time to just blow this thing to pieces," he said lowly. Ellis chuckled, a forced sound full of jagged edges.

"We already are. Don't you see that?" Vincent looked over at him, lifting a curious eyebrow. The intern gestured expansively with one hand. "Whatever we may choose to call it, all we're really doing in that basement is lighting matches in a gas-filled room. Sooner or later, it'll all burn down; one way or another."

Vincent's gaze remained on him for a moment, assessingly... and then turned back up to the stars.

"I only hope it's sooner rather than later," was his sole, quiet response.

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