A lone songbird repeats its verse as the morning light creeps over the cliff of the resort town. Since the rains, many have finally filtered out-- those that didn't pass from the waiting game of some sort of cure. The whisps of steam cascade around the coffee mug he holds, black with the ShinRa crest on it, and an impassive expression curls into a thin smile. On the vestibule, he witnesses the stirring of barely anyone who lives there. It would be ShinRa's land once more, he deduces, once the information is out that ShinRa employees are being welcomed back.
He feels different—alive. He has a sense of purpose again that far outdid anything his mind created during the effects of the stigma. The preverbal time clock has vanished above his head. He takes another sip of the coffee— even it tastes different.
A vial is taken from his pocket with the use of his free hand, and the clear liquid inside shifts to the right and then left as he brings it up to catch the sun's rays. A huff a of a laugh, he focuses on the horizon beyond the vial. "Tseng," his voice rings out. "Contact Cloud Strife for delivery purposes." The cogs are turning, and Tseng, as quietly as he stood, just behind the President, leaves just as silent to make the phone call.
The phone rings twice until a woman picks it up on the other line; Tifa. "I'll deliver the message." Her voice was tense, though it held no animosity. ShinRa still had its own stigma associated with its name. A small knock was made on the doorframe of Cloud's room. Tifa clamped her hands in front of her as she spoke.
"The Turks called. There's a delivery to be made at Healen. It didn't sound urgent.. I wouldn't put it off too much, though. You know them." They made it their business to keep themselves relevant.
@hisreunion










