Once upon a time, for all good stories start with once upon a time, there was a great forest.  It stretched on for days, for countries, for unclaimed fairy tale after unclaimed fairy tale in fact.  This was the Great Wood, the Olde Wood, the Place Where All Things Start.  This was the forest of all the old tales and it will ever be, until men are legends that dogs tell each other around the fires at night.  Everything lives in the depths of these woods and nothing at all.  Be careful what you whisper when you go into the dark for even the trees are listening and stories have a way of happening here whether you want them to or not.

Deep in the darkness, in one of the less traveled spots, there lives a wolf.  The Wolf, if you will.  For he is the Big Bad, the Howler at the Door, the Winter Wolf, the Devourer, the Nightmare That Creeps In Windows, the Child's Warning and, occasionally, the Huffer and Puffer, though he's taken to outsourcing the last one after one particularly embarrassing incident involving a hay allergy.  He's the wise talking beast or the prehistoric feral fear.  He is, in short, whatever your story needs him to be.

Don't expect him to be particularly pleased or even helpful about it though.  He's been doing this job for a while now and he's getting sick of getting yanked out of rolling in dead animals just so that he can trot his fuzzy butt over to make menacing, half-assed attempts at your basket of treats and God help you if he has to dress in old lady drag One More Time!


OOC: so.  Here's Cloud to provide all your Big Bad Wolf TM needs.  Or frankly, the forest isn't above dragging him in to take over any animal need.  There appears to be a shortage of fairy animals going around at the moment, something about better paying jobs in Hollywood.  Does your story need a talking bear?  Suddenly you've got a snarky wolf as your guide.  Your brothers got the mill and all you got was a cat?  Well, it's a wolf now and it's not happy about having to wear boots or do all your work for you, you dolt.  Need that straw spun into gold by morning?  Looks like you're duck out of luck.  Wolves can't spin, though he does a very impressive cats cradle if you give him enough yarn and tie the knots for him.  Point being, if your fairy tale has an animal of any sort in it, you've now got a very grumpy wolf who can't say 'not interested' the way he'd really rather.  And, of course, he's still here for all your big bad wolfish metaphorical needs as well.

The city, Midgar was full of people. Soulless, faceless people that ate and breathed and worked and slept. People who didn't have a prayer when it came to protecting themselves from the evils of the world. The monsters that lurked in the darkness, in the streets at night and threatened their very lives as they lay sleeping. Then there were the creatures that inhabited the city, just as monstrous and inhuman but somehow more honest about wanting to destroy you and for what reason.

The Turks were the last bastions of defense against the evils that was AVALANCHE led by Fuhito. They were the only thing separating the world from teetering beyond the brink of despair and falling into destruction. Everything they cared about would disappear. Homes, lives, family. They were a family. Drastic measures had to be taken, consequences notwithstanding. They were underpowered, short handed. There was no way to win against these guys. Reno could not let any more fall to Fuhito and his bunch. He had lost too many people he was willing to call friend. This was where it ended.

This room.

Reno held the grip of his EMR tightly, knuckles turning white with the force, standing in front of an impressively carved oak desk. It was an audacious plan, one that could backfire or cause any number of unexpected things, but it was their one last hope. They needed help, more power, something, and Reno was going to sacrifice himself to get it- not that he had that much humanity left anyway. Not with most of his friends six feet under. He was a lone turk against the world.

The person behind the desk was sitting in an over-sized winged back chair, facing the large floor to ceiling window overlooking the city basking in the glow of mako. Nothing was going to get done like that, he had power to buy and a soul to sell. He walked forward and grabbed the chair to swing it around.

((OOC: This is totally not my writing style. But I wanted to follow Grimm's style, so that is what I did here. :3 I hope you like it/it is acceptable))

Once upon a time...

On north of side of Gaia was a town called Midgar. The citizens of Midgar were honest folk who lived contentedly in their urban houses. The years went by, and the town grew very rich.

Then one day, an extraordinary thing happened to disturb the peace.Midgar was struck with an illness known as Geostigma. A black plague swarmed over the whole town. The terrified citizens flocked to plead with ShinRa to free them from the plague of Geostigma—which the ShinRa company had been responsible for. But Rufus ShinRa had, for a long time, been sitting in the Presidential room, trying to think of a plan.

"What we need is an army of SOLIDERS!"

But all the SOLDIERS were dead.

"We'll atone for our mistakes then . . ."
But most of the damage was already done and even attempting to please the Planet did not stop the Geostigma.

"It just can't be done without help!" said the president sadly.

Just then, while the citizens milled around outside, there was a loud knock at the door. "Who can that be?" the Turks, ShinRa’s henchmen, wondered uneasily. Mindful of the angry crowds, they gingerly opened the door. And to their surprise, there stood a teenage boy, dressed in dark leather, with silver hair that obscured half his face, and waving a double bladed katana at them.

“I can cure your little problem,” the stranger announced, “All I want in return is Jenova!”

"Jenova!" exclaimed the president. "We'll give you Jenova and all her remains!"

And so the deal was set.

The sun was still below the horizon when the sound of zealous gospel wafted through the streets of Midgar. The little remnant slowly made his way through the houses and behind him flocked the diseased. Out they crawled, the ill of every size, all after the remnant. And as he preached, the stranger marched straight down to a black river, right up to his middle. Behind him swarmed those who were plagued and every one was taken over by the remnant’s will and told to remain out of the city to be used for a later purpose.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, there was not a diseased person in the town. There was even greater delight at the town hall, until the remnant tried to claim his payment.

"You want Jenova?" exclaimed the Turks, "Never..."

"You promised you’d give me Mother!" cried the little remnant angrily. But the President broke in. "Geostigma is dead now and it can never come back. . ."

His eyes flashing with rage, the little remnant pointed a threatening finger at the President and told him he’d regret his actions.

A shiver of fear ran through the Turks, but the President shrugged and said excitedly: "We've saved the Planet!"

That night, freed from the nightmare of the Geostigma, the citizens of Midgar slept more soundly than ever. And when the remnant returned to the streets at dawn, only the children were interested this time. Drawn as by magic, they hurried out of their homes. The long procession soon left the town and made its way through the woods and across a glowing forest till it reached the foot of a huge crater. Beyond lay the Northern Cave. All the children had followed the remnant into the cave, to which he held them captive by pure Willpower alone.

Only one little girl escaped this fate. It was her, named Marlene, who told the anxious citizens, searching for their children, what had happened. No matter what people did, the Northern Cave never gave up its victims, for you see, they had become the remnant’s new brothers and sisters! A brand new army of children to fight for Mother! And it was here, that the remnant known as Kadaj would keep the children until ShinRa upheld their deal—and returned Jenova to her rightful family.

The scenery within this new (perhaps not quite) foreign subconscious is a confused jumble, as if its unsuspecting creator cannot quite decide just where to be — a snowy mountainside has burst up from beneath the streets of a staircase city set into the rise of sheer, seaside cliff. The pieces are whole, details sharp and clear on narrow, towering buildings all crammed close together and rocky outcroppings with their blankets of heavy snow (still falling, as it is, in weird pockets only over corresponding ground).

But these little scenes are shattered among each other, shifting constantly, uncertain as the blank, white sky above, which reflects a dull grey in the ocean below. Where these two endless, colorless stretches of space reach to meet on the horizon, they blend seamlessly, as if meeting the edge of this conflicting reality might be as easy as setting sail for the fragile inner boundary of the eggshell shape it almost appears to be locked within.

Bright and cold, the silence falls as heavy as the inclement weather, in each vacuum of space that covers the mountainside, doing its best to muffle the staccato beat of his boots on uneven pavement broken over icy faces of stone and the competing race of his heart, now trying its hardest to burst clear out of his chest. (And in a dream, who's to say it mightn't?) With his rifle hugged tight against his back by its strap, where it beats a solid rap against his shoulder blades, a sharp reprimand for every stumble, a lone soldier in drab blue is fighting a very literal uphill battle.

The uniform he wears obscures all of him but the lower half of the pale, strained expression writ across his face, solemn as he barrels up the insurmountable slope in leaps and bounds, shadows chasing behind as he rounds a street corner onto another craggy patch of open ground. Snow kicks up in misty clouds around his ankles as he stumbles, but doesn't stop, always only one step ahead of his pursuers.

They're monsters, or maybe only the distant memory of a child's imagining of such, solid enough as they crumble up out of the earth in his wake. But they fade to dust as phantoms while he manages still to evade the catch of claws and snapping jaws at the heels of his badly scuffed black boots, the shirttail tucked under his belts. Shameful as it is not to stand and fight, outpacing them is this dream's objective, instead, and he can't seem to stop his feet from moving on, hands scrabbling at each new hold to pull himself higher.

At least not on his own.

Usually Reno tends to joke around and not take dreams seriously. Even if there is something to these weird dreams, they're still just dreams, right? So why not goof off? That's what dreams are meant for.

Tonight, she's different. Her expression is colder. Her green eyes have a cool blankness in them. Her bearing's professional (well, for Reno; it's not like she buttoned up her shirt or smoothed down her hair). She's calm and collected, and she is smiling, as usual, but she isn't laughing. The sky behind her is gray with smog, airships flying in the distance, fitted out for peacekeeping with laser cannons. Weapons of peace--it makes a kind of sense. If you have enough weapons, no one will dare to fight you. That's peace, isn't it?

Midgar is still standing, but everything in the city now seems darker than it once was, even Reno's smile. Resources are scarcer, and the wasteland surrounding the city is growing, along with the people's discontent. That means order is more important than ever, and who are the government's best enforcers? The Turks.

It's no wonder Reno's serious: she's on duty. When you work for Shinra, that means there's a lot to be done, and Turks always get the job done. She has her orders, and they're not to take prisoners (well, maybe one or two, for questioning purposes). There's been another uprising, and the President wants it quashed. The sooner, the better. He's not like his father. They won't be taking out a chunk of the city. They'll be killing whoever needs killing, that's all, going right for the leaders. It's for the public good, right? These terrorists disturb the peace, kill innocent civilians. That's the Shinra party line, and she's sticking to it. The ones who'll be killed outright are the lucky ones, for political prisoners don't fare well in Shinra's detention centers.

She doesn't care about that. They'll get what's coming to them. Reno has her electro-mag rod in hand. She has a gun, too, but she prefers the solid physical feeling of metal striking heads, the sizzle and tang of electricity. The fighting has moved the streets now. The enemy's scattered, but they're a small group, and it won't be too hard to round them up and eliminate them. She moves through the shadows, quiet, quick, and driven. There are more of them this way, she knows, trying to escape. She can hear their voices, their footsteps, closer with each moment.

It won't be long now.

[[ooc: In this dream, based on wishing that certain unpleasant events never happened, Sephiroth never returned and Shinra, Inc, the corporate government, didn't fall. The Planet is more dystopian than ever, and Rufus Shinra runs a totalitarian dictatorship.

Feel free to fight with the terrorists, aka rebels, to side with the Turks, to get in the way, or to do something else entirely.]]

Tseng's breath was ragged as he stared in to the house. It had been a home, but the door ripped from it's hinges and destroyed furniture wrecked that.

He'd tried so hard to keep the two halves of his life from colliding.

On one hand he was Turk, a killer, a man not opposed to using any means necessary to get the job done. Interns avoided using the elevators alone with him.

On the other, he was a father and a husband. He'd stepped on legos in the dark and smiled at crudely drawn crayon artworks. He'd worn macaroni necklaces.

His professional life had no business invading his private life and ripping it to shreds.

He pulled up a board in the porch and withdrew a crowbar and a heavy looking revolver before pushing inside the house. He had to make sure his family was still alive, and if not... well... whoever it was who'd done this would find themselves on the receiving end of a pissed off Turk Director's wrath.

[OOC: SO. YES. Tseng's wish? Lovely home family, kids, spouse, etc. TOO BAD HE IS A TURK AND THAT IS AN EXPLOITABLE WEAKNESS. He'd never told his family what it was he did for work and someone decided to go after them instead of him directly.]

[For a long moment, there's no sound, no movement. Nephrite just stands in the middle of a long tunnel to a dark cave, staring at his hands and his clothes as if to decide whether or not they're real. His uniform, his powers, the unusual eye and hair color-- they're all back. ...But this is a dream. Of course it is. In reality, he's nothing more than a stupid human now and he is not in the Dark Kingdom anymore. He bares his teeth, ground tight against each other in frustration. This should be a good dream, but all he is... is confused. Confused and angry and maybe even a little jealous.

He wants his role as a Shitennou back-- it's all he has. But he's not so sure he wants to obey Beryl or endure the mockery he's so sure to receive upon returning. With a loud growl, his hands ball into fists and he slams one of them into the nearest rocky surface, spraying dirt and debris.]

Even my own dreams mock me!

Talaria: the winged sandals of the god Hermes (Mercury). Or, in this case, the sleek, dark blue motorcycle currently traveling the Nakasendo Highway at the easy pace of 100 mph. A tribute to Ami's will, the road is smooth and empty enough to run at these speeds. A tribute to the Suzuki Hayabusa, she hasn't even put it through its paces yet.

It's a trip stuck in the past, through the collective memory of Japan for hundreds of years, kissed by a springtime sun. Puddles dot the ground to suggest a recent, fertile rain. The roadway itself seems modern, but the post towns all along it are carefully preserved and restored to the Edo period. She whips past them all.

As her hair flares with the wind, Ami keeps her eyes pointed forward and her speed high. The point isn't where she's going; it's getting away from where she's been.

It had been raining the entire day, since he'd woken up in the morning and even as he was falling to sleep tonight. Constant, non-stop... it was too much like another time and thus when he finally does fall asleep, the dream which comes to life is heavily influenced by the memory of that time and all of the silent hidden fears which are connected to it.

The setting is dark, only a little light coming through the hole high in the ceiling of the cave. There is the sound of water all around, and rain hitting the water, adding to it, slowly but steadily. It's deep enough now, that if he fell off of the bed he was currently using as a makeshift raft to stay afloat on, he would end up possibly drowning. It wasn't that, nor the fact he was quite soaked through and could feel his body temperature dropping due to the combination of the wet clothing and chill air of the cave. What he feared was the dark blackness currently within the water that was staining the side of the bed frame slowly but surely.

It might have been a trick of his eyes, but he was nearly certain it was attempting to climb up over the bed frame and sought to lay claim to him once it did.

The purpose of this room is decidedly obvious; the floor is covered in a thin black mat and blunted weapons hang neatly from one of the walls. Tseng himself stands roughly in the middle of the room, dressed down to his undershirt and his hair tied neatly at the back of his neck. The bench near the wall of weapons holds the rest of his uniform and gun.

He rolls a shoulder, moving in to a few stretches as he waits. Training courses were important, whether it be the introduction or a refresher with someone who'd been fighting their whole life. He'd been assigned to administer this assessment and was now simply waiting for the other to show up.

Five more minutes and they'd be late.