Below the Empyrean, above the material...

I fly with the stars in the sky:
I am no longer tryin’ to survive.

It had been evening when they landed and unloaded the truck. The dock crew had been forceful imploring them to get a room for the night, but “the girls” had taken off through the mountains anyway. The further they traveled, the more wreckage they had seen: landforms split, forests leveled, homes destroyed--life itself was hurting. How could they take a bed and rest in a time like this?

They had agreed to take turns sleeping in the back of the truck, but only Marlene followed through. She snoozed curled up on their bags as Shelke and Shera worked on the life support unit that would help them bring Lucrecia back to their plane.

( I believe that life is a prize )

A/N: Dedicated to the lady engineers and scientists in my life, particularly the ones that had to put parts of their life on hold just to get by. Particularly to crankyoldman  who is my Shera when it's Girl's Night.

And it’s still fuck the media:
They ridiculed you, never believed in you.
They just deaded you, left you in all black.

Shera set down the phone receiver with a careful, silent movement. Her mind was whirling. This plan... bringing a dead woman back to life, essentially. And what a woman. Scarlet had told Shera stories when she first started at Shinra, whispers about Dr. Crescent, the trailblazing heroine. While some went on about her torrid love life, or gossiped about what really ended her, amid the muck and name-calling was the fact that would stand: she was a damn fine scientist, with a will like steel and an ambition as bright as stars.

Or... had been. Once.

( You got your fans waiting.... )

A/N: cheated! This single came from an Australian release: Girls Fall like Dominos.

“I don’t... believe this.” Elfe stood on a pile of rubble, watching Chaos tear up the Costan coastline. In her hand was a field report on Emerald Weapon, sighted mere hours ago by a WRO platoon. Uniforms ran past her in hasty, scattered retreat. Ghosts walking. Big, bad ghosts.

“It’s... unreal.” Vincent walked up behind her, footfalls no heavier than smoke. Even from her elevated position, her head wasn’t much over his.

“Yeah. He’s supposed to be asleep.” Her bad hand itched as the monster stepped closer. She scratched it on the hilt of her katana, a weapon noticeably out of place against the tailored business suit of the reformed ShinRa’s vice president, but something she would never let go of.

“And... within me...” Vincent growled dramatically.

Elfe simply nodded and frowned. “This is a little bigger than an ‘incident.’ And it’s not Jenova. It’s almost like, you know, the planet itself is going crazy.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe it’s had it with us. But who would know? And what do we do about it? Do you have a materia whisperer up your sleeve?”

Materia whisperer. He was trying to be funny again, Elfe guessed. The corner of her mouth twitched in a smile. But he had a point: they had no Cetra, and the known human WEAPON hybrids had only tenuous connections to the Lifestream.

Materia whisperer. Elfe seemed obtuse and clumsy with details, but in reality, she was keenly observant, but with a warrior’s focus. Extraneous information was filed away for the proper moment. ‘I swear, this woman must have been made of materia the way she talks about it.’ Shelke’s words sprung into Elfe’s head. Maybe...

Her cocked eyebrow caught Vincent’s attention. “Did you think of something?”

“Yeah.” A plan was definitely forming now. And, knowing the history involved here, the players, she knew just who to ask for help.

“What do you need?”

I’mma need sixty-nine real bad girls for my tour bus.

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII Compilation
Characters (this chapter): Lucrecia (Star), Genesis
Warnings: Violence
Author's Notes: Result of too many late night conversations, too many hours spent dwelling on a minor fictional character, spending too much time with Dante and his pompous poetry (you're not the only one, Gen, are you happy?), and a lot of lovely influences who probably know precisely who they are. The typist takes no responsibility for the words contained herein--though she promises future chapters will be less angsty. Sometimes. She's... not sure what else you expected, really. If you wanted something fluffy.. she has a pink genetically engineered fuzzy wumpkins for you? Otherwise, you truly are SOL, my friend.

( Now just to wait until the end of the world—CRASH. )