JULY 12, 2001.
"You're Edea, right? Edea Kramer?"

Edea turns to see a young man in a dark suit smiling over at her from one table over. He waves as if she isn't looking directly at him, and then looks at his hand sheepishly. She smiles.

"I am," she says. "Have we met?"

"Oh--oh, no--well, maybe!" he laughs, rubbing his neck. "I've been following your work. You and your husband's, with the Garden program."

Edea dips her head in acknowledgment. "Are you a SeeD graduate?"

"Me?" He laughs again and takes a drink of water. "No. No, I missed the cutoff for enrollment at Midgarden. May I?" he adds, standing up and gesturing at the empty seat at her table. "Your husband isn't joining you, is he?"

Edea hesitates--Midgar--but lifts her hand graciously at the chair. The man smiles gratefully and, picking up his paper and briefcase with a clumsiness that sends red all up his neck and ears, scrambles between their tables and into the seat. ( Edea can't place his age. At first she would have said no older than twenty, but now that he's closer, she can see the beginnings of smile lines around his mouth, and dark circles under his eyes. Twenty-five, perhaps. )

It has been years since he's seen the sun.

Consciousness comes in fits, like a fever. He has spent so long looking through someone else's eyes, he has almost forgotten what his own are like. Sight comes back in a haze of fluorescent green. A respirator covers his nose and mouth. His body--his body, yes, his own--floats weightless in that same green mass, buoyed up in semi-viscous gel. He can feel his hands, long-fingered, not as dexterous as they used to be. His heart thuds against his ribs. He isn't sure how long he's been healed, how long they've kept him under. He isn't sure what finally rouses him, after all this time. His eyes blink slowly, trying to in his surroundings.

The area is dark. He can't make out much between the murky green liquid and the dim room. But there, across the way: another splash of green in the darkness. Another half-healed body, encased in metal plates. ( He exhales into the respirator, a breath he has been holding for six years. )