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A soft chanting emerges from the Church. The windows lit with candles. The air filled with incense. "BARRET, BARRET, BARRET" The chanting grows...The ceremony begins and you are invited to the Church of Barret.

While swathed in ivory, silken bedsheets of a well-kempt bedchamber Rufus himself hadn’t slumbered in for over three years, a sweltering heat had come over him while he dreamt. Really, it wasn’t often that his subconscious stirred something into his mind’s sleeping theater.

Eldritch images of a dilapidated church passed wickedly through his bothered attention, and disembodied, impassioned voices chanted a bisyllabic name that he couldn’t recall why he knew. Their din was increasing in volume. His thin lips parted to better suck in his breaths, and sheer sweat coated his face, melting the icy veneer of his composure.

It was as if flame were only inches away from his well-sculpted nose.

And at once, he startled awake, pulling his auxiliary pistol out from beneath his king’s pillow. It was aimed at the door: nothing. It was aimed at the wide window-paneling that nearly spanned the entire western wall of his bedroom: nothing. At the ceiling: nothing.

If Rufus Shinra hadn’t the sensual acuity of a hawk, he might have missed the cream-colored cardstock laying in his lap. Across its unblemished face was written in an ostentatious scrawl: “The Church of Barret. You are invited.”

Still recovering equilibrium of his breathing, he only glared down at it for a moment, his chest heaving. And then with a final gasp for air, he narrowed his eyes, dropping his gun-arm back toward his sheets.

He said not a word, but disgust was distinct on his face.

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