A/N: I think I can only write depressing things. That can't be good =(
Anyhow... I don't own FFVII. SquareSoftEnix does. And I make no profit from this. (I'm not repeating that every update)
If I did own this, well.... It wouldn't be rated T, and world peace would be achieved~

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It's not like nobody ever talks. Somewhere out there, there's this reassuring disembodied voice just chatting it up, screeching in mellow tones about the good of the world and the saviors who wrought justice for the whole fucked up imaginary sewer they live in. But that doesn't exactly change much does it?

Cloud Strife lived paycheck to paycheck, raising kids that weren't his own with a girl he didn't love in the shadow of a town that Edge had become. He rode a bike and delivered goods to people he didn't know from strangers he'd never met and made less than minimum wage a week. His house was his shop, his garage his study, and his backyard an alley filled with refuse and soiled water. So when he answers the cell phone he never wanted, with the bill he dreads each month, and nods his head as the voice dictates some such nonsense as his own inability to press it's buttons and speak into it for long periods of time multiple times a week… he just keeps on fazing it out. Just keeps on….

He needs out. An escape. Hope. Help. Hell. Something.
Cloud needs a reason to keep moving. Keep breathing. To not die.

To die.

So he hangs up. He drives 'home' and parks the bike, and dropping his money and loot on the pavement before his house that is her bar and their everything. He unloads everything he doesn't need and some things he probably does and just stares as his hands are emptied, outstretched over a glittering pile of things sitting sadly on the gray. And, just as soon as he has come, the smaller girl is there probing with words and eyes and curiously prodding the shine with her shoe and all he can think is it's done. The woman knows his PIN and has his safe combination. She earns enough for herself and the children. And with that he quits. They'll be fine. They'll be….

Superb.

So he leaves. Brings down his arms, turns around, remounts the metal beast and flees. The shrill shriek means nothing. The banter he'll avoid is for naught. He just… Leaves.

And that's where Zack finds him, if Zack's still even there where he might've once been if he'd actually followed. But then wouldn't his mentor be there too? And even if no one's there, it's a place for the blonde to let go and just be. No demands, no words, no need for anything, least of all tears. But that's all he's brought; all he bears. And if his dearest friend were somehow still there, that most certainly would be all it took before the comforting and safety and relief began. But it won't because he's not because Cloud watched him get shot down and then abandoned him, leaving him to die alone alone alone all alone.

But is this really enough?

This… this saving the world. How does doing that rectify the past, fix what he's broken, undo what he's done. Millions have died for knowing him, without knowing why or how.
If someone different had gone, someone better, his true home would still be real, not some farce established by the soulless machinations of the worlds most dominating family. Zack Fair would still be alive. Going back further, someone better could have helped stop Genesis and prevented Angeal from breaking Zack. Three lives right there. Sephiroth wouldn't have snapped or would've been stopped. Four souls and a village. Avalanche wouldn't have blown all those reactors. Reno wouldn't have taken out the plate. Children corrupted. Sviets created. Deepground born. Millions hurt or killed or changed somehow because of him.

He'd caused a ripple. An evil, evil ripple.

Aerith would still be growing flowers. Dating Zack. Teasing the Turks.

Everyone everywhere would do everything so differently. And yet here he was, sobbing in the dry summer heat on the desert ledge where he's planted the sword of his only true friend, gifted by his mentor in a manner just as horrific. And here he was now planting his own. Right there. Right next to it. Firmly into the arid soil, cracking through rocks and clay until it wedged firmly into the Planet. Turning back to the machine he'd brought, Cloud landed a solid punch in the mirror closest to him, pulling back his bleeding gloved hand and plucking the largest sliver he could find from its metal frame.

And so he sat. On the ground. Beside the memorial he felt no reason for clinging to, had no right to intrude upon, and certainly no right to sully as such. Gently, oh so gently, he peeled of his gloves, nesting them by the bike with a grave look and a somber, muted sigh. This was for the best. For everyone. He was… a hindrance. A nuisance. Causation for catastrophe. Disaster.

He'd caused a ripple - an evil, evil ripple. After all, isn't that what putrid little rocks do?

And as he'd been shown he cut deep and straight, perfect lines with varied weight down both arms and through his wrists, and when he finished, he began to wait. And wait. And wait. Until he didn't have to wait anymore.

When Cloud Strife died, all that was found were his sword, planted firmly, his gloves, and Fenrir.

When Cloud Strife died, no one was there to take him away.