Disclaimer: All characters from Dissidia Final Fantasy and Final Fantasy belong to Square-Enix.
She was the last person he wanted to see here. No one deserved this endless cycle of resurrection and fighting, like those video games he had seen at the Gold Saucer. Yet there she was, resplendent as ever, exuding grace and power in equal measure, just the way he remembered.
She hadn't worn the outfit in almost two years. As the need for combat waned following Sephiroth's defeat on Gaia, so did her need for clothes that provided her with the freedom of movement her combat style demanded. Hence, the change to the black vest, the matching knee-length shorts, and the leather duster that extended from her waist down to her ankles. But this was a world running on—no, existing on—combat, which made sense as to how she was looking as ready for battle as the day they had left for the Sector 5 reactor, before Jenova, before Meteor, before Sephiroth.
Sephiroth.
Now, him he had expected to see. There was no way this war of the gods would play out without him and the One-Winged Angel attempting to decimate each other in some capacity. But by some insane twist of fate, he found himself allied with the rogue former SOLDIER. Somehow, Sephiroth had not recognised him, and beyond a thin smirk of dismissal, had not betrayed the slightest interest in who he was or the world he had come from, which suited him just fine. He had distanced himself from the others—a gathering of what could best be described as armoured colossi and grinning madmen, except for the slight waif of a mage girl and the sunny athlete—and went his own way. The other mage, the androgynous-looking one with feathers for hair, had briefly accosted him, but for the most part, he kept to himself, and they reciprocated by ignoring him, his standoffish, perpetually disinterested manner a deterrent for even the most megalomaniacal villains which they undoubtedly were, given the demonic deity they were currently serving.
Despite all this, he had managed to stay under their radar. He had fought a few from the other side—for one, that military woman with the unique weapon and the strawberry pink hair, whose uncannily rigid expression reminded him of himself—but the monsters he served with had left him alone thus far.
So when he stumbled across Sephiroth threatening her in this amalgam reality's version of the Northern Crater, he had cursed aloud after the initial shock wore off. Fate did have a twisted sense of humour with bringing him back into the fold. Shinra, Meteor, Kadaj, now this war, he always somehow found himself in the center of it.
"What would happen if I cut you down? Would your fall serve to unlock even deeper memories? It's worth a try, don't you think?"
That damned bass voice, cruel, methodical, heartless. Like the mad angel from which it issued.
He had initially prayed to whoever might be listening that the woman was an Imitation. But no Imitation would speak and fight the way she did. For one, the Imitations were monochromatic, beings of crystal with not so much as a trace of the humanity the originals possessed. And, given the…side he was fighting for now, they'd never attack him, but he had observed enough battles to know their ferocity towards Cosmos' chosen. Even as he spotted the tiny scar on her right shoulder—a leftover from the battle against Bahamut SIN—he knew it was her.
Tifa Lockhart.
And not just a version of her, unlike this replicated puzzle piece of the Northern Crater he was currently descending as quickly as his enhanced legs could carry him. No, this was the Tifa he had left behind in Edge when plucked from existence to serve alongside the other warriors in some cosmic chess game. The Tifa with whom he had painstaking built a life with, alongside Marlene and Denzel, the very home he had walked away from and returned to after Kadaj's gang. The Tifa who had fought alongside and stood by him all these years, and with whom he was finally, finally, ready to accept that he belonged with. The one person he'd fight the world to save.
"Sephiroth! Stop!"
"Hmph. A little late to the party, aren't you, Cloud?"
Almost as if to provoke him, Sephorith thrust his sword arm forward, bringing the tip of his ludicrously long blade Masamune, closer—Gaia, so damned close-to Tifa's cheek.
She flinched, but he saw her fists tighten, preparing to continue their fight.
Even so, knowing she could damn well protect herself, this was Sephiroth they were facing.
So he found himself crying out involuntarily, all pretense of stoicism forgotten.
"NO!"
A flick of the wrist, and the Buster Sword appeared in his hands. By some odd magic in this reality, their weapons could be summoned. But he had long stopped questioning the workings of the realm. He just wanted to end the cycles of war.
And he was going to start with the madman in front of him, just as it had been in their world. Chaos' side or not, his path in the conflict was clear.
Sephiroth barely turned his head.
"Raising a blade against me? Very well, you leave me little choice."
Still, despite his warning, Sephiroth kept his back to him. Waiting for him to make the first strike.
Fine, he'd oblige.
As always before battle ensued, he pressed the Buster Sword's flat side against his forehead. It was a ritual he had long abandoned with the First Tsurugi, but given that he, like Tifa, was clad in his old modified SOLDIER uniform, complete with the Buster Sword in hand, it felt right.
He glanced over Sephiroth and locked gazes with Tifa, saw her brown eyes widen not with fear, or even apprehension, but recognition. They'd have to talk later, after they survived.
If they survived.
Zack Fair's words rang in his head, as clear as the day he heard them from his friend's dying lips in the rain.
You'll be…my living legacy. My honor, my dreams, they're yours now.
I won't forget.
And with a snarl, Cloud charged.