THE KILLING HAND

PART I

"The reality of the other person lies not in what he reveals to you, but what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says, but rather to what he does not say."

– Kahlil Gibran

CHAPTER ONE

Tifa usually avoided Central Park like the plague.

It wasn't that she didn't like the park; in fact, she'd been a vocal advocate for its construction. She'd suffered enough smog and pollution and industrial waste to last a lifetime during her years in the slums of Midgar. A park with actual green grass (not artificial turf), trees and flowers…It seemed like a distant dream come true. Certainly, the peals of carefree children laughter that floated to the heavens were a living testament to the wonders of life. So of course Tifa had thought that Central Park would be a great idea when it came up on Edge's city council agenda.

Reeve and the fledgling organization he headed up were doing an excellent job with creating a functional city council for Edge, and the new city was looking promising indeed. She and the rest of the team (even Vincent, to her surprise) had come to champion the bill that would authorize the construction of three public parks. It wasn't until they were all gathered in her newly renovated Seventh Heaven to celebrate the passing of the bill afterwards that she realized that maybe they'd all backed the bill for the same reason: a tribute to the woman who could grow anything, even love.

To everyone's surprise, Tifa hadn't support the other tribute that was brought up during the council meeting. The tribute to the hero who sacrificed everything, even his life. They thought that maybe she was unhappy that they were erecting a statue of him right in the middle of the proposed central park. They thought that maybe she was uncomfortable with the tribute to the flower girl and to the soldier being so close together, but no one dared voice it.

After all, they all knew that in the end, it was Tifa who held his heart. She marveled at how close to the literal truth that actually was.

Tifa didn't say anything to contest the foolish notion that she was jealous. Let them think what they will. There was no reason to explain that it was guilt she felt, not envy.

Every time she set eyes on that larger-than-life likeness elevated on a slab of thick granite, the hollow cavity in her chest expanded and pressed against her lungs until she thought that the void would swallow her whole. It never did, and she always thought it a pity.

She'd learned to avoid the statue, and in doing so, it only seemed natural that she began to avoid the park altogether. No need risking her wayward body taking her straight to the statue regardless of what her mind commanded—which was exactly what happened every time she set foot in Central Park. When she went on her daily run, she chose to go instead to West Park, even though that one was a good distance further.

But today's encounter was inevitable. Today was the second anniversary of the Day that Meteor Did Not Fall. It wasn't actually called that, of course. They called it Deliverance Day (she thinks it's supposed to be a reference to Aerith's hand in the salvation of the world), but to her, that day had not been deliverance. The Day that Meteor Did Not Fall was as positive a description as she dared to give. At the very least, it was a step up from calling it Damnation Day.

So yes, today was the Day that Meteor Did Not Fall, and she was expected at the memorial ceremony along with the rest of the "heroes." She didn't want to be a hero; she wasn't one, but the people needed a symbol of hope. She thought it was pathetic that the best symbols the world could dredge up included a barmaid, a trumped up thief, an eco-terrorist, an endangered animal, an ex-Turk, and a stuffed fortune-telling toy cum Shinra executive, but who was she to criticize? Just because they found hope where she had none was no reason to be bitter.

She shook her head and laughed at herself. Just listen to her. She was becoming more and more jaded by the minute. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that it was surprising she hadn't succumbed to the darkness earlier.

She didn't know how, but in the first year after the Day, she'd managed to stay positive and encouraging. Perhaps it was because the whole damned world was still reeling from nearly going to hell in a hand-basket, and everyone was too busy rebuilding their lives.

As people started to settle down and resume some semblance of normality, her thoughts contrarily grew more insidious.

What are you doing, Tifa? Why are you still here? You've achieved your goal; you've told his story. Why are you still here?

She tried to ignore the clinging darkness and immersed herself in work, but they were always there creeping into her thoughts, especially in the deepest night when she had only her mind to accompany her. Some nights when they got really bad, she'd climb into Marlene's bed and pretend that she was comforting the little girl, when in reality she just needed a human touch to remind her that she hadn't been absorbed into the glowing green world that hovered always at the edges of her consciousness.

Somehow Tifa knew that Marlene understood. She doesn't know how, especially when the girl had just turned six, but she did. Whenever she woke up to see Tifa curled around her body, Marlene would always stare at her with big brown eyes.

"It was a bad nightmare last night," she would say.

It wasn't a question, and to everyone else it would sound like Marlene was the one with the nightmares. Tifa knew better, so she would just nod. "Yes, it was."

Sometimes Tifa couldn't tell the difference between nightmare and reality. At least with nightmares, she knew she could escape. She could escape into the waking world and spend the next eighteen to twenty hours working herself ragged. Sometimes she was tired enough that she didn't dream.

But reality…there was no escaping reality and sometimes that was so much worse.

She passed by a number of families along the way to the mid-sized amphitheater (right near the statue, she remembered wryly) and though she managed a pleasant smile for their sakes—many of them patronized her bar and grill, and still others were parents of Marlene's friends—the coil of dread twisting her insides just kept growing.

She couldn't do this. She wanted to run away. But her footsteps brought her closer and closer to this living nightmare.

…

The man sneers inwardly—though anyone who might be watching him would only see the visage of cool beauty—when he sees the monument located so prominently in the middle of Cental Park which is also right in the middle of the city.

Symbolic? He doesn't doubt that it is meant to be.

"So the puppet is hailed as a hero, is he?" he murmurs, his eyes flashing with malice. Such beautiful irony. It tastes like ashes in his mouth.

…

Tifa was wrong when she said this was a nightmare. This was worse; it was hell.

She didn't know what Reeve was thinking when he so unceremoniously shoved her on stage and thrust a microphone in front of her. He wanted her to give a speech? About what? The least he could have done was giving her some forewarning. But maybe he knew that if he did that, she would have refused and not shown up at all.

She couldn't do this. For the first time in years, she felt panic welling up uncontrollably, her hands shaking with adrenaline. All her life she'd favored "fight," but right now, damned if she didn't want to concede to her "flight" instinct.

Distantly, she noted that she had perhaps twenty seconds before the crowd stopped applauding to hear what words of wisdom would come from her sagely lips. Twenty seconds to think of something appropriate to say, that wouldn't result in her upsetting everyone or being dragged off to the asylum (she didn't think Edge even had an asylum). Twenty seconds to control this mad maelstrom of emotions threatening to cripple her with its intensity.

Her eyes jumped about in the crowd, and though she knew there should be a number of familiar faces, all she could see was a blur of flesh-colored blobs topped with an assortment of different colored hair. She thought she made out the faces of her friends, but she couldn't keep her vision from spinning long enough to be sure.

Then everything stopped when she locked gazes with him.

It was as if someone cast a massive Stop spell. No, it was even more surreal than that. It was like they were the objects of some artist's brush, and reality was limited to his canvas. The foliage ran together like oils and she felt that her expression of astonishment would be frozen on her forever. Perhaps this portrait of her weakness would be hung on the wall of some deity's home, there for them to laugh and mock and scorn.

The intensity in those eyes sucked the breath out of her. A ghost, a vision? A phantom sprung from her worst nightmares? No? A demon from the depths of hell then.

After all, he was here. And it could only be impossible.

"Cloud."

As soon as she whispered his name, the rest of the world came crashing back to her. The crowd had stopped clapping for some time now and she could see from the expressions of Barret and the rest that they were anxious for her.

She frantically scanned the crowds for him again, but she couldn't find him. No tell-tale spikes of blond hair. No passionate blue eyes. No sculpted masculine beauty that made her very soul ache.

Maybe he was never there to begin with.

She didn't know why, but strangely that brief sight—vision?—of him filled her with a sense of delicious peace. She suddenly knew what she wanted to say.

"Cloud Strife was my best friend. He lost his life in the battle for this world, and so many times during these past two years I've felt like I would never recover. And so I drowned my sorrow in work. I tried to regain everything I'd lost. I've even rebuilt my bar. I've worked with Reeve and many of you to build a better world. And in many respects, we've succeeded. We've managed to construct a safe city for our children, complete with beautiful parks like this one. We've resumed something of a normal life. And it's been amazing to see that life does go on.

"But…as wonderful as all these things have been, I can't help but feel like we never gave ourselves time to mourn. We've all spent these years working hard, and I know that for myself, part of the reason I worked so hard was to forget the pain of loss. Today…today is a happy day because we remember that our world, that we were spared. But it is also a day of mourning because we remember that many lives were sacrificed over the course of salvation.

"So, as I stand here today, I'd like to take this time to remember our loved ones. Remember and mourn. And then we can smile because that is what they would have wanted for us. For Cloud and Aerith."

She stepped away from the microphone, not realizing until Barret enfolded her in a bone-crushing hug that her whole body was shaking. The crowds had erupted into applause and many had tears streaming down their faces, memories of loved ones causing a tidal wave of emotions.

Her friends had surrounded her and took turns hugging her, but she went through the motions in a daze. In her mind's eyes, all she could see was Cloud's face staring at her from the crowds.

…

The Seventh Heaven had a steady stream of customers trickling in and out. Some of them were here to celebrate the Day with their families, but most just wanted to take the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the world's saviors.

Her friends were making it easy for her customers, what with Barret, Cid and Yuffie holding some sort of drinking competition while Cait Sith egged them on with his megaphone. Reeve, at a distance from his alter ego, sat at a corner table with some of the other officials discussing the next round of improvements they could make for Edge. Congruous to his taciturn self, Vincent sat on a stool a fair distance away—far enough to claim he had nothing to do with them but close enough to see everything go down. Poor Red was being poked and prodded at by the children running around in the dining area.

They were enjoying themselves and letting loose for this one day in the year. If only Tifa could rid herself of the feeling that something—someone—was missing.

A distant part of Tifa's mind remembered to be thankful for the hustle and bustle which aided in her endeavor to bury the afternoon's incidents far in the back of her memory. She'll take it out to examine later, but for now, she needed the busyness of taking orders, making the drinks and delivering them to prevent her from descending into hysteria.

If she wasn't there already, that is.

Every now and then as she traversed one edge of the bar to the other, a flash of brilliant cobalt would hover at the edge of her vision and the shortest glimpse of flaxen hair would tease her with its ephemerality. Ghosts of a vision. Phantoms of an overworked and overwrought brain.

Hysterical? Perhaps not, but mad. Definitely straddling the line of madness. Straddling or falling headlong over it? She couldn't decide, and realized it didn't really matter. Her life was one blind, stumbling step in front of the other, after all.

God, she really needed to lay off the alcohol tonight. It always made her so damned emotional.

And that, she realized with a self-debasing grin, made her sound like a drunk.

She was just returning from delivering another round of drinks to the rowdy crowd when Vincent's low voice made her pause.

"You should take a break. You make me tired just watching you run around like that."

Tifa stared at him, but she couldn't tell if he was trying to be humorous when he said that or not. One could never really tell with Vincent, especially with his high-necked collar hiding half of his face.

He saved her from making a suitable response. "That was quite the speech you gave today."

"Thank you," she replied graciously even though the memory of the speech only reminded her of the blue eyes that had sparked it caused her stomach to roll uncomfortably.

"It sounded like you are finally beginning to let go of your guilt."

Tifa stiffened her shoulders automatically, tensing for a fight even though she knew it was a pointless response. Vincent's blood-red eyes seemed to dig too deeply into her psyche and she suppressed the urge to deck him. If anyone knew about guilt, Vincent was the man, and it disturbed her to think that he could spot the culpability she'd tried so hard to hide.

He mercilessly refused to let her drop either her gaze or the subject. Damn the man. Of all the times for him to start getting chummy with his former teammates, this was the last instance she wanted it to happen.

"Guilt is an insidious parasite, is it not?" he murmured, finally dropping his searching stare to rest of his tumbler of amber brandy. When he lifted his eyes back to hers, the probing gaze was gone; all that was left was a kind of wry amusement, something almost kind. "It is good to let go."

She nodded stiffly, even though she wanted to burst into maniacal laughter. Let go? She'd been running from it for so long that it wasn't a matter of her letting go, but of it letting go of her.

Afraid Vincent would see too much—afraid he already did—she ducked her head and slipped behind the bar to mix the next round of orders. After another hour of tensing up every time Vincent moved (which, thankfully was not very often), Tifa finally began to relax again. Vincent didn't mean anything by his comments. Not anything more than normal consolation, anyway.

She had almost completely convinced herself of this when Marlene's high laughter filtered through the loud buzz of her customers. Marlene reached the swinging bar door an instant before her friend, Denzel, and she chattered away happily. Tifa didn't hear a single word because her attention caught and held on the man who Denzel eagerly towed behind him.

Her numbed ears picked up stray words from her young ward like "Denzel's cousin" and "awesome motorcycle," but all she heard was the screaming roar starting in the back of her brain and threatening to crush her whole.

Cloud.