.8.

He could not stay. They both knew it.

Aerith tended his wounds gently, humming all the while, her delicate touch ghosting over his hands as she wrapped them in bandages yet again. Mr. White listened to the tune and stared at the girl. She looked exactly like the young woman from his dreams, the one whom was slain by an unseen force. Her emerald eyes were cheery and full of life. Her long brunette locks were tied back in a braid. And she was garbed in a dreadful pink thing that she likely considered a dress.

"Three years," Mr. White muttered as the girl finished.

"Much can happen in that time," Aerith told him, betraying the reasoning behind the strained smile she wore.

Knowing nothing else to ask or say, he dropped his gaze. The young woman looked to be on the verge of tears.

"M-my boyfriend went missing about the same time you did," she began with a quivering voice and a sniff. "He said it was just a short mission. The weeks went by…I haven't received a letter from him in…I'm sorry, I shouldn't be all choked up about this. But, you remind me so much of him."

Startled, Mr. White shot her an inquisitive look.

"You see, he was a SOLDIER. And he did not talk much about his job, but the slum folk whisper enough to fill in the details." Aerith stepped away and knelt on the ground, peeling away a floorboard as she did so. A few seconds later and she held a poster. On it were two figures. One was the teen that stopped to talk to Mr. White. The other was a mysterious man, clad in black, his most striking feature his impossibly long fall of silver hair.

Silver.

"You look kind of like the legendary SOLDEIR Sephiroth." She drew the poster to her chest. "And…rumor has it that Sephiroth went missing three years ago. The same time Zack went on his mission and…never came home. I miss him."

Mr. White bristled at the name Sephiroth. It was whom Hojo had accused him of being an imperfect copy of. Slowly, he reached up and touched his shoulder length hair. Tracing his brow line, he discovered that his bangs "arched" in a most unusual way, much like the ones belonging to the man on the poster. No. Bad thoughts. He was not Sephiroth nor his copy, because being either apparently was a dangerous occupation.

Agitated, he stood. Aerith offered him an understanding smile.

"You'll be healed up in no time," she reached out with one hand and touched his arm. "Until you do recover, you'll need some place to stay." The girl paused in thought. "I hear there is a bar opening in Sector Seven. Maybe you can get a job there and stay at one of the inns. I'd offer to let you sleep in the church, but…I have a feeling that would be a poor idea."

Given the fact that the Turks were likely at his heels, Mr. White quite agreed.

"But, before you go, I'd suggest finding…um. New clothes." The ones he was wearing reeked of mako and were for some unfathomable reason stained with blood. Not a good first impression to make. "And…good luck." She suddenly lunged forwards and wrapped her dainty arms around his waist. "I have a sinking feeling that you'll need it."

tbc

A/N:

Word Count: 565