tell all by frooit
ffvii au - zack/cloud (primarily)
part ten
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Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd Class - Location: Tier, fishing town
Zack sleeps uneasily that night, be he does sleep some.
Even after a hot shower, another cigarette and something solid to eat, he still couldn't bring his racing thoughts under control. He spread out on the floor and worried.
Cloud was out as soon as he finished cleaning him up and reset him on the loveseat. Too worn out from the thick of it. He's in the very same position he left him the night before: upright against the seat back, feet on their heels, legs stretched out. He didn't adjust or turn his head. He still looks just as withered. Like an orphan boy with his head sash and torn clothes. A snatch of shut eye isn't going to cure him. He's going to need something stronger down the road.
Zack really doesn't want to wake him yet, but. He gets close, leaning over, hand braced on arm rest. He can hear his steady breathing, feel his radiant heat, and even smell him, the sweat stuck deep down in his threads. Maybe he's gone feverish again. He puts his free hand to Cloud's forehead. It's warm but not hot. He lingers longer than necessary, notes his soft features and smooth skin and long lashes; the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw.
"How is he?"
Cid's packing up a haggard brown pack thrown onto the bed.
"He's fine," Zack answers, removing the hand.
"Good. Wake him. We're outta here in five."
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They have to borrow a pair of sandals from Cid for Cloud. After they took off his stylish lady boots in the inn's room the night before, his leg and foot were too swollen and tender to put them back on again. Neither Zack nor Cloud mourned the loss of the article. The woman that had watched their coming from the balcony gave Zack a slab of cheese, a loaf of bread and a thermos of coffee for them anyway.
All things considered, they haven't made out too badly. Cloud is being characteristically quiet, their stomachs are full, and Zack isn't feeling so worn out thanks to the warm drink and the decent night's rest. He even has cigarettes and a lighter and cell phone signal. The thing wasn't dead after all. If it holds out to Midgar they might be able to contact Kunsel.
Cid said he'd have them to the badlands surrounding Midgar by sundown or later that evening. That's a long jaunt. About a whole day, he warned them. They'd have to hoof it to the city though. He said he doesn't have good relations there.
They leave the inn and small town to hunker down in Cid's truck bed, as wide as a house (he was correct), and wait the trip out. The truck bounces along, huge tires barreling over small rocks and boulders, fording streams and swamp land alike. They're far up off the ground, watching the scenery spin by indifferently.
The machine is a beast. Peeled yellow paint defines the unusually tiny cab, black smoke pours from a thick exhaust pipe. The rest of it is truck bed steel guarded on either side and ribbed on the floor. A skeletal frame built for canvas (but missing the canvas) stretches over them where they sit. Two rocket casings positioned behind the cab stick out far beyond this skeletal frame's span.
Zack sways and bumps. Cloud does the same. They take great care in keeping his leg suspended, but he winces all the same.
The hours stack up. Hours without words passing between them.
It's not unwelcome. They each get to collect their thoughts respectively. For Zack, that might take a few revisits. He's not sure how he feels about crashing twice. Should he be feeling indestructible (he did come through with little to no injuries)... or like the unluckiest bum alive?
Cloud lost an eye and broke a leg. You could chalk that up to his fragile makeup. Maybe he just needs to drink more milk. And to stop worrying. He's worrying right now. Look at him.
If this works, Zack's plan, his resolution, then he'll teach him not to be so uptight. He'll teach him to relax and unwind. He'll teach him to spit and punch. He'll teach him right from wrong.
At length, as the light drains low, they start seeing less and less of trees and green things. The grade smooths and becomes flat. The land turns brown and dusty. There might still be living things out there but they're mostly twisted and more like undead hands reaching up from underneath than trees. It doesn't reassure good thoughts. It doesn't breed good mind sets.
The light is nearly gone by the time Cid stops the truck and cuts the engine. He hangs out his door and yells back to them, giving a thumbs up. They get the idea and hop down. Zack has to half catch, half pull Cloud down from the height, and he looks ruffled and indignant as a result.
To Zack's surprise, Cid has jumped down from the rig as well and is waiting for them around the front, lit by glaring headlights. He's probably sober by now. He looks a little younger even in the harsh yellow-white, maybe in his mid-thirties. A wire of a man.
"Got something here," he mumbles. He doesn't give Zack the chance to dispute, he simply slaps a small something into his palm. "What I got left over."
It's a plastic card. In large font, printed across the face: 200 gil.
Zack is incredulous. "You don't need—"
Cid barks a laugh. "Hey, hey. I figure, I've got a warm bed to go home to. I figure, I've got a truck, and a business, and a woman. You know? I figure, at the end of the night, I'm not wondering if I'll be alive the next morning."
"Thank you," Cloud says first.
"Yeah, thanks." Zack repeats, meaning it.
"Don't spend it all in one place," Cid jokes, and he laughs once more.
They step well back from the truck as he fires it up.
He's off their radar in minutes, rumbling back in the direction they came.
"I like him better than the last one," Zack has to say.
Cloud shakes his head.
The last daylight is gone. It's immediately black.
"Whoa."
Zack turns to follow Cloud's voice.
It's Midgar in the distance. The city looks sick.
"And we're going there," Zack confirms.
"Yeah, thanks," Cloud groans.
Zack tries not to feel bad about that and fails.
He takes a good breath in, shoulders back, spine straight, and exhales.
"Let's go then," he says.
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It becomes steadily brighter as they gain on Midgar. The city is quite large. A plate covering a hidden city underneath. She's green all around because of towers tipped with streaming mako. All the excess just shoots off into the atmosphere like a mist, like breath mint spray. Many think they're poisoning the air, killing the planet, and it's hard not to think they're doing something wrong, given the state of the sucked dry land around them.
If they had to storm the city, they'd be spotted miles off. There's literally nothing to hide behind in the badlands. A few red boulders maybe, but mostly just flatness, dryness, and destitution.
Zack's thankful it's night. They might be gaining sure enough, but it's still slow going. He carries Cloud on his back a distance. He's starting to get tired.
"Can we stop?" It's Cloud's inquiry.
"Sure," Zack answers. It'll give him the chance to rest and light a cigarette.
He crouches with his partner and watches the city. There's definitely a fanfare going on out there. Airships float closely by, high up near the upper plates and tower. Flood lights spin and turn, shining off the floating things above. Distantly you can hear music, a crowd. Something insanely upbeat. The random firework pops and fades.
"What are we doing? Exactly."
Zack takes a drag and puffs out through his nose. Two jets sail and fade. "We'll get up there, we'll enter the city. Have to stay in the slums though, for now. Get a room, stay low."
"You said something about a friend?"
"Yeah. That's Kunsel. He might be able to help us."
Cloud is regarding his leg now, distracted. He's holding it with both hands, just steady there, not feeling or moving, like he's stopping it from trying to get away, or getting worse.
"Does it hurt much?" Zack would use the restore again, but it's sketchy where they are, so close to the city. With no cover, the glow from the thing might attract attention. What kind of attention is up for grabs, but any attention at this point certainly isn't welcome.
"No, it's alright," Cloud answers.
Zack's sure as shit that's a lie.
A particularly loud firework booms.
They, him and Cid, set the bone hours ago to Cloud's bitten back screams. They needed two people to do it. Used the wood left over from their busted airship to make a splint, and rope to tie and secure it. He can't really muck it up anymore than it already is, but it's not exactly getting the treatment it needs. It should be looked at and he should be properly medicated.
Two and a half hours later, by Zack's internal clock, they reach the city.
The entrance from ground level isn't anything fancy. Nothing grand or welcoming, just an industrial sized glass sliding door striped with hazard paint, red on white. There's a number 06 above the door in yellow. They don't guard or watch these doors anymore.
It used to be different years ago. You had to have a valid I.D. and papers. You had to prove your excellence. The security cameras are still hanging around, pointed down at them as they approach. Their eyes are long dead and glassy, but unblinking just the same.
Today, all you have to do is walk in.
The fanfare and music has died to a minor fizzle in the air. No one disrupts their going. People are moving around sure enough, but they're milling about trash can fires. Nearly all of them wear white surgical masks. They're picking at bits of broken machinery, burning plastic housings, thin metal casings. They stand in groups, talking, and then break away. Some smoke, or drink, or watch them go, but they don't interject.
It's all the more pleasing for Zack.
Once they're through the doors to Midgar's under city, the slums, they're immediately engulfed in a living human smell and smoke, and miscellaneous fumes (electrical and otherwise). Next, they're blocked in by the heaps of junk and refuse, and blinded by darkness. It's worse in here than outside the city. It's always midnight in Midgar.
They'll have to go a ways in to get to any sort of habitation, with any sort of resources. The outskirts are just leftover bits and pieces of the city. Old cars, robots, machines. He sees ovens, refrigerators, and the like. Small pockets of people set up camp along the way, but for the most part it's lonely going. They pass a giant pillar fenced off. It's one of the many used to suspend the city above. People don't live around these usually. They don't like to be reminded.
He's getting tired again when they come across a huddle of vehicles. A few busses and dump trucks circled around each other. A small sedan and a jeep sit in the center of this crude circle. Something stripped of its body work rests closest to them. Cables and wires run across the ground, winding into vehicles and off to go somewhere else, even above. Electricity snaps and fizzles. There are rubbed raw tires, stacked boxes, a mostly wooden shack. Signs and lights hang everywhere (a mess of them: Christmas lights, naked bulbs, candles).
It's its own little town. There's a supply shop, a smoke shop (curiously), an inn (that's the bus), and the jeep. Across the jeep's green door is a green and white cross. It's not very well done. Very abstract. Medical. He heads here first, dragging Cloud along with him.
It's the longest three-legged race Zack's ever been in.
As they approach, he realizes there's an old man sitting on the hood of the jeep. White Christmas lights are strung around him in a net, hanging from low pipes above. They wink, blink, and pulse. The man is calm, unmoving. He doesn't greet them.
Zack struggles up. There's a crate for Cloud to rest on.
"Excuse me," Zack starts.
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He has money left for a night's stay.
He watches Cloud take the potion. It's a small dose, no bigger than a shot of alcohol.
"How do you feel?"
"It tastes awful." Cloud pulls a face.
"They need a cherry," Zack says lamely.
As a result, Cloud's leaning more on his bad leg now, and he seems more relaxed and smoothed out. They make it to the bus and get a room. Well, bench. Two benches for 20 gil a night. Inside the bus, sleeping areas are segregated by hanging sheets, interior lit by rainbow strands of more Christmas cheer. Faint crackling music plays, the words hard to make out, but it's calm, edging towards nice. It is, however, not the most private of places.
He gets Cloud to his bench and then takes his own. He leaves the satchel behind.
Soon he finds himself alone and staring up at the rusted-out ceiling of a bus, his sword next to him on the bench, almost underneath him. He had to pull his knees in to even begin to fit on the bench seat. He's too damn tall for everything.
It is nice enough. Cozy, he guesses. It's too quiet for him though, save for that electrical snap and hum, and the radio, but that's methodical and intermittent. It's something to train on, fall asleep to, and he is absolutely spent after their walk. He still can't help thinking, worrying.
They're in Midgar either way.
Time for things to get hairy.
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Status: SOLDIER 1st Class - Location: Midgar (Shinra Tower)
He was informed as of yesterday, at 14:00 hours, that one of the main targets has accessed the company website. Two pages were viewed for less than a minute each. The window was small. It was brief, but it was telling. It's very easy to say that they're still alive.
Sephiroth is delighted. Delighted by the chance of another meeting. An epic end. He has some wants, and one of those is a good death. Another is revenge. They couldn't catch him on the continent, but they'll get him now. He planned for this.
All Shinra administered devices have tracking units built in. As of five minutes ago he was informed that his unit picked up the target's tracker, and it's somewhere close by. It could even be headed to the city. It could be that someone found it and only wants to seek fortune, women, or a good time, but, more likely, it's his target, it's his little lost kitten.
He won't deploy a unit.
He'll wait and go alone.
A little sport is what he really needs.
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Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd Class - Location: Midgar slums (sector 06)
He's pretty sure he's dreaming.
There's the beach out there, a step away. The sand is white, so white, it's hard to look at straight on. The sky above, the big blue, it's just that—it goes on and ever on. White clouds move lazily this way and that. The ocean below is calm, rolling in, licking, lapping. The wind brings with it the smells of salt, seaweed. All good things. Things from home, from better times.
Cloud is sitting by the tide, feet deep in the warm sand. His hair is sun fire, blazing. He wears summer clothes. He looks so small, so distant, unreal and hyper-real. Zack has to blink and cover his eyes as he approaches. He immediately wishes he hadn't. The image changes. It's still Cloud, but the Cloud as he was back on the continent. Back when he found him in the snow. The helmet's there, the uniform.
Cloud turns as he comes up to him. Zack's chest tightens painfully. The visor is broken as it was, bloody as it was. Cloud reaches out a hand, his glove smoking, glistening. It's soaked in blood. It drips with it. He's reaching to take his hand. He's wanting him to join him.
The sand beneath is so white it could be snow.
The blood is so red it could be real.
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The radio is playing much louder when he jumps to. Loud enough to make out words. That must be some kind of morning alarm the innkeeper uses.
He gets both feet on the floor and stretches. He could brush the ceiling if he tried. He yawns and cracks his neck. He reaches for his broadsword.
It's a man singing on the radio. A sad sort of tune.
I've lost all ambition for worldly acclaim
I just want to be the one you love
He waits to listen, curious, caught.
And with your admission that you feel the same
I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of, believe me
It's making his chest tighten in that same painful way.
He likes dreams, for the most part. If only because you get to wake up from them in the end. Here, in reality, he's still fighting for his life, and the life of another. He's still on the run, beaten and bloody, scrambling for a plan, scrambling for relief. He's still stuck like a netted thing, waiting for the axe to drop.
The bench, just one seat over, where Cloud sleeps, is silent. The sheet hangs there quietly, hiding anything from view. Christmas lights glow warmly. Innocent. Completely ignorant.
He pulls the sheet back.
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"Did my friend leave? Did you see him leave?"
"What? Huh?"
Zack throttles the man even behind the counter, even beyond the bars that are supposed to protect him, he throttles him. He has to reach and contort through the gaps, wedge through the steel, but his grip is deadly, angry, and only growing angrier.
"Did my friend leave?" he asks again.
"Uhh, yeah, yeah. Take it easy," the man answers.
Zack's grip lessens. An ache is starting to form in his forearm.
"He left with another guy."
"Another guy?" Zack shakes him. His head bangs into the bars.
"Uh, ow, geez. A guy in black, long hair. He—he—"
Zack lets him go, but not after pulling him into the safety bars one last time.
It's not nice, but he isn't feeling very nice.
Sephiroth.
Sephiroth has Cloud.
"Hey, hey! He said—"
Zack pauses.
"That you, uh, you might want to throw away your phone."
Zack scowls.
"And... you'll know where to find him."
Of course he does.
Cloud has the satchel, but he doesn't have the money or the cigarettes.
And thank the powers that be for that.
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