Before the plate fell, Denzel's mother—like many mothers of children on the upper plate—often told him that he should work hard in school, and he might someday be able to dream of having as great a job as 'that wonderful Rufus'. The President's son was very popular; he was charismatic, a natural leader, with great dreams for the future; somehow he managed to combine a mystical, almost romantic quality—the ability to dream—with a pragmatism that allowed him to put many of his plans into action. By the time his father eventually caved in and appointed him vice-president, Rufus was already running half of the company, and everyone knew it.
When the plate fell, Denzel's mother was never able to tell him anything again, and he forgot nearly everything she had ever told him—the meaning of the words, at least; he clung to his fading memories of her voice as best he could, refreshing his recollection of her calm and soothing tones whenever possible. But he didn't need constant reminders from his mother to respect Rufus Shinra anymore; every waking moment clamoured, "Look what evil people did to you. Look what Rufus Shinra was trying to save you from."
AVALANCHE destroyed Sector 7, he was told. Shinra tried to make it right; Rufus set up a recovery project—not that Denzel, being a minor, managed to prove he had actually lived above the plate.
AVALANCHE went into the Shinra building and slaughtered everyone they ran across. Rufus Shinra put Midgar under martial law, and managed to cast the terrorists out of the city.
AVALANCHE woke weapon; Rufus Shinra fought it off, giving his life valiantly in the process.
AVALANCHE called down Meteor, and Rufus Shinra was dead.
AVALANCHE stopped Sephiroth.
AVALANCHE didn't call down Meteor.
AVALANCHE saved the world.
Rufus Shinra…had done nothing at all, and everything.
---
His vision was hazy and the pain in his head made his eyes water, adding to the problem. The rain didn't help things either; it soaked everything in sight, chilling him to the bone. Denzel had no source of heat; even if he had found something he could burn, he didn't know how to start a fire. It wasn't something taught in school—although he'd had a friend who was a pyromaniac, his teacher had thought, for some reason, that six-year-old boys should be playing with simple addition, not with fire.
Instead he found himself huddling just inside the ruins of a building, wishing he'd found cover earlier; then he wouldn't be soaked and freezing like this, with only the fire of the sores on his forehead to offset the deathly cold. If he'd been quicker on his feet…he cursed himself, saying aloud some of the words that he'd heard the adults in the slums yelling raucously. At home he'd never have done such a thing. He wasn't at home.
Earlier in the week he'd run into a gang of kids sticking around the ruins of Midgar; they'd seemed tough, together, although standoffish in their own way. He'd thought he might be able to run with them—until they figured out that he was from above the plate.
"Useless scum…"
His cheeks burned at the memory.
But they mentioned the Church…
Even among the adults there were rumours of a place somewhere in the slums where flowers grew, even now, and peace from the elements could be found. Warmth.
Denzel thought that he'd like to see flowers again.
He stepped outside into the rain, uncaring of the cold as the droplets splashed against his already soaking face and clothes. He was shivering, but wasn't that supposed to be a good sign? It was when you went all still that you knew things were bad…
Trudging along, he was so intent on his destination that he never heard the motorcycle pull up; it wasn't a loud engine, and the pouring rain drowned out what little noise it made on the dirt streets. The shout of warning got his attention, though, and Denzel looked up just in time to see a man, dressed all in black and carrying the biggest sword Denzel had ever seen, bearing down on him.
Seven-year-old-Denzel didn't care that it was girly to scream; he shrieked and scrambled backwards, away from the murderer running straight at him, impossibly fast. The sword whipped for him, and Denzel ducked—it whooshed over his head, missing him only by a few feet—he didn't realize, then, that it never came close to hitting him—and slamming into the torso of the hideous thing that had crept up behind him. Black and green gore sprayed everywhere, much of it onto Denzel, none of it onto the man in black. He screamed again as it touched his skin, and fire in his head exploded.
Two days later, he woke up to find himself in the care of a small girl—about half a year younger than he was—named Marlene, who cheerfully informed him that he was now living with Tifa Lockhart and Cloud Strife.
Denzel recognized the names, faintly, but he couldn't place them. When he did—a day later—it was because he remembered them from a news report on TV, where Rufus Shinra had been reassuring the populace that the corporation was closing in on the tail of the infamous terrorist group, AVALANCHE.
He ran away after that, sneaking out after Tifa had ordered Marlene to bed, when Cloud was out on some delivery somewhere. Denzel thought he could run pretty fast and hide pretty well; he hadn't counted on collapsing again from his advancing case of geostigma. This time he wasn't out for two days; he'd woken up to find himself sitting in front of Cloud on his motorcycle, as the 'terrorist' sped back to Seventh Heaven.
"I know you haven't had access to much news lately, Denzel," Cloud told him quietly, as Denzel began frantically twisting about, trying to think of some way to throw himself off of the motorcycle—which was speeding along at a good eighty clicks—without killing himself. "But we aren't the bad guys here. Okay?"
It had taken a lot of hot chocolate and three more attempts at running away for him to believe that.
Then Cloud left.
---
After geostigma, Rufus Shinra had revealed himself to the world and the Shinra Foundation had risen from the ashes of the old company. Despite the way Cloud twitched every time he heard the name, Tifa managed to convince him that sending the kids to school, no matter who provided the funding for it, was the right thing to do. So it was that Denzel started going to school again…and found out that it wasn't as fun as it had been when he'd been six years old and in the first grade. They had homework, now.
But for the first time, he also had someone his own age to talk to besides Marlene, and school wasn't all that boring, even if he wished he could just go off and learn how to use a sword, instead. Denzel and Marlene both became popular—after all, they lived with two members of AVALANCHE. Their 'parents' had saved the world—and everyone knew it, now.
It made Denzel feel rather uncomfortable whenever this fact was brought up, and he suspected Marlene felt the same, although they never talked about it. That would be mushy, and both of them were still in the phase where they made fun of the adults for mushy stuff. Instead they silently agreed to begin pranking everyone in sight, and soon became infamous for something more than their guardians.
Somewhere along the line, everyone forgave Rufus Shinra, and the Shinra Foundation was taken over by Shinra Co.
---
Denzel looked at the man controlling the meeting, and thought that it was a bit funny to have both worshiped and hated a man who didn't even know that he existed. Then he shook his head, grounding himself in the here and now as he tried to recognize the other people at the meeting.
Yuffie was there, dressed in regal garments that he couldn't recall having ever seen her wear before—when she was with AVALANCHE, she was a ninja. The difference between Yuffie and Lady Yuffilene Kisaragi was easily apparent. The royal clothes looked strange on her, but at the same time she wore them with undeniable authority.
On either side of Yuffie were several other Wutaians, all wearing insignia of rank that Denzel couldn't recognize. He assumed they were military from their posture—aside from one demure woman whose lower face was hidden behind a delicate-looking fan. She sat directly to Yuffie's right—an aide, perhaps?
The WRO contingent was easy to recognize in their distinctive white dress-uniforms; he and Tifa had been placed on the end of their contingent. Sitting in the center of the generals was a man Denzel didn't recognize immediately—and when he did, he gaped.
Vincent?
Looking nothing like a vampire whatsoever, Vincent sat calmly in the position of leader of the WRO. His usually tangled and messy hair had been pulled back into a neat ponytail, and he wore a dark blue suit, similar to the one that Denzel had seen Reeve wearing. His red eyes stared impassively out of his pale face—okay, so maybe he does still look a bit like a vampire, Denzel decided—but other than that, Vincent looked…a lot more human than normal.
He continued glancing around to see if he could find anyone else he knew. Barret wasn't there, and Denzel had to wonder why not; Tifa had said that Barret was working in the upper echelons of the WRO, hadn't she? Red wasn't there either, but that was easy to explain.
Shera was present, in the middle of a scattered grouping of people who looked like they'd come from miscellaneous places, and beside her sat Marlene—who gave Denzel a wink when she saw him looking over. Cid was nowhere to be seen.
"Preliminary reports suggests that the initial chaotic outbreak of the shadows has begun to subside," Elena began in a crisp, professional tone. "Fly-bys of the outlying towns show that the previous invasions are over and the shadows have retreated elsewhere—leaving the towns mostly whole in their wake."
"That will make things difficult. People will want to leave—but it would hardly be wise to send them home right now," Tifa murmured.
"We don't tell them," came a suggestion that sounded more like a command—and Denzel found he wasn't surprised to see it was Vincent's.
President Shinra frowned. "That is hardly a democratic move." He quirked an eyebrow, as if daring anyone to speak the obvious.
Vincent didn't bother; he just stared at Rufus. For a long moment, blue and red eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.
"We don't tell them," Yuffie spoke up, causing both of the two men to glance in her direction. "Or the Wutaian government will not be telling them. I'd advise you to do the same in Junon, Shinra—but we have more important things to be discussing than public policy."
There was the Yuffie that Denzel knew, stubborn defiance mixed with less-than-stellar negotiating skills. But Yuffilene had the authority and the power to back up her words, as Yuffie did not. Wutai would never be its old self, but under her rule it had become anything but a sleezy tourist trap.
"The shadows will attack Wutai," Vincent announced suddenly. Everyone looked at him—and Denzel was surprised that no one made any noise of exclamation, from the intensity of the gazes Vincent was receiving.
"Explain, Vinnie," Yuffie ordered in a terse tone.
Vincent made a small motion that could have been a shrug. "Wutai currently possesses the highest concentration of materia—mako—aside from Midgar. They will not attack Midgar."
Reno frowned. "Why the hell not?" he asked, his informal tone at odds with the rest of the group. "They wouldn't even have to attack it, yo. They could just move in and take over, without worrying about casualties."
"Because that would piss off Cloud," Denzel murmured, before he thought about what he was saying.
Everyone stared at him, and Vincent nodded—ever so slightly.
"This is just your theory, then," Yuffie stated, her eyes calmer.
Shaking his head, Vincent replied, "No. They have to go somewhere, and they only have one priority to do so. It has been shown that all of the shadows currently attacking the outlying cities are invulnerable to our defences; they have no threats to attack."
"The Sister Ray in Junon," interjected Rufus, raising an eyebrow.
"No. They are too mindless to perceive a plan as complicated as that, even—they only seek to feed. To do that they need energy, and Jenova has ever fed upon the planet. Midgar would be the obvious choice, but they will not attack Midgar. Wutai is the location of the holding cells that store most of the world's materia—it is where they will attack."
"I'll move the materia stores, then," Yuffie said, narrowing her eyes. Beside her, the aide flicked shut the fan and scratched something out on a pad of paper. "We won't survive an attack—even if I recalled my entire fleet, we can't damage them."
"If we move the materia stores out of a safe-guarded place, the shadows will claim them," one of the WRO officers said sharply. "Do we really want to give these things what they're after?"
"They will find the materia stores no matter where they are," Yuffie snapped. "I'm not going sacrifice my people, materia or no."
A surprised silence filled the room as everyone stared at her. "Gotten old and conservative, have you?" Reno said teasingly.
"Careful, Reno, or I'll conservatively shove the Conformer up your ass."
"Wait," Marlene spoke up suddenly, and everyone turned to look at her in much the same way they had turned to look at Denzel. "Why do they need the materia? They're immune to everything."
"To rebuild Jenova," Vincent murmured, but Denzel thought he could detect a hint of approval in the reply. "They are Her minions."
"Then why could we kill them at the fourth base?"
"Any number of reasons," Rufus replied. "I've had all the brilliant minds in my company—and there are quite a few—going over possible reasons. Because there was an incarnation of Jenova brewing in a tank. Because their base and testing ground contained only prototypes, which were not as strong as those deemed worthy for release."
"Unlikely," Vincent pointed out, his mouth twisted slightly. "The scientists were dead too long—and they were children. They must have been controlled. Jenova would simply kill anything that did not live up to Her standards."
"Fine," the president snapped. "There are plenty of other possibilities. Because the energy of Gaia that later destroyed many of the creatures made them weak beforehand. Because Cloud Strife's initial attack, using Gaian energy, made it possible to kill them. Because—yes, Vincent, if you insist, I will say it—Cloud was there at all. We can't know—not with the complex destroyed. It might even be a combination of reasons."
"The elders of Cosmo Canyon are looking into using huge materia to make the shadows more corporeal, and so more vulnerable to attack," Yuffie murmured. "If it works out, it will provide evidence for the Gaian energy theory."
Vincent frowned.
Denzel looked away. There was something in that—because Cloud was there at all.
---
Ten-year-old Denzel woke up to someone else's screaming. For a long moment, he lay in his bed, shivering, as he listened to the harsh, choked sound, and Tifa's voice trying to rise above it—"Cloud—CLOUD! Wake up!"
Cloud and Tifa had nightmares…Cloud more than Tifa. Denzel was used to waking up in the middle of the night to hear him, and just as used to how the adults avoided ever speaking of it during the day. But that didn't mean he didn't end up shaking, listening to it.
As usual, he got up, slipped out the door—avoiding the creaky plank—and went over to Marlene's door. Marlene was fast asleep of course; she could sleep through anything. Denzel wished he could, too.
He stared at her for a moment and then slipped down the hall to Cloud's room; Tifa's door was wide open—as usual, during one of these episodes—and Cloud's was ajar. Silently, he sank down beside it, listening to the murmur of their voices, washing over him like a soothing balm against the earlier screaming.
"I'm sorry, Cloud," Tifa was saying in a low voice, sounding as if she was about to cry—and Denzel began standing at that. This wasn't what she normally said; this wasn't what she was supposed to be saying. Usually the two just sat and talked about every day affairs—what was this?
"You didn't deserve that, Cloud. No matter what, before or after…"
"Tifa," came Cloud's voice, lower-pitched but with a strange, dreamy quality, "I know."
Tifa was silent, as the hair on Denzel's neck rose.
"I never deserved any of it," Cloud continued, and there was something in his voice that told Denzel to leave, to get out of here now. He did, creeping back into his bed silently.
It took a long time to get back to sleep.
---
Because Cloud didn't want to die.
What was it Vincent had said, days ago? "Cloud is the last host of Jenova…"
…which they'd all thought was wrong, apparently, after they'd run into the shadows and the thing in the fourth complex…
"Vincent," he said hoarsely, interrupting Reno, who was saying something else that didn't register in Denzel's brain. "Cloud is the last host of Jenova."
"We already went over that theory, yo," Reno said, slightly irritated.
"You were still out, then," Tifa murmured from Denzel's left.
"No," Denzel insisted, trying to remain calm. "You're overlooking the fact that he was—and how could cells possibly spontaneously spawn outside of him? He was, so he must still be."
"We may not have destroyed all of the Calamity twenty years ago," Yuffie said somberly. "In fact, it was far more possible that we didn't—the child corpses your team reported back up that theory, Denzel—no matter what Cloud may have done while in the lifestream, at the end."
"Then why hasn't something happened before now?"
"It has," Reno pointed out. "You're forgetting geostigma?"
"No," Rufus murmured, holding up a hand to silence the Turk. "Gaia destroyed Jenova, then, through the will of Lady Aeris."
"Clearly not all of it," Yuffie frowned, looking frustrated.
"No," Vincent agreed. "If the Jenova cells within Cloud had been destroyed, he would have died as all of the SOLDIERs did."
"So she didn't cure the Jenova cells in Cloud," Yuffie insisted, sounding a bit more like Yuffie and less like Lady Kisaragi. "And evidently she didn't cure them in someone else, too, or we wouldn't have found a pile of rotting kids."
Vincent's eyes widened. "…yes."
Everyone else looked at him—or glared, in Yuffie's case—looking extremely non-plussed.
"And we've been over this," Reno said in a bored tone. "Again."
Vincent didn't reply, but instead glanced at Tifa, as if trying to communicate silently with her—although Denzel had no idea how Vincent was planning on doing that, since his expression was as hard to read as ever. His red eyes flicked to Denzel and then back to Tifa—and Tifa's jaw dropped open.
"Enlighten us, General Valentine?" President Shinra asked, sounding dangerously calm.
"Oh, Gaia," Yuffie blurted quietly, as she seemed to realize what was going on. Denzel wished that he knew what was going on; his hope that Vincent would see his point—even if everyone else didn't want to—was crumbling quickly.
"Sometime soon would be preferable," Rufus added dryly.
Tifa reached up and tapped the air near the side of her head, vanishing a moment later—she wasn't in the viewer anymore, Denzel realized. He was torn between the desire to follow suit, and the need to stay around and see if someone would explain.
His indecision was resolved a moment later when Vincent and Yuffie both vanished as well. Mentally cursing, Denzel fumbled for the switch—looking like a complete idiot as he groped the air beside his head—and finally managed to press it. A moment later, the darkness of having a bucket-like device over his head encompassed him.
"Vincent, we don't even know what it means!" Tifa's voice was muffled by the helmet, but Denzel could still hear the fear and anger. "We can't just—"
She was cut off by a voice on the other end, and then said firmly, "Before we do anything we should at least explain to him what…what we think—yes, he's listening in, what do you think?" This last was said as she glared at Denzel, who had removed the bucket and was now glaring back.
"Tell me what?" he snapped. "Hopefully, it will be something that explains what you're all on about!"
Snapping the phone shut, Tifa looked at him—looking more like his mother, and far less like the PR director of the WRO. "We think we might have had a theory on a second source of Jenova cells."
"And?" He knew what she was going to say, but he had to hear her say it before he could deny it.
"You, Denzel."
"That's insane," he denied.
She shook her head. "Everyone that Aeris cured of geostigma, she also cured of Jenova's taint, eradicating the Calamity's cells—except from Cloud. But she didn't cure everyone of geostigma. She didn't cure you."
"Yes she did," Denzel objected. "I was there in the church! I was the first one—"
Then he saw her point.
"You should have been cleansed of Her taint. You could have been cleansed of Her taint. But Cloud cured you, not Aeris," Tifa said miserably. "He stood before you and he poured the water over you. If he has always been the host of Jenova…it must have been tainted by his touch." Her eyes widened. "Gaia, if that's true …there could be dozens of potential hosts running amok."
"No," Denzel shook his head, still in denial. "No, we'd have seen something—"
"Maybe that's where She got the power to create such an army." His mother's eyes were grave. "It would fit with the Reunion theory. Oh, Gaia, it would explain why there were children in that awful place. She must have called them to Her…and once they were surrounded by Mako, they wouldn't have had a chance of escaping, even through death, until She decided they'd served Her purpose…"
"If the idea is we're all hosts—or carriers, or slaves—then why didn't I go? Why didn't She call me?" he snapped.
"Maybe She needed a backup. Of all those children, you were the closest to Cloud. Or maybe it was just that you were protected better when you were young—you had Her destroyers looking after you. If you had vanished, we would've eventually found you."
Denzel ran a hand through his hair and looked away, closing his eyes in despair.
"Even if we're right—and this is a long shot—this whole thing is still probably centered around Cloud," Tifa hurried to add. "You haven't ever met any sentient portion of Jenova, well, aside from that one a week ago…and those children were dead for so long…it's hardly likely that—"
"But it is," he muttered, and slumped down in his chair. "She called me Her child. Her unborn child."
Tifa's mouth fell open in a silent 'O'.
"It's not me," he said quietly, pleading with her to believe him. "I'm not doing this. Cloud—he makes more sense. Nothing's happened to me, not yet, even if I heard Her."
His mother stood, tucking away the phone into one of the pockets of her suit and smoothing out the cream-white shirt. "I can believe you, Denzel." Her eyes were sincere.
But if I am one of Her sons—of a sort…and I know I am—why hasn't anything happened because of me?
"Maybe she needed a backup."
A backup for Cloud—but then what does she plan on having Cloud do?
---
Time is running out.
He knows this; he can feel it, body and soul, tainted as they both are. Mother—Jenova—will not wait any longer. She has come this far on the road to convincing him, and cannot afford to back off now; She will push him until he gives in to Her, or until Gaia, as blind as the Planet is, finally reacts. That confrontation will destroy him utterly, he knows—a fate worse than death, worse even than his current existence.
But he doesn't know what to do. He cannot continue on in this existence—he was not born to it, and he will surely crumble if this continues. Nor can he condemn the other Son of Jenova to take his place—for Denzel will break even faster, thrust into the scheming of a power-mad alien and a sentient planet.
When he thinks about it, he realizes that he doesn't wish to condemn Denzel to that, either, and he feels slightly heartened at this proof that he still retains some small ability to care.
Yet in the end, he is still in the same place. Break himself, or break someone else. He thinks—as he has thought before, on rare occasions when his eyes are wide open and his sight is not obscured by blue—that he does not deserve this—but that is immaterial. He needs another option. He needs a way out.
The days pass, and he pulls himself further in; there are more people than ever in Edge, now, so many people that the city is overfilled, overwhelmed, trampled underneath the mass of humanity. Houses are filled to bursting as people accept their relatives and friends, or renters with spare cash. Those who are not so fortunate are forced to find shelter elsewhere; the WRO has been converting parking lots to refugee centers, throwing up hasty buildings, but there are still plenty of families camping in the streets or in the halls of public buildings. It could be worse—it could be winter.
For him, it is winter; his own cold rage mingles with the confusion from the countless numbers of people, flowing over him and turning him about until he thinks he's snow-blind. The constant pain in his upper arm doesn't help—he wouldn't let the doctors give him anaesthetics, although he had to sign a dozen different forms containing various paragraphs of gibberish before they were willing to begin the operation with him fully awake; they couldn't understand that it's better this way. But at least now he has an upper arm, a shoulder, the basis for something that might return him to some scarecrow semblance of normalcy. He has to adjust to the new weighting all over again; the metal is durable, lightweight—barely more than actual flesh—but he'd just gotten used to having nothing there at all…
"Uh, Mr. Strife?" Flemmings' hesitant voice brings him out of his reverie.
He's sitting in the doctor's office, slumped down in the guest chair—not the cushier one that is the doctor's, although he knows Flemmings would let him sit there if he asked…which is why he doesn't. The First Tsurugi is leaning against the wall beside him, and his right hand—his actual hand—is splayed against it, the gloved fingers carefully resting against the huge sword. Its presence is a comfort and an irritant, shifting more toward the latter each day. He knows why. She doesn't like it.
"Mm," he replies, because he suspects that if he doesn't, Flemmings will panic—not that he would really blame the man. Even if he could be bothered to do so, he supposes he's been acting freaky enough that any sane, normal person would be on edge by now.
On Edge…how amusing, Strife, his brain snickers at him, and he starts wondering if maybe he should've taken the anaesthetics anyway. The arm hurts, hurts as though someone was sawing through the bone in his arm with a nail file.
"Uh, well, yes," Flemmings mumbles, bringing up his clipboard as he sits himself down. "Anyway, I've just finished going over the specs on your arm so far with the TMs—uh, the tech and med guys—and they're not looking so happy…recommending that we postpone this for a weak, y'know? I'd say the same—this pain in the shoulder-attachment is real worrying…this is supposed to be painless. Dr. Gordon was saying that he thought it might be the mako in your system, making it hard to attach everything the way it's supposed to—I mean, damn, you heal faster than anyone I've ever seen, but that ain't such a good thing in this case."
Mako. Hearing of speculation about it is enough to make him tense, and he has to force himself to relax, chanting a mantra in his head: They cannot touch you, they cannot touch you…it doesn't help that they can, that they have to, if he wants a new arm—which he does.
I'm fucking broken enough, already!
"No delays," he tells the doctor, who halts in his babbling with a look of surprise upon his face.
"Look, man, I don't think you get it," Flemmings begins with genuine concern—not that it hasn't always been genuine, even if the man belongs to Vincent…although, when he thinks about it, he remembers how Vincent has never been anything less than sincere, just more secretive about it. "The arm's in a lot of danger of not setting right. If we try attaching the next portion while this part hasn't really taken, it could end up paralyzing the entire left side of your body."
"Mako'd prevent that," he counters, throwing the reason for this delay back in the doctor's face.
"I cannot recommend—"
"I'm not going to sue if it goes wrong." The new legal system, he's discovered since his return from his battle with M—Jenova, is much more complex than the old one. He'd nearly gotten sued by a mother who was shrieking that she'd take him to court for nearly hitting her kids, until she noticed his eyes…or maybe the huge sword. It hadn't been obvious, when he'd been crouched over Fenrir. Since then, on many occasions he's observed this tendency to threaten legal action. It confuses him.
"I'm not worried about that," the doctor replies sourly, and sighs. "You'd never be able to find a lawyer who wouldn't run screaming, leeches that they are. That's not the point."
"Get it done, doctor," he orders quietly.
"Fine," Flemmings caves, and stands with a heavy, defeated air.
Six hours later, he's nearly lost the mind-shield, distracted as he is by the pain in his arm and the lack of proximity to his sword. He can't hear the doctors around him tell that the procedure is done, that he needs to get up and move around immediately to help settle the hard-wear, that he's an idiot who really should have listened when they said that he should let them administer at least a local anaesthetic. Hearing would take away precious concentration, and right now it's taking everything he's got to feed his rage.
…the church, burning…ripping away his arm, one of the few things he had left…
…bullets…the sword, falling from a hand dripping blood…
…the tank…knives, and bright lights, always lights…
…Nibelheim, burning…Sephiroth…
…Aeris, sinking…the forgotten city…the puppet strings…
…the bridge, falling …her, failing to correct her father, allowing him to take the blame entirely…
…the children, teasing him for his whiter skin and bright hair, his freaking looks, her encouragement…of them…
Tifa…you bitch…
Somewhere inside he knows that she does not deserve such harsh words; that if she had supported him, she would have fed herself to the wolves, and that if their positions had been reversed, at that time, he would have done the exact same thing. But he's running out of fuel, and the oldest untreated wounds always have the worst gangrene.
Then—
—relief.
The hilt of his sword falls against him and his rage dims, the shield bolstered by blue fire. He gasps for breath, quietly, trying to get his bearings—
—I'm in a hospital—no, no, the operation, for the arm…I have an arm, I can feel it, it hurts, but I can feel that…sword?
"Stupid, Cloud." The words are emotionless.
Vincent.
With effort, he hauls himself into a sitting position and opens his eyes; he can't remember squeezing them shut, but now they're watery and irritated—like the rest of his skin, which feels like something's been going over it with a razor-blade. The hilt rests reassuringly against his foot—bare, for the operation—and feels cool against his sole.
Sole, soul…
He looks at Vincent.
"Dr. Flemmings called me when he could neither wake you nor lift your sword to bring it to you," Vincent says coldly.
He's…upset, or preoccupied…with something…
For a minute, he can't think of a reply, but Vincent seems content to let him sit there in silence. The doctors are all gone from the room, he notices—but then, they must surely know of Vincent's new status; even he had been informed of that shortly after he'd woken up, and he'd fled central Edge pretty quickly.
Finally, he tilts his head in a silent question—as he used to before, when Vincent was actually the one who talked less. When did that change?
"The shadows were moving in force toward Wutai," Vincent says finally. "They are now clustered about Edge. The city is surrounded."
Oh. Oh.
He hops off the bed, slowly, slinging the sword over his shoulder as he goes. The tile floor is freezing against his bare feet as he walks out of the room, to small side room where he changed out of his clothes—he needs the scabbard at the very least. The movement makes his head spin, but at the same time he feels clearer than he has in days, and with a slight wrench, the agony from his arm has decreased to a minor throbbing ache. Maybe moving around really does help the process.
"Cloud—" Vincent says harshly, a clear warning.
"Not my fault," he mutters, although it is, it is, because he knew that She would do this if he didn't act—and he hadn't. Well, he had tried. He'd wanted an arm first.
"Cloud," General Valentine spits, in a voice that would frighten any trooper; the emotion in his tone…he wonders when Vincent relearned how to do that. "This city is surrounded at the same time you have a fit. And you call Her Mother."
He ignores the condemnation, instead shutting the door and quickly pulling off the gown—the new arm protests slightly—and changing quickly. The fingers in the prosthetic feel numb, but although he's clumsy he's still able to dress far more quickly than he could with one arm. All the while the sword leans against the wall, his foot just touching it, until he slips on the scabbard. Then he opens the door and goes back into the main room, before sheathing the First Tsurugi; there isn't room in the small change-room to be whirling about the huge sword.
"I didn't call them," he responds then.
"Someone—something—did. It wasn't Denzel."
He freezes. It isn't that he can think of any reason why their knowing might be a bad idea, but for some reason it makes him feel cold inside and out, and in the back of his head, something is telling him to sacrifice that one, instead…it's not Her voice.
"You confirm it," Vincent murmurs at his reaction. "We weren't sure Denzel was the other son."
"I—" he's sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-three again, uncertain and unable to put anything into words.
Vincent doesn't look away, but fixes him with a glare that is no less piercing for the absence of the cape. "Is he the only one?"
"Think so…" it's a murmur, but better than nothing. He certainly hasn't seen any others.
He can feel Vincent relax ever-so-slightly—anyone else would have given a sigh of relief. "I had been concerned…the other children who caught geostigma, who were…not cured initially…might still be present. But it seemed more likely they would be used for a Reunion."
Hard-pressed not to gape, he nods. This piece of news is surprising, and it makes his heart flutter with hope for an instant—but only an instant, because the next moment he realizes that Vincent is correct. Jenova would only suffer one among the group to live; only the best was worthy of being Her son.
"And then," Vincent adds, "There was some concern over Denzel's son."
Breath catches in his throat.
Denzel has a child. A son.
Denzel has a son…it seems strange, that the defiant, frightened boy he pulled out of the rain should have a son—as strange as Yuffie having children—but while neither he nor Vincent may have changed, outside of the two of them in this room, time has had its toll. Denzel is what…twenty-eight? Twenty-seven, now? Past the time when many start having children. But the child could not possibly be that old—eight, perhaps, maybe ten at the most; young enough, certainly, to come to understand a different place in the world.
Here is an offering he could give to Jenova with a clean conscience; an offering who could grow up under Her shadow and come to understand Her, come to be strong enough to stand where he stumbles—come to be naïve enough to think that Her freedom is true, and thus make it so. Thoughts of liberty race through his mind, make him almost afraid to breathe, for fear that he will have misheard.
"You called them."
The utter certainty in Vincent's voice makes him look up, and he knows that Vincent can see every thought passing through his head—Vincent could always see through others—
"The shadows came on their own," he could say—but maybe he did call them. If it has come to this, if it has all come to this, he will use whatever he can…but that thought leads to another realization.
Vincent will try to prevent—protect—wait—nononono, I need that child!—
His right hand whips back to draw his sword as he lunges forward, toward the commander of the WRO, but the distance between him and Vincent is far greater than the distance between Vincent's hand and the Death Penalty—and Vincent was always a quick draw. Shots ring out, forcing him to dive to the side and then bring up the sword to block, while Vincent is backing rapidly out of the room. Sparks fly from where the bullets have hit equipment instead. Recovering, he tries to lunge forward, to cut the gunman off, but there's a flash of red and Vincent is gone—gone on the wind that should not exist.
NO!
He gives chase, but not before sending one desperate thought out to whomever—whatever—might be listening.
HELP ME!