Chapter Twenty Five - Chicken Soup
It's raining in Sector Seven today. Not here in the slums exactly, but on the plate above. I lean against the doorframe, watching the water cascade through the fractures in the pavement of the city, drumming upon the scrap metal roof with a metallic clinking sound. Mist rises from the uneven surfaces as the cold and stifling heat mingle, a sinister fog tinged with the sparkle of mako light oozing from the lampposts swirling across the dirt and concrete streets to encase the buildings in a mythical phenomenon.
It's almost too beautiful, like something lifted from the mind of a visionary artist and painted over the hideous canvas known as Sector Seven. If it wasn't for the dull throb of my leg reminding me that I'm not asleep, it might have been but a fleeting dream.
Marlene claps her tiny hands together with joy, the fringes of her sunflower yellow dress sodden with mud as she splashes barefoot in one of the newly formed puddles by the porch, frigid water surging around her with each forceful stomp and resounding laugh. Barret merely smiles and swoops her up onto his shoulders, carrying her with an excited whoop through the cascading curtain of water separating the makeshift street into quarters.
Wedge rocks back in the ancient rocking chair with a smile at the pair's antics, his drink balanced precariously along the arm of the ancient chair as it squeaks against the warped boards beneath it. He seems pretty comfortable with the arrangement, those patient eyes watching the events unfolding as though bottling these precious moments up and storing them away deep within his memory. Just like a wise old man.
Biggs casually straddles the porch railing, one arm wrapped around the rotting support column and the other extended to catch the water streaming from a break in the gutters. Like a little kid would do.
It seems so strange, watching the rain from beneath the plate. Seeing the oh-so-terrible terrorist leader of AVALANCHE dancing and splashing in the puddles with his daughter, shedding his tough guy exterior for the vulnerable man he is.
Right now, the mighty corrupt icon towering above us all does not matter. Only the cleansing rain pouring down on our little corner of the world. There are no monsters here today. Just us. The renegade wannabe terrorists.
Today, there is no death. No funeral in the rain. No calloused hands moving mud to accommodate the body of a fallen friend. Today, as the rain falls, there is life.
Something frigid splatters against my cheek and upper shirt sleeve. I reach for my shuriken out of habit to the threat, finding nothing but the leather pouch for my materia. Guess I left it inside in my limping rush to see the rain. A second barrage of water droplets catches me from the porch rail.
"Biggs!" I wipe the water from my cheek and draw my cloak protectively across my shoulder, retreating out of range. A mischievous grin crosses his face. "Knock it off."
"Aw, what's the matter, Jessie? Afraid of a little bit of water?"
I can see the wheels turning in his head. He's plotting something. No doubt it will involve that puddle of water and me.
"It's annoying."
He leans out further to catch more water in his hands, the sound of footsteps approaching from the bar.
"Jessie, are you out here?" Tifa peers out of the door right as Biggs manages to throw a handful of water against his better judgment. Uh oh. Not good.
For a moment, the martial artist studies him, allowing Wedge the opportunity to drag the rocking chair out of range of the kick. Smart man.
Wood splinters with a crack, the railing collapsing out from beneath my comrade as he falls with a whimpering shout of protest - directly into the puddle below. He kinda deserved it.
Tifa shakes her raven hair from her eyes and brushes the flour dusted apron with her hands, watching Barret and Marlene continue to gallivant in the rain and Wedge try to assist his comrade out of the mud.
"What do you need, Tifa?"
"I need your help with something."
I grasp the porch railing, the calloused wood rough against my fingertips. It's written in her furrowed brow and weary eyes. The Mako Poisoning must have gotten worse.
"What do you need me to do?" I reply, that horrid feeling creeping into my soul again. What if he passed away? My amber eyes catch a brief glimpse of the falling rain. It only rains when someone dies. It rained for Zack. Why would it not rain for Cloud?
The slums feel a little colder than they did just moments ago.
She beckons me towards the bar, a light sprig in her step despite the circumstances.
"He said something strange the other day."
"Wait." I hesitate at the base of the stairwell while Tifa collects what appears to be a ceramic bowl and some utensils from the kitchen. "What do you mean by 'he said something strange?' All he should be capable of at this stage is low moans and groans." My heart leaps a little bit, allowing a tiny shred of hope to invade the otherwise hopeless wastelands of disappointment. Could he really be –
"This whole week he's been muttering something about a red haired woman who was hurt. Claims she was badly injured in a helicopter crash and that he brought her to a guy in the slums, but he never got the chance to see if she was still alive. I tried asking for more details, but all he kept saying was that he needed to find her, that Zack was dead."
The guilt-tipped spears of the words pierce my soul with their venomous points. He remembers everything from those brief, lucid moments in between the waves of ravaging mako coursing through his veins. He tried to find me.
"It was the mako talking," I reassure her, trying to gather what little courage I have as the stairs loom and I've little choice but to follow. What if he loses it again?
"That's what I assumed, but I thought that maybe…you having red hair and all-"
"Just because I have auburn hair does not mean that he won't suffer another hallucination and lose it again," I warn, placing a hand against the wall to steady myself. This is not how I anticipated spending my day. I do not need to be mocked and ridiculed by my failures yet again. The rain today is bad enough. Seeing Cloud in whatever state he's in is another story. Am I really up to this?
No. No I'm not.
"Maybe he'll talk to you though."
Last time, Cloud's version of talking involved nearly fracturing my skull with a lamp. Best case, he doesn't remember who I am. Worst case scenario, he immediately recalls the precious little he knows about me and informs Tifa that I was indeed, one of Shinra's finest little lapdogs.
Please don't remember me Cloud. For once, don't remember anything about me.
The door screeches upon its worn hinges as she hands me the bowl of soup, the salty aroma of some sort of chicken filling the air. There is a light shuffle of the sheets, his pale hand draping lazily towards the floor and twitching at the sound.
"Cloud?"
When did she learn his name all of a sudden? I can't help but feel a little apprehensive about this whole thing. Call it Turk intuition. I never said anything about his name being Cloud to her.
He groans and burrows beneath the covers once again.
"I brought you some lunch," Tifa picks her way closer to the bed and draws the rickety chair closer. "Chicken, your favorite right?"
Another groan, much like a little kid protesting getting up to go to school. He swats at her hand and she smiles, drawing the covers back slightly and allowing the dull light to fall across his form.
His mop of hair is still unkempt and resembling that of a misguided chocobo, but there's a little bit of color back in his face. Not much, but a faint splash of rose mingling amidst the stark white from a week and a half ago. He looks a little better. A good sign.
"You're going to behave today right? No throwing things," she scolds, helping him to sit up and resting his back against the headboard of the bed. His cloudy mako eyes stare listlessly at things only he can see. Still the same Cloud I remember.
There is a crash from the floor below, making me flinch. Sounds like the boys have decided they've had enough fun in the rain.
"Hey, Tifa!" Biggs calls from the base of the stairwell. From the brief creak of a muddy leather boot upon the first rickety piece of wood, he's thinking about coming up here. "You got anything for lacerations caused by splinters?"
Tifa sighs and takes a fleeting look at Cloud. "Do you mind-"
Yes, I mind, but right now, Cloud's discovery would not be a welcomed question and answer yell fest I want to field as referee. Wait, you're not thinking about leaving me here -
"I'll only be gone for a few minutes. Promise."
More like an hour. I try to prevent the uneasy feeling at being alone with a potential homicidal Mako Poisoning victim from making me drop the bowl of soup in my quivering hands.
"Hey, you'll be fine. He's been pretty out of it all week. No episodes of rage since that day."
I don't need someone to reassure me, Tifa. "Talking to you coherently about some woman in a helicopter crash counts."
He obviously mentioned his name somewhere along the line as well, if you know it.
"So he's had a few more lucid moments than normal," she shrugs, stepping into the hallway. "I'm sure you can handle him if he gets out of hand."
"Your confidence in my abilities astounds me," I respond with the enthusiasm of a chocobo who's just been told to cross a raging river full of piranhas. Looks like I'm not getting out of this no matter how hard I try.
She casually waves a hand towards the bed where Cloud sits, watching this whole fiasco.
"Fifteen minutes tops. You'll be fine."
And, just like that, the sound of her hurrying down the stairs reaches my ears. Fantastic. I turn back to Cloud and stir the soup a few times. Might as well get this over with.
"Hey, Cloud." I take my seat on the rickety chair beside the bed, half expecting him to reach out and hit me. This is ridiculous. I'm flinching at something that is unlikely to happen. Tseng would definitely have a few choice words for me over this one. And Zack. What would Zack think about this? A former Turk, instinctively afraid of someone like Cloud in his current state.
He's got Mako Poisoning, I remind myself. He did not mean it last time. He thought I was a Shinra infantryman trying to hurt him.
The rain drums intermittently against the sheets of metal covering the support beams of the mismatched roof, casting the eerily beautiful light from outside through the curtains and across the flowery quilted sheets.
"Tifa sent lunch up for you." He looks at me once again with those cloudy eyes, as though trying to figure out what is going on. "I think she said it was some sort of chicken soup, but I'm not sure."
"C-chicken…" His voice is raspy, rusty from the lack of use. He reaches a trembling hand toward the bowl, hesitating, brow furrowed in thought. "I d-don't like chicken."
Okay…Where did that come from all of a sudden? I thought Tifa said chicken was his favorite.
"Why don't you like chicken?" I venture, a little curious.
"Too salty." He wrinkles his nose at the prospect of the soup as I stir it once again. "And too chickeny."
There's a new word. How can chicken soup be too 'chickeny?' Hmmm. That's one that's going to keep me up at night for a while. Only one other person on Gaia might have described chicken soup like that.
"Where'd you hear a word like that anyway?" And here I was expecting him to be homicidal about the military trying to invade his room. It's phenomenal that he's even saying this much after wandering so close to death. Aerith's herbs must be helping.
He blinks his unfocused eyes a few times, as though trying to remember something from deep within his mako clouded mind.
"I don't know," the weary sense of defeat tinges his tone. "I-I don't know."
I gently place a hand on his trembling shoulder as he shivers.
"Why don't I know?" Like a little kid inquiring, he looks at me. My soul aches at that look. I want so desperately to help him, to get rid of the Mako Poisoning and experiments that robbed him of four years of his life. But I can't do anything to help him.
"Hey, it doesn't matter," I try to reassure him, scooping some of the liquid into the spoon and offering it to him. "You'll remember sooner or later."
His hand trembles as he grasps the spoon, nearly sending most of the soup in it across the sheets. I gently steady his hand with my own. He's going to be okay. I just know it. He has to be.
A week ago, I would not have believed it. But now- Oh, Zack, I hope that wherever you are, you can see this. He's alive thanks to you. Every second he is growing stronger.
"It's good," he grudgingly admits, reaching the spoon for the bowl and missing. I guide his hand to it once again, helping him. "Thank you."
"No problem. Everyone needs a little bit of help sometimes."
His eyes widen in surprise, as though something locked away from him has been unlocked by something in the phrase. I've seen that look before, shortly before he descended right into hallucination mode.
Wait, hadn't I said something about help before-
"Cloud?" Here we go. I've single-handedly managed to undo his progress this entire week. How could I be so damn stupid.
"I-I know you from somewhere."
Huh? He's looking at me again, pondering something only he knows.
"You were hurt," he grasps my scarred right hand feebly, his cloudy eyes studying it as though there is some sort of mystery written upon it. "In a helicopter crash. There was fire."
Frigid tendrils of fear prick along the back of my neck, every hair standing on end as though someone is standing behind me, looking down over my shoulder with their ghostly gaze. A pair of ghostly hands rest upon my shoulders, making me lean forward in an effort to shake them off. I need to get out of here. I'm so sorry Cloud. I, I can't let you go any further with that story than you already have.
"No," I whisper. "You have me confused with someone else."
"No, I've seen you before." He seems pretty adamant about this. "You were scared and hurt. I…I thought you were going to die before we reached Midgar."
"You are mistaken," I wince at the prang of guilt this lie carries with it because I know that accident was bad, but I'm still not certain just how bad since it happened so fast. "I've never been beyond Midgar's slums."
"I-" he looks down at the sheets in defeat. "I needed to tell her about Zack. She needed to know about Zack. He would have wanted her to know what happened to him."
The rain drums crueler against the roof, deafening to the uncomfortable chill to the room. I don't believe in ghosts, but, something about the way he says Zack makes everything seem colder than usual. As if, in the past few minutes, someone took my mastered blizzaga materia and cast it right behind me.
"She was his friend," he gestures to the SOLDIER uniform neatly folded on the dresser. "Zack said they would kill her if they ever found out what she did for us. I kept her ID card so I could find her again. I need to tell her what happened to Zack. She needs to know."
An unsettling silence settles upon the air. I just can't bear to look at him right now. Those pleading eyes of his, so scared, yet so determined.
"Everything okay, Jessie?" Tifa's voice echoes from the stairwell with the sound of her boots striking the coarse floorboards.
"Everything's fine," I reply, a little quieter than usual. Everything's far from fine. Cloud's looking for someone who no longer exists.
He tries another spoonful of the soup. "Jessie? Will you help me find her?"
A simple request, so innocent and naïve. I sigh and try to smile at the prospect, helping him with the spoon once again.
"I'll help you find her, Cloud. I promise."
That's a promise I know I will keep.