A/N: Okay, so this chapter would've been slightly earlier today if the VII:Remake TGS trailer hadn't just dropped! I DIED when I saw Tseng (because obviously since writing this story I'm all about that Tseng life) I literally smacked my chest so hard it hurt. He looks amazing! (I still imagine his Crisis Core voice though.)

Anyway. Must work on coming down from that high. Hey, hey. Back on time for this one. Aster's going on a mission. Love that for her.

I'm not even making sense—I literally JUST watched the new trailer. Too much hype.

Thanks again for the review Numinous-Scribe! Aster and Rex have always given me life, honestly. Our Aster is a troubled duck though, isn't she? Head isn't always correctly screwed on. As for the whole "GOING HOME?!" thing, I feel like it was a 'me too? does that mean me?' thing (that I failed to correctly get across I guess, oops). If she hadn't had this mission, I don't think she would've gone back and packed her stuff like everyone else or whatever, because she'd have had chance to process it. She'd have known. It was an in the moment kind of lapse. Hope. And Tseng seems to live for her despair. Thank you so much again! I literally love hearing people's thoughts and theories, it's so awesome.

I hope you're all having a super fantastic week, do enjoy this chapter, and I'll be back next Wednesday with another! (*cough* that I'll have written from the ground up, like most of this one because my drafts were nowhere near as polished as I thought they were *COUGH*)

11th Sep '19

Chapter 23: Sun on the Moonlighter

Two benches sat opposed in the back of the military truck. Aster and two other infantrymen were ushered in by an officer.

"Your squad leader will be with you shortly," the officer said, then slammed shut the back door.

SOLDIER members signed on for the mission would be distributed amongst the small infantry teams. Aster didn't know whether to hope it was Zack or hope it wasn't.

The canvas hood over the truck bed rattled, and the weather must have turned because the patter of rain beat against it above them. Not an armoured truck. Wouldn't be used to transport them into or out of a battle zone—unless they didn't mind going full of bullet holes.

A slider window separated the bed from the cab where a fourth infantryman sat at the wheel, awaiting instruction. Hands at ten and two.

Aster wanted to drive. Stick and pedals and power at her discretion. But she had minimal off-roading experience. She thought, then, back to Melanie in Icicle Inn. The woman used to launch the old yellow snow-truck deep into ravines even snowboarders and skiers baulked at. She had iron control over the beast as though its tank-like treads were extensions of her own body. Perhaps that was something Aster could look into in the next eight weeks of training, but thoughts of home were still much too raw, especially in the knowledge that her comrades were on their way to visit their own.

The door swung open again. Not Zack.

Again, she didn't whether she felt worse, or better.

It was the pale blue uniform signifying the rank of Third Class that gave it away in less than an instant. That and the SOLDIER helmet that Firsts weren't obligated to wear. It was solid and steeled, with a visor that cut over the eyes towards the tip of the nose. The other end tapered up above the forehead like a crown. Well, it was an honour, after all. The shape was overall reminiscent of a knight's helm. The knights of Shinra.

He sat on the only vacant seat opposite her and closed the door, then reached for a briefing packet stored beneath the bench and pulled out a file. "So, we've got Sokolov, O'Quinn, Ratner, and Doe." He flicked back his visor and addressed the lattermost directly. "Hey, I didn't know you were posted to this mission."

A blond strip of hair stuck flat between his eye and straight nose, pressed down by his helmet. Cloud.

"Neither did I until forty-five minutes ago. So likewise."

The truck rumbled to life.

Cloud nodded and reached to slide open the window into the cab to deliver the driver his instructions. Then, after introducing himself as Strife to the others, he delivered a mini-brief that shed light on the mission as a whole.

"We will travel by ship to Junon and continue via truck towards Fort Condor. A Wutaian encampment has been sighted near the mountains. Our aim is to eliminate them. More details as to the mission plan will be dispensed closer to the time."

Cloud stopped and swallowed. Hardly noticeable. Nothing out of place. It was only because Aster had met him a few times that she even caught it. His voice cracked slightly, and he pushed his finger under his collar as if to alleviate heat in his throat. "There are four teams of five, each lead by a member of SOLDIER. The Commanding Officer of the unit is Zack Fair, and he will lead. After the mission is complete," he said, and he seemed to grow tired, pushing through the words he had to deliver like a slog, and he swallowed again, "the Turks will carry out an intelligence sweep, or whatever. Basically means 'don't incinerate the base'. Probably wanna capture someone. Again, more on that later."

"We go, do what we have to do, then we'll go back to Junon, wait for the Turks, do some minor missions with the Junon force, get back on the boat and get the hell out of there." Cloud was definitely going pale. "With all that waiting around and travelling, it'll probably take three or four days. For now, just rest."

"Sir," the cadets said, except Aster.

She leaned towards him. "Dude, you okay? You're salivating like a hungry dog with a plate of meat in front of it."

He rolled his visor down over his face and pressed it into his hand. "Don't talk about food…"

"You sick?"

"Motion sickness."

Aster grimaced. "Rough. Why not take off your helmet?"

"Don't have that luxury on the field."

"So why not take advantage of it now?"

He appeared to consider this for a moment before he pried it from his head. His spiky hair poked back up a little less bouncy than normal as sweat prickled at his temples. He turned the helmet in his hands a few times. Then he changed his mind and put it back on. "No. It sucks, but you just have to get used to it. Better to always have it on than not. It's a good habit. It could save your life. They're not just there to look good."

Aster flicked her own helmet with a sharp ding. "They don't look good."

He managed half a laugh. "You're right about that. You look just like a man in that uniform."

"Charming."

Cloud seemed like someone who only really spoke when he had something worth saying, so the journey was relatively quiet. The trucks boarded the underbelly of a Shinra cargo ship, and lurching waters and loss of stability must have really flared up Cloud's motion sickness. He got out of the truck, but only long enough to get in the cab with the driver to recline the seat and try to sleep it through.

Aster followed his lead. She got off the bench, freeing it up for the O'Quinn guy she'd been sat by, and laid beneath it, wrapping up her cowl as a makeshift pillow. The military taught a lot of things. The ability to sleep in any position was one of them.

It was called sleep-deprivation, and it wasn't a skill.

"Understood," said Cloud, bringing a radio down from his mouth and latching it back onto one of the belts around his waist. He shook Aster's shoulder, then another troop. "Wake up. We're thirty minutes out from the target location. We've got our orders."

Consciousness dragged her eyelids open. When she pulled herself up onto her elbows, she bumped her head on the bench above her. A red mark adorned her cheek where she'd leaned on it too long.

At some point, the truck had disembarked the ship and was tearing across grasslands and dusty crags. The suspension was bad, so Aster's elbows took the jolt of every stone. She crawled out and sat on the bench.

"Briefing," Cloud said. "Awake?"

"Half."

"Work on that," he said. His cheeks, or what could be seen of them beneath his helmet, were clammy. But maybe mission prep was enough of a distraction to get him through the sickness he was feeling. "Listen up. We're nearing upon the settlement site. It's small, supposedly, but given that they've sent thirty of us, I'd say it's bigger than small. The mission is simple; destroy the camp and disarm the inhabitants. One or two members of the Crescent Unit are said to be leading there."

"Which is it?" Aster said, body rigid at the edge of the bench. "One or two?"

"Non-specified," he said. "You'll know them by uniform. Black and silver as opposed to green and iron. The Turks wish to capture them before their execution."

"How?"

"Fair and a couple of Seconds are going to head straight for the centre of the encampment. The four remaining teams will circle the camp and drive the Wutaians towards the SOLDIER squad. It's not difficult to come up with a way to pin a man in place alive—gunpoint, shoot-to-wound, get creative."

"Understood."

"We will be heading in from the south-edge, closest to the shore, and closest to the encampment. We will leave the truck west of the camp and travel on foot across the beach and cliffs unnoticed until we receive our signal. There may be anti-SOLDIER units. There may be monsters. There will be troops. But the camp is small—okay, bigger than small. But manageable. As a squad, we'll form a wall to prevent escape. We've got the easy job since the shore is our backstop. Because of that, we're heading in last, to prevent a retreat. We'll be coming up on their backs."

"Unless they turn around," said one of the infantrymen, somewhat darkly.

"Unless they turn around," Cloud affirmed.

"But if they turn around, they'll be panicking. They know there's no real escape, the shore is a dead-end. If they turn around, they'll already be losing," Aster said.

"Exactly. We're pretty much just sweeping stragglers until we meet up with the SOLDIER squad. Got it?"

"Sir," they said.

"Good."

Concise. To the point. No superfluous language. Exactly as Aster had come to expect from Cloud, the man of few words who made few words count.

The trucks veered away from the distinct line of five, each headed to their respective destinations, awaiting their signal. Cloud's squad pulled due south, and the vehicle was abandoned just shy of five miles from the camp.

When Aster threw open the doors, she had been prepared to be blinded by daylight. Instead, it was before dawn.

Her heels sank into the sand. A great cliff edge jutted out of the ground, almost unnatural looking, as though an earthquake had split the earth and raised it high overnight. Apparently, it was several miles long, and the sands beneath it ran alongside it. The cliff would be their cover. They would sneak up unannounced.

The only light given was that of the faint glow on the horizon like a fire burning over the ocean. The water was at its deepest blue, like the sky above it, and so far away from Midgar's smog and light pollution, stars dusted the dark night.

"Time to move," Cloud said, jumping from the truck last. The fresh air brought him immediate relief. He held his shoulders better, back straighter. He drew his sword and headed along the cliff face. Not too close, not too far away. Their only company themselves and the sea worms and beach plugs that had woken early, so there was little chance for him to use the SOLDIER blade in his tight fist. The sword that would have dwarfed Aster, despite only being a few of inches shorter than Cloud—discounting the hair—yet somehow it did not outsize him.

The tide had pulled in the closer and the sun had begun its ascent by the time they reached their target location. The cliff wore down into a crumble and steep embankment from the shore to grassy plains, and though they could not see it, the Wutai base was not three-hundred yards away. To maintain their cover, there was nought to do but stand in the water that now licked their calves, hiding behind what remained of the cliff.

Cloud crouched behind a large, tumbled boulder, knees in wet sand. A transmission crackled in through his radio, quiet, but blisteringly loud if a Wutaian happened to be patrolling nearby.

Aster half-expected to hear Tseng's voice. It was Zack's. She couldn't tell if it was the radio making him sound so different, or something else. "Squad Bravo, Charlie and Delta move in on my signal. Echo stand by and await further instruction."

Bravo, Charlie and Delta squad leaders each responded. Cloud turned down the volume, then pulled the radio to his lips. "Echo, standing by."

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," Zack yelled—and Aster was glad Cloud had adjusted the volume. "Move out!"

Aster's body tensed. Fingers poised on her rifle rigidly, like pulling—squeezing—the trigger would snap her brittle bones. The water that soaked into her boots and the waves that tugged and pushed became a feeling that another version of her was experiencing. A version of her that wasn't listening to the sounds that carried over the early dawn breeze. Panicked barks and the first pops of gunfire, like distant fireworks, innocent, playful. Only they echoed with booms only guns could make. And there is no sound like that of steel against steel, clashing in the cool mist of the morning. Each sound struck Aster's bones sharp until her heart raced and her muscles quivered in a fatal concoction of anticipation and anxiety. Fatal, because it heightened every sense. Fatal for the enemy. And so the water that lapped the backs of her knees went unnoticed.

Until something bumped into her leg.

Aster whirled around, pointing the gun she wasn't allowed to fire yet, and gasped. She kicked the dark shape with a splash, and Cloud snapped to his feet to scold her.

It floated aimlessly. Driftwood. Only it wasn't.

Cloud was at her side, mouth turned down at the edges and ready to deliver her sentence, but he stopped. Instead, all he hissed was, "Careful. The hell is it?"

"A…body," she said.

She waded closer. Thigh-deep. Humanoid in shape, poised like a drowned man, back at the waves, limbs hanging beneath. Must be air still in the lungs.

Tentatively, she poked it with her rifle to turn the dark mass over. Waiting for the beast to lunge for her. She recoiled violently into Cloud's chest.

Nothing.

Its head was still underwater. Must be dead. Aster glanced at Cloud for reassurance, though his face was hidden by his visor and hers by her helmet. She cleared her throat and stepped forward again. Reached her hands around its head and lifted the carcass.

Its skin was like the bark of a tree, dark, knotted, rough. And then she saw its face. She almost screamed and slapped a hand over her mouth, salt stinging her lips. The figure fell quietly back into the water. Eyes, like glass, bulging, glowing blue, reflected the sky above. It had a mouth of human-like teeth, but no lips, no gums. A perpetual scream, captured in a wood-carved face.

And around it, in the dark water, something darker. Like oil or like blood.

Definitely not human.

Aster didn't know if that was a relief or not.

Definitely dead. And that was a relief.

She stared at Cloud and scraped her hands against her uniform, willing to peel off her skin from her palms to remove the texture of that monster from her body. She couldn't speak. Her tongue felt swollen to twice the size.

The radio crackled. "Echo, now!"

Aster swore a train of expletives, casting one last glance at the carcass as she ran off the beach in the puffs of sand raised in Cloud's wake.

He threw her a look over his shoulder. "Push it from your mind—you have to let your training and drill take over."

She nodded, gripping her rifle in wet fingers of sea and sweat.

What the hell what the hell what the hell what the hell what the hell.

It was a nearby explosion that knocked the plug in. A large stack of wooden crates burst in a cloud of wood chips and smoke as a rocket from an enemy launcher narrowly missed a SOLDIER Second who dove out of the way.

The back half of the camp was almost deserted, as planned. They pushed through. Through caravans and tents and larger temporary structures and dust and trucks. The enemy appeared all at once. To Aster, in both slow-motion and double speed.

Distinctly Wutaian monsters pounced down from building tops and bounded out of huts. They shrieked and howled.

The ground thundered under heavy footsteps and Aster winced, waiting for the appearance of the anti-SOLDIER beast she had come to know and hate. And appear it did, but that wasn't causing the rumbling earth. Cloud's radio blared with Zack's voice about as angry as she'd ever heard it. "SOLDIER Seconds on the Adamantaimai—that's practically cheating!"

Cloud yelled to his soldiers. "Avoid the Adamantaimai when you see it. Tackle the anti-SOLDIER unit at long-range only. If it hits you with that flail, you're as good as dead."

Aster weaved between stacks of barrels and rudimentary supply trucks until the ground cleared into a ramshackle town centre at the foot of the grandest tent. A dwindling bonfire with old charred stones smoked into the air, and Aster was just in time to watch the enormous Vajradhara-variant swat its arm through it, swiping the smouldering branches and boards and stones into the tent beside her.

It became clear it had been aiming for the member of SOLDIER dancing before it. Zack. He was lithe and powerful, and tumbled out of its way, slashing for the gut.

It was a Rakshasa, she knew, with the same coloured skin as the monster that rotted in the ocean behind them. Aster shuddered and forced herself to forget her conversation with Rex. That much was easy because the beast raised its flail. The chain alone was as thick as her leg and the striking end as large as an armchair.

And it turned to her, so she hid behind the tent that was catching alight on the embers of the dying bonfire that had been thrown into it like smoking darts. A Wutai grunt laid in wait.

Aster tackled him to the ground, sprung to her feet, and kicked under his chin as hard as she could. His head cracked back. If it hadn't been attached, it would have been knocked out of the park.

She didn't look back to check if he was dead.

Bullets zipped through the air. Gunfire and screams of agony were sounds not as foreign to her as they once had been. She crouched with her back to a crate and waited for Cloud's signal.

He pointed to his other men and sent them around clockwise. Aster he sent the contrary, towards a large group of enemies facing off with Squad B. The plan was working.

She pressed the butt of her rifle into her shoulder and fired at one grunt's back. Three bullets, two entries. Hit the ground.

She raced forward, blood surging to her face, firing at the back of the dog-like Foulander. It spun to her, salivating, and its steely blue eyes knocked the breath from her lungs.

It lunged for her and she snapped a kick skyward to knock it back. Drill. Training. Procedure. Beats away the shock. She ripped the baton from her side and clouted it into the creature's fangs, crumbling them like brick.

The hound launched to gouge out her intestines with its tusks. Aster's rifle flashed her bared teeth as she fired a stream of bullets into its throat.

"Crescent Unit—get down!" yelled a SOLDIER Second, and Aster threw herself to the ground without knowing if the order was for her. A missile crashed into a tent beside Squad B. A body was thrown up into the air like a rag doll. She prayed it might have been Wutaian.

But the world had turned to chaos, and there was no order to see. Aster whipped her head back and forth across the battlefield, but no line of sight was clear, and she had no eyes on the member of the Crescent Unit that must have been nearby. She scrambled through the dirt to all she could see. Cloud, Zack, and the Rakshasa.

Aster pelted back to the crates she had hidden behind and aimed her rifle over it. Sweat rolled over her temple. She clamped her teeth on her trembling lip. It's not like she'd miss, but if she hit its coppery armour and a bullet ricocheted unfortunately, it could well sink into the body of either of the pair before her.

She swallowed her nerves and watched the monster swing its wrecking ball for Zack. A scream pulled from deep in her gut as she vaulted over the wooden boxes, firing for the largest exposed area of its body.

Zack bent back as the wrecking ball breezed just a whisper above his body, then, with a yell of his own raw in his throat, shot forward and sliced his sword straight through the thick chain, snapping it and sending the boulder flying into one of the supply trucks with an incredible crunch and smashing glass.

The Rakshasa screeched. Cloud darted in, sword firmly in two hands.

Aster distanced herself and socked a troop in the jaw as he aimed for Cloud. He recoiled and swung his halberd, and though she hopped back to mitigate the damage, the blade still sliced through her fatigues at the thigh, and one of her holsters hit the ground. Adrenaline fought the burn. She shot her rifle from the hip, sinking bullets into similar places, then her face hit the floor. A Foulander's gnarled paws slammed against her back.

It stabbed its jagged claws into her shoulder blade, and with a growl, she cracked her elbow deep into its ribs, earning a canine squeal. A SOLDIER Second skewered it through the neck and slung it off.

By Gods, was it a mess.

She gathered herself and gasped as the anti-SOLDIER beast flung its arm into Cloud's stomach, throwing him back into the stack of crates Aster had been hidden behind before. They collapsed into puffs of dirt and splinters.

Cloud struggled to his feet as the Rakshasa neared him. She grabbed the halberd from the fallen troop and launched it like a javelin for the neck of the beast. Barely scratched a few layers of skin—but it was enough of a distraction for Cloud to get back his footing.

"He's casting something!"

Who?

"Watch out!"

It all came too late. Atop of the largest tent, a man in a silver and black uniform—much like the one she'd seen on the important Wutaian man in the slums—and a helmet more ceremonial than practical aimed his gun lance straight for her face.

Zack threw himself into her. The tremendous force of his body colliding with hers knocked her back into the dirt with a sick thud. His weight crushed her ribs. Her head smacked into a rock at a hard angle, and her helmet knocked off and rolled across the ground. The wetness of blood drowned the back of her neck.

No amount of training, procedure or drill can prepare the mind for this.

Zack's chest shuddered against hers. He searched her face for the cornflower blue eyes that he had memorised down to the silvery shimmer they gave when she smiled. His horror turned her stomach. Paralysed, probably for the first time in his life.

Time seemed to stop, but the feeling is deceiving. In reality, only a second passed.

A second is long enough to aim and fire.

"Zack, no!" she yelled in his stricken face, as she watched the elite Wutai soldier shift his aim.

She tumbled their bodies to the right and rolled to a stop beneath him. A bullet bit deep into the ground where their heads had been. She grabbed her rifle and fired it with her arm resting on Zack's shoulder to steady her aim. Shoot for the legs. Wound.

Her bullets only saw the fabric roofing. The Wutaian jumped from the tentpoles on which he had stood and disappeared behind the structure.

Aster and Zack shared a breath, a glance. The recoil of her rifle jolted her elbow, reverberating in his shoulder, his chest, her chest. A violent pulse. She bit her lip so hard the colour drained from it and grabbed her helmet, slammed it back on her head. When she finally let go, blood surged back into her lips.

It was seconds, yes. To Aster, it felt like hours. To Zack, perhaps days.

But he recovered faster.

He snapped to his feet and pulled her up by the arm. One last glance.

And they surged in separate directions. Zack towards the Adamantaimai with an old hardened shell that could hide a small family. Limpets and sediments settled like crust and hid the parts of its shield polished like abalone shells, where under the dirt and grime, the colours of the rainbow, like an oil spill, shone through.

And Aster tore for the anti-SOLDIER monster with lead in her gut. It was a bad decision. She knew that when she made it. It pounded its fists into the ground and surged to life. Cloud's voice travelled with the wind, "Get out of the way," he was saying, yelling.

The earth cracked and groaned, the severity of the tremors racking their bones. The world was already spinning, and now shaking, too. Her rifle was too dangerous. Too close range. Too high a risk of ricochet.

A Wutai soldier stabbed for her, and her body jerked out of the way. She grabbed the gun lance, kicked him off with a boot firm in his chest, and aimed the firing end for the Rakshasa's neck.

The missile connected with a great explosion of billowing white smoke and it screamed. Through the pillows of white, red eyes gleamed like brake lights.

Cloud shot into the smoke, sword pointed. Steel scraped against metal, then bone. As the mist settled, Cloud could be seen hilt deep in the beast's gut, until he sprung up on its knee, dragging his sword up and through its torso. Innards and blood erupted from the wound, plugged only by the monster falling face down on top of them.

Cloud landed neatly beside it.

The battle was clearing, the dust, settling. And in the distance, weaving through tents and crates, a flash of silver, running.

A helicopter circled above them. Somehow, Aster knew it was for her. It would be the Turks.

She pelted after the figure, firing her rifle to his right to force him to turn left, guiding him out of the safety of the tents and huts. He fired back at her over his shoulder, but his halberd rifle was unwieldy, and she was small and quick. The edge of the continent would come sooner than she would give up.

She fired a well-placed bullet that sank into the back of his thigh.

But he didn't scream or fall to the floor. He spun to face her and pressed a handgun to his throat.

SOLDIERs mission rode on elimination. The Turks' mission rode upon the Crescent Unit member's survival—his questioning, his information.

Her boots dragged up the mud as she stopped.

He knew he had her. She'd given it away. She wanted him alive. A truck laid stationary only a fifty-foot sprint away. He threw the spear at her. It stabbed into the grass several inches shy of her feet. A warning. Do not come forward of this mark.

"You won't take me twice," he said gravely. "Shinra scum."

Aster frowned and pushed her luck, stepping in line with the halberd. And the soldier flicked the pistol from his throat to her face, then back to his throat. Second warning.

"What do you mean?" she said.

Three paces between he and she. No aid.

A split second. Time slowed for her. Reactions heightened, her body functioned at physical peak. The Wutaian stretched his arm out to shoot her. Aster grabbed the halberd, slipped it from its muddy sheath, and swung the blade for his wrist. She couldn't kill him. Couldn't let him kill her.

But he was a man of high training. Time slowed for him, too. He yanked back his wrist, the blade missed. Gun pointed high. Aster tackled him into the ground, twisting bodies and limbs. She on his back, knee dug into his spine, hand clawing for his gun-wielding wrist.

Then, bang.

He pulled the trigger under his chin. His body convulsed, then fell limp.

Her options were not to let him die or protect herself.

His options were to kill her or protect the information he held.

Unfortunately, neither could co-exist. Both managed to fail their primary goal. Both succeeded in their secondary.

The mission was a failure.

Well. SOLDIER's mission was a success. The Turks mission ended in failure.

Aster rested her trembling fingers upon his helmet. Detailed with silver and gold finery. Hot. And inside it, shards of bone, blood, brain, and somewhere, a crushed bullet. It stayed on only for the clasp that held it in place under his chin. She didn't move it. Didn't want to see the destruction. Didn't even want to see his face or the gore that would surely be pouring over it as it slipped from under his helmet.

Her knees were stuck. One rooted to the ground, the other connected to his spine.

She couldn't get up, so she fell limply next to him, eyes wide and glassy.

Drill, procedure and training.

She rolled onto all fours.

Obviously, she hadn't had enough.

She clutched at her stomach as she brought up its contents, a burning mixture of bile and blood. And when she pulled her hand away, it too was covered in blood from a seeping wound she couldn't remember receiving. As she deserved.

Gunfire died away. The settlement was in pieces. Broken tentpoles held torn fabric that swung in the wind like the surrender that the Wutaians should have given. Crushed pallets and crates. Stones, rocks, empty cartridges and magazines littered the floor as though they all belonged.

A cool breeze finally brought her to her feet. She could just about make out the body of the Rakshasa amidst the wreckage, that dominated the horizon even in death. And she couldn't swear it, but its blood was dark, too dark, thick, like oil, black, perhaps purple…

"Oh, Goddess, what is going on," she whispered, as though someone might be able to answer her.

The helicopter, B1-Alpha, began to settle none too far away. The grass rippled. It smelled fresh, but couldn't blow away the smell of gunpowder, blood and sweat.

Zack drew towards her, from between weeping tents. Slowly, she pulled off her helmet. Not like she'd need it now. And it was damaged. The section that smacked into the rock was covered in blood and rippled beyond repair. Could've been her skull. Her pinned-up hair, once blonde, was wet and red at the base of her neck. She touched it.

The head always bleeds more severely than the wound would suggest. She'd probably get off with a mild concussion. But she didn't suppose that would be enough to let her off the Turks intel sweep mission that would surely follow.

Zack looked at her. As though for the first time.

That hurt. Much more than her head or her leg or the stomach wound that her adrenaline still managed to keep at bay.

"Aster," he said, then shook his head. "Who…what…?"

"I-I promised I'd tell you after—this. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was coming, too."

"What?" He pressed his hand to his face. "Wait. What do you mean you 'didn't know you were coming'? Who are you?"

The helicopter door opened. It was Tseng. "Doe. Chopper. It's not over."

It's never over.

Even though blood surged through her skull, and the helicopter rotors and engine roared, and the winds whistled over the plain, Aster still heard the gasp that ripped through Zack's throat. His face pulled to a sickly pale shade of white.

"Doe...not the," he said, barely, "the Turk selective...?"

"Now," Tseng barked.

"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, Zack," she said, little more than a whisper.

And he pushed his fingers into his hair, eyes wide, watching her as she ran to Tseng with a faint limp. Watching her as she snapped into a military salute.