Chapter 12 – Falling

The winter air felt like sharp crystals on his cheeks, like cold breath rushing over his skin. Around him, the world blurred into streaks of color – the black road, the assortment of vehicles, the grey skyscrapers, the blue sky, all melting into a wonderous rainbow that whipped past the edges of his eyes. It was impossibly fast, so much so that the only true things Cloud could sense were the purr of the motorbike between his legs, the smooth feel of the metal handle bars in his curled fingers. As he sped through the streets, dipped into the curves, the rush of everything pulsed through him, almost threatening to burst his veins. Once upon a time, the motion and the sensations would have been far too much, exacerbating the old ghosts of his motion sickness. But not today. Today, Cloud felt like flying.

It was just a shame that his passenger disagreed.

"You wanna slow down!?" Zack shouted from behind him. Though his head was positioned directly behind Cloud's own, the blond could barely hear Zack's voice above the roar of the engine, let alone register the notes of distress. It was not the first protest Zack had made this afternoon, since the two of them had set out from the Shinra garage with one of the company's newest motorbikes in tow. It was meant to be a celebratory thing – a speed-rush through the city on the world's most exhilarating ride. And yet, somewhere along the way, Zack had changed his tune, a stark contrast to his earlier enthusiasm, to his excitement over "trying this bad boy out."

To be fair, there was an obvious explanation for the shift. Cloud did not consider himself a bad driver. He drove carefully and well, and he had yet to have an accident in any Shinra vehicle (which was more than could be said for the Lieutenant). But the second his foot had hit the throttle and he had heard the hum of the beautiful titanium, the blond could not stop himself. The power beneath him was so seductive – and even more captivating was the recognition that he now had the reflexes, the speed, and the skill to meet it, like a matador to a conquered bull. And so, without a second thought, Cloud had pushed the acceleration and had never looked back.

It was also partially Roche's fault. The damned Third had somehow gotten the lucky ticket to be the first to test the new bike out, and he had been bragging about the fact nonstop in the SOLDIER lounges. While annoying, Roche's talk normally would not have prompted Cloud to any course of action. Instead, what had sparked the fire was the other man's insistence on pushing his good fortune. After yet another ridiculous flirting attempt (and a bad pun about Cloud and riding that he would never deign to repeat), something in Cloud had snapped, and all he wanted to do in that moment was to wipe that smug look off of Roche's face.

"A race," Cloud had said. "If I win, I get your spot with the bike."

There they were, standing in the Third Class lounge, two blond SOLDIERs staring each other down with glowing eyes. Their surrounding colleagues had immediately whooped and hollered, whipping out their PHSs, placing their bets. It would take less than half-an-hour for the story to be told and retold all throughout the floors of the Tower, for the fodder to be spun to false gold by the Shinra rumor mill. But for some reason, Cloud did not care about any of the noise. His headspace had narrowed, and his focus had centered on one thing only: to win.

Roche, to his credit, had not backed down from the opportunity he saw. With a callous grin, he responded, "And if I win, I get that date you've owed me since you kissed me on your birthday."

It was meant to be a flirt, a tease, something to catch him off guard, to make him stumble. And there was a part of Cloud that had supposed that he should have been mortified, by the wolf whistles and the laughter, of the possibility that he would have to go on a date with the Third (who would no doubt try something untoward), when he was already in a (secret) committed relationship with someone else. But there was none of the usual questioning, none of the self-doubt, none of the hesitance. Instead, something that tasted a lot like certainty settled within him, hardening his backbone, stoking the flames. Cloud could not place why, or how, could not even begin to explain it. But he knew somehow that there was no way he could lose.

And he did not. The race was over quickly. Cloud flew through the designated route, the streets and the sights and the other cars diffusing into nothingness as he sped. While there were moments on the road that Roche gave a good fight, in the end, Cloud's victory had been more than decisive. When Cloud had rounded the last turn back toward the finish line haphazardly drawn at the garage entrance, his opponent was too far behind to even be seen, and every one of the SOLDIERs waiting for the winner began shouting his name in excitement.

"You fucking killed it, Cloud! A legend in the making."

Of course, not one to be left out of the fun, Zack was there, smile beaming brighter than starlight. Judging from the satisfaction of that smirk, the Lieutenant had made quite a bit of money on the race. But more so than the gil, Zack was also after the chance to join Cloud in testing out the brand new bike. In hindsight, that now seemed to be a miscalculation. Because with the way that the blond was now coursing over the road, twisting and turning between traffic, it was likely that Zack was going to take a much-needed moratorium on motorcycle driving, if he ever made it out of this ride alive.

"Watch out!"

Pointedly, the Lieutenant gave another yelp as they hit a sharp bend, nearly careening into the highway railing. Cloud banked the turn just in time, but even after the close call, he did not falter, not for a second. Instead, he kept pushing, revving up the acceleration once more.

Gaia, this felt fantastic. Cloud's heart was pumping a thousand miles a minute, and every nerve and every sense had sharpened to a knife's edge. He could feel the curves in the road before they were visible, and the bike itself responded to his touch readily, transforming into an extension of his body as easily controlled as his own limbs. It was similar to how Sephiroth described his work with his sword, back when they had shared daily training sessions. Though the outlet was different, Cloud experienced it all the same – the ease and grace that the General displayed with his famed Masamune – right here, with this spectacular vehicle.

The thought of Sephiroth sent another jolt of adrenaline through Cloud. They had not spent much time together over the last month, with the Second having been sent on a mission near Fort Condor right before his next scheduled rounds of enhancements. When he had returned, Cloud had hoped to spend the recovery time following the mako injections lounging in Sephiroth's apartment, partaking in his cooking, and sleeping in the man's more comfortable bed. But the General was suddenly and inconveniently assigned to Junon for a three-week-long review of the military base's operations. And while the occasional extended separation was not unusual for them, something about this particular distance left an unreachable itch under Cloud's skin.

But that was not the only strange new feeling Cloud started to experience following his injections. As he led materia training sessions for the newest Thirds and helmed monster-clearing missions in the Midgar slums, the evidence began to build. Spells Cloud used to find difficult now flew out of his fingers with ease. Monsters that once took him four blows to slay now fell to his blade with one. Spars with fellow Seconds became increasingly lopsided in his favor, and even Zack, for all his brilliance with the Buster Sword, appeared slower to his mind's eye. Unexpectedly, every motion he carried, every breath he took, everything he did, became just short of satisfying. No matter what Cloud tried or how hard he pushed – the race with Roche, the rush of the winding highways – there remained something missing. It was like a meal just a portion too small, and by the end of the three weeks, Cloud was absolutely and painfully starving.

There was only one thing that seemed to promise to feed the hunger inside Cloud. And he was finally coming home tonight.

With that, Cloud whipped around, ignoring the honks of ongoing traffic and Zack's shriek of surprise, to cut through the exit that would lead them back to the Tower. His passenger let out a little sigh of relief when he recognized the route, evidently hoping that his torture was close to its end. Still, Cloud's mounting impatience made the blond speed through that much more quickly. It only took them mere minutes to cross through the entirety of Sector Eight and arrive back at the garage, and when they finally came to a stop, both Zack and Cloud were utterly breathless, albeit for different reasons.

"Dude," said Zack, when the ability to formulate words returned to him. "What the hell was that?"

Cloud yanked his goggles off and ran a casual hand through blond spikes. Without so much as a look behind him, he hopped off the bike and began making his way toward the main entrance. "It handles pretty well, but the turns are not as smooth as Roche claimed, so be careful. Keys are in the ignition. Have fun."

"What? Wait!"

But once again, Cloud did not hear Zack, his friend's voice buried underneath the loud drumbeat of his pulse. He was not sure why or how, but he knew Sephiroth was in the building, could sense the man as strongly as his own breathing. He could even picture the General, sitting in his office, peering at his computer screen with tired green eyes, could envision the subtle scrunch of frustration on Sephiroth's normally immaculate features, the tiny sigh of annoyance, the small crease in between the brows. Suddenly, more than anything, Cloud just wanted to kiss all that stress away. He wanted to wrap himself up in Sephiroth, burrow into him, see him, feel him, breathe him. And more than that, he wanted to make the man feel something else, something much more satisfying, something much better than exhaustion, something that Cloud felt certain would finally sate the craving that had haunted him since Sephiroth had left.

The elevator to the SOLDIER floor could not move fast enough.

Sephiroth could not read Kunsel's eyes from behind his helmet, and while that lack of insight normally would have bothered him, in this case, it was oddly encouraging. After all, those who remained inscrutable, invisible, they were the ones who could survive the labyrinth of mysteries housed in Shinra Tower. Kunsel certainly fit that bill: from his resume, it was clear that the young man purposefully toed a careful line. He was a smart operative with a solid mission record, but he declined opportunities that would have put him on the direct track for First Class. Even beyond that, Kunsel had an uncanny manner of simply knowing much of the goings on in the company, without any indication as who or what his sources could be. In fact, the only aspect that marred the Sergeant's perfectly constructed obscurity was his friendship with the loud and boisterous and very much so not-invisible Lieutenant.

Kunsel's quiet reputation was part of the reason why Sephiroth called him that day, following his appointment with Hojo. But he knew the favor he was about to ask – and it was a favor, not an order, because Sephiroth knew all about giving orders that led men to horrible fates – was one that would push boundaries. He would be risking exposure, of himself, of his true nature, whatever that may be. Moreover, he would also be risking Kunsel's safety, as the Science Department was a division that even the President avoided trifling with. And yet, Sephiroth called anyway, because of one reason. Because of Zack.

(Truly, the man must have some sort of special talent for such things).

Zack was friendly and came off as trusting, but Sephiroth knew his Lieutenant was much shrewder than he let on. Zack also understood people better than anyone Sephiroth had ever met. If Zack believed in Kunsel, if Zack trusted him, then Sephiroth could think of no better qualification, no better endorsement, for a task such as this.

As it turned out, the instinct was right. Kunsel had been more than receptive. When they had met more than a month ago, in the privacy of Sephiroth's living room, the Sergeant had listened carefully, solemnly, to every word of Sephiroth's hushed explanations. Sephiroth had started with Angeal and Genesis, the disease that sickened them, how the truth of their degradation lay somewhere in the bowels of the Science Department. How he had tried to fish something out but to no avail, and how he now worried about what all the secrets could mean for him. He had talked about his faded memories from the laboratories, of people, of names, that could perhaps prove useful in the hunt. He had shared the tiny droplets that he did manage to locate, the pieces of research left behind by Hollander, and the small wisps of insight Hojo had let slip.

("He said that my mother had signed me away, and in doing so, hinted that she had possibly worked for Shinra."

From the moment Sephiroth had begun speaking, Kunsel had hardly moved a muscle. But in that instance, there was a soft intake of air, a tiny breath, as if to stifle the disbelief, the question. Who would do that to a child?).

Finally, Sephiroth had closed, folding his hands and looking at Kunsel fixedly: "As you can now guess, the rumors of Shinra's human experimentation are all true. But to what end – and what exactly those experiments involved – that is what still remains a mystery."

"And that's what you want me to look into?"

"Yes. I suspect that that will tell me…what I am."

It was hard to tell how exactly Kunsel had reacted to those words (even after hours, he still kept his helmet), but there were not any of the usual notes of fear in the air. Instead, after a silent beat, the Second stood up and stated, "It will take some time. The Science Department is the most secret part of the company. But I'll do what I can."

He had said it simply, with the same easy determination that characterized Zack and Cloud, and all in spite of the danger they both knew could await him. Sephiroth wondered if that was Angeal's influence lingering in the air, if perhaps his late friend's infamous lectures managed to leave a legacy of honor and trust at SOLDIER after all. Regardless, he was grateful. And more than that, Sephiroth felt hopeful, that something true would finally be rendered real, and that that truth would hold the key to setting him free.

Which was why, when he returned from Junon and stepped into his office, and he saw the familiar helmeted head sitting on the couch, Sephiroth's heart had nearly jumped out of his chest. In Kunsel's hands was a small stack of papers, neatly tucked into a nondescript manila folder. But instead of optimism, instead of excitement, instead of satisfaction over the completion of a mission, the Second's mouth was set in a tight and unreadable line.

"Sergeant," Sephiroth said, leaving his bag by his office door. He crossed the threshold to his desk, turned and folded his arms. "I take it that you do not have good news?"

Kunsel stood up and dropped the folder on Sephiroth's desk. As he began spreading out the papers, he remarked, "Depends on what you mean by good, sir."

Intrigued, Sephiroth looked down. Right on top was Dr. Gast's personnel file, with his picture – the same soft eyes, same mustache, though lacking many of the wrinkles that Sephiroth recalled he had come to possess before he disappeared – staring back up at him like an old ghost. Underneath that file were various project abstracts and research summaries, snapshots of a lifetime of dedicated work. As Sephiroth took the papers in his fingertips and started to flip through, he noticed, with a bit of disappointment, that much of the information remained redacted. But still, there were small pieces, like faint starlight in an otherwise empty dark night. Mentions of the man's resume, his earlier research into the Lifestream, into mako energy, into the Planet. And further down, the markings of what was clearly an intentional shift in focus toward the Ancients, who they were, and what powers they possessed.

Kunsel sat down, started his explanation. "Looks like you were right. They couldn't completely get rid of all the work done by the last head of the Science Department. I found some of Dr. Gast's personnel information and research summaries buried in old hard drives."

Sephiroth turned another page. There was a photograph, of Gast and Ilfana, wrapped in thick winter jackets and clad in ski boots, standing in front of a snowy inn. They looked happy, cheerful, and they were smiling at each other in a manner that was now growing awfully familiar to Sephiroth. The sight made something clang in his chest.

"He had some frequent collaborators. There was a man named Dr. Grimoire Valentine he worked with for a while on some of his earlier stuff. For the later projects, there was this woman, Ilfana, in that picture there. I think she was a lab assistant or another researcher, maybe?"

Not lab assistant. Not researcher. Nothing that simple. How could Sephiroth have missed it? In his selfishness, in his ignorance, in his youth, he had rationalized Gast and Ilfana's first disappearance as something to do with him, as something his failings had caused. But now, with context of his own recent experiences, Sephiroth was beginning to realize that perhaps something else entirely had been at play.

And yet, as much as he wished he could dig further into what had prompted Gast to leave, that was not the main reason why Sephiroth had directed Kunsel to start with the former Shinra scientist. "Any mention of the last project Gast was working on before he left?" The one involving me, remained unsaid.

At that, Kunsel shook his head. He pointed to one particular piece of paper, in which nearly all the text had been blacked out. "That's the bad news. It looks like whatever Gast was last working on, they went through the extra trouble making sure it stayed hidden. I even went through some additional personnel files of the Science Department around that time, to see if I could find some other avenues."

"And?"

Kunsel frowned. "Nothing. There was no mention of a woman named Jenova, either, nor any records that named her. The only thing I did find was another doctor, a Lucrecia Crescent. But her files indicated that she had died. And everyone else, any technicians or assistants, they're either all still working for Dr. Hojo or—"

"They are dead."

That much was to be expected. The good doctor preferred keeping things close to the vest. Hojo often treated the people he worked with as mini-experiments themselves, only providing them enough information to perform their intended function and sparing them no other thought beyond that. And Shinra liked its secrets to stay secrets, either by continuing to pay them off or by locking them away in coffins. Simply trying to tug at the threads that Gast might have left behind was not going to be enough, not when Sephiroth wanted to unfurl the whole damned thing. Yes, there were some conclusions to be made, chiefly that the experiments that resulted in him, Angeal and Genesis evidently had something to do with the Ancients. More than that, they were top priority for Shinra, enough to for the company to be willing to bury and kill for. But all that merely confirmed existing suspicions; it did not reveal anything new, any other paths for exploration. It seemed that the full details of the mysterious work Gast and Hojo had collaborated on, that had driven the former and Ilfana away, that had molded Sephiroth's existence, were going to keep themselves stubbornly and dangerously hidden, like the jagged core of an iceberg lurking beneath dark waters.

"I'm sorry, sir," Kunsel offered. There were the bitter notes of a genuine apology, for much more than a failed mission, in his tone.

Sephiroth exhaled, steadied himself, turned to face the young man. "It's alright. I will try to think of something else."

"Well, if that's the case. I have an idea."

The Second was standing now, his back ramrod straight, with a mixture of determination and nervousness. It was an odd enough combination to cause Sephiroth to lift his head to attention, regard the other man with curiosity. "What idea?"

"I believe I can find out more. But to do that. I am going to need some more time, and some help."

"Help?" Sephiroth repeated. It was already difficult enough highlighting his mismatched truths to someone who was a relative stranger, even if he was Zack's friend. Moreover, involving someone else added to the risk of Hojo discovering these roundabout inquiries. It was not an option Sephiroth wanted to contemplate.

Kunsel shifted from one foot to the next, clearly anticipating some resistance. But he pushed ahead anyway, clarified, "Well, sir, there's only one department here that would have access to all the redacted files."

That was not a direction Sephiroth was expecting. He narrowed his eyes. "You want to involve the Turks?"

"Just one, sir."

"Who?"

Kunsel was quick with the response. "Cissnei is what she goes by." And then, because he knew it would offer some much needed goodwill, he added, "She's a friend of Zack's."

While that fact was indeed helpful, Sephiroth remained skeptical. Turning to Kunsel had been one thing – the man was a SOLDIER, and there was an implicit assumption that Sephiroth could make about trusting his own men. But the Turks were something else altogether, and while he understood that obtaining one's assistance would make a world of difference, it could come at an extreme cost. After all, Shinra had made a habit of scorching the earth to hide their secrets, and the Turks were often the ones setting the fire.

Once again, Kunsel spoke up. "If Zack asks her, she will say yes," he stated, unreservedly.

Sephiroth glanced at the Second, turning over the implicit suggestion buried in his statement. In truth, he had yet to tell Zack or Cloud about his investigation, partly out of fear of worrying them. His intention was to share once he had more concrete information available, once he felt like he could hold something solid in his grasp. But Sephiroth supposed he should be used to the idea that things hardly went according to plan, especially when it involved the Science Department.

He was about to respond, to say that he would bring Kunsel's idea under advisement, when suddenly, the door to his office swung open and in walked Cloud Strife, smelling of fresh winter air and a hint of motor oil. Despite the young man's flushed face, the blond had stridden in with such a purpose that Sephiroth could not stop the instinctual edge of caution from creeping into his muscles. Kunsel also appeared startled by the unexpected intrusion, because he immediately whipped his head around and stepped back from Sephiroth's desk like a retreating animal.

"Cloud," Sephiroth acknowledged. "What are you doing here?"

Cloud brushed aside the remark, his eyes locked solely on Sephiroth. He was halfway to the desk by the time he even noticed Kunsel, and the sight of the other man finally seemed to give him pause. "I didn't realize you were busy," Cloud said, eyes flickering to his fellow Second. The blond's brow was raised, and the intimation of that impatient motion, of his silent demand, was then made more than clear.

Luckily, Kunsel did not need any mysterious information sources to immediately pick up on the hints. He replied, with a cracked strain in the voice – from surprise, amusement, or something else, Sephiroth could not tell – "Hey, Cloud. We were just wrapping up. I'll – uh – just leave you to it. Thanks, sir." In just a few stumbling seconds, the Sergeant quickly gathered the papers, tucked them under his arm, ducked his head, and shuffled out of the room.

There was a momentary pause, during which Cloud levelled Sephiroth with his best and brightest blue-eyed gaze. In response, the General let out a quiet sigh. "Considering who you did that in front of, you may have accidentally made our relationship public."

If Cloud cared at all, he did not show it. The blond finished his approach, stood resolutely in front of Sephiroth. Their eyes met, sky blue to jade green, and in them, Sephiroth noted the now familiar affection and longing and determination, all things he'd come to treasure, all things that still left him a little breathless in disbelief. But there was also something else in the look, at the edges of the irises, something he had only seen in Cloud in the rare moments when they would push up against the boundaries of their self-control. Only this time, the steel seemed a little sharper, and possibly a lot more dangerous.

Sephiroth was about to say something, to question. But then Cloud, without a single word, coiled some of Sephiroth's long strands of hair into his fingers and yanked the taller man down for a bruising and hungry kiss.

Oh.

It was terribly easy to get lost in Cloud, to surrender to everything good Sephiroth felt when he was with him. In the instant that their lips met, he remembered the mornings in Junon, and how lonely the sunrises felt without having someone to share them with. Sephiroth knew that he had missed Cloud in a way he had not missed anybody before. And because he was still wrapping his mind around the idea that someone actually cared for him in return, he had forgotten that the sentiment perhaps went both ways.

Cloud's tongue flicked demandingly against his lips, and there was nothing Sephiroth could do in that moment but capitulate. He opened his mouth, let the blond take what he wanted, tongue and teeth and lips. In return, Sephiroth wrapped his arms around that small waist to hold on. Gaia, had it really been almost a month since they had seen each other? How had he survived this long without such sweetness? There was a part of Sephiroth, the logical, rational part, that reminded him of the decision they had made to wait before fully consummating their relationship. But that voice was slowly getting drowned out with every breath Cloud insisted on stealing from him.

Finally, Cloud surrendered his lips, turned his attention instead to Sephiroth's neck. Trembling fingers found their way down from his shoulders, to his chest, to the buckle that held together his leather jacket. It was not until the sound of that buckle clicking open and the feel of Cloud's hands against his bare chest that the alarm bells began to resound.

This was…not normal. While they had engaged in a few kisses in the office when they felt certain that no one was looking, their more heated moments were reserved for the privacy of their apartments. Moreover, they had yet to re-open the discussion of sex. Each time they felt like they were reaching the edge, Sephiroth would summon every ounce of discipline he had to pause, to allow them to catch their breaths, to force himself to wait on Cloud. And each time, once Cloud came down from the rush and the heat, he would shake his head and request just a little more time.

Something was different now. It was as if the blond was just rushing full on, speeding through a racecourse without care or thought of the obstacles. Sephiroth tried pulling back for a moment, but Cloud's hands had dipped lower to rub him over his pants, and the friction against his own traitorously growing bulge was starting to get even more dizzying. If he did not manage to stop this here, Sephiroth was going to end up taking Cloud on his desk, in his office, in the middle of the Tower that was owned by the company that had experimented on him since youth. That was not at all the scene or the ambiance that he had wanted to give their first time together.

That thought was enough to rescue Sephiroth from diving in headfirst. He reached for Cloud's elbows and pushed the blond backward, earning him a tantalizing whimper.

"Cloud, slow down."

"Mmhm," murmured Cloud, clawing forward for more.

Sephiroth dodged the kiss but managed to end up with a lapful of the blond, whose hands were still wandering, torturously so. "I did not realize that you missed me that much," he said, letting his fingers momentarily tangle in those soft spikes.

"I did," Cloud replied. The blond pressed several kisses on Sephiroth's chest, punctuating each with a tiny whisper. "I missed you. I need you."

"Here? In my office?"

"Yes."

Those blue eyes were half-lidded and hazed, and looking into them now, Sephiroth was finding it even more difficult to keep his composure. But doubt continued to nibble at the edges, raising questions, ringing concerns. He reached forward, pressed a hand to Cloud's face, stroked his thumb against that warm cheek. He watched the radiance of the blue, dazzling, shifting with a combination of Cloud's natural light and the unnatural mako, the kind of green-tinged afterglow that signified a recent exposure.

That was when the realization hit: Cloud had been scheduled for his next round of enhancements, right around the time Sephiroth had been abruptly summoned to Junon. And Sephiroth had worked long enough at Shinra to know that such things could not have been simple coincidence.

"Cloud, did something happen at your appointment?" Sephiroth asked.

The blond blinked, obviously jarred at the unexpected turn in the conversation. "No, nothing. I just received some injections."

"There wasn't anything else? Was Hojo there?"

"Hojo?" Cloud said, the syllables forming slowly over his lips. The blond's brow furrowed. "No. He wasn't. Each time, there was just a lab assistant. He gave me the injections, the same as before."

"Have you been feeling anything strange?"

"No, not really, I—" A pause, a sharp inhalation, a haunting breath. Recognition flashed over Cloud's features. "I thought it was just because of the enhancements."

Sephiroth felt a pit sinking in his stomach now. This was what he had been afraid of – that Hojo would glean onto his attachment and use it against him, as he had everything else he ever cared for in his youth. He had no idea what happened, what Hojo's true intent was, what exactly he had hoped to accomplish, what he had exposed Cloud to, but he knew that the man would be observing him for his reaction, like any scientist would a lab rat dropped in the middle of an experiment. Which meant that the option he would have liked to pursue – running down to the Science Department and burning it to nothingness – was out of the question. It would be giving Hojo exactly what he wanted, all the proof that the madman needed, and for Cloud's sake, that was an outcome he needed to avoid.

Sephiroth folded his hands over Cloud's now. "Listen. I need you to go home. Go to my apartment, stay there and rest."

"I want to stay with you."

"There are some things I need to take care of first."

Cloud shook his head. "You don't understand. It feels worse when I'm not with you."

That was not something Sephiroth liked the sound of. "What feels worse?"

"Everything."

The quiet desperation in Cloud's voice – it made Sephiroth want to scream, want to take his sword and stab Hojo right between the eyes. Somehow, holding himself back now took more energy and willpower than it did to refuse Cloud's advances. But he needed to, because taking care of Cloud was his first priority, and it made everything else completely and utterly irrelevant.

Sephiroth leaned forward, kissed Cloud's hands gently. "Stay here," he said, motioning for Cloud to sit down at one of the chairs in front of his desk. Once the blond did so, Sephiroth straightened up and walked around to the other side of his desk to pick up his PHS. Whatever doubts he had before in his earlier discussion with Kunsel, whatever concerns he had about the man's suggestion, they paled horribly to the horror he felt right now. He had not felt like this in a long time, not since being a young teen in Wutai, lost in the jungles and confused by the strategies Heidegger set out for him. Back then, he had gotten by with a mixture of luck and skill with his sword. But as he grew and rose up the ranks, Sephiroth he learned that the best battles were fought not by the blade, but with knowledge, and that knowing marked the difference between life and death.

Right now, he was woefully outmatched. And this was not a battle he could afford to lose.

He clicked on Kunsel's name, typed the message, and sent it without another thought.

We'll go with your plan. I'll talk to Zack.

It always astounded Aerith, how the flowers could speak so quietly and yet so powerfully – enough to drown out the reality of the living world around her, enough to suffocate her senses until there was nothing left but the voices. When she was young, she had not minded, because the flowers sang pleasant and soft harmonies of life and love that filled her steps with happiness and her actions with gentle purpose. They sounded like the soothing lullabies of her first memories, the ones her biological mother used to hum to her before she died, and it always lifted her days to think of her melodies living on, carried through the breeze of the garden outside her house.

But lately, the flowers were anything but soft and warm. Over the past few months, their hopeful songs slowly transformed into fearful wails. And in the last few weeks, they had become even more desperate, pleading. The voices would rise, shout, scream, screech. They were sirens blaring through dark streets, flares piercing into the sky. They were trying to warn, trying to signal, trying to tell her that the cycle that pulsed through the world had come off the track, that the things that had been and the things that would be had become disconnected. They were demanding a return to order, a restoration of balance. They were demanding a sacrifice.

A meteor cracking through the atmosphere. The sun blotted out of the sky. A blade, silver and long, cutting through air and flesh.

The stories the Planet foretold were confusing, strokes and sketches of images left unclear and blurry. There was a part of Aerith that wondered if she would have understood had she been a true Cetra, like her mother. She was so young when she lost her, the last living link to the legacy that she was supposed to inherit, a line that had grown weak and diluted over the millennia. All Aerith could remember of the woman now was her beautiful brown hair, her gentle green eyes, how soft her fingers felt when they stroked her brow, how comforting her voice sounded when she sang the hymns of their ancestors. It hurt to think of her, of the details that Aerith's memories lacked, of the empty space her mother's death had left behind.

But Aerith also recognized that that was her human-half talking, to think of death as the end of known existence, the closing of story, however incomplete. Zack thought of death that way. She could feel it in the way he sobbed against her after the death of his mentor, in the way her chest vibrated with the shaking of his shoulders. She could understand his sense of the finality and how it compounded the pain of his loss. But Aerith had the advantage of knowing something else, about how death merely represented a beginning, a return to the cycle that powered all life on Gaia. A promising and beautiful reunion.

She had once thought of telling Zack this, explaining that Angeal had not ended, but instead had begun anew. But then, Aerith recalled how her adoptive mother's eyes went wide with disbelief, with sorrow, with rage, when she had told her about her husband's passing. It took a long time afterwards for Elmyra to see through all that, to see her again, and back then, Aerith was just a small child, with no real comprehension of the anguish that the loss of true love could inflict.

Now, she knew. She knew what that love felt like, and to imagine that distrust marring Zack's handsome face – she was not ready. For all the ancient wisdom supposedly coursing through her veins, Aerith was still just shy of seventeen, and the way that Zack looked at her, as a girl from the slums with more than her fair share of spunk and cleverness and wit – well, that was the way she wanted to be.

But it was not who she truly was. And Zack, lively and wonderous, was not meant to be her hero, not if the dark and sad tales the flowers told her were to be believed.

A body, cold and empty, left on the edge of a cliff overlooking a dying city. Her body, cold and empty, bleeding on white altar in a city that was already dead.

(They were lambs for destiny's slaughter.)

There was a part of Aerith that wanted to cry the moment the impressions seeped through her mind. They felt like memories, felt like her, felt so familiar, an uncannily perfect alignment of sights and smells and touches and sounds and tastes. She recognized it for what it was: a message, a coalescence of Cetran knowledge that had been building and brewing in the Lifestream for generations. This was is the fate that the Planet was asking of her, the path it had laid out to ensure its continued existence. And as the last Cetra standing, Aerith was the only one left to walk it.

Except, she wasn't just a Cetra. She was also human. And humans loved to exist under this notion (delusion) that their fates were in their own hands.

Crouched next to the flowerbed of her church, in a pool of light filtering from the cracks of the ceiling, Aerith reached for a petal. She stroked the softness once or twice, like a mother would caress the skin of a newborn child. Then, quietly, she closed her eyes, and whispered the same prayer that she had been offering since the cries of the Planet had begun those months ago.

There must be another way. If you let me, I can find it.

In the next breath of the light wind, she heard the same response: You must not defy destiny. It could be the end.

It was the line she had been fed each time, and with every repetition, it cut within her a deeper wound. Aerith could not fathom it, how a Planet that could sustain and create life could be so callous about its sacrifice. Because that was what Zack was to her – life. He was also hope and resilience in human form, a hum of effervescent energy that left her breathless and happy and free, all at once. When he had crashed through her roof, when she saw his body sprawled amongst her flower petals, his pure energy had made her wonder if an angel had fallen from the sky. But Zack was no angel. He was the most human person Aerith had ever met. He felt, loved, cared, dreamed, fought, suffered, lost, cried. He was everything wonderful about being human, an embodiment of all the potential that people could be.

She wanted to fight for that potential.

You must not change his fate. You must not change your fate.

"Shut up," Aerith muttered. She grabbed a fistful of the flower's petals and forcefully pulled the bud right off the stem. "Just please shut up."

"Woah, remind me not to piss you off, babe."

She could not help the startled gasp that escaped her then. Behind her, Zack was leaning against one of the pews, his delightful smile gracing his lips. "Hey," he greeted, crossing the threshold to sit beside her.

Aerith reached for his hand. "Hi, Zack."

They remained like that for a few moments, fingers and gazes tangling. She leaned into him, resting her head in the crook of his strong shoulder. Her fingers curled around his tighter, and Zack turned slightly to press gentle kisses on her forehead, on her cheek, on her lips. Each touch felt like a quiet promise – you can trust me, you can love me, I'll be here, I'll understand – and each moment Aerith kept her lips shut felt like a piercing betrayal, of both him and her own heart. She wanted to believe him, knew that he meant it. She wanted so badly for it to be true.

"Zack," Aerith said, pulling back from his touch.

For just a fleeting second, his lips chased after, but Zack caught himself quickly. However, neither his hand nor his gaze left hers, a lovely warmth spreading from his fingers, his expression calm and comforting and assessing and kind.

"What is it?" Zack asked, peering at her with his odd mixture of curiosity and concern.

It was nearly too much. Looking into those eyes was almost more than she could bear. Because Aerith knew she owed Zack more than the tiny hints of her past, of her heritage, of her abilities. She owed him the whole truth. But she feared more than the extremely unlikely scenario of his rejection. She feared the position the truth would put him in, worried that instead of preventing his fall, it would be the sure cause of it.

In response to the silence, Zack sat back on his heels and sighed. It was not his usual sound of playful exasperation, of willing patience; instead, it was one of frustration. "You and Cloud, both of you. I have no idea what is going on. The world has truly gone upside-down if the only person talking to me honestly, of all people, is Sephiroth."

Calamity. Harbinger. Apocalypse. Death. It was the second time she heard this cry, the first being just a few weeks ago with Cloud and Zack above plate. The suddenness of it, the sharpness of the flowers' reaction to that name – it shocked her so much that Aerith had almost let the façade slip (and she was pretty sure that Cloud had noticed). But the bitter song also settled within her an understanding that the meteor, the dark sky, the silver sword – all the dreadful images centered around this one man, and that as a result, the Planet feared him terribly.

And yet that too confounded Aerith. She knew who Sephiroth was – everyone on Gaia did – knew the stories of his unparalleled strength and prowess. But she also knew that he was Zack's friend, who had stepped up to help him process his grief, who forced her boyfriend to take days off when he noticed him overtaxing himself. She knew from looking at Cloud, so much more confident and certain in his worth and so different from the lost soul that had helped her fix her wagon, that Sephiroth cared well enough to help someone grow and blossom. And more importantly, she remembered vague images of silver hair and sad green eyes that mirrored her own, flashing against the white-walls of the Midgar laboratories. This man, who was the only one on the Planet that could probably understand the sheer otherness she felt – this was the man Gaia feared?

He will be the end of us, of you.

For a moment, Aerith sensed the whisper of steel against her stomach, and the swiftness of the sensation nearly made her gasp aloud in pain. She caught herself quickly, digging her fingers into the dirt for purchase.

But still, her boyfriend caught on.

"You're starting to worry me now, Aerith. You've been acting so strange. Please. Tell me what's going on."

She wanted to cry but knew she could not. She wanted to fall into Zack's arms but knew that doing so would break the dam completely. There Aerith was, the two halves, the human and the Cetra, the girl who wanted to fall in love and live her life believing in the boundless chaos of the free future, and the relic of a civilization long deceased, that could not escape its fate. She thought about her mother, thought about what she would do if she were in this position. Would she give into her heart or listen to the wisdom of those gone before her?

It was then that Aerith realized the truth: her mother had already made that choice, and because of it, she was here, alive, breathing, and free.

Aerith closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and sat upright. "The flowers," she said, trying to steady her voice.

Zack arched a brow, clearly confused. But he went along anyway. "What about them? Did they say something?"

"Yes. But you never asked why I could hear them in the first place."

The voices swelled, like a tsunami, towering above and threatening to crash down. You must not defy your destiny, our destiny.

Zack let out a small breath. This time, it was one of relief. "Okay. Why can you hear them?"

A cracked and rusted sword, on a lonely cliff. A grave-marker.

If she could avert that fate, somehow, someway, however delusional, however human that hope…

Aerith turned to face him now, green eyes hard with determination.

You cannot change his fate.

She pushed down on the voices, molding them like soil, burying them deep. "Have you ever heard of the Cetra?" she asked.

Watch me.