Chapter 13 – Fissure

It was a core truth of Sephiroth's life that he felt most natural, most comfortable, with a sword at hand. The moment he touched the hilt of a blade, a frission of familiarity would surge through him, as if the weapon were the missing line in a text, the absent piece of his soul. It made a perfect and terrible sense. After all, Sephiroth was bred for combat, for war, for death, and for the first few years of his life, those deadly spaces had comprised the entirety of his known universe. It was not until Genesis, until Angeal, that he realized that there were other worlds out there. And it was not until Zack, until Cloud, that Sephiroth began to believe that perhaps there was a place for something like him, a tiny cavern, a small corner, in those wonderous, new worlds.

But whether it was habit, discipline, or something else, there would always be that thrill surging through Sephiroth whenever the siren song of battle arose. It would seep into his skin, light the fire in his blood, drum loud and powerful and incessant between his ears. Even now, as he moved across the training room, the wooden sword in his grasp directing the dance like a conductor's baton, a pleasant tightness twisted in his stomach. But this particular moment escalated beyond the usual notes of excitement and passion. Instead, it had become something that Sephiroth had not experienced since that fateful afternoon in the Junon simulation (after which, everything had crumbled). It was the indescribable delight that came with fully engrossing oneself in the fight, the pure thrill of a challenge that commanded singular focus. Between Angeal's death and Genesis' betrayal, Sephiroth had thought that he would never be truly alive like this, not ever, not again.

Then, of course, Cloud Strife crashed into his life.

The blond feinted left, swung right, his steps and his strikes coming at Sephiroth in a swift and relentless staccato. It was fast enough that the silver-haired man could no longer rely on muscle memory and instinct: he had to focus, had to read, had to predict, had to interpret. The uptick in Cloud's speed, particularly in comparison to the blond's capabilities when he first joined SOLDIER, was to be commended. As one of the men who taught him, Sephiroth should have been proud, should have been overjoyed, at how remarkably the young man had progressed.

And yet, they both knew that this was not something to be celebrated.

Sephiroth stepped quickly and moved to parry Cloud's next blow. The smaller man responded by ducking beneath Sephiroth's arm, spinning into his body and jamming the General's ribs with the handle of his training sword. With the contact, Sephiroth stumbled backwards, allowing the momentum of the blow to increase the space between them. The maneuver was impressive, but it showed Cloud's inexperience, because for the briefest of moments, it left the blond's back open to him. Still, it was only because Sephiroth himself also possessed an agility far beyond the average SOLDIER that he was able to take advantage. Quickly, he hooked his longer legs between Cloud's and pushed him onto the mat with deft and sharp jab to his chest.

"Ah! Ow!"

Another swift roll positioned Sephiroth above Cloud, pinning those arms down against the training room mat. As expected, the blond's blue eyes blazed with his characteristic defiance, and Sephiroth could feel him push against the hold instinctually. The struggle lasted for a few seconds longer, until finally, the realization of the loss settled, and Cloud let out a huff in surrender.

"Okay, I get it."

Sephiroth shifted off of Cloud, and sat, his arms coming to rest on his knees. "You hit me," he said, matter-of-factly, letting his hand briefly ghost over his abdomen. It was not a hard blow, not in the slightest, and there would be no bruise. But his skin still stung, as if carrying the echoes of the moment of impact. It was difficult to tell, however, whether the ache that remained was physical or mental.

Cloud propped himself up on his elbows. His expression was dark. "I could read you. It was like I knew what you were thinking, where you were going."

"Perhaps you've simply gotten used to sparring with me."

"That is not it, and you know it."

Sephiroth watched Cloud tear his eyes away, stare at the floor, at the ceiling, at anything other than him. It had been like this for some days now, a chasm growing and gnawing ever since that conversation in Sephiroth's office. That night, they had retreated to his apartment, and Sephiroth sat on his couch and listened as Cloud repeated over and over what he saw at his recent medical appointments, as well as the symptoms he felt in the weeks following. Nothing he said brought Sephiroth any comfort. While it was common to experience an increase in abilities following mako injections, the jump in agility, mana, strength was far too great to be attributable to normal SOLDIER procedures. And yet, somehow, that fact had not been their primary concern.

Cloud described it like a craving, an insatiable need, a restless itch. All his body wanted to do was curl into Sephiroth, to the point that physical distance bordered on painful. And when they were close, it was as if all Cloud could feel was Sephiroth, in his flesh, in his head, like a memory forever ingrained and forever burned into his being. He could sense Sephiroth's desires even more keenly than his own, and his body hummed with the need to fulfill them, like a marionette on twisted strings. It could have sounded romantic – maybe in some other life, it was. But in that moment, Sephiroth could not bring himself to find anything lovely about the terror that marred the normally bright and open beauty of Cloud's face. He could not find it in himself to feel anything at all, other than a crushing guilt and a simmering anger.

It only worsened from there. The following morning, they had sat on the floor of the living room, stared at each other from across the black coffee table, and tested the boundaries of this new chain that now bound them together. It did not take long, and it was almost instinctual. That had been the first issue. The second was this: when Sephiroth closed his eyes, followed the string, he could see it all. The waves of the thoughts in the blond's head, the yearnings of his heart, the very electrical pulses that controlled his actions and his muscles, laid out in front of him like a clear blueprint. It would be such as simple thing to take hold of all the inner machinery that made Cloud who he was, to bend that body and mind to his will, to take that steel he admired and make it his own. A flick of his wrist, a bow of his head, a single word, a tug on that tether. As easily as breathing. That was all.

(From the depths of Cloud's mind, he had pulled back with a shuddering breath, like rising from warm waters into cold air. "A thread of fate," Sephiroth had whispered, though where the words came from, he did not know.

In front of him, Cloud had his knees pressed to his chest. He looked at Sephiroth with eyes that were now dim and hollow and just a little too green. The only thing he had said in reply – the only thing he had said for the rest of the day – was, "A hangman's noose.")

After that horrifying discovery, it became harder and harder for Sephiroth to resist marching into the laboratories and tearing Hojo's throat out with his bare hands. The only thing that stopped him was the uncertainty. They knew absolutely nothing of what the scientist had done to Cloud, what he planned or intended, whether it was permanent or reversable, or (Genesis' rotting flesh, Angeal's broken body) worse. But all their attempts at clarity had come up short. Kunsel and Zack and the Turk they had turned to for assistance had a plan in the works, but so far, there was nothing new to report. And as impatient as he was for answers, Sephiroth understood the need for caution. There were very few who crossed paths with the Science Department and managed to walk away unscathed: the names Gast Faramis and Lucrecia Crescent were just two in a long established pattern. No further names needed to be added to that list.

In the meantime, he kept his focus on Cloud, on what he could do to help the blond cope with this new change in the paradigm. Sephiroth understood what it felt like to wake up suddenly a stranger to your body and to your mind, to feel afraid of everything you were and everything you could become. In those moments, all he had sought was a sense of security, of safety, of hope – the tiny specks of which he had once found in Gast, in Ilfana, in Angeal, in Genesis. So, Sephiroth tried. He told Cloud that he would do everything in his power to protect him, that this would never happen again, that he would be safe. He offered everything he could think of: time off, an upgraded security system, space in his apartment. He attempted to say the right things, in the right tone, do the right things, in the right order. There was nothing Sephiroth wanted more than to reach out, to provide consolation and strength and support, the way that Cloud had unfailingly done so for him, time and time again.

But Cloud did not reciprocate. Instead, he began to build barriers, walls, distance, space, as if in a desperate attempt to maintain his sense of self. It was a logical response, and Sephiroth knew that. And yet, the situation drove an immediate wedge in their burgeoning relationship. Things that had once felt natural and right were now muddled and awkward and strange. Every action taken was now rooted in self-preservation, out of avoidance of pain. Cloud would sit by his side on the couch, share breakfasts and dinners, fall asleep in the same bed, but there was a blankness to his motions and an emptiness to his expression, like his body was simply following the mechanics programmed into its cells. Though the blond kept physically close, Sephiroth knew it was not out of any true desire to be near him, be with him. He knew, because he had never felt so far away from Cloud since the day he had met him.

In the intervening days, they hardly spoke, except when Cloud provided occasional updates on how he was feeling. This morning, in what was perhaps the only hint of good news, Cloud had reported that the symptoms seemed lighter, the sense of Sephiroth in his mind shrinking from deafening to a light, but ever-present buzz. It was then that the silver-haired man had suggested sparring again, partly to help Cloud adjust to his new capabilities, but also in a bid to ground the blond in a familiar activity. But he should have known better. All the spars revealed were the glaring differences between who Cloud was before and who he was now. Every modicum of growth, every new maneuver executed with precision and ease, felt like poison, like a betrayal. Suddenly, the very thing that had once drawn them together had transformed into another weapon now driving them apart.

"Cloud," Sephiroth began. He did not reach forward, for he knew the other man would pull away. "We can figure this out."

The blond remained quiet. After a pause, he stood up, grasped his practice sword, and moved to place it at the racks to the right of the training mats. Sephiroth knew Cloud well enough to see, from the slide of his shoulders, the tuck of his chin, that he was staying silent to avoid saying anything hurtful or harmful or out of turn. It would be in his best interest, in Cloud's, to retreat. But the days of this, this distance, this separation, this pressure, it had cracked Sephiroth wide open. And like a river pushing through the fissures of a dam, he knew it was only a matter of time before it all would break, and he would drown.

Because this was what he feared the most – that in the end, it would be too much and Cloud would leave, just like everyone else.

Sephiroth stood up, and despite his better judgment, walked to Cloud, and grabbed the smaller man's arm. Cloud let out a startled breath and turned to face him. His blue eyes were glowing so bright, so clear, so strong, even under the artificial lights of the training room. There was no mistaking the fear in them now.

"Talk to me," Sephiroth asked.

Cloud shook his head. "I can't."

"Please."

"No."

"I understand that you are afraid, but—"

"You don't understand anything."

Sephiroth paused, released the arm, let the warmth slip from his fingers. The words and the falling away of the touch felt like ice in his veins. "I might, if you tell me," he said.

"I can't. You won't like what I have to say."

"Say it anyway."

Cloud cast his eyes downward. He did not dare look at the General, not now, not with the truth hanging between them like a guillotine waiting to be released.

"You couldn't figure it out before. You didn't figure it out before. With Genesis, with Angeal."

And there it was, the finishing blow, enough to break the dam. Sephiroth could feel his heart starting to spill out all its contents, filling his chest to the point of suffocation, and even then, it did not stop. Not until there was nothing left, but a single sentiment, utterly contrite and terrifyingly meaningless. But because it was all Sephiroth had left to offer, he gave it, anyway.

"I'm sorry," he said.

They stayed that way for a few more moments, nothing between them but the humming of the air system, the electric lights. Neither dared move, dared speak, dared look at each other. The silence stretched between them, darkening the atmosphere, blanketing the wound that they had now created. Finally, after seconds that felt like hours, Cloud moved toward the exit, and for all his strength, Sephiroth found that he could not stop him.

Something else did instead.

Just as the blond was about to leave, the door slid open and in walked Zack Fair, his eyes wild and excited.

"There you two are! We gotta talk, quick. Something – woah, wait." The Lieutenant stopped, mid-step, mid-sentence, holding his hands up in confusion. Then, he added, in a rather weak tone, "There's some mighty weird energy here."

Cloud glanced up at his friend and sighed. "What do you want, Zack?"

Again, the dark-haired man paused, his expression turning thoughtful, assessing. All three recognized that Zack had more than enough social understanding to surmise that a quarrel had taken place. For a moment, Sephiroth wondered if he would interfere, as he had shown himself willing to before. But it appeared the man had other priorities, because Zack merely shook his head and folded his arms.

"Listen, I have no idea what's going on with you two, but I need you both to come with me. Aerith wants to talk."

"Aerith?" asked Cloud. "Does she need our help?"

Instead of answering directly, Zack's eyes flickered to Sephiroth. There was a tempered caution in that glance, one that was not wholly unfamiliar. "Not quite," the Lieutenant continued, keeping his gaze steady and level. "More that I think she can help you. Apparently, you two have met before. Or, more accurately, you've met her mother."

That statement was enough of a surprise to wash away the earlier tension, particularly once the realization hit Sephiroth. For a few seconds, he trudged through his broken childhood memories, searched the catalogue of all women he had interacted with in his youth, narrowed down the possibilities. But there was only one person that made sense, and that fact suddenly opened a potential door to the truth that he had not anticipated.

"Ilfana," he said, the name escaping his lips like a ghost.

The look that Zack gave him now was no longer one of caution, but of sadness.

"C'mon," the other man motioned, turning back toward the door. "Aerith's waiting for us."

Sephiroth stepped forward to follow, but Cloud did not. The blond remained rooted, his fist closing tightly, creaking the leather of his glove. "I can't," he said, voice cracking. "I can't."

The concern was back, darkening Zack's eyes. "Cloud, what's wrong?"

"I need to go. I need to—" Cloud's breaths came out in shorter and shorter bursts, and there was water building at the corner of his eyes. His hands flew up to the sides of his head, fingers digging pressure into the soft yellow locks, as if trying to will the mind to stay, as if attempting to push the fear and the pain down and down and down.

"Cloud," Sephiroth said, moving toward him. "Please."

His glove brushed that arm once more, only this time, the touch was like fire. It seared through Sephiroth, up his limb, into his brain, flashing images of darkness, of drowning, of death. The instinct that he had located before, that he promised Cloud he would lock away, now thrashed in its cage, and his body screamed out to control, to consume, to possess, to own. Everything pulsed with such energy that it took nearly all Sephiroth had to remain upright. Quickly, he pulled away, let out a startled gasp, and stumbled backward on shaking legs.

The tears were now freely flowing, and they made the blond's blue eyes glow even more vividly, a cursed, beautiful sight. "I can't do this. I can't do this," Cloud breathed, begged, pleaded. There was something else there, too, unsaid, unspoken, but undeniably present between the spaces of his words.

I'm sorry, too.

And that was it. Cloud turned and ran down the hall, vanishing in a fast tapping of boots, in a blur of blond and purple. In his rush, he left behind Zack, with an utterly confused expression, and Sephiroth, with a silently breaking heart.

It had to be the set-up of some joke: a florist, a Turk and a SOLDIER, sipping tea and sitting in a just-shy-of-messy living room (Aerith made a mental note to remind Zack that dirty clothes belonged in a hamper and not on the floor). And yet, that was precisely the scene that was playing out in Zack's apartment this afternoon, although judging by the stern faces of all parties involved, this was no laughing matter. The SOLDIER, Kunsel, whom Aerith had met on one or two occasions with Zack before, was sitting at her left, his eyes shielded by that omnipresent helmet. When she had opened the door for him, he had greeted her with a lilt of surprise in his voice. But the woman he came with, Cissnei, had an altogether different reaction – something akin to understanding, recognition, and even, a bit of relief.

Cissnei was pacing on the rug in front of the television, a folder with a few papers tucked in the crook of her arm. She looked as impeccable as ever, with her perfectly curled hair and her crisply ironed suit. Aerith had never ever seen a Turk painting anything less than an immaculate picture, a sharp contrast to the dirt she knew they often had to dig through. Though she had no outward qualms with the Turks and no issues toward Cissnei in particular (they had even spoken pleasantly a few times, whenever the redhead happened to be assigned to her), Cissnei's presence made Aerith nervous. If she was searching for a sign that this whole thing was a dangerous game, a Turk was undoubtedly a clear beacon.

But the redhead seemed to expect that concern. When she had come through the door, Cissnei had reached forward, placed a gentle hand on Aerith's arm and smiled, as if to say, you can trust me. And there was something about the look that she gave that made Aerith want to. That, and the fact that Kunsel appeared unbothered by her presence, the fact that Zack numbered Cissnei as one of his friends – for now, it was enough. She had to trust someone. Might as well be a Turk.

"They're on their way?" Kunsel asked again, leaning back into the cushions.

Aerith looked down at her PHS, open on her lap. On the screen was a message from Zack: Change of plans. Will explain later. A change of plans indeed, considering the two unexpected guests she had let into her boyfriend's apartment. For a moment, Aerith wondered if she should have asked them to come back later. But even before she had opened the door, she could sense their anxiety and their urgency, because it was the same as that she carried in herself. She knew then there was no other option.

"Yes. But I think something may be wrong."

At that, Cissnei stopped pacing and lifted her head. "Should we perhaps table this discussion, then?"

"No," Aerith declared. "Let's get all our cards on the table."

There it was again, the smile of surprise from Kunsel, the look of comprehension from Cissnei. After a momentary pause, the redhead offered an approving smirk and replied, "Remind me never to underestimate you, Miss Gainsborough."

"It's Aerith, Miss Turk."

At that, Kunsel let out a quick bark of laughter. "Yep. I can see why Zack needs you to keep him on his toes."

"Hey, I heard that, you asshole!"

The words were muffled behind the now opening door, but all three individuals in the room recognized the source of that cheery, playful protest. Zack was grinning as he walked inside, his boots scuffing against the hardwood of the entryway. As he made his way into the living room and sat down on the couch to Aerith's right, he appeared to be full of energy, nervous, scared and excited, all the same. On any other circumstance, Aerith would have laughed, would have been transfixed at the sight of her boyfriend and his charming, white-toothed grin. But instead, her gaze immediately locked onto the man who had followed Zack into the space, on his starlight silver hair, and on his solemn and familiar jade eyes.

At first sight, all Aerith could see was the boy in her blurry memories, tall, thin, and made even paler by the soft green uniform worn by all the other laboratory specimens. Back then, he seemed to always be bandaged – an arm, a leg, a finger, a cheek. He also always smelled of blood. In a way, seeing Sephiroth now, tall, pale, somber, was like looking at an echo of that same boy. But there was also something else in the man now, something that had been keenly missing before. It only took Aerith a second to recognize what it was.

Warmth. The kind that came from knowing what it was like to be cared for or loved, the kind the came from caring and loving in return. It was tiny, almost helpless, but more importantly, like the remaining sparks from an ember besieged by the storm, it was there, clutching, clinging, breathing.

Aerith stood up. "Hello, Sephiroth," she stated. Across his face, there were flashes of recognition, of regret, and of pain. They told stories about her mother, stories that she wanted so desperately to hear. But now was not the time. She pushed past and asked, "How have you been?"

The directness of her question appeared to startle all parties in the room. But when the flicker of astonishment faded, Sephiroth merely inclined his head in response. He was still standing close to the entrance, like an animal maintaining an escape route in dangerous territory. Everything in his body spoke of tension, from his folded arms to his furrowed brow, and something traitorous in the back of Aerith's mind reminded her of the fact that this man was a weapon, a knife sharpened to cut at the slightest touch. But she quickly squashed the thought, crushed the fear. Instead, she waited and hoped.

And she was right. Suddenly, Sephiroth softened and with a voice gentler than Aerith was expecting, he said, "Miss Gainsborough, I apologize. I am afraid that I have not been doing very well."

If there had been a doubt in Aerith's mind about her decision, looking into those green eyes had erased it completely. Here he was, standing before her, vulnerable and real – confirmation of everything she had suspected, and that Zack had told her. The Planet was wrong. The Planet had to be wrong. There had to be another way, one that could save her, save him, save Zack. And though Aerith was not a genetically enhanced super-human, though there was little that she could provide, she had a kind smile and a tiny sliver of the truth. For the boy from the laboratories who had grown beyond all odds into this man, she was willing to give both.

"Okay," she said, her lips gently turning. "Let's see if we can help."

Aerith went first, repeated the story that she had told Zack a few days ago (her side, her mother's side, and not the version that Cissnei would have read in any of her briefings). How her first memories were of white walls and green hospital gowns, how her mother would wrap gauze around her injection marks and surgical scars. How they had escaped, how her mother had carried her out of the Tower and kept running and running and running, despite the blood that was pouring out of her gunshot wounds. How she had grown up listening to the songs the flowers used to sing to her, pleasant melodies about love and hope and life. How something had changed, and the notes became bitter and dark. How instead, the petals now warned and screamed and cried like a steady, ceaseless drumbeat.

"Before she died, my biological mother explained that we were the last of the Cetra, what most people now call the Ancients. We can hear the voice of the Planet, because we're supposed to be its original stewards. But now, they are gone. Everyone else is gone. And I…"

Aerith stopped, folded her hands on her lap, let herself steady her breathing. Immediately, Zack was there, his body a constant pressure at her side. His hand was on her back, massaging gently, and the touch was warm and comfortable and strong.

"You did great, babe," he whispered, smiling at her. Then, he glanced up at Sephiroth, at Cissnei, at Kunsel. "But you see? It's connected. Shinra wanted them because they were the last of the Ancients, and all the work that you guys dug up before on the Science Department seemed to focus on the Ancients, right?"

Kunsel nodded. "That's what the evidence pointed toward. Before he disappeared, nearly all of Dr. Gast's work was related to the Ancients. And, well – Cissnei, I think I'll let you take it from here."

The Turk moved, dropped her file onto the coffee table in front of Sephiroth, let the man scan through papers in his eerily quick manner. "This is what I managed to gather with my level of security clearance and without arousing suspicion. It's not much."

Sephiroth lifted a hand, motioning for a pause. It was only a brief one – Aerith could see how fast his eyes moved through each line of text, how quickly they tabulated each image, like a computer processing in real time. "These are similar to the files we found in Hollander's secret laboratories, the ones documenting the procedures and protocol performed on Project G," he summarized, though his gaze remained fixed on the papers. "Except this one is…"

"Project S," Cissnei said.

There was no need to explain the implications of that name. But Aerith knew – she had seen the brief glimpses, like tiny flickers of candlelight in her memories. She had walked past the bloodstained surgical tables with their harsh metal restraints. She had watched the life wither away in those cell-like rooms, like flowers denied sunlight and water and love. She had seen her mother sob in the bathroom, trying to drown out the evidence of what they subjected her to underneath the hum of the running shower. Those details would not be the ones discussed in the papers Sephiroth was holding, for there would only be numbers and calibrations and clinical observations. There would be no talk of the cost, no mention of pain, and nothing of sorrow.

For his part, Sephiroth hardly seemed perturbed – he was still perusing the rest of the documents. "Subject S was imbued with cells from an excavated specimen, referred to here as the Ancient, in hopes that S would inherit its abilities. The source specimen listed is the exact same lifeform that had been used by Hollander in his experiments. Which indicates that Project G and Project S were linked."

Silence fell, as the parties in the room spared glances at each other, at Sephiroth. Aerith knew that they were all taking a moment to absorb the new information, but she herself was too fixated on the way Sephiroth spoke, how he referred to himself, his history, his existence, in a completely disconnected tone. It made something in her chest ache with sadness. It also made something in her stomach boil with rage.

Then, Zack interjected. His next words were slow, hesitant, fearful, worried. "Does that mean you'll degrade too?"

Somehow, the question managed to tear Sephiroth's concentration away from the pages, and the earlier focus in his eyes was replaced by a subtle and soft surprise. "No. Hollander's reports on degradation all imply that the phenomenon is unique to Project G, as its subjects had the ability to copy their cellular traits. I don't—"

It was swift, the way the words died in the General's throat, the way those eyes, stern and calculating, widened with realization. Without warning, Sephiroth dropped the papers, stood up, began pacing and breathing and running a hand through his silver bangs. Any earlier self-consciousness had burned away in a rising flare of anger, and for singular, frightening moment, the General looked as if he were about to storm out of the room, set fire to the building, and take everyone and everything down with it.

But then, the moment passed. Sephiroth stilled, though that silent fury still pulsed, still colored the air around him. Suddenly, and absolutely involuntarily, he said, "Fuck Hojo."

The comment would have made Aerith laugh, but she knew now was not the time. Even Zack, who had reached forward for the documents and had begun to read them himself, remained perfectly serious.

"You think that's what he did to Cloud," he said. "You think he tried to copy your traits onto him."

"It would explain Cloud's altered behavior."

Without missing a beat, Zack repeated, "Fuck Hojo."

"I agree, but there's another point that we're missing here," Kunsel interrupted, tugging one of the papers out of Zack's hand. He pointed a gloved finger to a particular line, with the highlighted words excavated specimen. "The source of everything, of Genesis, of Angeal, of you, of what's happening to Cloud – it's this thing, what the projects suggest is an Ancient."

The Second's choice of words was deliberate, because it immediately helped Aerith realize his exact intentions. It was the reason she was here. The small bit of clarity that she could provide. "And yet," Aerith stated, her voice level and clear, "My mother said we were the last ones."

There was another silence, as the truth now settled in the air. Aerith watched as Zack leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, covered his face with his hands. She watched as Sephiroth turned to face the window and allow the twilight filtering through the blinds to wash over his face. That would be an expression that she would always remember – the look of a man who was utterly lost, who had no idea what he was meant to be. It was something Aerith herself could never fully comprehend, because her fate was there, written by her ancestors, sung to her each day and night by the flowers that grew beneath her palms.

(And yet, she did not want that fate. Perhaps the two of them were both lost.)

Finally, Sephiroth spoke, his head tilted slightly toward Cissnei's direction. "I assume that you could not access anything regarding what that specimen actually was," he asserted more than asked.

Cissnei let out a breath. "No," she confirmed, and the disappointment hung in the air, like a choking fog.

And then, the redhead smiled, the same way she had to Aerith before, with the same honest promise.

"But I know where you can find out."

There was something about staring down at the assortment of metal rooftops that comprised the slums that made Cloud feel, strangely, at peace. He supposed it had something to do with growing up near a mountain, hiking its trails and observing from above the way the wind blew through the town below. But the comfort he drew upon now, sitting on a metal platform beneath the plate, curled against a railing, was still bittersweet. After all, it had only been some months ago, when he was pushed off one such platform and nearly broke his back as a result. And yet, Cloud knew it was precisely that damage, that terrifying brush with finality, that brought him here. This was the last place he wanted to be, and therefore, it had become the only place he knew he could go.

He let himself shut his eyes, let the cold breeze brush past his face and through his hair. This high up, Cloud could almost imagine himself flying, soaring, and lifted and free. The thought was pleasant, like running around his backyard on a cool spring afternoon, like rushing through the streets on a smooth motorcycle, like falling asleep in the arms of someone he cared about. But now, all of those experiences were tainted and broken. Now, all Cloud could feel – and all he had felt in the last few days – was the opposite: shackled and uncertain and trapped.

It was unfair, though, to blame Sephiroth for any of it. That much Cloud knew, deep in his heart. The way the man's face fell when he had lashed out, when he had spoken those hurtful words – there was a part of Cloud that wanted apologize, wanted to leap into his arms, wanted to kiss that sadness and pain away. Just a few days ago, he might have done that, without hesitation. Now, however, he was no longer sure.

Slowly, Cloud curled into himself, taking his legs off the ledge and pressing his knees against his chest. He hated this. He had thought that he had gotten past the uncertainty and insecurity. But instead, the old doubt returned in full force, coloring his every thought, consuming his every action, as if dug up by the painful truth: he was damaged. Like a defective doll, Cloud had been tampered with, violated, and as a result, he could no longer trust himself, his own body, his own mind. The only thing that felt certain anymore was Sephiroth, his presence, his desires, his being. And even that was an overwhelming and terrifying lie. But while he logically knew that, reasonably understood it, it did not change how much Cloud felt he needed the man, how much he wanted him, and how far he feared he would go for him.

("Did you find me to kill you? Is that why you trained me? To make me your murderer?"

"I do not know.")

His head felt so heavy, so full, from the crushing confusion, from the simmering feeling of betrayal. That was what it was – betrayal. Not by Sephiroth, but by his own heart. After all, Cloud had wanted this, right? To join SOLDIER, to fight by Sephiroth's side, to become the man's equal, to become something more? And for a few months, Cloud almost had it all, the promise soft and sweet like the feather-light kisses Sephiroth used to give him in the mornings. Everything he had ever dreamed of, wished for, had been right there. It still was, in some way, right at his fingertips, and Cloud still wanted it, with almost everything he had.

But not like this. Because now, it would not be real.

A breath escaped from Cloud's lips, drifted away in the night air. He kept his forehead against his knees, almost as if to push the mounting pressure of everything out of his skull. The fear of losing himself to what he knew was an illusion, the anger at the world for taking his dreams and corroding them until they were unrecognizable, the bitterness of disappointing someone he cared about with his weakness – it all bore heavy in his bones, gripped vicelike and unforgiving at his heart. Whatever strength Cloud had, whatever stubborn will stirred him forward, through taking the SOLDIER exams, through recovering from his fall from the Sector Four plate, through surviving the terrorist attack at Junon, it no longer seemed enough. He had expended it, had reached the end. Now, it looked as if he would finally break.

Somewhere along the way, lost in his sea of thoughts, Cloud had begun to cry. He hardly noticed, not until the tapping of boots on metal behind him finally broke through the whirlpool of his mind. But still, the blond did not look up, not even when Zack moved to sit beside him, threading his long legs through the slits in the railing to dangle freely off the edge of the platform.

"Strange place to think," the other man commented by way of greeting. "A bit dreary for my taste."

"Then go away."

"Nope."

Finally, Cloud let himself glance up, just to glare. "The point was to be alone."

"Then you should have turned off the tracking feature on your PHS. You'd make a terrible Turk."

"I am not in the mood for your jokes right now."

"Good, because I am not in the mood to joke," Zack replied. His voice was uncharacteristically stern, sharp. He added, "You missed a pretty important meeting."

Cloud did not bother pointing out that that was done purposefully. Because he knew what would have happened had he gone. He would see the look on Sephiroth's face as more and more details of his horrific past came to light, and it would make his heart ache for this man even more terribly, and it would break the last bit of resolve that he had left, and then he would be over. No, it was better this way, to hear an abbreviated version from a third-party. It was better to keep the space he had scrambled to build, to maintain the separation, in whatever way he could. For himself. For Sephiroth. This was the only way.

Quietly, the blond sighed. "Okay. Just tell me what I need to know."

The eyes that Zack gave him now were like daggers to the soul and Cloud tried his best to ignore the clear disappointment shining in that mako-blue.

"We think we've found the source of what Hojo did to you. But to get there, we're going to need your help."

Cloud tightened his grip on his knees. He should have felt optimistic. After days of nothing, of trying to salvage and lock away what he could recognize of himself, he should have felt grateful for this tiny glimmer of hope. But something curled inside him, dark and dreadful, and while Cloud could not quite place it, he knew that it portended nothing good. A part of him screamed to run away, to go back to what he knew, to the anonymity of the trooper barracks, to a life of obscurity, (to where he belonged). But the glow of his eyes, the strength of his hands, the broadsword that was propped against the wall behind him – they were all reminders that that life had ended. That he was on a different path. That it was far too late to turn back now.

"Where are we going?" Cloud asked, trying and failing to ignore the way his heart began to hammer in his chest.

Zack looked at him. He breathed in, and then said, "To Nibelheim."