Chapter 19 – Atropos, Part Two

It felt like dying.

There was nothing but green, around him and in him. It filled his lungs, steeped into his skin, danced over his eyelids in shades both bright and dark. It was green for what seemed to be miles and miles, hours and hours, an endless canvas that stretched over all his senses, all his being. A vast and limitless green, an overwhelming and impossible green. Even if he could move, the green would await him, taunt him, at each futile turn. Green. Green. Green. No freedom. Just green. Swallowing his past, crushing his present, and now, taking his future.

There was a moment in which Sephiroth had tried to fight it. He drew from the smoldering of whatever fire burned within him, that had spurred him to lift his blade against the dark angel (no, your mother) and bring an end to this nightmare. He summoned the memory of Cloud, the warmth of his affection, the captive softness of his lips, the sweetness of every touch they had ever shared. Evenings wrapped in the sheets and in each other, mornings awakening to the sunshine of blond hair – that was what Sephiroth had waiting for him, back in the world above. That was what he had to lose if he allowed himself to drown in this ocean below.

And so Sephiroth struggled. He fought and clamored and reached, with all the strength that his weaponized body had been stuffed with. Yet, it was to no avail. No matter what he tried, Jenova kept her grip, as tight as a straitjacket. She prodded at his defenses with sweet half-truths that spread over him like water searching for the tiniest fissures. She said, they will not come for you. She claimed, they will leave you. She whispered, you belong here. I will love you. I will protect you. You will not hurt anymore.

It was everything Sephiroth had once wanted to hear, the thing he most wished for as a boy crying in a cold metal room, as a teenager sweating in the heat of a jungle war, as a man standing in a lonely tower. In all that time and in all those years, he had wondered about his mother, longed to meet her, to see her, to understand. Now, he realized that she too had always been calling for him, waiting for the day that he could finally decipher her voice. Perhaps that was proof that she did care. Perhaps she always had cared. Perhaps she was telling the truth. Perhaps, if he had to be trapped in this empty green forever, it would not be so bad to have his mother, the one he had been yearning for all his life.

That was it: the single poisonous drop of doubt, the momentary hesitation. For just one second, Sephiroth wondered – and that was all that Jenova needed.

In that sliver of an opening, she slipped into him and began breaking his soul wide open, burrowing despair and anger and sorrow and pain in the spaces until there seemed to be nothing left but her, swallowing every piece of him whole. His strength faded. His body stilled. His eyelids fluttered. Even breathing felt unnecessary, a relic of an instinct best left for the human, something that was never for him, something that he never was. It was time Sephiroth stopped trying to pretend otherwise.

Yes, my son. Let go.

It would be so easy to comply. Unfurl his hands. Offer his silent apology, a quiet good-bye. Cloud would understand. Cloud would move on. Sephiroth was not worthy of him anyway.

My son. My son.

When he closed his eyes, he expected to see nothing, hear, nothing, feel nothing.

Instead, like a faraway prayer, Sephiroth heard him, the sweetest sound he had ever known.

(Sephiroth! I'm here for you. I'm here!)

At first, Sephiroth did not recognize it, could not fathom it – in a world full of people who had left, who had not cared enough to stay, who would willingly drown themselves to save him? But just as he had when they had first met, just as he had even in his dreams, Cloud Strife continued to defy all expectations. With each word from the blond's lips, the truth sunk deeper and deeper. Sephiroth was not alone. Sephiroth was not abandoned. Cloud was here. Despite everything, he was here. He was fighting for Sephiroth. He came for him.

(I promise you. I'll never leave you.)

Cloud loved him.

That was more than enough. A tiny spark burst inside Sephiroth, but the conflagration it grew into was not like the terrifying and destructive flames of his nightmares. Instead, it was the warm embrace of the fireplace at the center of the home that he knew he wanted to return to. The reminder pushed Sephiroth to try once more. He struggled, fought, clamored, and reached. He banged his fist against the cages of his mind, called upon every last thread of power he possessed, raged and raged against the dying of the light, against the falling of the tide, against the collapsing of the stars. This time, he knew it would work. Because Cloud was there, and because against that astounding steel, even Jenova would have no choice but to fall. Sephiroth did not stop. Not until that blossoming heat broke through every inch of his body and blood, not until the fire chased the poison out of his cells and purified the darkness, not until Jenova released him.

Not until he was finally free.

It happened so suddenly. In one moment, he could not breathe. And in the next, when Sephiroth inhaled, actual air tingled in his nostrils. In place of the floating emptiness, something solid braced his back, and in place of Jenova's suffocating embrace and whispered lies, all he felt was the heaviness of his muscles and all he heard was the hum of machinery white noise. The slow return of every sense hurt like absolute hell, devouring and fraying his nerves. It was such a contrast to the void, to the vagueness, to the hollow and green existence, that it took Sephiroth more than a few moments to remember how to move his limbs, and even longer to recall how to open his eyes. Everything was so real, so true, so tactile.

So alive.

Alive.

He was alive. He was breathing and hearing and touching and alive, and somehow, that fact was unbelievable. Sephiroth was here, lying on the bottom level of the reactor, the platform from which he had fallen from minutes ago (or was it hours or days or years, in that green, it was so difficult to tell) looming above him like an ominous mountain. There was no sign of Jenova, no sense of her buzzing in the back of his mind, nothing of the pressure that her presence had squeezed into his skull. Her darkness had left him, like the whipping winds of a storm retreating to sea, and for the first time in days, Sephiroth could feel clarity seeping in. The fog that had threatened to consume him began to lift from his mind, the green that had been surrounding him pushing out of his senses. The relief was intense, unmistakable, nearly all consuming. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to laugh. He wanted so many things.

Most of all, he wanted Cloud.

Ignoring the protests of his body, the strange feeling of being back in a physical form, Sephiroth pulled himself upright. From the corner of his eye, he could see the excavated mako, glimmering in a bright and hazy green light that bounced off the metallic structures of the reactor. Some vague part of him recognized that pool as where he had come from, from where he had been pulled out of and back onto solid ground.

But where was the person that had saved him?

In that singular moment, his heart thudded loudly, once, twice, three times, like a warning.

Sephiroth turned around.

And there Cloud was, crumpled like a broken doll, and surrounded by a dark crimson that was oozing out from an open wound in his back.

"Cloud!"

He moved as quickly as his limbs would allow, was beside the blond in seconds, turning him over in his lap and arms. Red bloomed from the center of Cloud's chest like an overflow of roses, petals spilling out and out over that small frame. The sight, the weightlessness and stillness of the body, was almost too much, just too much. Tightness rose in his throat, dampness in his eyes (too late too late too late), but Sephiroth urged it all down, concentrated on what he had to do next. He pressed against the wound, and through trembling fingers, summoned the coils of curing magic, letting the warmth and hope dance over his hand. Sephiroth was so focused, narrowing every part of his strength and his will into the act of healing, that he had hardly noticed when one of Cloud's own hands rose up and gently rested atop his own.

"Oh, it's you," whispered Cloud, suddenly, softly. A small smile twitched on those lips, slow and sleepy, and so much like the ones the blond would give him in the mornings when they woke up tangled in sheets and pillows and each other's arms.

Sephiroth let his eyes flicker over that face, zeroing in on the blue glow, somehow still so brilliant, even in this moment. "Cloud," he said. "Hold on. Just hold on, alright?" With a deep breath, he pushed harder, willing his mana to fly out of him. He would expend every single bit of magic out of his body if it meant saving Cloud. It was only right. It was only fair.

Cloud's fingers curled. There was a tiny motion, like a jerk, and Sephiroth realized that he was trying to pry his hand away, to stop him. He could not understand why – not until he looked down and saw.

The wound was not closing.

Like the slice on a shoulder from an errant sword fragment, like the lacerations decorating the remains of a once honorable man, the edges of the flesh had melted into a rotting, haunting and familiar black. The recognition slammed into Sephiroth like a speeding freight train, with enough force to nearly shatter his bones.

"No, please–"

"I'm sorry, Sephiroth," Cloud said. "I tried. But I don't think I can keep my promise."

The feeling of tightness returned and this time, Sephiroth did not fight it. He keeled over, empty air pushing out of his stomach, the muscles in his throat constricting and spasming. Cloud was so weak, so small, his voice barely echoing in the yawning chasm of the reactor chamber. And yet, despite the quiet, Sephiroth was overwhelmed. If he had felt besieged by the return of sense before, by the pain of feeling everything all at once, then this, all of this –

This was excruciating.

Cloud reached up again, to hold Sephiroth's face. "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."

"No. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I love you. I love you."

There was no stopping the tears now. They wrecked through Sephiroth, like an earthquake in his core. As much as he wanted to still himself, he could not. He sunk his head, wrapped his arms around that body, holding on for whatever he could. And in those final seconds, Cloud remained as solid and true as ever, the blue of his irises still brilliant, even as his blinking slowed, even as his breaths started to fade.

"Can you promise me something, instead?" Cloud murmured.

"Please. I love you. Please."

"You'll fight. You'll keep fighting. You'll live. You'll keep living."

Sephiroth choked out a sob.

"They need you. The town. Zack. My mom. They need you."

"I cannot leave you, I cannot, I—"

"It's okay. It's okay."

No, nothing would ever be okay. Not after this. Never again. But Sephiroth could see that Cloud meant it, in the slope of his eyes, in the fading flickers of his warmth.

Those fingers slipped through his hair, one last time. "Will you do this, for me?"

And because Sephiroth knew who he belonged to, because he knew who he loved and who he would choose, forever and for all eternity, in this lifetime, and the next, there was only one answer he could give.

"Yes. I promise."

Cloud smiled and closed his eyes.

It took everything he had, and he was almost certain he would not manage it. But he knew that he had to. And so, after a soft moment, in which he laid the blond to rest in the steel tomb, folded the small hands over the stilled heart, Sephiroth stood up and began to make his way out of the reactor. Later, he would allow himself to fall apart completely. Later, he would break. But he had exchanged one last promise with the love of his life.

It was now all that Sephiroth had left of him.

Zack had a secret, and it was one that he often tried to play off beneath cheery smiles and good-natured laughter: he was a bit of a sore loser. If he lost in a spar, or failed at a mission, he would quietly fume, hide the bitterness, and use it as fuel. The instinct had served him well, spurring him to train, to improve, to fight, to survive. It was also one thing that separated him from his mentor, because Angeal, kind, noble, patient Angeal, always accepted defeat with grace – at least, right up to the moment that he died. Angeal had believed there could be honor in loss. Zack was not like that, and after Modeoheim, he was no longer sure he ever wanted to be.

But the first monster took too long to fall and required a far greater expenditure of everything than he had anticipated or wanted. And the second and the third were upon him faster than he could blink. In the middle of the scuffle, in between dodges of claws and teeth, the ache in his shoulder ballooned into shocks of lightning, slowing down each swing of his sword. Yet, in spite of the agony, Zack kept going. There was no other option. He had no mana left, no spells to cast, no clever tricks up his sleeve. There was only the blade in his hands, the sharpness of the steel, the last remnant of the heavy legacy he had, however unwillingly, inherited.

Honor could be quite a burden, at times.

His arms burned. Still, Zack moved. He danced and ducked, sliced and stabbed. The edge of the Buster Sword was painted in splotches of red and brown, glinting like fire against the rays of the sunset. It seemed like hours since this war of attrition had begun, and he could feel each second that passed tearing into his muscles, forming tiny cracks in his bones. He did not have much longer, Zack knew that. But some part of himself – the part that hated to lose – continued to fight anyway. There had to be an opening. There had to be a chance. All he had to do was hold on until it came, and then, it would finally be over.

It happened fast. Unexpectedly, almost accidentally, Zack managed to cleave deep into the arm of one makinoid, which cried out something vile in response. Its blood was seeping out, dripping into the dirt like droplets of dark rain, and at the sight, a feverish hope began to bud within Zack. Was this it? Was this the opportunity he had been waiting for? It was. He could do this. Just a little bit more. Another push. Another attack. He could do this. He could be a hero. He could. He could.

But then, just as he had during the last training simulation he ran with Angeal, right before being shipped off to Wutai, right before everything went completely wrong, Zack made a mistake. He let his confidence breed carelessness – and failed to track the movement of second creature behind him.

Zack felt it all before he could see. The incisors sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. The talons piercing through the muscles of his thigh. The weight slamming his back against the harsh gravel. The deafening howls of the makinoids piercing his ears. Just like that, he was on the ground, defenseless and helpless. His sword had fallen a hair away from his fingers, and the taste of blood in his mouth had begun to choke off the last bits of air he now realized he was ever going to breathe.

No!

But this was it. This was the end. He had raged as long as he could. There was nowhere left for the bitterness of loss to go. Above him, the chasm of the monster's mouth looked endless and dark, and its screams were frightening and loud. As Zack closed his eyes and waited for that cavern to consume him, he thought of Aerith, their parting words, and for the first time in his life, he prayed to the Planet to send the girl he loved a silent apology.

("I'd like to spend more time with you.")

There was another cry above him, wretched and inhuman, and somehow, instead of the void, all Zack sensed was the smattering of something hot, metallic, and liquid against his cheeks. More sounds followed. A crunching noise, the shattering of flesh and bone. The thudding of a body hitting the dirt. Footsteps kicking up dust. The cackling of lightning magic. Another shriek, strident, raucous. And then, nothing. In that brief pause, Zack felt his body being jerked upright, and he heard one more thing before he allowed himself a peek: a familiar, female voice.

"Zack!" Tifa called.

Not for the first time, Zack wondered how the hell this girl just happened to be right where he needed her. Regardless, there she was, her gloved hands grasped firmly around his shoulders. But Tifa was not alone. Behind her, Zack could see a shock of silver hair in angelic relief against the wreckage. Sephiroth was standing in the center of the square, his iconic nodachi shining like a fallen star in the twilight. The man was positioned between the corpses of the last two makinoids, now covered in telltale thin, crossing cuts. But the most important detail, the one that nearly made Zack's heart sink out of his body, was the quiet. There was no howling, no screeching. The beasts had been silenced. They were slipping away in quiet green tendrils. At last, they were gone.

(He could keep his promise to Aerith, after all.)

"Thank goodness," said Tifa. Her lips turned upward. "When Master Zangan came back alive – he called you a hero, Zack. The last of the villagers would not have gotten out without you."

It was supposed to be a good thing. Zack was supposed to feel good, about the concept of living, about the fact that in those words, Tifa had just validated everything he had ever worked for. But for some reason, he found he could not be. There was none of the joy, none of the release. Something was off, something was missing, something was wrong. He could tell, because Tifa's smile was strained at the edges, stretched between happy and crushed. He could tell, because unlike the time that they had met, when the man had also saved Zack from a fire summon amongst the trees of Wutai, Sephiroth's hands were shaking.

It was then that Zack looked at Sephiroth's face, and an altogether different emotion overran him completely.

"Oh, Gaia. No."

Sephiroth did not say anything, and he did not have to. Zack could see the truth in the eyes, glistening with more than just the traditional mako glow. But still, the other man brushed past it, perhaps out of necessity, perhaps because if he did not, there was no guarantee that he would not break.

"The remainder of the townspeople made it to the mountain. They are waiting in the passageway for word that it is safe to return," Sephiroth explained. And then, he added, in a voice that managed to be cool and calm and fractured, all at once. "Zack, you did well."

Zack wanted to throw himself forward, wanted to take the man's arms, shake them, thrash them. He wanted to yell, Stop. Don't do this. Don't push away. Don't deflect. Don't. Don't. Don't. But he could not. His body betrayed him, remained fixed to the ground, spent and exhausted and waiting for the heat of mako healing to stitch closed his wounds. Until then, there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, except for the one thing he had left in him, the one thing he had just enough energy for. And though Zack knew it would change absolutely nothing, he gave it all he had anyway.

He looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, and screamed.

The hoarseness of his throat somehow hurt more than the ache of his shoulder. But it was not more painful than the disbelief. Because Zack could not believe it. He could not. In the reactor, Cloud had told him, See you later, and he had said, Yep in reply. Those had been the last words he had shared with his best friend, and they were foolish and meaningless and a lie. He screamed for all of that. Zack screamed for the loss that no amount of effort would be able to overcome. He screamed for the death of another friend. But he also screamed, because he knew that there was someone who would be hurting far worse than he did now, and he could hardly fathom how the man was still standing, still breathing, still there.

When his finally voice broke, Zack collapsed backward onto the ground, and let his grief shudder through in the ebbs and troughs of his breathing.

Now, a different kind of silence descended, dense and ugly and tense. It made the growing darkness that spread over them from the mountain feel all the more suffocating, like a blanket too heavy and too thick. There they were, sitting in the square, three people connected by something not one dared to speak aloud. Zack, splayed on the dirt, staring up at an empty sky. Tifa, with her head bowed, her hands folded, her tears falling. And Sephiroth, stoic and impassioned, standing as still as stone except for his trembling hands. They stayed like that, for seconds that stretched on and on, unmoving, unspeaking, carrying out an implicit agreement to remain here, to keep the reality abstract. To keep the loss suspended for as long as possible, to keep this terrible, surreal moment locked in time, forever.

But then, the moment ended.

Like a bolt of lightning in a clear sky, Zack's PHS trilled loudly with the sound of a new message. It made the young man nearly jump out of his skin, in surprise, in frustration. A part of him contemplated taking the device and chucking it against the wall of the closest building. The rest of him, however, simply followed the motions, too tired to do otherwise. Zack reached into his pocket, flipped open the phone. In hindsight, he would recognize that it was a good thing that he did. Because Kunsel's name flashed on the screen, and his words were short, clear, and unexpected.

GET OUT OF NIBELHEIM. NOW.

"What?"

Suddenly, Sephiroth jerked his head up. Recognition flickered in his green eyes, as well as a bit of panic. He turned toward Zack and Tifa and yanked the two of them up off the ground. "We have to move," he said, "We have to go."

Tifa exhaled. "What's happening?"

Zack, too, was about to repeat the question, when he finally heard it, whatever Sephiroth had sensed. The sound of helicopter blades slicing through the air, the crunching of gravel beneath the tall wheels of trucks and tanks, the clamor of weapons and armor marching towards them. His mind whirred with the possibilities – mercenaries, AVALANCHE, some other unknown and unforeseen party – but in truth, there was only one option. The one that had knocked the scales off balance, that had set the wheels of this entire day in motion. The only one to blame.

Shinra.

"Well, isn't this a fascinating sight?"

The voice that came from the speakers of the helicopter now beaming its lights upon them was tinny, but altogether too familiar. Zack could remember thinking how smug the man sounded, standing in front of the latest garrison of SOLDIERs to be sent to Wutai. Back then, Heidegger had played up the glories of battle, the noble cause of spreading mako energy to all corners of the globe, but the man himself rarely set foot on the field, only actually made the trip to the far continent after Sephiroth had assured their victory. That fact only made his appearance here, now, in the middle of this deserted town, all the more baffling (because exactly what victory did Shinra come here to claim?).

And yet, Heidegger was not the most concerning presence, not by a long shot. As the helicopter descended into the square and slid open its doors, there was another figure stepping out from the shadows to stand beside the man, another variable quantity at play – this one dressed in a white laboratory coat, with the rising moonlight reflected against his wire-thin glasses.

Sephiroth narrowed his eyes. "Hojo."

At the sound of that name, a cold chill shuddered down Zack's spine. This was not good. This was far from good. If there was confirmation that Shinra had a hand in the experiments that created these horrific creatures, that awakened Jenova and her power, the arrival of the head of the Science Department to the scene of the crime was it. But the fact that Dr. Hojo had not come alone, that he had brought what amounted to be a small army with him, only exacerbated the panic. There were rows of trucks driving toward them now, fanning out into the town square, their headlights piercing and hot in the darkness. Around them, Shinra foot-soldiers were spreading out into position, the clicking of their boots and guns like drumbeats. There was nothing they could do. They were surrounded. They were trapped. And the two men before them knew it.

When the helicopter engine cut off, Heidegger spoke first, his face twisted in a disingenuous smile. "General Sephiroth," he said, almost too gleefully, "I apologize it took so long for us to get here. But I finally got around to reading your report on this mission, and I knew we had to come here straight away."

The reminder of the quickly hashed piece of paperwork was a clear taunt, one that Sephiroth did not meet. He replied, in a cautious and steady voice, "There was no need. We've completed the mission as intended. The issues with the reactor have been resolved."

"Have they now?" Hojo said. "How very…disappointing."

At that, Zack felt it – the flicker of anger, like a spark, surging in the air. For the second that it lasted, it made Sephiroth seem aglow with fire, with rage. But the feeling faded quickly, wrangled in by the man's impeccable control, even though underneath the veneer, Zack could see it simmering, boiling, waiting to spill out.

"Indeed," the silver-haired man stated. His grip on his sword visibly tightened, creaking the leather of his gloves. "It was a disappointment. The monsters hidden in the reactor caused significant damage to the town. However, the people have been evacuated and all monsters have been disposed of now."

It was Hojo's turn to be surprised. "All?"

Sephiroth looked at him. "Yes. All."

Something clicked then. The doctor's face curled, but whether it was from frustration over Sephiroth's continued defiance or another thing entirely, Zack could not tell. Hojo merely shook his head and turned his attention to his fellow director. "We will need to get rid of the evidence," he said.

Heidegger smiled, just as he did to all the SOLDIERs he had sent off to die. "Very well. Men, gather all the townsfolk, all the witnesses. Burn everything to the ground."

Immediately, Tifa jerked forward, and Zack had to extend his arms to stop her from rushing directly into the line of fire. He held on tight, despite her screaming, despite her kicking, and watched helplessly as several of the troopers broke away from the larger group and started their march to the mountain, to the pathway where the villagers were waiting to return to a home that would no longer be there for them. The rest of the army split between those emptying out cannisters of gasoline over the buildings and gravel, and those tilting the barrels of their guns straight at them like dark and daring eyes. The sights, the smell, the sounds – everything filled Zack with fury at the idea of escaping what he had thought was a certain death, only to be put down minutes later like a misbehaved mutt. It made him want to join Tifa in screaming, to pick up his sword and charge forward. He wanted to fight, against his injuries, against his fatigue, against this injustice, against Shinra, against it all.

But in front of him, Sephiroth continued to stand perfectly still. The man's gaze landed on Hojo, and it was like winter whipped back into Nibelheim with the iciness that swept through the space. "This," he said, baritone unusually soft. "This was your fault."

It was hard to tell what the scientist was thinking, the glare of the headlights obscuring full view of his face. There was the crease of the brow, the grim line of his lips. Hojo was studying Sephiroth, the weapon he had spent decades constructing, like one would perform an autopsy of a stranger, detached, methodical, and unfeeling. Evidently, whatever the good doctor found in that examination left him displeased, because the man lifted his head and sighed.

"I see," he noted, his tone dripping with recognition, with realization, with regret. And then, as casually as ordering a coffee, as blowing out a candle, as breathing, Hojo turned to the Shinra trooper standing beside him and ordered: "Shoot him."

To the credit of whatever loyalty remained at Shinra (or perhaps it was fear), the soldier actually hesitated. "Shoot him? The General?"

"Yes."

Like the moment before the executioner's blade cleaved through the neck, the tension that followed was palpable, tangible. No one dared move a muscle, not Sephiroth, not Zack, not Tifa, not any of the Shinra army. Even Heidegger stilled, his jaw slackened in disbelief. But even if the other director managed to find the words to convey his protests, it appeared the doctor was beyond reason and beyond waiting. Hojo reached into his coat pocket, the outline of his fingers grasping at something beneath the white. His voice was clipped, simple. "I suppose it would have come to this. It is oddly fitting, after all."

It was too fast. Zack heard it before his eyes registered the motion. The shot ripped through the atmosphere, the flicker of gunpowder like a tiny firework, bright in the night. Later, he would turn that second over his head, think about how practiced Hojo's movements were (he's done this before, he's killed before). He would think about how much he wanted to move, to pull Sephiroth out of the way, about how his body once again remained frozen with pain, about how much his bones still weighed, and about how much his heart wanted to shatter from the everything of the day. About how he would have to stand there and lose another friend, this time directly in front of him.

Except that was not what happened.

Zack blinked. And when he opened his eyes, Nibelheim was on fire.

He had hesitated, just for a second. The reasons for the indecision were clear, because Sephiroth had dreamed them for months, each nightmare permanently etched like scars. The town ablaze. Dead bodies all around. The birth of a terrible god from the ashes and the dust. Now, there would be no blond warrior with breathtaking blue eyes to curb the monster, but there also would be no demon to slay. Both had died in the reactor, drowned in a sea of mako, emptied out on an altar of steel. The reality of how much had changed from his first visions (your fault your fault your fault) hurt to even contemplate, and there was no time to think. So, Sephiroth stopped thinking and started moving. He lifted his left hand, his sword arm, and blocked the incoming bullet with the steel of his sword.

Then, with his right, he released the anger, summoned the fire, and gave destiny another sacrifice.

Some part of Sephiroth registered the pandemonium bursting through the grey smoke, the orange and red and yellow flames. Shinra troopers scattering about, rushing away from the conflagration that chased them, Hojo and Heidegger ducking to escape the heat, the helicopter they had arrived in melting in the center of the square. Behind him, Zack was stammering and Tifa was screaming. Everything was far too loud. All Sephiroth wanted was silence. All he wanted was to crawl some place quiet and finally shatter. But he could not, not yet.

Quickly, he tore his gaze away from the familiar fire, and turned to face his two younger companions. In a voice that was perhaps too unsympathetic for the moment, Sephiroth said, "Move."

The rush to the outskirts of the village was swift. Just like she had during their first climb to the reactor, Tifa defied her civilian status and kept pace. They bounded past the manor, into the forest, up the path leading to the mountain. The night was eerily empty. Whatever monsters they might have encountered had vanished, as if frightened away by the chaos, by wildfire blazing below. That should have been a sign, should have registered something sinister, should have alarmed him. If Sephiroth was in his right mind, he would have noticed. Now, he was not. Maybe he never really was. He certainly never would be again.

No. Focus.

"Fuck, there they are!"

From behind him, Zack's voice cut through the fog, slicing cleanly as if through softened butter. Sephiroth looked up. At the base of the mountain, in front of the entrance to a large cavern that cut through the rock, there were ten Shinra troopers, their guns and batons and guard dogs at the ready. But they were not the most pressing detail at the moment – because at their feet, lined up like prisoners awaiting the gallows, were the last of the Nibelheim natives, one with achingly familiar blonde hair. They were kneeling on the dirt, their cries and whimpers carried through the wind, and their hands were all held up in the air, begging, pleading.

"Please, don't shoot!"

"We haven't done anything!"

"Please! Please!"

There was no time. Once again, Sephiroth moved without thinking. Masamune hummed like a perfectly struck string on a violin, the steel slicing through the bodies without any resistance. One man fell after the other, dominos succumbing to the greater force of gravity. When the seconds flashed and the moment ended, Sephiroth was left standing in the middle of a bloodied clearing, surrounded by broken bodies and broken guns, breathless from something he knew was not quite exertion, not even close.

"Holy shit."

Zack, again. The young man's shoulders were sagged, his face drawn and tired, his scabbed wounds visible from the tears in his uniform. Beside him, Tifa's mouth was wide open. Her shocked expression was mimicked across the faces of the rest of the Nibelheim townspeople, who were watching Sephiroth wordlessly, soundlessly. It was a look Sephiroth was far too familiar with, had seen so often on the laboratory assistants, on the villagers in Wutai, on enemies he met on the battlefield. It was a look that had made him question who he was, what he was, and what he was capable of. And it was look that reminded him that he had come to this very town in search of answers, and it had cost him everything.

Monster.

No, no time for that, not yet. Sephiroth allowed Masamune to fade from his grasp, cleared his throat, steadied his voice. "We have to leave," he said, as matter-of-factly as he could. "Shinra has attacked your town."

One of the men responded, indignant, frustrated, afraid. "But aren't you Shinra? What's going on?"

"Yeah, what is happening?"

"I smell smoke. Is there a fire?"

Zack stepped in. "I'm sorry. I know this is confusing. We will explain later, but right now, we need to go to the nearest village."

There was more clamor, more protests, more shouting. What happened? Do you see that smoke? The town? That's the Shinra army, right? Why are they here? Did they have something to do with the monsters? Why do we have to go? Why? What? Why? There were thirty or so people, mostly women, a handful of children, some elderly. They, and their terror, and their doubt, were all that remained of the town that once stood at the foot of this great mountain, and their anger was more than justified. Sephiroth was willing to submit himself and his actions to their judgment later, but there was one other person he felt deserved the right the most. And she was looking directly at him now.

Claudia Strife was quiet. She rose up from her knees, brushed the dirt off the skirt of her brown dress and walked toward him. It was only when she was standing directly in front of him that Sephiroth noticed – she had no fear in her eyes, no resentment, no blame. There was only a relief, a tenderness, something that said, I am glad you are okay, something that said, I care. Something that Sephiroth felt was entirely unwarranted.

Then, he realized: she did not know. And he would have to be the one to tell her.

Claudia smiled, as gently as she had the first time he met her. "I know they all talk loud and angry, but trust me, deep down, I think they are grateful. You saved their lives, after all."

Sephiroth looked away. "I – I just –"

"You saved mine, too. Let me be the first to say thank you."

He let out a breath he did not know he was holding. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, no point in hiding the truth. Sephiroth fumbled for the words. "I'm sorry," he began. "I'm sorry. Cloud – I'm so sorry. I should have – it was my fault, I –"

It was too much, and he could hold it back no longer. The dam had been broken. Whatever energy he had allotted trying to keep the weight away, trying to push down the wave, the pain, the sorrow, was now spent. All that remained was barely enough to keep Sephiroth upright, to keep his knees from buckling, to keep his lungs pumping air in and out, in and out. He could see reality settle in, paid witness to the moment the understanding hit Claudia full force, watched as the woman's blue eyes filled with tears. The sobs shook her body, the sorrow engulfed her features, thickened her voice. He waited for her to pull away, waited for her kindness to transform into punishing fury, waited to accept her derision and her scorn.

Instead, Claudia stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his trembling shoulders. "Oh no, Sephiroth," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

That was it. There was nothing left. After a long and arduous day, in this mother's embrace, Sephiroth finally let himself go.

It took them all the night and well into the morning, but those that remained of Nibelheim emerged on the other side of the mountain and arrived at a small village on the outskirts of Rocket Town. About halfway through, after it became clear that Shinra had not sent any other men after them, the refugees had paused somewhere along the path to rest and to hear the explanation. To Tifa and to Claudia, Sephiroth and Zack provided the whole story, or at least, the parts of it they knew: Jenova and her malice, Hojo and his inhumanity, Heidegger and his cruelty. To the mayor and the rest of the villagers, they stripped out the sordid details and gave what they needed to. In the end, there had been enough anger to fuel a warship, plenty of which Sephiroth took with an empty, unfeeling expression. But with Tifa's credibility and the fact that there was now enough anti-Shinra sentiment to work in their favor, the people bought into the tale – that Shinra had been conducting human experiments in Nibelheim, that Zack and Sephiroth were attempting to obtain proof of such atrocities, that the monsters that attacked were the products of those experiments, and that the company was willing to destroy any and all evidence of their wrongdoing, even if it meant wiping an entire town off the face of the map.

It was the truth anyway, even if not the whole of it. Even if it left out the one piece that Sephiroth could hardly bring himself to say aloud.

Sephiroth told the story of Cloud's death only once, forced it out of him in pained strokes, for Claudia's sake. Afterwards, he had to stay ahead of the group, far enough so that his breathless sobs could not be heard. It was only after the long walk had ended, and the townsfolk scattered into various homes and camps haphazardly set up by the generosity of the neighboring village, that Sephiroth finally allowed himself to physically collapse. According to Claudia, he and Zack had slept for almost fifteen hours, dead weight sinking into the cots that had been set up in the community center. For Sephiroth, it had been a long and dreamless sleep. Now that Nibelheim had burned, now that Jenova had drowned in the reactor, he suspected that he would never see that nightmare ever again, nor hear the haunting tones of her voice. He was uncertain how to feel about that.

He was uncertain about a lot of things, now.

They stayed in that village for two weeks. In the intervening time, some of the refugees moved onward to Rocket Town or other areas, in search of a fresh start. Others, like Claudia, decided to wait before separating even further from the mountain that had defined their whole lives, in spite of the obvious danger of Shinra finishing what they had started. But Sephiroth knew the company well enough to understand that the villagers were likely safe – that is, as long as he stayed far away from them. They had been pawns in a gruesome game, unfortunate collateral damage. Because beyond the practicality of keeping the skeletons buried, Hojo and Heidegger had also given the order to destroy Nibelheim as emotional punishment, just as they had when they sent Sephiroth as a child to war. Even if the villagers had survived, the message had been sent. Still, if he did not leave them, they would send another. It was only a matter of time.

"So, you're leaving."

Zack was leaning against the doorway. The dark circles that had been under his eyes were fading, and the tears in his SOLDIER uniform had been patched with slightly mismatched fabric. It made him look like a doll that had been torn apart and stitched back together, only the various pieces no longer quite meshed the way they used to.

From his seat on the cot, Sephiroth stood up, swinging his bag over his shoulder. He packed light and little, scraps of whatever supplies and clothing he could obtain from the limited stock at the stores in the village. The whole process of building a life in a backpack had been oddly meditative. He knew then that whatever awaited him would be far different than the world he had lived in before, where all his physical needs had been largely attended to on the condition that he remained shackled and obedient. Not anymore. Now, he was free.

If only the price had not been so steep.

"Yes. They will come after me soon enough."

"And you are gonna try and stop them?"

Sephiroth paused, looked down at his hands. In the sunlight filtering in from the window, his skin looked almost unbearably pale. He no longer wore the gloves, had tossed them and the boots and the SOLDIER belt out into the forest somewhere, exchanged everything for a simple navy button up shirt tucked into black pants. The only thing he willingly kept was the jacket (because it had been a gift from Angeal and Genesis, and because of one fond memory he had of catching Cloud in his closet, his small frame nearly swallowed by the black leather), though he had stripped the pauldrons off. It left him feeling rather small and disarmed. He supposed that was the point.

"I had promised Cloud I would keep fighting," Sephiroth replied. "So that's what I have to do."

In response, the other man sighed, his hands landing on his hips. "Alright," Zack said. He crossed the threshold, stooped under the cot adjacent to Sephiroth and pulled out his own knapsack, all ready to go. Then, for perhaps the first time since the fire, Zack smiled. "Okay, where to?"

"No. I cannot ask you—"

"You're not asking. But I'm going. If you think I'm going to let you martyr yourself in a fight against a global super conglomerate, you should think again."

Sephiroth opened his mouth, then closed it, let the second attempt he knew would be futile die somewhere in his chest. He could not help it, the tiny bit of warmth that was blossoming in him, as if his heartbeat were slowly, carefully, cautiously, starting once more. "Can you even spell conglomerate?" he asked instead, with a gentle quirk of his brow.

Zack smirked. "I'm a lot smarter than I look."

"I know."

"Cloud was my friend. You are my friend. I am not losing anyone else."

Sephiroth exhaled. "I know that, too."

There was a moment, in which Zack's blue-eyed gaze bore straight into Sephiroth, searching, examining, probing, questioning. But finally, he nodded. He lifted his bag onto his back and slung his arms through the straps. "Two guys against Shinra, huh?" Zack said. "I like our chances."

"Then you'll like them even better now."

Right where Zack had been standing moments earlier, there was Tifa, her dark hair tied in a low ponytail, her own pack jutting up from behind her shoulders. Her tone, her face, her stance – they brokered no disagreement. In her crimson eyes, in the pain and regret that were held in the irises, there was something that Sephiroth recognized. Suddenly, all her actions, her willingness to believe them, to trust, to follow Cloud's lead, were colored with startling, poignant context. Despite logic, despite himself, Sephiroth felt for her. And he could tell, with the way Tifa looked at him in return, that she felt for him too.

The understanding was enough. "Okay," Sephiroth agreed.

Zack rolled his eyes. "You protest against me, but you let her join the team without anything else to say?"

The silver-haired man shrugged. The motion was too casual, too foreign, something that he would have never done in the rigid structure of the military, in the haunting sterileness of the laboratory. For that reason, it felt good. "I suspect she knows how to spell conglomerate," he said, earning him a half-hearted scoff in return. Ignoring Zack for the moment, Sephiroth turned his attention back on the newcomer, to the girl who he now knew shared his pain. There was no point in warning her of the dangers, no point in deterring her will. But he would be remiss if he did not ensure that she was prepared.

"Are you ready, Miss Lockhart?" asked Sephiroth.

Tifa met his gaze, steady, like the flashes of someone they both once knew. "Yes. I am. I won't let you down, sir," And then, without prompting, "You know, you can call me Tifa."

("You can call me Cloud, sir, if you want to.")

Sephiroth closed his eyes, waited until the wave fell, until the memory folded itself back into his mind, until he could breathe again. Each time the feeling echoed through him, there would be a moment when he believed he would drown. But eventually, it would pass. And even if it did not, Sephiroth had made a promise. To fight. To live.

He would defy destiny itself to keep it.

"Very well, Tifa. Please, call me Sephiroth."

It would have been an unmitigated disaster. A village destroyed. A reactor damaged beyond repair. A priceless specimen drowned in mako. Millions in property damage. Two highly valued operatives lost. The pressure to explain what had just occurred had Heidegger fuming the entire return trip back to Midgar. But Hojo paid the man no mind. The fool simply had too small of an imagination, too small of a brain, to comprehend the grander scheme of everything that had happened. There were things in the works that were far beyond Heidegger's intellect, that were far more important than money and control.

Which was why, in spite of Sephiroth's failure, Hojo could not help but be pleased. That was the thing about experiments – when they carved unexpected paths, it meant there was much more to be learned, perhaps even more so than what could be obtained from a simple, straightforward confirmation of a hypothesis. And the incident at Nibelheim was far from expected, and therefore provided a wealth of information. He could now retune his theories, ponder other avenues for exploration. He could scrutinize old work with the benefit of a new lens. There was so much to comb through, so much to parse out and dissect. For that reason, it was not a disaster.

And besides, even if it was, not all had been lost.

Because, strapped onto his exam room table and staring up at him with glowing blue eyes, was what had the potential to be his greatest discovery. The boy who had been chosen. The boy who had survived. There had been a reason, one that was not obvious from initial observation, from cursory glances at files. A reason that the boy drew Sephiroth to him. A reason why Hojo had found him somehow still intact in the reactor, from a wound that would have otherwise killed any other human being. A reason why Jenova could not destroy him. It signaled something wonderous, something surreal, something fascinating, the kind of truth that every scientist dreamed of pursuing. It thrilled Hojo in a manner that he had not felt in the longest time, not since he had first laid eyes on Jenova and all her glory. She was a calling that refused to be ignored, and as it was then, so it would be now. No hesitation, no question, no qualms. Whatever secrets the boy had to offer, he would find it, and he would do it by any means necessary.

Hojo straightened his glasses, then lifted his scalpel. The lights were bright over the flesh.

"Well, Specimen C," he said, as he made the first cut. "Let us begin."

To Be Continued in Part Two