Part Two

Chapter 20 - Forward

They say you can never go home again.

Well, if Zack were being honest, Midgar was not technically home. In terms of sheer minutes and hours, he had spent more time dreaming amongst the sleepy trees of Gongaga versus chasing those dreams within the metal maze of the city. And yet, he distinctly remembered the feeling that had arrested him when he had first arrived at the gates and looked up at the steel plate – the feeling that here, in this ugly, beautiful, wonderous place, was where he was destined to be.

Now in a world where everything was different, Zack was no longer certain he felt the same way.

"Almost there! We'll be in Sector Seven soon."

The voice of the driver – Wymer, as he had introduced himself – was barely audible above the roar of the truck's engine. In fact, the clamor had been so loud that there were a few seconds during the drive through the wastes in which Zack questioned whether they would even make it. But they had managed and finally, they were here. After nearly two years of traveling, of purposely avoiding Shinra strongholds, of wandering and of searching for a relief that they knew deep down they may not be able to find, he and Tifa had at last returned to the center, to the belly of the beast itself.

Tifa was sitting beside him on the back of the pickup, her pack tucked under her legs, and her knees pressed to her chest. Those crimson eyes were wide and fixed on the plate stretching above them, pupils traveling along the looping wires and the crisscrossed metal bars. It occurred to Zack then that this was the first time the young woman would have been to Midgar, the first time she would have laid eyes on that giant pizza hanging in the sky. The expression that danced over her features was familiar, for it was just like the one he had worn once upon a time: a little awestruck, a little surprised, and a little fearful, too.

"It's much bigger than I thought it would be," Tifa said.

Zack looked at her. "Yeah," he agreed. He could remember thinking the exact same thing. There was something about arriving at Midgar that was like getting swallowed by a monster with steel teeth. He tried to be reassuring. "You get used to it, though."

Her hands curled into fists, crinkling the red leather of her gloves. "Not sure this is something I want to get used to," she whispered back, and there, in the thin line of her lips, Zack could see why. The ghosts of an old, quaint town built from wood and not steel, warmed by fire and not mako. The specters of the people that used to live there, of the simple lives they had once lived.

The remains the bodies that had been left behind and of the homes that had burned to ash.

There was nothing reassuring Zack could say after that.

The next minutes passed in silence, as Wymer drove them deeper into the heart of the Sector Seven slums. Rows of homes and shops, crafted from misshapen and mismatched pieces of metal, whirled by them, looking a lot like the patchwork quilts Zack's mother often stitched in the winter. The people they saw were similarly disparate: different sizes and shapes and colors, wandering this way and that as if following a mindless symphony. That was the familiar dance that made up the slums of Midgar, featuring an assortment of persons that all seemed to move one step off the dictated rhythm. In that respect, Zack supposed he and Tifa could now fit the bill, though truthfully, he was also not sure how to feel about that.

"We're here!"

Finally, Wymer pulled into the back garage of one of the buildings, a two-story grey-blue structure abuzz with talk and energy. Hanging on the wall outside was a large sign that read Monsters Slain, with the number five emblazoned underneath it, and loitering next to the door were a handful of men with guns strapped around their shoulders. Judging by the tones of their conversation, about monsters and about patrols, Zack surmised that these were likely members of the local Neighborhood Watch: the very same group of people Wymer had asked them to help, in exchange for providing them a ride to Midgar. As far as Zack was concerned, it was a fair trade. He hated the walking through the wastes – too much heat, death, and nothingness. And helping people, running errands, curbing monsters, was good work, something that he could maybe find comfort in doing. If assisting the residents of Sector Seven also helped them gain credibility with the man that they had come to Midgar to find, as their driver claimed it would, then all the better.

At least, that was the current plan.

The engine took a second to quiet, but once it did, Wymer shifted around to face them. "Alright, kids. Hope that wasn't too bumpy of a ride for you."

Tifa politely shook her head. "Not at all. You saved us so much time," she said. She reached for her backpack and climbed over the side of the pick-up, landing on the ground with a soft thud of her black boots.

Zack followed suit. He spared a moment to stretch out his legs and back, wincing a little at the creaking of his bones. It had been a long drive from Kalm, cramped between boxes of medical supplies, food cans, and other scraps and knickknacks. The last time Zack had spent that long trapped in a moving vehicle had been that fateful trip from Costa del Sol to Nibelheim, and that was not a memory he wanted to dwell on for longer than he had to.

Quickly, he pushed that thought aside, stepped up to Wymer, a friendly grin spreading over his lips. "Seriously, thank you," Zack emphasized. Then, from some part of himself that he could not quite name, he asked, blurted, "Do you need us to help you out with delivering the supplies now?"

He ignored the withering look that he knew Tifa would be shooting him.

But it appeared Wymer was much too kind to rescue him from his predicament. The man chuckled under his breath. "No need," he said. "It's been a long day. Why don't we meet tomorrow, around seven? You probably need some rest."

"Actually, I'm—"

A yank on his arm silenced Zack immediately.

"Yes, thank you," Tifa cut in. With a bit of a grimace at her herself and her clothing, she added, "We probably need a shower, too, if you know a place."

Wymer grinned. "There's a woman named Marle who owns a building up the road. She'd be happy to help."

"Oh, that's perfect," said Tifa. "Thanks again. We'll be sure to work extra hard for you tomorrow."

There came another laugh, gentle and grateful. "A martial arts expert and a former SOLDIER? This Neighborhood Watch stuff will be a cake-walk for you!"

For some reason, that statement planted a tiny pit in Zack's stomach. Still, because he knew he had to, he strained his lips to smile in return, lifted his arm to give what was hopefully a casual wave to Wymer as the man exited the garage and left the two of them standing alone in the shaded space. There was a brief pause as the footsteps receded, after which Tifa made her move. She planted her hands on her hips and stepped directly in front of Zack, her stare rooting him to the spot.

"Alright. Talk," she began. "Because either you really are itching to work that badly, or you are trying to avoid Aerith."

Zack sighed. After all this time of traveling with her, he really should have become accustomed to Tifa's perception. It had been a trait that served their team well many times throughout their trek across the Western Continent, to the point that even Sephiroth found himself leaning on the girl for her insight.

At least until several weeks ago, before the former General had decided to leave.

In hindsight, it was surprising that they had managed to stick together at all for most of those two years. At the start of their journey, Zack, Sephiroth and Tifa were just three people mourning the loss of someone that had touched their lives in indelible and inexplicable ways. Cloud had always been the thread that tied them together, kept them moving even when it was unclear what exactly they were trying to move toward. But grief was not the stickiest of glue, and as his absence continued to grow and grow, as the dust settled and the damaged was tallied, the truth became evident – that the scars left by Cloud's death ran deep, and in ways that each of the three still found themselves trying desperately to parse out.

Though in the beginning, that had not mattered. The first year had been strictly about survival: weaving between towns to avoid Shinra's omnipresent eyes and working odd jobs to build funds until they could determine what to do next. The journey had brought them into contact with all kinds of people, many of which had one thing in common, and that was how Shinra had run them all over in its insatiable greed. There were kids suffering from illness due to exposure from defective mako reactors. There were Wutai war veterans left broken and forgotten and destitute. There were towns that had nothing left in them, except for ashes and ghosts. Every encounter and every bit of proof began to change things, transforming their purpose into something more, something perhaps far too aspirational, far too ridiculous.

Because what hope did the three of them truly have in a fight against empire?

That had been the first source of conflict, arguments about what they could do, what they were capable of doing. For Zack and Tifa, those were the primary concerns. But for Sephiroth, the question was different. With all his strength, his skill, his intelligence, with the poisonous knowledge of where his gifts had come from, the problem became about what he should do. The fear of making another mistake, of hurting others, of slipping down the same angry path that Genesis had forged and that his mother had tried to tempt him toward, often left the man petrified, left him restless at night, left him tired during the days. It was difficult to watch, even more so because neither Zack nor Tifa could truly hope to understand, and because they both knew that the one who was capable of comforting Sephiroth was no longer alive to do so.

Eventually, it had become too much.

So, Sephiroth had left. And Tifa and Zack had to figure out where to go from there.

That search was precisely what had led them to Midgar. It started in the mining village of Corel, one of the latest towns the two of them had visited. The wounds from the reactor explosion that had occurred were still gaping wide, rendered even more painful by the presence of the Gold Saucer built directly above like an ineffective bandage. It was there, amongst the remains, that they heard rumors about a man with a gun for an arm, who had taken his daughter to the big city, to fight back against the company that killed his family, burned his town, and destroyed nearly everything he had ever loved.

(A sadly familiar tale.)

"Go to Midgar," they had been told. "Ask for Barret Wallace, of Avalanche."

That last word was another ironic twist of fate. Avalanche. As a SOLDIER, Zack had encounters with branches of the organization before, many of which had been less than pleasant and that had soured him to the group. Even now, he was still hesitant on the idea. But Tifa was much more keen – which had been the second source of conflict, this time just between the two of them. In the end, Zack had agreed to come with her simply because, skilled martial artist or not, it did not feel right letting the girl join a terrorist organization by herself. Moreover, he could not really blame her. Tifa was not a SOLDIER. She did not witness firsthand the consequences of war and did not build an immunity to suffering as a result. After all that they had seen, it made perfect sense for her to seek out someone who was actively willing to do something, anything, that would make a lick of a difference.

However, all that did not explain why Tifa was giving him the distinct side-eye right now. No, it was because in the course of running around the world, Zack had also been a spectacularly bad boyfriend. In his defense, it was difficult for a fugitive to stay in contact with someone who lived right under Shinra's nose, especially after he and Sephiroth had to toss their PHSs to avoid detection. Though there had been the occasional phone call made quietly from disposable devices, it was hardly enough, and he knew it.

But that was only the surface of the problem. Before he had left, Zack had promised Aerith that he would return home – and but for the loss of a pair of bright blue eyes and a sarcastic smirk, he would have happily done so. Instead, reality came crashing, and Cloud had died, and as the days and the months passed on, Zack found the corners of his sanity becoming swallowed by single, frightening and angry thought: that his friend had taken his place and paid the price that had allowed Zack to escape the destiny foretold for him.

That in dying, Cloud had allowed Zack to live.

Once that seed had been planted, it seemed to blossom with each second, thorns twining and twisting in his skull. Sometimes, Zack found himself powerless against it, flinching as the pain stabbed through him, reminding him of the burden that his own breath had cost. Logically, he understood that it was not fair to blame Aerith for any of it. He was smart enough to know that, recognize that, accept that. He knew that he still loved her and that he always would.

And yet, buried deep, in some small, dark part of him…

Why did she make that choice?

Why did he let her?

Tifa frowned. "Zack, stop it. Just talk to her. Tell her how you feel. She'll understand."

His chest was starting to feeling abnormally tight. Zack rubbed his brow. "What about you?" he asked, clearly attempting to deflect for a little bit longer. "You aren't going to talk to Barret alone, are you?"

"I promise, I won't join a terrorist organization without you."

The comment was funny enough that Zack let out a small laugh, and in response, Tifa's face softened. He could see in her eyes that all she was doing was trying to encourage him. That was Tifa, a combination of tough fists and gentle expressions. She was a lot like Aerith in that way, minus the dirty sense of humor (probably something to do with his girlfriend being a slum kid in contrast to Tifa's more traditional upbringing). Given that, Zack suspected that the girls would probably make very good friends, and a duo that would likely keep anyone honest and on their toes.

Well, he would have to introduce them first. And for that to happen, he would have to stop avoiding this conversation.

"Alright," Zack said, bowing his head. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Meet here?"

The reply was a simple smile.

After that, they exited the garage and separated, perhaps for the first time in months – Tifa heading in the direction Wymer pointed out, and Zack following the path that he knew wound to Sector Five. As the dirt crunched under his worn boots, as he walked through the afternoon bustle of people and places and sights, a sense of apprehension began to creep up his spine. Gaia, why was he so nervous? Especially when he knew Tifa was right: Aerith would be more than understanding. He could envision her actions clearly now. She would wrap her arms around him tightly, warmly, and she would say his name with love and affection, and she would mean it. She would listen to him, and he would listen to her, and in those moments, he could maybe believe that everything would be alright.

Except everything was not alright. Maybe it never really would be again. He had had such hopes when they had left for Nibelheim, that they would find the truth, that he would be able to help Sephiroth, that it would somehow make up for his failure with Angeal. But once again, his own optimism had betrayed him, just as it had from the very start.

("By the way, what is your dream? To become a First, is it?"

"No, to become a hero!")

That declaration felt like several lifetimes ago. He remembered how Lazard had made a quip about unattainable dreams, and back then, Zack had treated it like a joke. He was less inclined to do so now, after all that he had seen. Modeoheim and Nibelheim were two perfectly crafted and twisted markers to the story, the story of how a boy from a nowhere village tried and failed to become a hero. He could not save Angeal. He had left Cloud to die. He could not help Sephiroth fight against the darkness inside him. If he were to fail Aerith, too, if he were to lose her –

That was not a thought he could afford.

His feet operated by muscle memory, and Zack hardly realized that he had arrived at the foot of those familiar steps until he finally snapped his gaze upward and saw the church doors. They were slightly ajar, as they usually were on sunny afternoons like this. It was Aerith's personal way of saying welcome to any stragglers looking for respite. No matter who you were or where you came from, if you stepped into her church and needed help, Aerith would offer it. Granted, when they had met, Zack more crashed into the building than walked, but she had assisted him all the same, with that tender smile and those shining green eyes.

The recollection caught his breath. He missed her. In spite of it all, he really, truly did.

His heart was thudding a thousand miles a minute. But Zack steeled his shoulders, lifted his right palm and gave the wood a push. The door creaked open softly, and he peered his head through the crack. For a moment, he was back to those days when everything felt just a little more hopeful. He would walk into the church and see a girl in a white dress with a pink ribbon in her hair, humming happy tunes as she tended to the flowers. Those details were just about the same, although now, Aerith's dress was pink and her shoulders were covered with a bright red leather jacket. And yet, those tiny differences were enough.

The small reminder of the passage of time, of all the things that were now and that were before, and of what was and what was no longer…

Suddenly, Zack froze. Whatever greeting he had planned died in his throat. Something felt wet in the corner of his eyes, something seemed to vibrate in his core, down his arms, in his hands. He could not move forward nor back, and he could not breathe. All he could do was stand there, suspended. All he could do was nothing at all.

Perhaps that was for the best.

Then, Aerith turned. Her emerald eyes seemed to go straight through him. In the briefest of seconds, he could see the flickers of recognition, the light strokes of sorrow, like the softest touch of a paint brush. He knew then that despite his earlier fear, despite spending the walk here wondering what the hell he was going to say to her after all this time, that he did not need to utter a single word. She knew. Aerith always just knew.

All she said next was, "Oh, Zack."

And that was it. Aerith ran down the aisle and into his arms, and Zack held onto her tightly and sobbed.

Somewhere in the desert of the Western Continent, Sephiroth awoke with a start.

It was the middle of the night, and he was lying underneath the drape of a dark-sheet tent so porous that he could still see the glimmers of starlight poking straight through. The desert air was chilly, like icicles dancing over his skin, but he knew that the mako in his veins was enough to keep any potential hypothermia at bay. As it was, the cold had not been what roused him from slumber. Nor was it the dreams, which had ceased their invasion of his subconscious since Nibelheim (since they had won). No, Sephiroth had opened his eyes because far away and faint on the wind, he had heard something terrible.

He had heard the sounds of screaming.

Quickly, he jolted upright and darted out of his makeshift camp. Green eyes scanned the darkness, the sand dunes, the empty land, until he spotted the source out on the left horizon. A caravan drawn by two chocobos rushing though the dust, and surrounded by four griffins, their talons threatening and slicing and swooping. From his vantage point, Sephiroth could hear at least two distinct voices – the male who was driving the carriage, and a younger female, terrifyingly small. They echoed in the night, shrieking, begging, pleading.

Help! Please help! Please!

Sephiroth knew he should move, knew he should answer, knew that he would. But he could not help the brief moment of hesitance that passed through him, even as he readied the power in his legs. In the past two years, that doubt had become instinct, and after what happened a few weeks ago, it was now a necessity. For that had been the last time that he had heard similar screams, felt those familiar howls vibrating in the air and under his skin. Back then, instead of a desert, the setting had been a small village to the west of Costa del Sol, where he, Zack and Tifa had been sheltering. And instead of a family travelling through the night, the cries came from the members of a wayward Shinra regiment that had found them and attacked – their voices wrung from their broken bodies, as they implored for forgiveness, for mercy, for their lives.

But their calls had not been answered. Because instead of monsters scavenging for their next meal, the perpetrator, the devil, the evil that had demanded to be fed had been none other than himself.

Sephiroth was not sure how to describe what happened. In one moment, the three of them had been running, trying to protect the villagers that had provided them a place to stay and food to eat. And then, somewhere among the barrage of bullets, among the sea of fresh flames swallowing yet another town of innocent lives, an old ghost flew right through him. Conscious control slipped away. Rage had taken over. And the encounter had ended almost as swiftly as it began.

When Sephiroth had opened his eyes, he was standing in a field of corpses. The sparks of flames were still dancing between his fingertips, and the blood of the men was still dripping from the tip of his sword.

It left him completely terrified.

Zack had tried to help. He tried to rationalize, said that if Sephiroth had not acted, the villagers would have been hurt, would have been killed. Tifa emphasized once again that it was Shinra's fault. On some level, Sephiroth had understood where the two were coming from. But blame was not the issue, nor was the fact that the poor town was yet another echo of Nibelheim, of past mistakes, of a fate he seemed unable to escape. No, instead, it had been because in that singular moment before his vision had gone black, he felt something all-too familiar, something he thought had drowned in the mako green of the Planet, something sickly sweet, enticing and promising, powerful and destructive.

He had felt Jenova.

That night, Sephiroth had not slept. There were too many questions running through his mind, questions that he had previously tried to lock away. Clearly, that had been a mistake. Years ago, they had left Nibelheim without ever fully answering the question of what Jenova was and what she was capable of. Genesis described her as a monster, and she certainly seemed like one. But monsters were driven by instinct, by hunger, by the basest and most animalistic of needs. That did not feel like Jenova, did not feel like her voice gripping his thoughts, did not feel like the presence she tried to infect him with. She had to have been something more. There had to be something more.

What happened at that village was the final push Sephiroth required. He was reminded then that even if Jenova herself might be dead, there was a part of her still living inside him, transforming him into a ticking bomb. All that was needed was a proper spark, and he would burn down the entire world. He could no longer afford to avoid the questions, could no longer afford to not have the answers. Finding the truth about his mother now became a far more important task than stopping Shinra. Because for the sake of everything and everyone, he had to remove Jenova's influence from him. And Sephiroth needed to do it without putting any more of the people he cared about in danger.

So, the next morning, before either Zack or Tifa were awake to give him their protests and their disappointment, he gathered his things, packed his bag, and left.

That had been a few weeks ago. Based on the voicemail Tifa had left him (probably out of a courtesy), she and Zack were likely in Midgar by now. As for Sephiroth, he chose to turn around and begin the search back at the place it had begun, back at Nibelheim. And perhaps out of some twisted form of self-punishment, he also decided to take the long route to the mountain through the desert, spending the days walking under sweltering heat and the nights sleeping in the freezing air. Something about the suffering had been almost pleasant, meditative. A memento of the shrinking capacity for humanity he still had left.

That was what brought him here, to this moment.

Sephiroth leapt forward, crossed the distance between his camp and the caravan in a matter of seconds. As he moved, his sword captured the moonlight in its steel. It would be quick work, taking down four griffins with a few slices, a task that he could have easily accomplished as a teenager. And so it was: once Sephiroth was in the air, only a few seconds passed before the beasts were felled, crashing to the ground in a whirlwind of feathers and sand.

Silence followed, as the pair of brown eyes from the caravan driver looked directly at him. That was something Sephiroth was used to – the quiet awe, the wordless fear, the uncertain relief. He took the opportunity to deescalate, to watch the corpses of the creatures slip into the Lifestream, to allow Masamune to similarly vanish, to run a quick hand through his silver hair. Abruptly, his fingers paused at the nape of his neck, still unused to the feel of exposed flesh there. Even after two years, the shortness of his hair continued to surprise him. Sephiroth would still pause in front of a reflective surface, still take an embarrassing number of seconds to recognize that the face that stared back at him was supposed to be his own, and not belonging to some stranger with very sad and tired eyes.

("I can't believe this. Cut your hair? But it's, like, iconic!"

"That's precisely the issue.")

After a handful of seconds, he turned and approached the driver, who was clutching so tightly to the chocobo reigns. "Are you alright?" Sephiroth asked.

The man continued to stare silently at him, his jaw slackened. Sephiroth waited, for the shock to dissipate, for the notion of survival to settle. Finally, the babbling reply came.

"Oh, Gaia. I thought we'd be done for! I kept thinking, 'No good deed goes unpunished, Paul.' Nope, not at all."

Then, another head peaked through the curtains of the caravan. A girl, probably about thirteen-years of age, that shared the man's – Paul's – brown eyes and dark hair. "Dad, what happened? What's going on?"

"This guy saved us," Paul explained, gesturing toward Sephiroth with excited hands.

The girl stared at Sephiroth. She did not seem to share her father's relief. In fact, she looked worried, almost as if the griffins attacking them had not been her primary concern. And clearly, they had not been. Through the slit of the curtain, Sephiroth could see another figure, lying prone on the floor of the carriage, and wrapped in blankets and bandages. A human, badly injured by the looks of it. That explained two things: why a father and daughter were risking travel through the dead of night, and why the griffins had come for them like sharks smelling blood in the water. The cruel irony was not lost on Sephiroth – that these two had simply been trying to save another person's life, and that these monsters had then taken advantage of their generosity and vulnerability.

It was just as the man said. No good deed goes unpunished.

Speaking of…

"What's your name?" the girl asked, her tone distinctly accusatory.

"Mary, be polite!"

The teenager glared. "C'mon, Dad. No human being would be wandering the desert alone at night. Plus, he's clearly a SOLDIER. The eyes."

At that, Paul took a moment to look, and Sephiroth could spot the moment the recognition dawned on him. Not for the first time, he internally cursed Shinra for having his face plastered on all sorts of magazines and recruitment posters. Though, Sephiroth supposed that on the list of grievances, the loss of anonymity ranked toward the bottom of the list.

"Oh, goddess, are you—"

"If you are both alright, I will be on my way," Sephiroth said. He was just about to start the walk back to his camp, when suddenly, the girl jumped out of the caravan after him, her voice frantic and sharp.

"Wait! If you're a SOLDER, maybe you can help!"

He paused. Mary was now standing on the ground, her boots blending into the sand surrounding them. Her fists were balled tight, and they were shaking. That was the only visible sign of her fear, of the traumatic rush of the whole ordeal. She was young, so young, and she had nearly died. That had to be frightening for a girl who was barely a teenager, and in no small part due to the fact that he had already fought in a war by the time he was her age, it took Sephiroth more than a couple of seconds to recognize that.

"The man in there – We found him lying by the road near our house. His wounds wouldn't heal, they wouldn't stop bleeding. We thought if we could get him to the doctors at Cosmo Canyon, then maybe he would have a chance."

The words clicked. Wounds that would not heal. Bleeding that would not stop. Sephiroth's eyes flickered. Wordlessly, he walked up to the caravan. Paul shifted aside to give him the space needed to jump onto the platform and pull open the curtain, and once Sephiroth did, his breath nearly hitched at the sight. Just as he suspected, jutting upward from beneath the damp cloth, and stained with flecks of rotting grey, was a shock of auburn hair.

"Do you know him?" said Paul, glancing over his shoulder. "His eyes glow like yours, you know, when they are actually open."

Sephiroth kneeled beside the body, paused, concentrated. It had taken him a few encounters in the Wutai jungle, but he eventually learned to tell the difference between Genesis and his copies. This felt like his old friend, but not exactly. There was an emptiness to the aura, a fire that was missing. Another copy. Even so, this was not something Sephiroth had expected. After Nibelheim, he did not give Genesis much additional thought. There had been too much to handle, too much to focus on, too much to grieve. And beyond that, there had been too much that transpired between them, too many broken feelings to name and sort out. So, out of necessity, he had elected to also lock that portion of his life away.

Evidently, another mistake.

Mary crouched beside him, her voice soft. "Well, can you help him?"

The question was not meant to be as heavy as she intended, and but Sephiroth could not help the twist in his chest. He shook his head, sat back on his heels and asked, "Where did you say you found him?"

"Just outside my house. He was in really bad shape, like his clothes and coat were all tattered. He did not have anything like a wallet or ID or a phone. In fact, the only thing he had on him, that he kept clinging to, was this."

The girl fished into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out an object wrapped in a folded cloth. She need not have unfurled it for Sephiroth to recognize what she was holding – he could smell it, the faintly soft and sweet tones of the fruit in the air. Still relatively fresh, as if only plucked from the tree a mere week or so ago. A Banora White. A dumbapple.

A message.

Sephiroth took the fruit and stood up, at least as much as he could without bumping his head on the roof of the caravan. Could it be? Was Genesis still out there? Had he been in Banora all this time? What was he doing? What did he want? Did he want Sephiroth to find him? And what would happen once Sephiroth saw him? Would it be another disaster?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

"I'll escort you two to Cosmo Canyon, but then I must leave you. I do not know of any cure for this disease, but perhaps they can help."

If she was taken aback by his abruptness, Mary did not show it. Instead, her earlier attitude returned, and she replied, "We can't pay you, you know."

He turned the dumbapple in his hand, felt the familiar roundness against his fingers. It was a detour, to be sure. Banora was in the opposite direction of Nibelheim. But somehow, this change felt more than necessary. Like he had woken up on this night for this moment, for this reason. And even if it was not fated, now that Sephiroth was here, he could not ignore this sign. He had done enough running around, had done enough avoiding, of locking away. He had done enough of nothing at all. Perhaps it was time for action. Perhaps, it was time to bring this particular chapter to a close.

"No need," Sephiroth murmured. Gently, he closed his fist around the fruit and tucked it into his pocket. "This is payment enough."

The first time he had called her on the road, his voice sounded broken, and not just because of the terrible connection. It was a memory that Aerith would never forget. She had been sitting in the garden outside her house, watching the water lazily wind around the flower beds, when she received that call from an unknown number.

Hello, she had answered.

Hey babe, it's me.

At that point, she had not heard from Zack in more than a month. Cissnei had dropped by the church in the previous week to explain that a disaster had happened in Nibelheim and that the SOLDIERs needed to lay low. It was her version of asking Aerith not to worry. But the Turk offered nothing further, because even she had nothing else to give. That particular fact was what was troubling, though neither of them were willing to voice that concern aloud.

Zack. You're alive.

Yeah. I guess so. A pause. Noisy silence. Static. Regret. Then, I'm sorry, I can't stay long. But I have to tell you something.

There was a crack in his voice. That sound had made Aerith's heart pound, thunderous and erratic. Somehow, it was even louder than the flowers, which hummed softly in the spring breeze. They had grown quiet lately, as if sated, as if satisfied. The return to the peace should have been a victory, a restoration of order, of the way things should be. But there was nothing victorious about the sobering reality that the wheel of fate could just keep turning, crushing those who tried to stop its motion. It meant nothing good.

It meant that despite her efforts, destiny had gotten its sacrifice after all.

He's dead, Aerith. Cloud is dead.

Through the line, she listened to him sob. She imagined Zack crouched in some corner of a village, a clunky PHS in his hands. She could see him running his hands through his hair, see his head bowed deeply at the neck, see him trying to hide his face in his knees. She could feel his cries in her own chest, just as she had when she held him after Angeal had passed away. There had been many moments in the past two years when Aerith felt the distance between them, stretched impossibly thin over the continents and oceans, but it would be this instance – when all she wanted to do was hold him again – that she felt the furthest away.

Now, at last, he was here.

In her arms, Zack felt oddly small. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, and she could feel the dampness of his tears on the skin of her shoulder. Aerith had to stand on her toes to be able to embrace him properly, and with every passing second, his leaning weight threatened to topple them over. But she kept her back rigid, refused to yield, refused to give, refused to stumble. She knew that was what he needed. She knew that was what she had to do.

It took more than a few minutes for Zack's breathing to calm, for the man to dislodge himself, to wipe away the residual wetness from his cheeks. "Gaia, Aerith," he said, and his voice – she had not realized how much she missed hearing it clearly – "I'm sorry. So much for being the cool boyfriend, huh?"

She reached for his hand, kissed the gloved leather knuckles. "Oh, Zack," she murmured with a tiny smile. "You were never cool."

He laughed. It had to be the most wonderous thing Aerith had ever heard. Not even the most joyous song the Planet had to offer could match the deep perfection of those tones.

Zack ran his free hand through his hair, let out a shaking, but full breath. "So much has happened, Aerith. So much."

"When you're ready. I'll listen."

He looked at her. There, just barely perceptible, was a tiny spot of darkness in his eyes. It frightened her, because some part of her recognized that she deserved it.

Still, for now, Zack only said, "I love you."

And Aerith only replied, "I love you, too."

The silence that followed was sweet and fragile, just like this reunion, just like the early buds of spring. Aerith held onto Zack's hand, let their fingers intertwine, unwilling and unable to let go – not now, not ever. As she peered into his mako blue eyes, she felt something like hope simmering within her. It was a small thing, cracked by tragedy and loss, but it was still there.

Because Zack came back to her. After everything, he kept his promise. It had cost a great deal, perhaps more than it should have, perhaps more than he wanted it to. But to her, it was everything, because she would have given everything. And while the only choice left was to make sure that what happened in Nibelheim had not been in vain, she still recognized the depth of the sacrifice that she had asked for, the size of the loss that Zack had to have suffered. It would be unfair for her not to apologize for it now.

Aerith curled her fingers, squeezed his hand. "Zack, I—"

The sound of footsteps, small, light, like soft drumbeats, shattered the illusion, interrupted her thought. Both Aerith and Zack turned their heads toward the doorway of the church. Standing at the entryway, his pink shirt bright in the sunlight, was a young boy, looking decidedly out of breath as if he had sprinted his way here.

Her eyes widened. "Oates?"

"Aerith! I've been looking for you everywhere. We need your help!"

The boy took a step forward, but abruptly stopped. His brown eyes shifted over to Zack, scanned him with marked surprise. "Wait, I know you," he began. "Aren't you Aerith's friend? I thought she dumped you."

Once upon a time, Zack would have made a smart quip in response, or even rolled his eyes. But instead, he merely brushed the comment aside, moved forward to look at the kid with questioning blue eyes. It was a subtle shift, a small change. Aerith would have perhaps attributed it to simply growing up, but they both knew that the truth, just like everything that had happened, was much more complicated.

"You said you needed help," the former SOLDIER stated. "What for?"

Oates paused, hesitated. It was not an uncommon occurrence in the slums for people to be skeptical of anything related to Shinra, of SOLDIERs. Aerith herself had been a little afraid when she first met Zack. Though many in Sector Five had once gotten accustomed to Zack's consistent presence and maybe even grew to like him, his recent long absence probably did not help his case.

Still, like most others eventually did, the boy seemed to realize it was better to take a chance. With a small wave, Oates turned and started making his way back out to the street. "Come with me," he said. "Another guy collapsed, and he seems to be in really bad shape."

Zack took the next moment to spare Aerith a glance. Another guy? But there was no time to explain. The couple followed the boy back up the road that led straight into the heart of Sector Five. Their pace was brusque, and only accelerated as they continued to move. It was not hard to spot their destination: a mob of people marked the site, all huddled shoulders, all piercing stares, all hushed whispers.

(These guys…They're everywhere.

He looks terrible!

Is he gonna die?)

"What's going on?" Zack asked.

Again, Aerith did not reply. She sidled between the bodies, pushed her way through the crowd. Eventually, the sea parted, and she was able to kneel beside the man that was writhing on the dusty ground. From the flesh exposed by the tears in his black cape, Aerith could see the number 59 etched in black ink on his arm. She could also see how pale the man's skin truly was – almost translucent, veins like small snakes pulsing underneath the white. His breathing was gasping and groaning and desperate, fluid was pooling out from his lips with each gurgle, each thrash of his limbs, and when she placed her hand on his in an attempt to share comfort, Aerith found that he was cold to the touch.

Her heart sank immediately. They were too late. He was dying. She knew that, because she had seen this twice before. Except those times, the numbers tattooed had been different, lower (13 and 5), providing a false sense of hope that maybe there would not be too many of these men out there, that there would only be a few others who would have to suffer this terrible fate.

But of course, destiny had other plans.

Aerith took one second to pull out her retractable staff from her jacket pocket, and then summoned the familiar green warmth of healing magic. It would not do much. It would only help soothe the edges of the pain, delay the inevitable. But for now, it was all she could give.

Above her, Zack frowned. "What happened?"

Oates responded, "No one knows. These guys been popping everywhere lately. At least in the Sector, we try to help, but…"

There was no need to finish that sentence, and it would be far too much to ask from a kid. All Zack could say in response was: "Damn."

Aerith could feel his energy twisting behind her, mixing in anger, rage, sorrow, frustration. They both had enough experience to guess at the horrible truth of what this man, and the others like him, might have been subjected to. The realization that Shinra's cruel experiments had not ended, not even after the tragedy at Nibelheim, that there were more bodies piled, more lives lost – she could not imagine what that must have felt like to him. She could not fathom how much heavier the weight, the guilt, that Zack had already carried across the continent and back to Midgar, back to her, must now have become.

(A weight you forced him to carry, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her own whispered.)

And yet, there was still more that she would need him to bear. Aerith finished her spell and retracted her staff. "Zack, can you help me? There's a doctor just further up the road."

His voice was tight, clipped. "Right."

Zack stooped down, taking one of the man's trembling arms and slinging it gently over his shoulder. Aerith assisted, and as the cold body pressed against her hands, she could feel the sharp bones of his protruding ribs. The man was so thin, so empty, so gone. If he managed to survive the night, he would be unlikely to see another. Perhaps that was alright. Perhaps that would bring an end to his suffering. Perhaps that would be a mercy.

Or perhaps this tragedy was just the way it was supposed to be.

As he adjusted his grip, Zack said, "I missed a lot, while I was away."

Aerith looked at him. There was that darkness again, hidden behind the mako eyes, and it went straight though her. "Yes," she said. And then, partly because she had meant to say it earlier, and partly because there was nothing else she could think of to say, she added:

"Zack, I'm so sorry."

A pause. A silence. Like static. Like regret.

Then, Zack replied, "Let's go," and stepped ahead.

There was nothing else they could do but move forward.