Chapter 23 – Legacies

Years Ago

On the coffee table in his office, in front of the couch that had been patched up with mismatched squares of grey, Dr. Gast kept a small sculpture of Gaia. It was detailed and refined, much like the man who owned it, the browns and blues of the waters and lands all painted in meticulous strokes. One could easily discern the cuts of the continents, the major structures of the largest cities, the mines of Corel, the mountain pass near Nibelheim, the geysers dotting Mideel. But even more captivating than the artful elements of the surface were the green ribbons that surrounded the globe. They wrapped around the orb like a protective cradle and were meant to simulate the wonderous current of the Lifestream. When he would think about that diorama, it would be that last detail that Sephiroth would remember the most – because when the light hit those threads just so, the glittering green so keenly resembled the color of his own eyes, the very same wide and wild irises that stared back at him every morning from his fogged, bathroom mirror.

But there was another reason why that miniature of the Planet remained etched in Sephiroth's mind, another explanation for why, years later, he could still easily conjure that vivid imagery, that beautiful, life-like construction.

I t was because of what happened the last time he had seen it, the final conversation he would share with the man that it had belonged to.

"You are leaving…"

In that memory, Sephiroth was a small child standing at the door of the office, watching as the scientist shoveled papers into a black briefcase. He could not recall whether he had opened with a statement or asked a question, but he remembered how his tiny hands had curled into fists so tight that he had thought the knuckles would break through the skin. Maybe he had wanted them to. Maybe he had needed them to. Maybe he had briefly entertained the delusion that his pain would have been enough to convince Dr. Gast to stay.

(It was always more than enough for Dr. Hojo.)

Something else that Sephiroth could never forget: how Gast refused to meet his eyes. The man's hands were shaking, and his usually tidy desk was in disarray – pens and books strewn about in a hurried and careless fashion. It was clear from the sight and from his demeanor that the doctor was in a rush. It was also clear that he had made up his mind. But despite that certainty, Gast still would not look at Sephiroth. He would not confront the reality of what he was leaving behind.

So, with his gaze fixed squarely on the buckle of his bag, on the folder in his hands, on some spot on the carpet, Gast responded, "Yes. I'm sorry. Please, believe me. I just have no choice."

Somehow, that voice managed to stay as gentle as it always had been, even though the action Gast was about to perform would be the one of the cruelest things Sephiroth had yet to experience. But even as a child, Sephiroth could recognize that the man meant it. Truly. And yet, he also possessed enough understanding to know that that apology would not be enough.

Just like Sephiroth had not been enough.

The silence that followed lasted five seconds, a slow countdown that ticked quietly in Sephiroth's mind. When no other response came, the boy unfurled his fists and wandered over to the beautiful globe, tracing the smooth curve of the structure with his fingertips. "Where are you going?" he asked, though he was not sure why. Perhaps it was in some vague, small hope that Gast would extend an invitation to him, take him away from this life defined solely by the spaces between the cold exam rooms and the even colder sleeping quarters. Except no such hope would exist for him, no such freedom, no such care. Sephiroth was now learning that those were things that just were not meant for him.

Gast folded another piece of paper. "I'm just going away."

"Where?"

"I can't tell you."

A pause. Then, quietly, Sephiroth said, "I promise, I will not tell Dr. Hojo."

At that, something clicked, and finally, Gast spared him a glance. There was a deep sorrow swirling in those eyes, obvious even behind the glare of his glasses. "Oh no," the scientist breathed. He stepped away from the desk and moved to kneel beside Sephiroth, in the same way that he always had whenever he came to pick him up right after another training session in the laboratories. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean – Sephiroth, I know that you wouldn't."

But you still will not tell me. And, more importantly, you still will not stay. The thoughts burned terribly inside Sephiroth, like the pulsing heat of a fresh mako injection. He tried his best to ignore it, follow the procedure he had carved out for himself on the operating table, lock his eyes on something else other than those frightening needles. This time, in this instance, the distraction was that globe on the coffee table. Sephiroth shifted both of his small hands and lay his palms flat on the surface of the model. Suddenly, the idea of crushing the thing, of cracking open the Planet, of setting fire to the lands and the oceans, sparked bright in the corner of his mind, but he stopped himself before the impulse to do so became overwhelming. Where had that come from? Did he really want to do that? Would it even matter? Would Gast even care?

Sephiroth closed his eyes. He murmured, mostly to himself, "Dr. Hojo says the world is dangerous."

The response was automatic. "He wants to protect you," Gast said. But it sounded just like an actor who had practiced his line over and over again, until it became meaningless instinct. Young as he was, Sephiroth knew better by now.

"No," the boy whispered back, tightening his fingers almost experimentally. He could hear the material creak under his grasp, and the sound was strangely satisfying. "I do not believe that he does."

There was no point in lying further, they both knew. Gast turned away, his gaze now also wandering over the diorama of the Planet and over Sephiroth's hands. For a moment, it appeared that he would say something else, maybe apologize, maybe even tell the truth, but then his mouth merely formed a sealed, tight line right underneath the bush of his moustache. The renewed silence both angered and scared Sephiroth, enough to keep him talking, keep him pushing, enough to make him try and keep the man here, for just a little bit longer.

"Dr. Hojo also says that one day, I will own the Planet," Sephiroth continued. "That he is keeping me here to prepare me. For my destiny."

Gast let out a small breath. At the time, Sephiroth had not yet gathered the requisite knowledge of people to completely understand the sound. It was only years later, after meeting Genesis and Angeal, after learning from them how to name his own emotions, that he came to realize what the man had then tried to quietly express.

Regret.

Large hands now reached forward, to pull smaller ones away from the globe. "Only if you want it to be," Gast pressed, insisted, prayed. "Only if that is what you truly want."

What I want is for you to stay. But he could not say that aloud, never learned the right words to use, understood that, for some reason, he did not deserve it. Instead, Sephiroth ducked his head, and confessed a different truth.

"Dr. Gast, I am afraid."

"Of the world?"

"Will it hurt out there, too?"

Gast curled his fingers, clasped Sephiroth's hands, and Sephiroth let him, if only because he had the sinking feeling this would be the last time that scientist would ever try to comfort him, and he feared that he needed every sense of this final, fleeting, false hope in order to survive what would come after.

"Do you remember the flowers Ilfana showed you?" the doctor said, as simply and as directly as one of his old lectures. "Do you remember the stories she told you? That would be proof that the world out there is full of beautiful things."

Could he believe that? Sephiroth did not know. He lifted his head, green eyes flickering to commit the Gast's face to memory: the grey bags under the eyes, the wrinkles around the edges of the moustache, the small indentations on the nose from those glasses. Had he always looked this old or tired before? There was something in the planes of the face – a desperation, a fear. So many of the other scientists and laboratory assistants carried that same expression, held those same shadows. But Dr. Gast was different, because hidden in the folds was also a hope, tiny, buried, almost invisible. Still, that was enough. Even if he would not stay, at least Sephiroth could take some comfort in knowing that the man would save that little bit of light, that it would not be swallowed away like all other things in this dark and terrible place.

And if Gast was right about the world, right about those beautiful things, then perhaps this really was for the best.

"So, you are saying that there is nothing to fear?" Sephiroth asked.

Once more, and for the very last time, Gast squeezed his hands. "My boy," he whispered. "You are an extraordinary child and will be an extraordinary man. For you, the world out there is nothing to be afraid of."

In some manner of speaking, Gast had been correct. As he grew up, Sephiroth did not fear the normal things that most people did: monsters were easily dispatched, as were people on the battlefield, and death and injury rolled off him like water. But, as he eventually came to recognize, those words had been a partial lie folded into a half-truth. There had been a good reason for it: Gast, like always, had wanted to spare his feelings. Hojo, on the other hand, had no such qualms, and did everything he could to quash all hints of sentiment he could find. In hindsight, it was difficult to tell which approach was more painful and which was more merciful. And it did not matter. Because, whether purposefully or not, there was one omission that both brilliant men had made, one that had come to define Sephiroth's entire existence, his entire life, his dreams and his reality, all at once.

What Gast should have said, what his parting words should have been, was that it was the world that needed to be afraid of Sephiroth.

Present Day

"Who are you?"

Sephiroth's mind whirled. The hand – or was it a claw, or perhaps a claw that used to be a hand and that was not something the silver-haired man wanted to think about too deeply at the current moment – that was wrapped around his forearm felt heavy and solid, and the part of his brain honed by years of combat experience immediately registered the enhanced strength exhibited by the grip. Which meant that his first instinct of summoning his sword, slicing the limb off, of fighting back and away could end in potential disaster. Without that, there was left only one other option: to take a page out of Zack Fair's book and give a simple and honest answer.

He looked directly at that ashen face, at the glowing crimson eyes, and said, "My name is Sephiroth."

The reaction was instant. Those red eyes widened, the grey lips tremored, and the golden claw unfurled its grasp. Sephiroth took the opportunity to retreat to a safer distance, but he was ultimately transfixed by the flash of pain across the mysterious man's face. It spoke of a torturous regret, a deep-seated and hidden heartache, all strangely tied to his name. But how? Sephiroth was absolutely certain that he had never met this person before. And even without his nearly perfect memory, there was little chance he would forget someone that looked as otherworldly as that. Perhaps the connection had been built during the span of time before his brain could even formulate conscious memories, or even prior to his birth. Either way, it was clear that the man in the coffin knew something, and perhaps it was the very thing that Sephiroth came to Nibelheim for.

The truth.

He dared to step closer. "You recognized my name," Sephiroth said. "Now tell me, who are you?"

The other man did not meet his eyes, kept his gaze firmly downcast on the floor (Why did they always do that? Why could they never look at him?). "I am no one," he replied, evidently extremely unwilling to say anything else.

But the problem was that Sephiroth really needed him to. The former SOLDIER frowned. "Considering where you are, I sincerely doubt that is true."

"Perhaps not before."

There was no need for elaboration. Sephiroth had enough experience in laboratories, in mako tubes, and on battlefields, with scientists and with Hojo, to be able to make his own inferences. Still, as much as he hated the idea of pressing deeper into someone else's wounds, he could not let this moment, this chance slip away. With his heart pounding in his chest, Sephiroth returned to the side of the coffin, the proximity forcing the man to at least look in his direction.

"I've told you my name. I believe that generally means you owe me yours."

A pause. Red irises briefly danced over Sephiroth's face. There it was again, that shock of familiarity, and it was a shock, like a lightning strike straight through the man's countenance. He must have recognized something, Sephiroth realized, but he could not even begin to fathom what that could possibly be. At the very least, the more direct confrontation appeared to work, because a response finally came, the syllables falling slowly, deliberately, like chips of ice into an empty glass.

"My name is Vincent Valentine."

The gears began turning in Sephiroth's head. Valentine. Valentine. Where had he heard that before?

("He had some frequent collaborators. There was a man named Dr. Grimoire Valentine he worked with for a while on some of his earlier stuff.")

So, not the same person Kunsel had once fleetingly mentioned in his report on Gast over two years ago, but perhaps someone related. It was another puzzle piece, like the many that Sephiroth had managed to find, all chaotically strewn about. But even with this new fact, he felt no closer to deciphering the ultimate picture. He needed more. He just needed more.

"Did you know a Dr. Gast Faramis?" he asked.

Vincent's face was like stone. "Yes."

"How?"

Silence.

"Did you work for Shinra?"

Nothing. Then, "Yes."

"Were you with the Science Department?"

"No."

"What department were you with?"

Again, silence.

This was taking too long. Sephiroth was starting to sympathize with Zack – how the young man often complained that talking to him was sometimes like pulling teeth from a stubborn child. He never thought he would meet someone more tight-lipped than he was, and yet, by sheer stroke of luck, he now had, and it had taken a surprisingly short amount of time for that to irritate his nerves. However, Sephiroth knew better than to lash out, understood that it would do little to convince Vincent, clearly another wayward victim of Hojo's cruelty, to speak to him. He had learned about patience and empathy through Angeal, through Genesis, and then through Zack and Cloud, and he owed it to them, and the kindness they had given him, to show that.

Sephiroth inhaled and then tried again.

"You have my name, but you do not know me. Those who do can attest that I am not someone accustomed to begging. But please," he said, fixing his gaze directly on Vincent's profile, willing and wishing for something, a sign, a look.

A few moments passed. Still nothing. Sephiroth pushed, just a little further.

"I understand that I am asking you to relive what are perhaps terrible memories. But I have been searching for answers about who I am and what I am meant to be for so long. All of it has led me here to you. If you could help me, then please."

No response.

"Please."

At first, Vincent remained as still as a corpse, rigid, unfeeling and dead. But suddenly, there was movement, an exhalation, an acknowledgement. The man returned his gaze, and in those eyes Sephiroth saw a lifetime of guilt swirling beneath the red glow. It reminded him of Gast, holding his briefcase, giving the child he was leaving one final, lingering look. It reminded him of Angeal, his white wing billowing behind him, asking Sephiroth if he had lost some weight. It reminded him of Genesis, his flesh covered with bandages, whispering good-bye underneath a Banora White Tree.

But unlike those three men, instead of avoiding the words or coating them over with pretty poems and platitudes, Vincent began with the truth. "I was a former Turk, assigned to the scientists on the Jenova Project. That is how I know you."

Former Turk. Jenova Project. It was as if the outlines of the image were starting to clear through the fog. Sephiroth traversed the synapses of his brain, pulled out the reports Kunsel had once provided, turned over the memories like a smooth stone in his palm. It made sense – Shinra had to have assigned a Turk to the project, to protect the scientists, keep them in line, maintain their investment. The only flaw in the story was that there had been no mention of a Vincent Valentine anywhere in the records. But considering where the man ended up, how he ended up, that disappearance had an obvious, sinister, and sympathetic explanation.

If he were a less desperate man, Sephiroth would have found it in him to apologize for poking at painful scars. But he was desperate, enough to grasp tightly onto this new thread that Vincent had given him. Because buried beneath those few short sentences was a massive implication, one that had the power to potentially change everything.

"You were there," Sephiroth said, breathed. "You were there."

"Yes."

Something like a panicked hope started to build inside Sephiroth's gut, like a rough tide that refused to calm. Here it was, the moment he had been waiting for. The chance to ask the real question, the one that he had kept in his soul for so long. Here was the opportunity for the real answer.

"Did you know my mother?"

Vincent closed his eyes, though whether it was to focus his own recollection or close out the dreadful memories, Sephiroth could not tell. In a way, it did not matter. The tiny pause was enough to drag the tension onto the knife's edge. When the man finally did speak, after a second that felt like an agonizing eternity, he did so in a voice that was soft, cold, affectionate, and broken, all at once.

"Yes," whispered Vincent. "Yes, I knew her."

"Can you tell me about her? Who she was? What she was?"

"It may be best for you not to know."

No, enough of that. Sephiroth dismissed the notion, pressed onward. "Please."

The expression on Vincent's face was pained. "It will hurt you," he warned. "This will hurt you. And you will never be able to go back."

Too late. That was an entire year, an entire life too late. Sephiroth had already crossed the point of no return, when he had laid the love of his life to rest in the reactor close by. He could not turn back, even if that was what he really wanted, even if it was what he was supposed to do.

"I understand. Please, tell me anyway."

This was it. The truth, at last. He would now obtain irrefutable confirmation of what he had learned two years ago, of the monstrous reality of his heritage. Vincent would tell him about Jenova and her darkness, and armed with that knowledge, Sephiroth could move one step closer to freeing himself from her influence. His heart thundered, his breath felt trapped somewhere between his lungs and his throat. It was like being trapped on a train speeding along the tracks with no brakes and no stops, with nothing but the inevitable crash. Was he truly prepared for this? Could he survive this?

He had to. He had made a promise.

Except what Vincent said next flipped the switch and sent the whole ride in a completely different direction.

"Your mother was Lucrecia Crescent. She was a scientist assigned to the project."

What?

("The only thing I did find was another doctor, a Lucrecia Crescent. But her files indicated that she had died.")

Everything paused. The air itself remained suspended in the room, thick, and nearly unbearable. Sephiroth fought through the haze that was growing over him now, shrouding his vision, making his arms tremble. This could not be real. This was a joke. This had to be. This was –

"No, wait. My mother's name is Jenova."

Mysteriously, something flickered in Vincent's eyes. Anger. Not at Sephiroth, but perhaps at a man in a white lab coat hiding away in a gilded metal tower. "No. Your mother's name is Lucrecia."

"I was told—"

"You were lied to."

The precarious scaffolding holding up Sephiroth's mind had begun to crack. He tried to open his mouth, but nothing came out, tried to hold everything up, but he could not. The only thing he could do was stare straight ahead, at the man in the coffin, at the only one who had been willing to tell him this truth.

In a much softer voice, as if recognizing the weight of the moment, Vincent continued, "Lucrecia originally had studied under my father, but when he passed away, she moved on to the Jenova Project. One particular phase required the use of an unborn fetus to be injected with Jenova cells. When Lucrecia became pregnant, she –"

Too much. Even though he had asked for this, it was too much. Sephiroth finally tore his gaze away, turned his back to the coffin, faced the wall. His hands were shaking, just as they had when Cloud had died, and everything in his world had shattered. He did not think that such a thing could happen twice in a lifetime, and yet, here he was, with everything that he thought he knew in tiny pieces all over the floor.

"I had a human mother?"

"Yes."

"And she – she chose to experiment on me?"

A single word, and it was the sharpest of daggers. "Yes."

On one hand, Sephiroth could have felt relief. This was proof that he was not actually meant to be a monster, that he was human, and that he could have been human. But Sephiroth did not feel relief, not even close. It was worse than the confusing swirl of emotions he had difficulty processing when Gast ran away, more painful than the rage he once threw at Genesis for his betrayal, more sorrowful than the grief he had carried after Angeal's passing. Because this woman that he had never even known, this Lucrecia, she had been the first. She was the first to hurt him, the first to leave him, the first to abandon him. She had set the pattern that had defined his entire life, and she had done it before he had even left her body. It had not been some special designation of fate. It had not been something inherent in Sephiroth's being. Instead, it was this – a terrible, painful, human choice.

And somehow, that made everything so much worse.

Sephiroth could not help it, the twisted sob that flew out of him. Behind him, he could hear Vincent shifting, pulling backward, withdrawing.

"I am sorry. This is why I did not want to tell you."

Too late, Sephiroth thought again, wiping away the tears against the back of his hand. This time, however, he had no one to blame but himself.

But Vincent did not seem to see it that way. He whispered, so quietly that Sephiroth almost did not hear it, "Another sin I must add to my list." Then, just as softly, weighed down by the years that had passed between when it had all started and this fresh moment, "I have given you what you have asked for. Now, leave me to repent."

Sephiroth whirled around. "What? Wait!" Not yet!

It was fast and subtle, the swirl of the magic. Sephiroth hardly had the time to react, to remove his fingers from the edge of the coffin, before the lid he had previously tossed aside came crashing down. The casket closed and then, a glow of yellow light surrounded the edges and sealed away Vincent, along with the rest of the words that man kept deliberately hidden inside.

(He's left you, too, the voice in Sephiroth's head whispered. They always do.)

But he had been so close! Sephiroth had gotten to flesh out more of the picture, gather more of the missing pieces. Yet, there were still truths missing, lingering just at the edge of his line of sight. The situation was infuriating enough to make him want to scream. In the silence that followed, he contemplated summoning his sword and slicing through the wood, demanding more answers to the new questions that now bombarded him from all angles.

Why did she choose to experiment on her child? Why did she leave me? Where did she go?

Did she ever love me?

Now, he would probably never know. Because just as he had let Gast walk, let Genesis and Angeal go, Sephiroth held his breath and his tongue and stepped away. He already recognized the real truth – that the answers to those questions would not matter. They would not change what had happened. They would not take away his pain. They would not free him from the fire that wanted to rage through him. They would not save him from Jenova or himself. They would not spare this world.

They would not bring Cloud back.

No. No words would, not anymore.

Like everything else, it was now, simply, far too late.

Years ago

Sephiroth was too young to be drinking champagne, but they gave him a glass anyway. For the photos, they explained, and judging by the amount of press gathered inside and around the Tower for this particular spectacle, there was going to be a lot of them. The drink was meant to be a prop, something that would make Sephiroth look like he actually belonged amongst the glittering masses of Midgar's elite. They said it would make him appear older and more sophisticated, more like a model than a SOLDIER. They hoped it would make him less like what he actually was, which was a gangly teen stuffed in an uncomfortable, several-thousand gil suit, sporting shell-shocked, tired eyes.

"Stand up straight," Hojo ordered, clipped and direct. He was beside Sephiroth at the edge of the crowded ballroom, a tiny and irritated scowl dipping his lips. The doctor, too, had forgone his usual attire, donning instead a black jacket and a black tie. But he still had his glasses, the thin wire frames perched on his nose, and he was still piercing Sephiroth straight through with that sharp gaze. "Fix your posture. They are all watching you."

They being the world, Sephiroth supposed, or at least the rest of Shinra. Though that particular distinction hardly mattered at the moment, because Hojo was right. Everyone was staring. Everyone was watching, whispering, murmuring, their words like the buzz of the insects in the Wutai jungle, their eyes bright like the fires of the war that had blazed across the countryside. The reminder of where he had spent the last several months, fighting, bleeding, crying, and hurting, made Sephiroth's skin itch, made the sweat start to bead on his back. He did not want to go back there. He did not want to be here. But he had learned long ago that he had no control over such matters. His fate belonged entirely to the doctor and, by extension, the powerful people in this room.

Still, he knew better than to say that aloud. So, Sephiroth responded, "Yes, sir," and somehow forced his muscles and bones into a more rigid stance.

If the motion placated him, Hojo did not indicate. But the man did shift, quickly clearing his throat and folding his hands carefully behind his back. Curious, Sephiroth followed the line of the Hojo's eyes to the other side of the floor. From the crowd, someone was emerging and crossing the threshold toward them – a tall man with greying blond hair, whose slightly heavy stature was offset by a chiseled jaw and a smart smile. He surmised that this man had to have been important, for two reasons: he was sporting an expensive gold ring on his right pinky finger, and anyone who was not looking at Sephiroth was looking at him.

"Mr. President," Hojo greeted. "How nice to see you."

The statement did not sound sincere to Sephiroth, but President Shinra paid that fact no mind. Instead, he brushed Hojo aside and extended his hand directly to the young SOLDIER. "The man of the hour," the President said, in a tone that Sephiroth could not quite place. "I have you to thank for our great victory in Wutai."

It was not a victory. Sephiroth did not comprehend people (especially these kinds of people) and how they spoke or why they chose the words they did, but he knew enough to understand that what happened in Wutai had not been a victory. The body counts were atrocious. Entire sections of that once lush continent were razed. And all that spilt blood accomplished was a temporary ceasefire, one that would last no more than a few months at most. But the harsh reality failed to deter the public from buying the story Shinra wanted to tell – a victory, a triumph, brought to them by the appearance of a young and handsome new SOLDIER, who looked enough like an angel to pass as one meting out judgment upon their enemies.

Again, Sephiroth knew better than to say any of that aloud.

"Shake his hand, boy," the doctor immediately interjected. "Don't be rude." There was that disappointed tone, the one Hojo often deployed in the laboratories, and in a bitter, ironic twist, the sound made Sephiroth instinctually freeze up.

Luckily, the President responded with a laugh, merely waited until the young SOLDIER gained enough composure to murmur, "Yes, sir," and shake his hand.

Years later, and Sephiroth could picture that instance so clearly. Though there had been so many overwhelming details about that first official Shinra party, something that had continued to stick with him was how deeply he had concentrated on that simple movement, how much he had to make sure that the handshake was firm and strong, just as Hojo had taught him. But more importantly, Sephiroth remembered what came right after, even though perhaps that was a truth that he wished he could forget.

"If only my son was as obedient as yours," President Shinra said. He turned to Hojo and smirked. "Keep up the excellent work, Doctor."

Later that night, after a few stumbling conversations, too many photographs, and not enough food, the two of them were riding the elevator ride back to the laboratories. It was then that the feeling – the question – became too much to bear. Despite his training, despite the fact that he knew better, Sephiroth let the words tumble free:

"Dr. Hojo, the President called me your –"

"Pay him no heed," Hojo said. He did not look at him, kept his eyes firmly on the elevator doors. But from the profile, Sephiroth could make out the frown that crossed his mouth, the odd crease that dug into his brow. Altogether, the expression was foreign, one that Sephiroth had never seen before. It was anger, sorrow, guilt, bitterness, rage in equal and mismatched parts. It made perfect sense and it made no sense. It left Sephiroth with a thousand more questions, (Is it true? Could it be? Do you love me? Why do you hurt me?) most of which he recognized he would probably never want the answers to anyway.

And besides, it did not matter. As long as he performed as expected, it did not matter. His entire life, there really was only one person who had not left him, who always paid attention to him, who had thought him important, and that was Hojo. Hojo fed him, taught him, trained him. Hojo dedicated his mind to him. Sephiroth was the scientist's greatest success, and in exchange, Hojo would be the only one to never abandon him. That was the equivalency, that was the transaction, that was the reality of their relationship. Things like love, affection, and family were for other people. Sentiment was a weakness. That was one of the first lessons Hojo had taught him.

And yet, something small began flickering in Sephiroth then – a fire, a hatred. It was for more than the man he was standing in the elevator with. It was also for himself, and the pieces of him that had come from such a person.

But once more, he knew better than to say any of that aloud.

So, as the metal doors opened and the familiar chemical scents of the laboratory tumbled out to greet them, Sephiroth gave the only response he knew would be acceptable.

"Yes, sir."

Present Day

Without the books, the papers, the lies, the library in the Manor basement felt hollower and emptier than it had two years ago. But that only made the clamor of Sephiroth's thinking even louder, his mind pulsing like a stereo trapped in his skull. He paced, he breathed, he opened and closed his fists, but no amount of movement seemed to be able to dispel the panic and the anger and the frustration that was building inside him.

One lie. One name. The answer had been right there, too, just a few feet away, slumbering like an inactive bomb, and instead, Sephiroth had allowed himself to be fooled, to be distracted, to be misled. He could admit to a small amount of humiliation over that fact. But there was something else that was far more enraging – the fact that that one change would have been enough to transform the course of everything. If he had known that Lucrecia was his mother, Sephiroth would never have succumbed to Genesis's onslaught in the reactor. He never would have allowed Jenova to snake her claws into his heart and drown him in a sea of green. And then, he never would have lost Cloud.

Cloud.

How much Sephiroth missed him. The last time the silver-haired man had been here, slumped against the bookshelves, he had been certain that there was only one path left. But Cloud had been there, his light breaking through the storm, and he had held him close and had told him the one thing Sephiroth had wanted to hear his entire life. So many nights, he would dream of the last evening they had spent together – the heat of the blond's skin, how sweet he tasted, how tight and warm he felt – and in the morning, when it all faded away, it would take everything Sephiroth had to keep the shattered pieces of his heart together. Those memories, those perfect pictures, the dead remains of the hope that he had once allowed himself to feel, now haunted him like ghosts. He could not breathe for them. He could not think. He could not do anything at all.

Sephiroth stepped backward, stopping once he felt the edges of his shoulder blades collide with the wall. Slowly, he sank, his body releasing its tension in an instant rush, his feet and legs slipping against the cold floor until he was sitting on the ground. Everything ached. His arms ached. His thighs ached. His core ached. His head ached. His eyes ached. He lifted his hands and tried to cover them now, to block out the miniscule bits of light the one flickering bulb above managed to provide. But it was no use. The pressure continued to build. This despair was going to consume him. It was going to end him. And this time, there would be no Cloud to save him.

("Can you promise me something, instead?"

"Please, I love you. Please"

"You'll fight. You'll keep fighting. You'll live. You'll keep living. They need you. The town. Zack. My mom. They need you."

"I cannot leave you, I cannot, I—"

"It's okay. It's okay. Will you do this, for me?"

"Yes, I promise.")

In that instant, Sephiroth turned and slammed his fist through the stone wall behind him. It gave way with a sickening crunch, and he could feel the vibrations of the impact through the bones of his hand, shattering and healing in a repeated cycle, a second-long symphony. It hurt. Still not more than the ache in his chest, but the fresh pain accomplished its purpose, was enough of a reminder that Sephiroth was still here, in his own body, under his own control. That was the only victory he had left. It had been the gift that Cloud had given him, that had cost him his life. He no longer had Cloud. But he had this, and Sephiroth would be damned if he gave it up now.

He let himself inhale and exhale, once, twice, three times, and blinked away the wetness budding in the corner of his eyes. Then, Sephiroth stood up.

Too much guilt. So much guilt. Too much rage. So much rage. It was everywhere. It was petrifying. But Sephiroth could not afford to let it be. Not when he had made a promise to keep fighting, to keep living. There was still a battle to be fought, still questions to be answered. Jenova may not be his real mother, but she was nevertheless inside of him, her darkness threatening to rot away the inner pieces of his soul. And while this discovery, this unfurling of the lie, had been devastating for all the what ifs and could have beens, it also cast light upon a small hope that Sephiroth previously would not have allowed himself to have before.

He was human. Sephiroth was meant to be human. He could perhaps be human, again.

And if he had this second chance, he saw no reason why that could not be the case for someone else.

Sephiroth let that thought spread over him, walking him out of the library and down the passageway, back to the room with the coffins. As he pushed open the door, he let his own magic trace sparks over his fingertips. In a flash, the lid to the coffin went flying, and like a stiff marionette, Vincent rose up from the fabric once more, his expression dark and displeased.

"Hello again," Sephiroth said.

"I have told you—"

"Yes, I know," he interjected. "But I started thinking, and to be honest there is no one here left to listen."

As Sephiroth spoke, he stepped closer, eyes narrowed and fixed and daring. Vincent did not look away this time. Good. That was enough to keep him going, keep him pushing.

"You said you had a list of sins to repent for. Is that why you are here?"

Silence.

"Do you believe that sleeping here forever is going to be enough of an atonement?"

Again, silence. This time, however, that was an answer in itself.

Sephiroth continued. "I do not know your story. I can guess. Perhaps you tried to stop Lucrecia and you failed. Perhaps it is something else entirely. But I can tell you this from experience: your guilt, that is not the piece that matters."

The words seemed to hit home, because then Vincent let out a breath. "Then, what does matter?"

Sephiroth softened. He thought about Cloud, about when they had first properly met, about how defiant and proud and strong the blond had been even after being thoroughly thrashed in their spar. Again, Cloud had said. Again. It did not matter what had happened the round before, how quickly he had lost, or even why. What had mattered was getting up again for the next round. What had mattered was trying again.

"I made a promise to keep fighting," he said. "And while it may not make up for everything, I am asking you to help me. Help me undo my mother's mistake. Help me eliminate Jenova. Then, perhaps, you can find some peace."

There it was once more, that look of surprise and familiarity. Except now, Sephiroth had the benefit of some added context. The more he thought about it, the more the obvious tones of their interaction became clear, highlighting the reality that Vincent's connection to his mother – and therefore, to him – had run much deeper than professional. From the second that Sephiroth had given his name, the remorse had been too palpable, too thick, and it was likely that very guilt that had driven Vincent to retreat here, to seal himself away. In another life, Sephiroth would have probably let him, maybe even had joined him. But not this time, not this life. All he could do was hope that that new choice, that new difference, would be enough.

"So, will you help me?"

The other man bowed his head, and for the first of probably many future moments, Sephiroth contemplated the frustration that would come with working with someone even more taciturn and inscrutable than he was (Karma is a bitch, Zack would say). Eventually, however, those crimson eyes did glow open and look directly at Sephiroth's face. It was difficult to discern if there was anything resembling gratitude or joy or regret or pain in the expression – there was nothing in the brow, the jaw, or the mouth. That left only one other thing for Sephiroth to latch onto, the simple and honest answer.

And then, Vincent gave it.

He said, "Yes."