Chapter 25 – Insight

After years of sweating in Wutai's torturous heat, Sephiroth found that he truly preferred the colder weather. The satisfying crunch of the snow currently under his boots and the refreshing wind now sweeping down from the slopes of the mountains only helped to solidify his opinion. But even more convincing was the way that the small town of Icicle Inn buzzed with a warm, quaint, wonderous air. It was the perfect picture of a winter escape: white crusted rooftops, people bundled in colorful, marshmallow-like jackets, buildings that glowed bright with cozy fireplaces, and all tucked away in this small, secret corner of the globe. Standing at the edge of the village and looking at the scene before him, Sephiroth could understand why Gast had been so fond of this place – and why perhaps the doctor and Ilfana had chosen it as their new home after leaving the dark laboratories of Shinra.

That was precisely why they were here – to follow Gast's trail. At one point in time, no one had known more about Jenova and the Cetra than the late scientist and coming to one of the few places he had once frequented seemed like the next logical step in Sephiroth's search. Gast's connection to Icicle Inn had been one of the pieces of clarity that Vincent had provided since agreeing to join the journey. But beyond that sliver of insight, there was very little about that particular time of his life, working with the Science Department, with Hojo, and with Sephiroth's mother, that the former Turk seemed willing to share outright. In fact, talking to Vincent was akin to speaking to a rock encrusted with riddles: one needed to formulate the right sequence of words or ask the proper questions to obtain any answers, and even then, the responses were, well, short, at best.

"We have arrived," Sephiroth announced.

Vincent was behind him, his red cape flittering lightly in the breeze. He said: "Hm."

Sephiroth did not know why he expected anything different. The single syllables – or, more accurately, the silence – had characterized the entire way north. It was jarring: Sephiroth had never met someone more taciturn, more reserved, more private than he was, and it left him flat-footed on how to respond. Sometimes, the silver-haired man found himself speaking aloud just for the sake of saying something, to fill in the spaces that others once would have done for him. He would point out obvious facts, about the monsters, about the villages they passed through, about the weather, and then glance over his shoulder to see if the other had anything to add. But Vincent never did, at least never more than a yes, no, or, Sephiroth's personal favorite, hm.

At first, he had wondered if it was his fault. Sephiroth had pushed Vincent's boundaries in Nibelheim, dragged the man out of his coffin with what essentially counted as a massive guilt-trip. It would be rational for Vincent to remain wary, or perhaps even hold his tongue in retaliation. But though it had only been a few days of travelling with the man, Sephiroth got the sense that this was just the way that Vincent was. Vincent was quiet. His expression was almost always neutral. In everything he said or did, he telegraphed little. Those were qualities that may have once served him well, that had probably allowed him to survive the environment at Shinra, that had likely made the man a perfect Turk.

Until, of course, the silence demanded by his work, by Hojo, and maybe even by Lucrecia, became far too much for him to uphold.

Still, even with that in mind, Sephiroth could not help it. The irritation, the annoyance. He had a whole new appreciation for Angeal's patience, for Genesis's taunts, for Zack's gracious sense of humor. Because if he had been anywhere near Vincent's level – frankly, Sephiroth supposed he was lucky to have had anyone willing to put up with him at all.

He turned his head, glancing at the other man over his shoulder. "Do you know where to go next? Where Gast might have stayed?" he asked.

Vincent shook his head.

"You had mentioned that he had owned property here."

"Yes."

"Any idea where?"

"No."

For a moment, Sephiroth felt like the petulant teenager he never really had the chance to be: all anger and frustration, with no proper outlet. He resisted the childish urge to roll his eyes, and said, "Perhaps we can ask around."

Vincent paused, and it was a subtle, but there was a crease in the brow that indicated a degree of contemplation. After a few, long seconds, he finally added, "City Hall may have records. I will look."

That might have been the longest consecutive string of words Sephiroth had heard the man speak since they left Nibelheim and crossed into the Northern Continent. He was not sure whether to count that as progress and decided to reserve judgment for another day.

"Alright. Thank you. I will go to the inn, secure lodging."

The reply came in the form of a wordless nod.

They parted shortly thereafter, once they walked into the central square of the town. Sephiroth had to admit that the separation was a bit of a relief. Not that Vincent was the worst company imaginable (on one particularly difficult night, when the grief had returned full-force and the memories and tears would not stop, Sephiroth had actually appreciated the quietness, like a ballast in a storm), but it was difficult to be near the other man when the vast majority of the time, all he wanted to do was ask more questions. Can you tell me more about my mother? What was she like? Was she kind? Was she smart? Did she look like him? Did she care? Yet, each time the words would bubble up, Sephiroth would swallow them down resolutely. Because there was just something in the way that Vincent said Lucrecia's name the first time, how the lips formed around the syllables, the sadness in the tone. It was too familiar, too much like how it would feel whenever Sephiroth garnered enough strength to even mention Cloud. Those were the kind of wounds that he could sympathize with, that he would never wish on his worst enemy, that he could not fathom tearing open just to sate his own curiosity.

But that did not stop Sephiroth from craving answers, insight. And there was at least one person now living in his town who could perhaps offer him that.

He moved briskly, bourn by the cold air. It was not a long walk from the square to the small diner that stood adjacent to the inn. The windows of the building shone with fresh light, and even from outside, Sephiroth could hear the busy chatter of the lunch-time rush. His heart swelled a little at the sight. To think that after everything that happened, Claudia Strife had managed to find and cultivate this little fraction of the world for herself – there truly was no one more deserving of that peace. It made Sephiroth momentarily guilty for thinking about disturbing it.

And yet, when the bell on the door chimed and he stepped inside the space, Claudia only responded with her usual, gracious smile.

"Perfect timing," she said. She was standing behind the register, a wad of cash in her hand, just about to tend to a couple clad in full ski gear. "Can you take the tray over there and give it to table five?"

Sephiroth paused, blinked. "I – what?"

A delighted laugh, a happy smirk, and a teasing gesture of the hand. Claudia did not miss a beat. As she rung up the customers and shut the register, she continued, "Oh, you know. Busy diner, tray full of food, table of hungry young women waiting for their handsome waiter. I promise, I'll save a piece of pie for you when you are done."

It was a request that he could not deny, a whirlwind that grasped him quickly, unexpectedly. Just like that, Sephiroth found himself spending the next half-hour clumsily bussing tables and taking orders. He had no idea what he was doing, no frame of reference for the motions or the words beyond the bad movies Zack once forced him to watch, and he had spilled more than a few drinks (for some reason, all of the women and most of the men did not seem to mind). But the work felt good, and when the crowd was finally seated and settled, and the food was all served, Sephiroth let himself collapse into an empty booth, basking in a contented tiredness that he had not experienced in the longest time.

A few minutes later, Claudia slipped into the seat opposite of him, and, true to her word, slid over a fork and a plate with warm slice of lightly browned apple pie.

"Eat," she said.

"I am fine."

"You're too skinny. Your short hair makes it more obvious."

Everyone always had an opinion about his hair. He was quite sure she had said something similar, the last time he, Tifa, and Zack had been here to check on her, almost a year ago. "No. I am alright."

"Eat the pie, Sephiroth."

Again, he just could not find it in himself to say no. Sephiroth reached forward, picked up the fork, and took a bite. Immediately, the sweetness of the apple and the crunch of the crust warmed his mouth (really, how rare of an instance was it in his life to consume something for indulgence rather than survival?) and despite himself, a small smile began to tug at his lips.

Claudia grinned. "Good," she said, leaning backward into her seat. "Now, tell me what brings you here? Please don't say it's a little old lady like me."

"You are not old."

"You're right, I'm not. But still."

Sephiroth put down the fork. "We are in Icicle looking for something," he answered.

At that, the blonde raised a curious brow. But her next question was not the one that Sephiroth had been anticipating.

"We?" she asked. "You made a friend?"

"I – well –"

He stopped. What would he even call Vincent? A man that once knew his mother (in a fashion that suggested a degree of intimacy that he did not want to think about too deeply)? A mysterious figured tied to his even more mysterious past? The word friend was too personal, a title that Sephiroth had willingly given to only a handful of people in his life. And though he had little experience with such matters, he did know enough to understand that friendship required some baseline level of rapport. So, after a few seconds of contemplation, Sephiroth landed on, "A colleague," because there did not seem to be a better option.

Happily, Claudia chuckled. "Is that right? Well, friends aren't bad. You could do with more practice having them."

She had an obvious point, but that did not stop Sephiroth from ducking his head in embarrassment – and maybe, in a little bit of petulance. "I can honestly say that this time, I am not the one who is lacking in practice."

That brow went up again. "Really? How has that been like for you?"

Sephiroth looked at his hands, paused. There really were no words that could describe it. The awkward quiet that stretched for hours, the strange tension in the air from truths still yet to be unlocked. It also did not help that Vincent often looked at Sephiroth as if he were some type of ghost, the last remaining specter of a woman that had clearly been important to him. At first, that had been fine, because Sephiroth knew was it was like to mourn, understood the unique torture of seeing someone you loved in every glance, in every place you looked. But as the days passed, the weight of that stare grew heavier and heavier. It exacerbated the silences that Vincent carried, and like gasoline over a tiny flame, it threatened to balloon into a frustration, with himself, with Vincent, with the grief, that Sephiroth did not want, and could not afford, to give into.

As if sensing the conflict, the darkening of his thoughts, Claudia changed direction, and let her next words fall in gentle, soft tones. "Seph, please don't worry. I'm just teasing. And to be honest, I'm relieved, too, that you aren't alone. Tifa had called when she and Zack arrived in Midgar a while ago. But she said that you were no longer with them."

He kept his eyes downcast. "I am sorry to have worried you."

Somehow, that statement simply made her laugh, lightly and freely. "Oh, don't apologize. A mother always worries. It's in our nature."

It was supposed to be a comforting statement, meant to assuage his guilt. But in truth, those words cut through to the very heart of Sephiroth's problem, to the reason why he had come to the diner to seek Claudia out. The inadvertent reminder was enough to encourage the question, and he forced himself to speak before the hammering of his heart threatened to drown everything, including his resolve, out.

"I also came here to ask you something," Sephiroth began. Then, by way of warning, he added, "It would be excessively personal, and very rude."

She did not hesitate. "Those are my favorite type of questions, you know."

He nearly laughed, but his body and his mind seemed unprepared for any amusement. Instead, Sephiroth lifted his head and looked at Claudia, straight into the color of her eyes. They were blue in a way that still made his chest ache, that still made it hard to breathe sometimes without becoming overwhelmed with the urge to cry. He suspected that that feeling was going to stay with him, deep inside, for as long as he lived.

"Cloud told me," he said, almost whispered. "About the circumstances surrounding your pregnancy, his birth. I was wondering if there was ever a moment that you that you considered perhaps – well, that you thought about –"

"About?"

There was no point in delaying further. Sephiroth let it fall: "About leaving him."

A stop, like the breaking of a cassette tape, like the burn of a projector reel. In the next moment, Claudia's face flickered, as if the memories of that time of her life were flashing through her, fireworks blinding and deafening in quick succession. Beyond the pain floating in her expression, it was difficult to tell what she was thinking, what she was seeing, and it was hard to surmise whether the weight of her frown was sourced from anger, regret, sorrow, or all of the above. Regardless, the sight of her, of the cracks, of the breaking, was enough to make Sephiroth want to keep his mouth shut forever, to bow his head and rush out of the diner, and to never be the cause of hurt for this woman, ever again.

But like a habit that was impossible to quit, the Strifes continued to surprise. Because then, in a voice that was all honest warmth, that was all soft truth, that was all grace, Claudia replied:

"I was young. Frightened. Guilty. My family had abandoned me. My friends, too. I don't think there was ever a moment that I had been more scared than the time after I had given birth to Cloud."

He tore his gaze away. "I – I did not mean to pry. I am sorry. I should go –"

Suddenly, she reached for his hand, and squeezed it hard. The jolt of pain was enough to tamper the edges of Sephiroth's panic, remind his body to bring air into his lungs and to allow his heart to settle in his chest.

"It's okay," she said. "It's okay. You may be sorry for asking, but you should know though, that I was not sorry for feeling that way. I'm still not."

He dared to look at her and ask, "Why?"

And then, it happened. Like a wave in a sea of blue, a new light shone bright in her eyes. It looked like recognition. It also looked like joy.

"Because," Claudia said, breathed, like an oft-recited prayer. "It wouldn't have meant as much if I hadn't. Once I held Cloud in my arms that very first time, it was like everything good I ever had broke wide open, poured right out. And that was more than enough."

The response left him breathless, and not in a good way. Sephiroth pulled back, put a hand over his face, to hide the sudden rise of sorrow that was coursing through his body. This did not make sense. This did not provide any of the relief that he was hoping for. He had come here hoping for some understanding, some insight, but instead he was left simply more confused.

Because if Claudia was right, if she felt that she could still love and want Cloud through everything that ever happened to her, then why?

Why did his mother choose to leave him?

"Sephiroth," whispered Claudia, cautiously, gently, kindly. "Can I ask you? About your mother?"

He expected this, the next line of questions, even practiced a response during his walk over here. And yet, he could not look at her. Sephiroth kept his eyes on some speck in the corner of the table as he spoke, explained, "I found out who she really was. Her name was Lucrecia. She was a scientist at Shinra. She had –"

No, wait. He could not give the full truth. But what could he say? That she had willingly experimented on him? Left him in the care of perhaps the cruelest man on the Planet? Stating the details aloud felt like blasphemy, and some part of Sephiroth knew that it would be unfair to unburden the entirety of his pain of onto Claudia, onto this woman who had lost her home, lost her son. But he could not stop himself, not now. The words continued to tumble out of him, syllables falling like hard blows on bruised skin.

"—she had left me. Gave me away. To the laboratories. I do not know anything else about her, besides her name, her profession, and that fact. I do not know if she ever regretted her decision. I do not know if she ever got the chance to hold me and feel what you had felt."

"Oh, Sephiroth…"

And then, the real question, the one that had burrowed deep into him, in order to tear him apart from the inside.

"I do not know if she ever loved me."

A long pause followed, the silence only marred by the soft talk of the patrons still lingering in the diner. What Sephiroth felt in those seconds was an indescribable mixture of mortification, shame, guilt, regret, sadness, rage, and hurt, all at once. Because he just could not shake it – the illogical idea that somehow, he had deserved this. That Lucrecia sensed something about what he was destined to become, and made her decision, left him for it. That this was all his fault. It was the only way he could understand her actions, the only way he could explain how a mother could choose to leave her child to the life that had awaited him, to the life that he had lived. She could not have loved him. Because he could not be loved. Otherwise, things would have been different, and he would not be here, sitting in a diner, trying to stop himself from breaking over a piece of apple pie.

"I see," said Claudia. "You want to understand. Why a mother would do something like that."

There was no way to speak the confirmation without letting everything out with it, so Sephiroth resorted to nodding in reply.

Once again, Claudia leaned forward, took his hand into hers. "I wish I could give you insight," she said, as she looked at him with sad and kind eyes. "I wish I could tell you something that made perfect sense. But the only thing I can say is that people make choices, and those choices sometimes are right and sometimes are very wrong."

It was a non-answer, not what Sephiroth wanted, even if it was the truth. "That is it then?"

She shook her head. "No. What matters more are the choices that we make afterwards."

("But I cannot make up for the past. All I can do now is try differently for the future.")

The echo was almost enough to make him laugh. Almost. Hadn't he known that truth once, a lifetime ago? When he had said those words to Zack, it had sounded right, even convincing. But the circumstances had been different. The world had felt different. Sephiroth had been different. Now, given all that had happened, could he still continue to believe that?

He looked at her, expression uncertain and hopeful, all at once. "Even if we are the ones who have to live with the consequences of the choices they had made?" he asked.

There it was again, that smile, soft and understanding. "Well," Claudia agreed, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, "It would be way too easy otherwise."

Somehow, that did it. Sephiroth laughed. The sound was both foreign and familiar in his mouth, and it washed over him, like warm water on a soft-sand beach.

"I suppose you are right."

"All the more reason why I'm glad you aren't alone anymore."

He glanced up at her, at the brilliance of her blue eyes. They were not quite the same. But still, Sephiroth could see him through her – the thread of Cloud, everything that he had ever gave him, right up to his last words. The love and home and shelter the blond had provided, that he had believed Sephiroth deserved.

A reminder of the good in him, that he still had left.

"Your son –" said Sephiroth, folding his hands together on the table. "He was everything to me. I can see where he gets all of it from now. He was truly lucky to have you."

Another bright flash, a mischievous twinkle at the edges of her irises. "Oh, really? Well, if you two had gotten married –"

"I – we never, I did –"

Innocently, Claudia lifted her hands. "I'm kidding. But even so, you are family to me. You have me now, too."

And that was it. Sephiroth did not even realize that that was what he truly needed to hear, but she had said it, freely, easily, without reservation. Family. What he had sought, dreamed about, contemplated, and he had accidentally stumbled into it in this remote corner of the world. It was not perfect, and it was made from broken pieces, but it was enough. More than enough. Despite himself, despite the doubts and the fears and the insecurities that would he knew would mark him forever, Sephiroth recognized that this was something that he could hold onto. This was something that he could have, was allowed to have, deserved. This was something that he could truly begin to understand.

He bowed his head. "Thank you," he said.

Claudia smiled once more. "Good. Now please, finish you pie. You really do look far too skinny."

Another light, breathless laugh flew right through him, and in the back of his mind, a wonderful thought emerged, that perhaps this – feeding people with warm pies and comforting words – was just what some mothers liked to do. It was a gift he had little experience with before, but one that he was determined to tuck away and treasure. And so, Sephiroth gave in. He lifted the fork, stuck it in the pie, and found that he did not regret it.

Somehow, the second, third, and fourth bites tasted even better than the first.

When Sephiroth stepped out of the diner about a half-hour later, Vincent appeared next to him in a whirl of red and black, and it took an embarrassing amount of physical control not to cave into his trained instinct (after all, not many people or monsters could sneak up on him, and those that could were automatically dangerous), summon Masamune, and strike.

"Vincent!" he gasped.

For his part, the red-caped man appeared completely unperturbed, and not even remotely apologetic. Vincent simply stood there and waited the handful of seconds for Sephiroth to calm before speaking.

"You were not at the inn," he said.

"There was someone here I wanted to see."

"Hm."

For the briefest of moments, Sephiroth thought about what it would feel like to curl his fist and ram it straight through Vincent's face. But he did neither of those things, instead asked, "Did you manage to find where Gast might have lived?"

"Yes."

No further elaboration. Of course. "Where?"

Without another word, Vincent turned and started walking.

Sephiroth sighed and followed.

The house Vincent had located was relatively close by, not too far from the center of town. It was two stories, with a shingled roof that, like every other building in the area, was coated with a layer of snow. But the brown paint was peeling off the outside walls and the windows were darkened with dirt, indicating that the place had likely been unoccupied for several years. Those facts only added to the sense that they had found exactly what they were looking for, and a frission of anticipation began building in Sephiroth's chest at the thought.

They stepped up to the door. "Do you have a key?" Sephiroth asked.

Vincent answered like any respectable Turk would: by unholstering his gun and shooting the lock.

Inside the space, every surface was covered in dust, and the air tasted stilled and stale. But the strangest detail was how the house seemed to subvert the typical structure: instead of opening up to a living room with a couch and a rug, the front door led into a laboratory, with obsolete computer terminals against the left wall, bookshelves filled with tomes on the right, and a large desk in the middle. As for the actual living quarters, they were relegated to the floor below, only visible from edge of the stairs – a bed, an end-table, and a crib with broken bars. The dichotomy between the two spaces, the lab versus the home, the metal versus the wood, was startling. It was as if Gast had trouble fully transitioning out of the world he had once dominated and owned, and into this new, foreign, terrifying, domestic life. If so, that would be an interesting insight about a man that Sephiroth had admittedly a limited picture of.

He crossed the threshold, scanned the room for any obvious place to start. Meanwhile, Vincent had stopped in front of the computer, the fingers of his right hand ghosting over the keyboard. "This one is operational," he stated.

Sephiroth glanced over. "Anything of note?"

A pause. Some typing. Then, "Yes."

Rather than ask Vincent to elaborate, Sephiroth walked over, peered over the other man's shoulder. The screen was opened up on a list of files – video logs, a series of interviews between Gast and Ilfana. Quickly, he read through the dates and labels. The first few appeared to be some test runs of the video system, the thumbnails featuring a laughing or smiling Ilfana, or a blurry, exasperated Gast. Several were corrupted and inaccessible, and much of the last were tucked away in a folder marked Confidential, requiring a password to access.

"Where would you like to start?" Vincent asked.

With no other guidance to follow, the best place seemed to be the beginning. Sephiroth pointed to the first file, titled: The Original Crisis.

It took a while for the grainy image to solidify, but once it did, there Gast and Ilfana were, just as Sephiroth had remembered them. The scientist was still in his customary white laboratory coat, with that same mustache and those same glasses, and the florist was radiant as usual in a red dress that shone brightly in the grey, machine-like space. On screen, they were standing across from each other with a constructed rigidity, as Gast checked the sound system and began to ask her questions.

Ilfana, the doctor said, smiling gently. Please, tell us about the Cetra.

A small laugh. The whole arrangement, the odd formality of an interview between two people who knew each other so well, seemed to amuse Ilfana greatly. Still, she acquiesced, and began her tale: Two thousand years ago, our ancestors, the Cetra, heard the cries of the Planet. The first ones to discover the Planet's wound were the Cetra at the Knowlespole.

"Planet's wound?" whispered Sephiroth.

"The Northern Crater," Vincent replied.

Something fell from the sky, making a large wound. Thousands of Cetra pulled together trying to heal the Planet. But due to the severity of the wound, it was only able to heal itself over many years.

An image flashed in Sephiroth's head, from what felt like a century ago. Genesis, standing on the steps of the Nibelheim reactor, his black wing billowing behind him. That day, the redhead had claimed that Jenova was a lifeform excavated from a two-thousand year-old rock layer. He had been telling the truth after all.

Ilfana continued, That's when it appeared. It looked like our dead mothers and our dead brothers. Showing us specters of their past.

Gast asked, Who is the person that appeared at the North Cave?

As if to brace herself against memories that remained seared in her ancestry, in her genetic structure, the woman took a deep breath, but even that was not enough to stop her from shaking. The one who injured the Planet, or the Calamity From the Sky. It first approached as a friend, deceived them, and finally, gave them the virus. The Cetra went mad, transforming into monsters. Then, just as it had at the Knowlespole, it approached other Cetra clans and infected them, too.

Calamity. Deception. Virus. Madness. Monsters. There was only one thing Sephiroth knew fit that description.

"Jenova."

The video clip ended shortly thereafter, as Gast stepped closer to Ilfana to comfort her. When the screen went black, Vincent quietly asked, "What next?"

Sephiroth closed his eyes, focused his thinking. So far, the only information they had found simply confirmed what he had already suspected about Jenova – that she was not of Gaia, that she was a type of monster, that she had the ability to infect other living beings. But there was nothing on how to destroy her or cure those who had fallen to her. It was beginning to make him anxious. If he could not find some answers here, then where else would he go?

Vincent appeared attuned to this line of thinking, because he suggested, "The next video seems to be about something called WEAPON. Perhaps that will provide some insight."

It was a strangely kind, encouraging, and lengthy remark from a man who had, for the past few days, previously offered only nods and silences. That more than anything else was what caused Sephiroth to pause and rewind those words at least twice in his mind. Eventually, though he was far from hopeful, he agreed.

"Alright."

Once again, a few seconds passed before Ilfana and Gast reappeared on the screen. They were still standing across from each other with an artificial distance, even as the cadence of their voices gave away their affections.

Ilfana, Gast asked, can you comment on the object called WEAPON?

Another smile. Certainly, Professor. WEAPON was created as a response to the Calamity from the Sky, what you now call Jenova. The Planet knew it had to destroy it. You see, as long as Jenova exists, the Planet will never be able to fully heal itself.

Back then, WEAPON was something the Planet produced by its own will?

Yes, but there is no record of WEAPON ever being used. A small number of the surviving Cetra defeated Jenova and confined it. The Planet produced WEAPON but it was no longer necessary to use.

A pause. Gast was rubbing his chin in the way that he did whenever he was deep in thought. So, does that mean WEAPON no longer exists?

Ilfana shook her head. WEAPON cannot vanish. It remains asleep. Somewhere on this Planet. Even though Jenova is confined, it could come back to life anytime. The Planet still has not fully healed itself yet. It is keeping watch on Jenova.

Where is it? Can we find it?

Now, it was Ilfana's turn to stop. She shifted away from Gast then, ducked her head, uncertain, a little apologetic. It looked eerily like how Aerith had acted, when Sephiroth had met her in Zack's apartment those years ago.

(He made a mental note to bring her to this place, whenever they would get the chance).

I don't know. I can't hear the voice of the Planet well. Times have changed. The Planet is hopefully watching the situation closely.

In spite of that answer, the look Gast gave lacked any disappointment. There was only fondness.

Thank you, Ilfana. That will be all for the day.

The two flickered away. In the silence that followed, Sephiroth felt his breath flow in and out of his lungs, his heart thumping resolutely in his chest.

"WEAPON," he repeated.

Vincent looked at him. "Yes."

"Designed to destroy the Calamity by the Planet itself."

Again, the response was, "Yes."

Even those simplistic answers could not dent the rising hope that was growing in Sephiroth's core. WEAPON. At last, something that could end Jenova, end the nightmare, end this all. He had no idea where to start to find such a thing. He had no idea where to go next. But finally, Sephiroth had something. It was just a word, just a concept, just an idea, but it was more than he had the day before.

He glanced around the room, at the books on the shelves, at the desk in the center. "Perhaps there's something here that can help us find it," ventured Sephiroth. Though, judging from Ilfana's response on the video, that seemed to be a remote possibility. It was the only option he had, however, so he was willing to take it.

But just before he made his way to the bookshelf other side of the room, Vincent stopped him, and even more meaningfully, broke his silence on a subject that they had dared not broach, not since Nibelheim.

"I did not understand it completely. But I believe your mother used to study WEAPONs," he said, softly, solemnly. "Along with my father. She was once his student."

The gears in Sephiroth's brain whirred, as that new detail sunk in. Vincent's father studied WEAPONs? So did Lucrecia? And then, she was somehow assigned to the Jenova Project, with Gast and Hojo and Vincent and the last known Cetra? The tangled web was too much of a coincidence, like destiny was having a cruel laugh meshing together these asymmetric pieces and witnessing the chaos that evolved as a result. He could not even fathom what the endgame of this all could be, if there was any planned. All Sephiroth knew was that he just wanted the chance to break out from this cage, this mess – to write his own story and decide his own fate.

"Do you know where we can find their research?" he asked.

This time, Vincent gave a full(er) response. "Yes. The Junon Science Academy."

He almost smiled. Progress. Sephiroth said, "Let's go."

It was settled. They both moved away from the computer and strode toward the front door. But then, Sephiroth's PHS rang, Zack's name flashed on the screen (that was odd, Zack would not have called unless it was important, and a fresh pit dug deep in Sephiroth's stomach at the thought), and the plans they had just made very quickly went awry.

"Hello?" he answered.

Silence. A few hesitant breaths. That pit of anxiety became even deeper. Sephiroth was about to comment, "Just say it," trying to mimic the tones as if they were back in the military and he was a well-prepared and calm General and the other was just his trusted, funny, excited Lieutenant, when finally, Zack spoke, and turned his whole world upside down for the second time in days.

"You need to come back to Midgar. Cloud is alive."