Chapter 27 – Hope
The world was on fire. Again.
It had taken them too long to climb out of the sewers, to navigate through the maze of the train graveyard, to escape the ghosts and monsters that haunted the darkest corners of Midgar. Every second that passed weighed in their bones, rendered each step forward more difficult than the last. It hurt. The mad rush always did. Zack had a feeling that it always would. Yet, no relief awaited them once they emerged into the light. Instead, Sector Seven was consumed by chaos – a destruction of a kind that was becoming awfully familiar.
"Oh, Gaia," breathed Tifa, as she covered her face with her hands.
Screams flew through the air. Pieces of debris from the plate fell from above like comets, stone and steel crashing down into the homes and livelihoods below. Around the main support pillar, helicopters branded with Shinra's logo circled, giant vultures ready to swoop in at the slightest sign of weakness. Only one thing stood in their way: the men and women of the Neighborhood Watch, armed with nothing but their makeshift firearms. The flares from their weapons lit up the various floors of the structure like twinkling stars, and all did what they could to hold their ground, even though the futility, the reality, was beginning to dawn. Less than thirty against and entire army. Outmatched. Outgunned. It would only be a matter of time. The handful of fallen bodies, riddled with bullet holes, blood congealing against the dead dirt, remained the irrefutable proof.
And all Zack could think, watching the death, the metal, the red, was this: how could this happen again? A town at the edge of a mountain or slum sheathed from the sun – the details no longer mattered, because the outcome would always be the same. Except this time, the perpetrators were not monsters merely following their hunger, but something far more sinister, far more destructive. They were men that should have known better. They were humans that in an honorable world should have never been capable of this level of cruelty.
But the world was not honorable. Zack had learned that lesson the hard way, a long time ago.
"We have to move," he said.
Neither Tifa nor Aerith hesitated to follow. Though the tiredness of their long night ached in their legs, they rushed to the pillar, eyes and ears scanning for any sign of their friends above. As he moved, Zack focused his senses, until he could hear the voices, spot the blurred faces like sparks against a backdrop of smoke. Farthest away on the top level was Barret, the man's righteous rage and deep desperation powering through every shot he fired. Just a few floors below him was Biggs, crouching behind a steel barricade, the click of his pistol as steady and relentless as a metronome. And closest to the ground, ducking to avoid the sights of the searching helicopters, there was Wedge – optimistic, kind, caring Wedge – clutching his shotgun while trying to breathe in-between his unshed tears.
They did not deserve this fate. They did not deserve this end. No one in Sector Seven did. No one in Nibelheim had, either. Zack had to stop this. Zack had to save them. He had to. There was no other choice.
Quickly, he called upon every ounce of strength he had. As soon as his foot hit the ground, Zack redirected the energy and flew forward, closing the last of the distance to the pillar. The girls were still several feet behind him, but he paid them no mind. They could catch up later. Right now, all that mattered was stopping Shinra. He would not lose anyone else. He refused to.
"Zack, watch out!"
He did not register Aerith's warning until the last possible moment, and by then, it was almost too late. The hailstorm of bullets from the helicopter above was so close, Zack could feel their heat like ghost kisses against his skin. But he managed to halt right before they hit, to leap backward and away from the entrance, his boots grinding dust in the effort. Through the smoke, through the haze, Zack glanced up and focused on the new attacker. The face of the pilot was unrecognizable behind the standard issue helmet and the dark tint of the screen, but Zack could tell that he was a SOLDIER from the uniform. For some reason, that fact made him pause, made his heart twist in pain.
("SOLDIER…is a den of monsters.")
And all a monster knew was how to kill. Zack curled his fingers around the hilt of the Buster Sword, ready to block the next, inevitable strike.
But it never came for him.
Because then, from above, a shotgun rang loud, the rounds bouncing off the metal of the chopper.
"Hey, bastard," Wedge yelled. "Over here!"
It was like watching a lion lock onto its prey. Zack's eyes widened, as the steel beast whirled around, weapons poised at its new target. There was no time. There was nothing anyone could do. And yet, Wedge did not cry, did not run, did not hide. He just held his weapon, aimed, and stared straight into the last moments without fear, without regret.
"For Avalanche!" he said, as he fired one more time.
The scream left Zack's mouth in the same instant. "No!"
Not again!
What happened next was fast, faster than Zack's enhanced senses could fully process. There was a blur of silver, a rush of red, gunshots flying, and the carving of the literal air in two. But in the next second, Wedge was still standing several floors above him, his face (alive, alive, still alive!) slackened in shock, and before Zack could even think about how and why, he was forced to sidestep the angry remains of a helicopter blade hurtling straight toward him. The entire machine had come spiraling down to the ground, torn into pieces with a thousand cuts somehow condensed in the time-span of a single blow. They were clean slices through titanium, damage that required an obscene level of strength and speed, and that Zack knew from experience could have only been accomplished by one man and one sword on this entire Planet.
Something warm began to swell in his chest.
"Sephiroth," Zack said.
And there he was, right in front of him, dark coat billowing in the night air. He was not alone either; standing slightly behind Sephiroth was another figure with a red cape that blended perfectly against the surrounding fire. Zack was about to ask who the newcomer was, when that silver-haired head turned around to look at him, with green eyes alight in a way that they had not been in a long time. It was such a contrast to the last look the two had exchanged, to the brokenness that characterized Sephiroth when he had left the team all those months ago. But that was to be expected. In the intervening space, so much had happened. There was so much that needed to be said, so much to discuss.
Except now was not the time. Nor was it necessary. Because Zack could see it, plain on that proud, elegant face – the hints of the same feeling that had been planted inside him, ever since he spotted those blond spikes in a blurry video left to him by a dead friend. The reason why Sephiroth returned to Midgar. Why Wedge fired his gun at the helicopter. And why the people of Sector Seven were so determined to fight, to the last breath.
The little thing called hope.
"Hello," came the first reply.
And then, maybe because he could not help it, maybe because Zack's sense of humor finally rubbed off on him, maybe because they had become so accustomed to a world ablaze that this truly was the one oddity, Sephiroth had to ask:
"Zack, why are you wearing makeup?"
There were too many memories here. That had been Sephiroth's initial hesitation upon their arrival at Midgar. But it was not the sorrowful ones – the years in the laboratories, the loss of old friends – that worried him, haunted him. Instead, it was the happy ones – the nights that Genesis and Angeal had snuck him out of the Science Department for a spar, the little stick figures Zack drew at the edges of mission reports to cheer him up, the evenings spent with Cloud dancing and laughing in the kitchen of his apartment. Here, in this city, Sephiroth had lived, had made friends, had fallen in love. He may have been born in Nibelheim, but Midgar and that steel tower at its heart, was where he had truly been created.
That fact made the return more difficult than anticipated, as if something about the air of the metropolis had slipped right into his chest. Or perhaps that was simply the fatigue speaking. It had been days since either he or Vincent had a proper night's rest, because immediately after Zack's phone call, the two began their frantic rush back to the Eastern Continent. For that entire week, there had been no stops, besides a brief pause in Rocket Town to borrow (alright, steal, but they left an apologetic note and a handful of gil for the poor man now missing a car) transportation. Given both their enhancements, there was little need for sleep or sustenance. There would be a time for that after they got to Midgar.
After they rescued Cloud.
Of course, given their current predicament, Sephiroth should have known better than to expect things to have been that simple.
"Sephiroth," Zack said.
The first thing that Sephiroth noticed when he turned toward the other man was how tired Zack looked. It was not a physical exhaustion either, but the kind that scarred soul-deep, that Sephiroth often saw in himself when he glanced at his own reflection in stream or in a window. Like a well-timed blade, the recognition stabbed straight through him, along with the guilt. Such heavy sorrow did not belong on someone as full of life as Zack. But there it was anyway, in no small part because Sephiroth had left the young man to carry his burden all alone.
(Again.)
He had to apologize. He would profusely, when there was more time. But for now, Sephiroth figured he would dig through the lessons about friendship that Zack had once taught him – and maybe try and crack a joke.
"Zack, why are you wearing make-up?"
The response was immediate. Zack's jaw slumped open in shock. He reached a hand up to rub at his cheeks, stared down at the flecks of pink blush that came away on his gloves. Meanwhile, despite the gravity of the moment and the fact that they were breathless from sprinting to catch up with them, Tifa and Aerith were trying very hard not to laugh.
"You – I –" stammered Zack. A pause. A breath. Followed by: "There is a good explanation, I swear."
For effect, Sephiroth sniffed the air. To be sure, it smelled like ash and fire, but there were also the faint tones of something strong and overwhelmingly floral.
"An explanation for the make-up or the perfume or both?"
Tifa covered her mouth. Aerith snorted. Zack let out a huff.
But Sephiroth caught the tiny flashes of a smile tugging at those lips. That brief exchange, that moment, flooded him with relief. It was still there. Hope was still there.
And then, the moment ended.
A voice – belonging to the young man with a shotgun – cut through the air. "Look out!"
Another loud crack. But this time, the source was one of their own. Naturally, Vincent had not said anything to announce his presence, had merely stood in silence a few steps removed from Sephiroth, at least until he turned around and shot straight between the eyes the Shinra trooper who had attempted to fire at them from one of the floors of the pillar.
"Holy shit," commented Aerith.
The clang of the gun and the thud of the body falling over the railing were all enough to snap the pleasantries, remind them of the crisis at hand. Shinra, their army and their helicopters. Sector Seven, their people and their town. The pillar, blazing with light, keeping the sky from falling down. Though Sephiroth did not have the details, he did not need them to know what Shinra's intentions were. Nor did he need further information to understand what side he was to fight for or what was required of him.
"We should go," he said, looking at Zack.
It took about half-a-second, as if the other's mind was still trying to process, to understand. But eventually, Zack's face hardened, determined, steadfast, like the SOLDIER First Class he once was. The dark-haired man turned to face the girls, his voice direct and unwavering.
"We're heading up. You two get the residents out of here."
Aerith nodded. "Right."
"We'll see you soon," Tifa said. She also spared a glance over Sephiroth's shoulder, her brow raised curiously. "And then, you could maybe introduce us to your new friend, Seph."
Some tiny part of Sephiroth, a childish piece of himself that he once thought died in the first campaign in Wutai, considered rolling his eyes. Nevertheless, he replied, "Yes. There is much to be discussed."
That was an understatement, but for now, it was all they had time for. Aerith and Tifa moved away, their boot prints carving the path back toward the heart of the Sector Seven slums. And Zack stepped up to stand between Sephiroth and Vincent, the hilt of the Buster Sword glinting against the lights coming down from the pillar. It was almost hard to remember a time when the young man had not been the sole owner of that blade, and not merely because of the number of years that had passed. Truly, it suited Zack, Sephiroth thought, perhaps even more so than it had Angeal.
Zack was glancing up. A tiny grin was stretching his lips. It looked, surprisingly, genuine.
"Let's mosey," he said.
Somehow, the ridiculousness was enough to even make Vincent react, red eyes blinking (in amusement, in confusion, or maybe both). Sephiroth could not help but smile in return.
"Yes. Let's."
Aerith knew the impression she gave off: innocent flower girl, pure of heart and soul, a delicate thing that belonged in a sunlight meadow in some magical land far away. But the reality of her life, of her first, broken memories sourced in some cold laboratory, of the blood of her mother staining her tiny hands, of a childhood spent amongst the rough edges of the slums, had shaped her into something far different. She was not innocent, and she was not pure. She had already experienced loneliness and pain and loss. She had already seen death and fire. She had already felt them in the dangerous songs that the flowers had once sung to her in warning.
And yet, none of that truly prepared her for what she was seeing now.
Sector Seven was burning. Helicopters whirred menacingly above, and metal from broken pieces of the plate staked the ground like massive stalagmites. Homes and livelihoods were burning all around them, and the entire scene was loud, almost too loud. Still, she and Tifa resolutely ignored the buzzing in their ears, as they opened the escape route to Sector Six (Tifa had gotten tired of arguing with the troopers standing guard over the path and ended the discussion with a well-timed right hook), as they directed Marle and the other community leaders to round up and direct the people to safety. With the evacuation earnestly underway, it left one more innocent life that they had to save, one that they knew would be holed up in the bar at the very center of town.
But as the two girls moved back into the undercity, approaching the steps leading into Seventh Heaven, the sight of the exodus began to deepen the fissure growing in Aerith's heart. The people, their dusted clothes, and oh, their faces – empty and lost. Women and children and elderly clutched desperately to each other as they left their homes. Their tears were clear, flowing freely, glowing against the fire. Their cries resounded, but no mercy reached back out to answer them. Every person seemed to carry disbelief in their motions and expressions. Everyone seemed to be asking the same question.
How could this have happened?
How could Shinra do this?
Why?
Why?
Why?
That word had become an incessant mantra in her mind. Why? Once upon a time, as a girl who believed in fairytales, in the stories of the good and the bad, Aerith had been taught by her mother that the Planet was the good, that it cared for the beings that lived on it, that it promoted harmony and love and the natural cycle of things. But the destruction, the desolation, the despair that she was witnessing now felt anything but natural. It was like an aberration, a betrayal, a dark wound that would fester and that would never fully heal.
And yet, the voices of the Planet said nothing in protest, in regret. Instead, Aerith could hear them humming along with a tune far too pleasant, clashing discordantly against the orchestra before her. At first, she could not understand, could not fathom, could not believe it. But it was then that it hit, harder than a speeding train:
The realization that this, all this, the fire, the sorrow, the death of thousands, was part of the plan.
That this was what the Planet wanted to happen.
Why?
At that thought, Aerith gasped, nearly stumbling over the last step. Tifa caught her arm, glanced over her, concerned.
"You okay?"
"I – yes."
A pause. Tifa was still looking at her. That was when Aerith noticed the wetness building behind her eyes. "Nibelheim looked a lot like this," she whispered, so quietly that Aerith almost did not hear. "So did many of the other villages we saw."
Oh, goddess, it was just not fair. None of this was fair. A few years ago, Tifa was simply a girl from a mountainside village. She was strong, kind, sweet, funny, beautiful, and unlike a lot of the other girls her age that Aerith had tried to befriend growing up, Tifa did not laugh at her or consider her strange. Aerith liked Tifa. She liked the fact that Tifa knew her drink order and would ask her about her day and sometimes accompany her shopping. She liked the fact that she was level-headed and strong-willed, that there had been someone like her with Zack throughout their arduous two-year journey.
But there was a part of Aerith that wondered if this was simply her guilt talking – because here, right in front of her, was another life that in her selfishness, she had tampered with. Perhaps Tifa would have been better off had Aerith not tried to reshape destiny. Perhaps she would have lived out her days in Nibelheim, peacefully spending nights beside a cozy fireplace in the home that she had grown up in.
Perhaps Cloud would have been better off. Maybe the residents of Sector Seven, too.
Was this all her fault?
Even though she knew that they would not change anything, the words tumbled out of her. "I'm so sorry," Aerith murmured. "I really am so sorry."
Tifa's eyes did not leave her. But the girl did reach forward to take Aerith's hand into her own. "C'mon," she said, squeezing her fingers. "Let's grab Marlene and get out of here."
They pushed open the doors. Inside, some of the tables and chairs had been knocked askew from the commotion, and the ceiling light above them was swaying precariously to the left and right. But there was no sign of little Marlene anywhere. Aerith's stomach was about to lurch out of her body right then, until she suddenly heard them – tiny breaths, quiet sobs, coming from behind the counter.
"Marlene!" Tifa called, rushing toward the bar.
There was some rustling, a sniffle. Then, "Tifa?"
The dark-haired girl let out a breath. Aerith watched from a few steps away as Tifa opened the swinging door to the bar and stooped down to gather the little girl in her arms.
"It's okay," said Tifa, rubbing circles against the girl's back. "We got you. Me and Aerith, we got you. We're gonna go someplace safe."
"Where Daddy is?"
To her credit, Tifa did not stumble. "Daddy will catch up. But I'll be there, and so will Aerith, okay?"
The reply was another whimper, scared, small. But eventually, Marlene's tiny hands wrapped tightly around Tifa's shoulders, the fingers digging into the back of her shirt.
"Okay," Marlene said. "Okay."
Aerith almost smiled, but she was not quite ready to. Still, seeing Marlene, burying her head in the crook of Tifa's neck, seeing Tifa, the relief lifting from the brow, filled her chest with something other than regret. At least, they had this. A small victory. An innocent flower that could grow again tomorrow. In the grand scheme, it was nothing, a speck of dust in the wind. But to Aerith, in the present moment, it was everything, and the only thing she could now hold on to.
"Let's go," she said.
She turned, was about to step toward the open door, when suddenly, she had to stop.
There, standing at the entrance to the bar, was a man with long dark hair, a crisp suit, and an ageless face that Aerith had not seen in the longest time – and the moment that she recognized it, that terrible, dark feeling returned, and finally split her heart into two.
"Tseng."
The Turk's expression gave nothing away, as usual. "Aerith," he replied. "You've been busy, I see."
Her blood seemed to pulse louder and louder, the crescendo peaking with the sight of the helicopter and the Shinra troopers right outside the door. Gun barrels were pointing directly through the entryway, through the windows, probably through the walls, too. The message was clear. They were outnumbered. They were trapped. Behind her, Tifa tightened her grip on Marlene, her expression still proud and defiant, even though her hands were beginning to shake.
Tseng stepped forward. His eyes flickered in a subtle, but telling fashion, over Aerith's shoulder, to the other two girls. "Before you say another word," he began, "You should know that your options are limited."
Aerith knew that, but she ran through the list in her mind anyway. The truth, however, was simple. Shinra would not hurt her, would not even dare. But Tifa was supposed to have died in Nibelheim and Marlene was nothing but another nameless face to add to the pile of corpses growing across the world. The oddity of that notion struck her, hard and fast: how the Planet and Shinra, the supposed good and the bad, shared the same, careless view of the lives of real people. She could have laughed. She could have cried. But as always, Aerith was simply stuck in the middle.
Tseng continued to stare, pin her down with his piercing gaze, almost as if to prevent her from pulling a trick or vanishing into thin air. The level of attention was ridiculous, unnecessary, given that he held all of the cards.
Well, maybe not all of them.
Because, like a firework flashing in her mind, it all clicked.
"How about we make a deal?" said Aerith.
Tifa's response was immediate. "No. Don't."
She looked over her shoulder, at the young woman clutching the little girl, the fear in those red eyes. It was not fair. It was not fair. Someone like Tifa deserved more than just to scrape a living on the run from an evil that had destroyed her hometown. Marlene and the people of Sector Seven deserved more than to be crushed under the weight of fate, deserved more than to die as acceptable sacrifices, collateral damage. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe this was what she had to do. Maybe she was always destined to return to that Tower.
Maybe this was the sacrifice she had to make, to make this right.
And maybe, hopefully, Zack would forgive her.
Tifa tried, once more. "Aerith, please!"
But it was too late. She had already made up her mind. Tseng moved aside, and Aerith walked into the blinding lights. Somehow, there was no fear, no remorse, no regret. In fact, the only thing that Aerith did feel when she stepped inside the helicopter was a strange, bittersweet sense of hope.
Though he had been fighting alongside the man for years, Zack would admit to still being a little awestruck at the way that Sephiroth moved. There was a reason why the newspapers and magazines once sung the Silver General's praises, and why every man who ever enlisted in SOLDIER dreamt of achieving even a fraction of his ability. Watching Sephiroth now, how the infamous Masamune answered every call, the grace of the footwork weaving together in an intricate dance – it was hard not to be captivated, difficult not to be stunned. But now, Zack knew better, knew the truth. Buried beneath such extraordinary skill was the reality that this was a human being who had been bred as a weapon, who had been taught that his only source of value was how well he could kill. And in every perfect strike, every flawless maneuver, that little, terrible fact showed.
It seemed a similar adage also applied to their newest companion. Vincent, as the man quietly introduced himself (or, more accurately, Sephiroth introduced him, since Vincent did not seem inclined to speak unless he had to), did not know how to miss. He wielded his gun like an extension of his own arm, barely flinching as he fired round after round in steady procession. Though Zack had no tangible evidence to support his theory, he considered himself smart enough to be able to deduce a few things: first, that Vincent's aim indicated a high level of formal training, the kind that only military snipers or Turks underwent; and second, that the floaty, not-quite-so-human vibe hinted at a past encounter with the Shinra Science Department. That last piece alone was enough to make Zack willing to trust Vincent, even if the guy had yet to open his mouth this entire evening.
(He made a mental note to ask Seph how the hell he managed to find someone even less talkative than he was.)
And of course, Zack was no slouch either. Between the three of them, it was quick work reaching the top of the pillar. Vincent easily dealt with the airborne mechs, while Sephiroth and Zack mowed through the troopers and SOLDIERs that were brave enough to attempt a fight, though more than a handful had elected to run the moment they recognized that six-foot-long nodachi. Ironically, the only thing that slowed their ascent were Biggs and Wedge's (justified) questions, the main one being: what the hell the former General Sephiroth, Shinra poster boy extraordinaire, was doing fighting alongside a small group of undercity citizens? But there was little time for the full explanation, and both men understood the foolishness of turning down the help. Sector Seven needed every advantage it could get – and this was obviously a big one.
But even so, Zack was adamant. He would not budge, not until Biggs and Wedge agreed to gather the rest of the Watch and head back down the stairs, to leave, to escape. After everything that had happened, he was unwilling to take any chances. He was unwilling to lose anyone else.
And that left one more man to rescue.
"Think you can do what you want and we're gonna take it?!"
Barret, headstrong as ever, was making his stand on the top platform of the pillar. The man was ducking in and out from behind a stack of crates, his gun firing relentlessly at the three helicopters swirling around him. There was a slight cracking to his voice, beads of sweat were dripping down his brow, and his gunarm was trembling, but Barret did not stop. He kept screaming, kept shooting, kept dodging, kept fighting, as Zack knew he would, all the way until the bitter end.
But not if Zack had his way. Once he reached the top of the last step, he called out the name.
"Barret!"
The man glanced over. There was no anger or sadness, nothing like their last encounter. Instead, something like relief, like hope, played at the lips.
"About time you got here, SOLDIER boy!," Barret said. "Now, get behind some cover before these choppers chew you up!"
Quickly, Zack readied the Buster Sword, flat-side braced as a shield. He sprinted the short length to where Barret was standing, bullets bouncing off the blade like firecrackers. Once safely tucked behind crates, he met the other man's eyes, and could not help the tiny smile spreading over his face.
"About those choppers," Zack replied. "I may have brought a few friends to help."
On cue, silver slices sailed through the air, barely audible in their sharpness. But what they lacked in sound, they more than made up for in strength. In just a few seconds, two of the three remaining helicopters began to spiral, one careering onto the grated metal floor not far from where Zack and Barret stood, and the second coiling away from the top level of the pillar. The steel went up in flames, fire brightening the night sky, like a spotlight aimed right at the center of a stage. However, all eyes were turned not on the conflagration budding in the middle of the platform, but to edge of the staircase – to the source of the strikes.
"Is that –" Barret asked, the question dying under the weight of his disbelief.
Sephiroth said nothing. He and Vincent remained silent, weapons at the ready and their eyes fixed on the last helicopter still hovering above them all. But the man made no move to attack, and it took only a few moments for Zack to realize why. Through the window of the chopper, he could spot the dark suits, the iconic sunglasses, the long ponytail. Rude. Reno. Sephiroth would have surely recognized them, would have remembered exactly who these two men had once been to Zack, more than likely decided to spare their lives out of deference to him. It was a surprising move, and one Zack was grateful for.
But whether it was the right one would depend on what happened next.
For just a moment, Zack took a breath to steady himself. Then, he stepped out from behind the crates, lifting his hands in an attempt to convey something close to conciliation.
"Hey, R & R," he said, planting his patented grin on his face. "I'm thinking we should probably talk."
Immediately, he saw the two Turks exchange glances, along with a few indecipherable mutterings. When they turned back to look at him, it was Reno's voice that came out of the speakers.
"Seriously, Fair? Avalanche? Since when do you do terrorism?"
"Since when are you okay with the murder of tens of thousands of people?"
It was subtle, but Zack could see the man's face scrunch up, the same way it would back then, when they would all take too many burning shots of alcohol together at the local bars. It had been only a few years since those nights of wandering through Sector Eight, laughing at Rude's awkward attempts at picking up the bartender, hauling Reno's drunk ass back to the redhead's apartment, falling asleep with his cheek against the cool kitchen floor. They had been friends of a sort, in a universe where everything had been painted so much simpler. Where Cloud was not trapped in a laboratory and where Kunsel had not been killed for trying to do the right thing. Maybe, just maybe, in this brand new world, all that still meant something.
The next reply came just a little softer. "Orders are orders, Zack," Reno said, the words as heavy as a sinking anchor. "You were a SOLDIER. You should know that by now."
He did. Zack knew that mantra from experience. Orders were orders, and Shinra had a way of ensuring that they would not be disobeyed. After all, there had been the orders to eliminate Angeal after his defection, and though Zack had tried at first to resist them, in the end, it had been his own sword that he had to pull out of that poor, rotting body. But he was not about to make that same mistake again.
"Believe me. I get it," Zack called back. He continued to move, hands raised, body exposed, heart beating wildly in his chest. The lights of the helicopter were bright enough to nearly be blinding, but his lack of clear sight did not matter, as long as Reno and Rude could still see, could still change their minds. Though the others appeared less optimistic: Barret was grunting something in warning behind him, and he could hear Sephiroth shift a little, ready to move to the offensive if required. Zack ignored them, kept talking. "I know all about Shinra's orders. But you also probably know why Seph and I have stopped taking them. And judging by the fact that you haven't shot me outright, I have a feeling you guys might be at your limits, too."
Again, another grimace. Even the normally stoic Rude looked uncomfortable. They knew. They had to have known. About Kunsel, and maybe even about Cloud. Zack was not sure if that counted as a good thing in the moment, if that was something that deserved his anger and his scorn. But right now, he decided to reserve judgment, and let himself hope for the best anyway.
"Zack," said Reno. "This ain't personal. This is just the way it is."
"Maybe we could change that."
A pause. Rude leaned over and whispered something to Reno, who shook his head. The redhead then replied, "No, we can't. Because we all know what happens to people who have tried."
No. No. No.
"Reno, Rude, please!"
But it was no use. The helicopter guns whirled. Their barrels were pointed straight at Zack. And from his seat, through the tint of the windshield, Reno managed to look regretful.
"I'm really sorry about what happened to your friends," he said.
In the next instant, Barret cursed and Vincent drew his pistol. Zack took one more breath.
But Sephiroth was the fastest of them all.
The barrier flew up in front of Zack before he could even register what was happening, and the fire spell followed directly after. The next thing Zack knew, the helicopter had transformed into a ball of flames, like a dying star just before the collapse. Instinctively, he lifted his arms, trying to shield his face from the brightness of the light, and watched as the explosion happened, as the metal remains of the helicopter bounced against the wall of the barrier. The realization weighed like a stone in his gut. Oh, Gaia. Could it be? Were they really…? Did Sephiroth actually…?
But then, through his fingers, Zack could see them, two bodies rolling out onto the metal platform, having somehow jumped from the doors in just the nick of time.
"Holy shit!" Reno said.
Rude grunted in response.
With the helicopter now melting in a pile on the platform, Sephiroth dropped his arm, though the embers of his fire spell continued to dance tantalizingly in his hands. "I suggest you find new orders, gentlemen," he murmured, walking toward them like a jungle cat stalking its prey. "Because I fear you will now be incapable of carrying out your original ones."
(Zack nearly rolled his eyes at the melodrama).
For some reason, Reno found it in him to scowl back. "Seriously?"
Sephiroth actually smiled. Then, he stated, no, ordered, "Make the call."
And that was it. Even Reno had limits to his recklessness. The redhead reached into his jacket to pull out his PHS, while Rude remained silently crouched beside him. Both Zack and Sephiroth listened closely for the magic word, and when Reno finally said it – retreat – the relief that flew through Zack was like the flooding of the warm tide. They did it. They actually did it. His mind quickly ran through the score: Barret, Biggs, Wedge, all alive and safe; the Plate, in disarray, but still looming above them; the slums of Sector Seven, largely intact. And now that Sephiroth had returned, there was no way that Shinra could possibly stand a chance. The sensation was joyful, thrilling, magical. Zack could not remember the last time he had felt this way, the last time he had experienced the elation of a hard-earned victory, the last time he had felt hopeful enough to believe that there would be more good things coming. After everything that had happened, that concept had become so foreign that he could now hardly believe that this moment was real.
And apparently, he was not the only one. Barret had stepped out from behind the crates, his eyes narrowed skeptically as they scanned Sephiroth up and down. "So it really is you," he said. "The Demon of Wutai, in the flesh."
If the infamous moniker bothered Sephiroth, the man did not show it. He merely extended his hand. "Those who know me call me Sephiroth," he said, in a voice that Zack noticed was softened, for effect.
A long second passed. Barret looked the other man directly in the eye, the same way that he scrutinized Zack when they had first met. He knew what Barret was searching for, too – a sign that he could trust, that he could believe. But the proof was right there, in the form of that pizza still in the sky, and evidently, that was enough, because the gunman took the proffered hand and shook it, firmly.
"Barret Wallace, Avalanche," he said. Then, with a slight tilt of a head toward Reno's direction, asked, "Think that these punks will go, just because you showed up here?"
Though he was still on the phone, Reno had clearly been eavesdropping, because at the comment, he rolled his eyes. "Well, considering that I don't wanna get skewered today, then yeah, we're going," he yelled back. The man then pressed his ear to receiver again, nodded once, twice, and finally hung up. With a bit of a flourish, he tucked his PHS back into his pocket and continued: "Alright. Consider your sector spared. You win. Go you. We'll just be going now."
Suddenly, Vincent said, "He's lying," and Zack just about jumped out of his skin at the first sound of the silent wraith's voice. The red-cloaked man had stepped forward, his finger ghosting over the trigger of his gun. "The Turk is hiding something."
A laugh, light and hollow. Reno was making no attempt to hide his amusement, that clever smirk wide over his face. "Oh, man," he replied. "Now who's this guy? You sure know how to pick'em, Fair."
Zack glared. The warmth he had felt before was turning hot, and a part of him was still a little more than angry at the fact that his old friend had been so willing to shoot him dead. "Spit it out, Reno," he stated, reaching for the hilt of his sword. "Or I'll skewer you myself."
The redhead's hands went up, apologetically. But for whatever reason, Rude appeared more willing to give. The man retrieved his own PHS, pressed a few buttons as if dialing a number, and then tossed the object across the platform to Zack. When the device fell into his palm, Zack could not help but feel the spike of worry like a shockwave through his body. What was happening? Who was Rude calling? What could this possibly mean now? There was only one way to find out. He turned the PHS over, waited the long second for the screen the brighten – and then saw emerald eyes, long brown hair, and a pink dress.
And any hope he had left died, right on the spot.
"Aerith! What the—"
He could not tell where she was. The background was all metal, all silver, all dark. But Zack recognized the man standing behind her, the slicked back dark hair, the knowing and sharp eyes. Tseng. She was with the Turks. Aerith was with the Turks, which meant that Shinra had her, which meant that the Science Department now had her, which meant that –
Oh no. No. No. No!
"I'm sorry, Zack," Aerith said. There were tears budding in the corners of her eyes. "I have to do this. It has to be this way. It always had to be this way."
His brain was running a thousand miles, but he could not catch up to it. He could not understand what was happening or why. All he could do was beg, plead, ask.
"Aerith, please!"
She was crying now. Her voice was tight. "I'm so sorry, Zack. I really tried."
"Wait. Wait!"
"I love you."
"Stop!"
But then, the screen turned black.
No!
Reno sighed. "Like I said, Zack. I really am sorry."
Something cracked in the back of his mind. But Zack could hardly focus on it, because suddenly, the clamor of fresh helicopter blades rose around them, and amongst the blinding lights and deafening sounds, Reno and Rude had dashed to the edge of the platform and made their escape. His eyes registered their departure, watched as the chopper they jumped into flew off into the empty night sky. His feet sensed the solid metal beneath him, of a pillar that had not collapsed and that still stood within a slum that had not been crushed out of existence. He even felt in the air the presence of Barret and Sephiroth and Vincent, remembered that Biggs and Wedge had escaped, recognized that for once, they had managed to win the battle, that they had managed to save a town from burning at the hands of fate.
And still – still – he had lost something, someone.
The most important person of them all.
("I'd choose being alive with you."
"I choose you too.")
Was this the price of defying destiny?
He heard Sephiroth call his name, but Zack could not stop himself. He sank to his knees, pounded his fist into steel and screamed.