Chapter 29 – Intruders

Years Ago

Sephiroth could not remember, or more accurately, did not know, how old he was when he had first arrived at Shinra Tower (young, surely, though the technicians that took his measurements all said that he was tall for a boy his age). But what he had felt that day, the emotions that had carved scars inside his body and lingered like ghosts on his skin – those were details that he would never forget.

First had been the anxiety. The helicopter ride from Junon was long, and though Sephiroth had never been prone to motion sickness, he spent the last few minutes of the flight trying to suppress the urge to vomit. There was just something about the view from the window, the way that the buildings of Midgar sliced through the sky like swords; it looked so much bigger than the small spaces of the old laboratory, the metal so much colder than the familiar wood and brick. For a moment, when he saw that skyline poke through the cloud cover, Sephiroth considered running, finding his way back to the old home. But the problem was that he did not know where this home was, had no idea of where to begin looking for it, and more importantly, he knew that there would be nothing left for him (no Gast, no Ilfana) even if he did. The realization swelled in his stomach, borne by the fresh fear. Though the scenery had changed, one thing remained the same: Sephiroth would always be trapped. Midgar was merely his brand new cage.

But despite all that, the boy refused to keel over, spill out the sickness. He could not afford to, not when Dr. Hojo was sitting right next to him, all tight mouth, folded hands, and focused eyes. The man had not been a good mood since the trip began, and everyone down to the newest laboratory assistant knew it. They all said, in hushed whispers that Sephiroth now could hear, that this day needed to go perfectly. That after the disappointment caused by Hollander's work, Hojo was under immense pressure to deliver a success. That otherwise the project would be shuttered, and everything would be thrown away. Sephiroth was too young to understand all the words, but he knew enough to assume that everything included him. And he did not want to be thrown away (not again).

So, he forced down the bitter taste budding in the back of his mouth, ignored the clamminess beading over his skin. Because if Sephiroth were to let such things show, let such things slip through the cracks, be anything less than the perfection that was demanded of him, then that would be it. He would be flawed. He would be a mistake. He would be a failure.

And everyone knew what Dr. Hojo did with failures.

"We're here," the pilot announced, pressing some buttons on the switchboard. Outside the window, Shinra Tower loomed large, a steel mountain casting the darkest of shadows. "Please prepare yourself for landing."

A few minutes later, once Sephiroth and Dr. Hojo had disembarked – it took longer than expected, because Sephiroth's trembling fingers had some trouble with the seatbelt, and the way Hojo's lips pursed in disappointment only made the shaking worse – a figure in a crisp black suit greeted them at the edge of the helipad and escorted them inside. It was a long walk through the titanium hallways, the sound of their shoes clicking against the floor like a rote metronome. Later, Sephiroth would not be able to recall the exact directions, but he remembered keeping his eyes on the back of Hojo's laboratory jacket, afraid to lose sight of it lest he get lost (left behind). Eventually, the procession stopped in front of a large metal door, the words Virtual Training Room embossed in red paint over the entryway. The color reminded Sephiroth of how the blood of monsters looked when it splattered all over the walls, and, as if on instinct, his fists tightened in response.

The dark suit turned to face them. He explained: "The parameters for the simulation have been set as instructed. Director Heidegger and some of the other executives are already inside the observatory."

"Good," replied Hojo.

Curious eyes glanced over to Sephiroth. He saw the question in them – really, this kid? Sephiroth ignored the stare. Dark suit then asked, "Will you be needing anything else?"

Hojo waved him away dismissively.

At that, the dark suit left, walking down the hall. But instead of heading directly inside the room, Hojo spared the next moment to fix the edge of his shirtsleeve poking out from underneath his laboratory coat. Odd. Hojo was not a man who usually cared about appearances. But today, as with all the days leading up to this exhibition, the doctor seemed worried. That only pushed Sephiroth's earlier anxiety even closer to the edge.

Then, suddenly, Hojo knelt down in front of him and reached up to smooth down the creases of Sephiroth's jacket. The touch reminded him of the way Gast used to pat his shoulder, to thank him for helping out in the labs or to encourage him whenever he needed help with a problem set given by one of the tutors. In that moment, a new feeling – not the frazzled anxiety or the cold fear, but something warmer, more hopeful – began to swell.

"You know what you have to do today," Hojo said, more a statement than a question.

Sephiroth nodded. Of course, he knew. For the last few years, this exhibition was what he had been training for, a grand unveiling of the work that Hojo – and Gast – had dedicated much of their lives toward. This was the reason that Sephiroth knew how monster blood looked when dried, how it felt on his hands, and how it tasted if some had splashed over his lips. This was the reason why Hojo spent time with him, fed him, clothed him, even after everyone else had left. And this was Sephiroth's chance to prove himself, to Hojo, to Shinra, to the world. To show them that he was worth something more than being left alone in a cage.

"Yes, sir," he said.

I will not fail you, he thought.

As it turned out, the day did go perfectly. When the simulation had ended, and the holograms of the slain creatures faded from view, Sephiroth was left standing in the center of the training room, his sword perfectly balanced in his grasp, and nary a wrinkle on his jacket. He did not need to hear the gasps, the applause, or see the excitement buzzing from the observatory to know that he had succeeded. He did not need Heidegger's laughter – loud, bellowing, like the helicopter's blades – for confirmation, nor did he need the talk: this boy could win us the war, this boy could win us the world. There was only one thing he did need.

Sephiroth looked up and tried to find Hojo's face.

Did I make you proud?

But there was only the same thin line of the lips, the same impassive stare beaming out from behind wire-thin frames.

No.

The swell crashed in Sephiroth's chest.

He did not understand. Sephiroth had done exactly as instructed, killed all those monsters in record time. The exhibition resulted in Heidegger agreeing to an expansion of the SOLDIER program and to endorsing Hojo over Hollander for the position as the new Science Department director. The other executives promised a full report to the President, gushed about the fact that this special project finally yielded viable fruit. But through all the praise, all the victory, Hojo gave nothing to Sephiroth – no acknowledgement, none of Gast's kind smiles or Ilfana's warm expressions.

Instead, when the night finally ended, Hojo led Sephiroth to his new room in the Midgar laboratories, a windowless space with metal walls and a bed in one corner. He told him to prepare for further work tomorrow, and then shut the lights and left him to sleep, in this dark and empty cage.

Wait.

Please don't leave me here.

Please don't leave me alone.

This was the last feeling, the last thought. Sephiroth took off his boots, lay down on the sheets, and tried to close his eyes. He was struggling to keep the tears from falling, to keep the weakness from showing. But it was getting harder to do so, harder to pretend, because the truth was right there, in the nothingness, in the silence. It seemed that no matter what he did, no matter how much he tried, even in this sprawling city, even in this grand Tower, Sephiroth would never be worthy of anything other than being alone.

Loneliness.

Out of all of the emotions he had experienced that first day, that would be the one he would remember the most.

Present Day

By contrast, Sephiroth found that on this current expedition to the Tower, he was struck by an entirely different feeling.

"Should we wait?" Tifa asked, peering curiously over the railing.

Her expression was concerned, but Sephiroth had gotten to know her well enough to catch the delight in her voice and in her eyes. The two of them were standing at the landing of the fifty-ninth floor, slightly winded after the long climb up the back staircase. Beyond this small bout of breathlessness, the entire process of infiltrating the Tower had so far gone according to plan. Wedge had pulled through with his contact at Avalanche and provided them with a vehicle to sneak past the security guards in front of the garage. Then, Vincent put his skills to work and stole an access card from an unsuspecting woman that had been rushing to her car. Together, this made entering the Tower and moving past the main lobby a simple affair. But the next step – how to ascend the many floors of the building – turned out to be a source of contention, at least for Barret and Zack.

"You want us to climb how many stairs now?"

"We literally haze cadets by making them take that staircase! Why the hell would you want to put us through that?"

"I understand your concern, but every elevator has cameras. The stairs are the optimal way to minimize detection before we reach the Science Department."

"Wait, every elevator has cameras?! Oh, shit. If I had known that—"

"Zack, no one cares about that time you were naked in the elevator."

"SOLDIER boy, the hell you doing naked in an elevator?"

"It was one time and I swear, it wasn't my fault."

At that point, Tifa, ever the voice of reason, had stepped in and headed toward the staircase.

That had been half-an-hour ago. Now, Sephiroth and Tifa had just completed their climb, while Vincent remained two floors below them, though even the strain of the ascent had failed to dent his usual stoicism. Barret and Zack, however, were farther down, having lost their pace and their wind somewhere between floor thirty-two and forty.

"We could have slowed down for them," continued Tifa. "Maybe that would have helped."

Sephiroth raised a bemused brow. "Perhaps. I suspect, however, that they are beyond help."

"I heard that, you asshole!"

He smirked. Judging by the volume and the echo, Zack was probably around the fiftieth floor. Almost there, at least.

Tifa, too, stretched her lips into a wide grin. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out, "Less cursing, more climbing, Zack!"

Zack responded by yelling back something even more obscene.

Eventually, the rest of the team arrived at the top of the staircase, though not without sharing a few other choice words. After that, they spared some time on the landing, to catch their breaths and steel themselves for the next phase of the plan. The easy part was over. Now, just six floors remained between them and the entrance to Science Department, though the vast majority of those were already regularly open to tourists and therefore were not a major concern. No, the real problem was accessing the laboratories. Then, it would be finding Aerith and Cloud, and then, it would be escaping the Tower without getting killed. But Sephiroth supposed there was no point in getting ahead of himself. One thing at a time.

Once he had shaken out the fatigue from his legs, Zack lifted his head and said, "Okay. Everyone ready? Skyview Hall is just behind this door."

"Skyview Hall?" asked Tifa.

Barret stepped in. "Tourist trap," he explained, the disdain written very clearly on his face. "It's got these huge windows. You can see the whole city from there."

"It is also one of the highest floors visitors can access without additional security clearance," Sephiroth added. "But we will need to handle the issue of the keycard in order to proceed any further."

At that, all eyes turned toward Vincent, who had – of course – remained silent in his corner. If the man noticed the additional attention, he did not show it. Instead, he stood, arms placed neutrally at his sides, like a robot waiting for the required prompting.

Zack took it as his cue. "So, uh, hey, Vincent. You said you got something planned about the keycard?"

Red eyes flickered. "Yes," Vincent replied. And, for a brief moment, it almost looked as if the man would explain. But just as quickly, the moment passed. Vincent reached into his pocket to procure the keycard he had stolen, swiped it through the access pad, and then wordlessly strode through the open door.

A beat.

"He really doesn't say much, does he?" said Barret.

Tifa shook her head. Zack laughed. And Sephiroth just sighed.

But they all followed Vincent anyway, through the doors, down the glowing hallways, and into the sprawling atrium that formed Skyview Hall. Barret had been accurate in his assessment: this place truly was a tourist trap, particularly at this time of evening, when the sun had set and the city below shone at its brightest. The space contained a respectable amount of people, from gaggles of Shinra employees unwinding on the couches to visitors from the richer Sectors huddling in groups in front of the large windows. Light music played through the speakers hidden in the ceiling, and a holographic receptionist stood guard at the center, armed with pleasant factoids about the Tower and the company that had built it. Altogether, everything in Skyview Hall painted a specific message, one that Sephiroth knew well. Here was a society that stood at the pinnacle of the world, that had conquered the Planet and had fashioned from its dregs a magical world of steel and power. Below them shone the fruit of their brilliance – Midgar, a miraculous technological feat, its mako-powered lights twinkling like the stars of the universe. It was breathtaking. It was beautiful. And it was lie.

But it was easy to believe otherwise from all the way up here.

The four of them had been walking past the tall windows, following the path established by Vincent's decisive strides. Along the way, their pace had begun to slow, impeded by the sight that glittered through the glass. Finally, almost inevitably, they fell under the spell and stopped.

"It really is quite a view," whispered Tifa. She squinted, lifting her hand and allowing her fingertips to graze the glass. "Explains why this place is so crowded."

Barret shook his head. "Damn fools," he muttered.

"They don't know any better," said Zack. His head was dipped, and he was looking down at the tips of his boots. "They don't know the truth."

Something like sympathy crossed the gunman's expression. Barret hummed, "Well, not all that glitters is gold."

Those words were like an echo, and suddenly, Sephiroth was pulled inside his own mind. A memory flashed, one of him and a blond with blue eyes, standing at the window of his office, taking in a similar sight.

("Yes, this view. It is my favorite thing about this office."

"Yeah, I can see why. The city, it looks so beautiful from here."

"Hm. Not all that glitters is gold.")

For the longest of seconds, the grief thundered through his body like an electric shock. Sephiroth stuttered a breath and closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his chest to try and steady the rising heartbeat. For two years, he had thought that all he had left of Cloud were the memories. Now, the sorrow tasted different, because it was for all the time that had been mercilessly stolen from them.

He waited, for the wave to pass through. When Sephiroth opened his eyes again, Zack and Tifa were looking straight at him.

"You okay?" Tifa said.

He inhaled. "Yes. I am fine."

"You sure?" Zack asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We can take a break."

It was a silly suggestion – after all, they had just taken a few minutes to rest out in the back staircase – but that was not the particular aspect of the statement that surprised Sephiroth. He looked at Zack, at Tifa, at the genuine worry dancing in their eyes, and could not help but wonder what had changed. When he had first arrived in this Tower, he had been a young boy, afraid, anxious, and desperate for the approval of a man whose currency was his cruelty. Sephiroth had spent that night alone, curled up in an empty room, waiting until he fell asleep before he allowed himself to cry. But somehow, that lonely boy had grown into this whole new person, someone who had become intertwined into the lives of others. He had made friends, formed bonds so deep they ached when they were broken. He had learned how laugh and smirk over silly things like staircases, and even gained the courage to crack a few jokes of his own. He had discovered love, how to receive it and how to give it in return.

Sephiroth took another breath and straightened himself. "Thank you for your concern," he said, and he meant it. "But I am fine. We should go now."

Zack nodded. Still, for good measure, the other man squeezed Sephiroth's shoulder. A reminder. Somewhere on some floor above, there was Cloud, the love of his life, and Aerith, a friend who understood his pain. And standing here was a team of people who, despite the randomness of the circumstances that had brought them all together, were determined to help. They did not ask for perfection or for his pain. They simply did not want to let him go through this alone.

Sephiroth allowed himself the grace of a small smile.

I know. I am not alone. Not anymore.

After another minute of simultaneously admiring and deriding the view, the group started to move again.

Vincent led the way, turned right and walked down the next corridor. He kept his eyes straight ahead, allowing only for the sound of the footsteps behind him to signal that the rest were keeping apace. They were, just a few feet behind him, though they had fallen silent, the earlier stream of talk, and more importantly, of questions about his plan folding away. Vincent supposed that was a good thing, even though the twist in his chest suggested otherwise.

He stopped once he reached the receptionist desk, paused for a few seconds for the others to catch up to him. Sephiroth was staring at him with a quizzical expression, no doubt wondering why Vincent was making use of the receptionist, whose programming only allowed for keycard upgrades to areas that were already safely designated for tourists. But again, it seemed the man now knew better than to ask. And again, Vincent felt an odd pang in his heart over the fact.

Better to ignore it and get to work instead. He hopped over the side of the desk, pulling out the keyboard on one of the shelves. Long fingers began flying, and the hologram fizzled out of view, replaced instead by the flat glow of a computer screen. It seemed that technology had much improved over the many years he had been sleeping. No matter. Solving puzzles had always been one of his skills and finding a way to get into the programming behind the keycards would simply be another puzzle to work through.

He kept typing. Lines of code were crossing over the screen. They were watching, and eventually, the one named Zack – the only one bold or clueless or stubborn enough (or all three) to still bother asking – spoke.

"Are you hacking?" he asked. "Because if you are, that's pretty cool."

Vincent only spared him a passing glance.

If he were honest with himself, he knew he was being unfair. It was after all, a relatively harmless question. There were so many others that were less harmless, more like powder kegs ready to explode. But the problem was not that he was unwilling to answer their questions, unwilling to talk, unwilling to share. Vincent was a Turk, and Turks operated on information. He knew teams were more effective when their members had all the facts.

No, the real problem was that he was incapable of formulating the answers, without the guilt and the fear of causing additional harm swallowing the words whole. That had been an issue all his life. It was maybe what caused Lucrecia to push him away. And he was reminded so keenly of it, that day that he had been awoken from a long sleep and forced to confront the truth he had tried to hide away from. The day that Vincent recognized the shape of Lucrecia's eyes staring at him, this time from the face of her son.

Sephiroth was hard to look at, most of the time. Vincent grew up in a scientist's household, and he knew that environmental factors were powerful influences on the way a child grew up. But there were moments, when the light would catch the edge of his face just so, that the silver-haired man looked far too much like his mother, and then Vincent would be left unsure of what to say. There had been so many things that he had wished to tell Lucrecia, before everything had fallen apart. Things that could have changed everything. Now, it was too late. Sephiroth's existence was physical proof of that.

The sounds of keys clacking along continued to softly hit the air. A few seconds later, and he had accomplished his first goal of finding a backdoor into the keycard access system. All that was left was to assign a new identity to the card. Vincent pulled up a second window, conjured the standard employee log-in screen. Hilariously, the basic design had not changed since his time at the company. He hoped that that was not the only thing that remained the same.

A voice interrupted. Sephiroth had put two and two together.

"You are hijacking the keycard upgrade program," the man said.

Vincent focused on the screen. He replied, "Yes."

"You are using an employee log-in to change the identity assigned to the card."

Again, he kept his response simple. It was easier that way. "Yes."

"Cool," said Zack.

Sephiroth ignored him. "But to who? You will require the log-in for someone who has high-level access to the Science Department. Even Turks do not have that jurisdiction."

Vincent did not want to look at him. He did not want to look at those eyes (so much like Lucrecia's, in their focus, in their light). So, instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the keycard, slotting it into the computer terminal. There was no point in answering anyway. The technology would do that for him.

Moment of truth. He typed the username and password and pressed Enter.

A pause. Then, as confirmation, a name flashed on the monitor: Lucrecia Crescent.

Something like a breath caught in Sephiroth's throat.

"Who is that?" asked Barret.

Vincent said nothing, at least not right away. But he did manage to spare a glance toward the silver-haired man. Though he composed himself quickly, in that brief moment, Sephiroth showed the echoes of the same pain Vincent had seen that day in Nibelheim. The man had asked, she chose to experiment on me? And though Vincent so desperately wanted to say otherwise, there was nothing else he could do. The truth was sometimes a dagger, meant straight for the heart.

For now, however, he would keep that dagger mostly sheathed. Vincent simply said, "She was a scientist that used to work here. It was a gamble on whether she would still be in the system. But Dr. Hojo is not the type to give those who have died much further consideration."

Some soft nods and murmurs. The others were accepting the explanation.

But then, Sephiroth had another inquiry, and it started to tug at a thread that Vincent did not want to unravel.

"You knew her password?" Sephiroth asked.

(You knew her that well?)

In truth, that was not the real question, and they both knew it. But neither of them was ready to find that particular answer, at least not right now. Vincent shut down the computer screen and pulled the keycard from the terminal, now newly minted with Lucrecia's credentials. For a moment, a bit of sorrow flew into his body, like the chill from an open window. He remembered at time, decades ago, when Lucrecia would bring him coffee at least once a week as an apology for forgetting her keycard (yet again). She knew to add milk and a little bit of a sugar. He knew how soft her hands were from when she would hand him the cup.

He knew a lot of other things, too.

One day, Vincent planned on telling the full story. But until then, there was no point in causing the child – no, man, her son, fully grown – who had paid for all of their mistakes further pain.

Vincent tucked the card into his pocket. "Let's go," he said.

He started walking to the elevators. When he got there, he pressed the keycard to the access pad, typed in the number sixty-four for the floor of the Science Department. The screen lit green. Approved for a direct ascent. The plan had worked. That was a good thing. Good enough, for now.

He ignored the way that Sephiroth's eyes were now boring deep holes into the back of his neck.

When he had come for his first mako injection, Zack recalled being overwhelmed with how boring the Science Department was – or at least, the parts of it he had been able to see. The exam rooms were all identical squares of grey, with ugly fluorescent lights and unwelcoming tables and chairs. To be honest, it was disappointing. Everyone in the building speculated about what was hidden in the laboratories. There were rumors of three-headed men, machines melded with monsters, dragons and vampires and other beasts from childhood fairytales. But on that day, the most frightening thing Zack had seen was a needle (it was, admittedly, a very long needle). There had been no nightmares of any kind.

Of course, the nightmares eventually came, in the form of men with angel wings and makinoids slumbering in pods of green. There was a reason his mother often told him, be careful what you wish for.

The warning was now ringing deep in Zack's mind, as he stepped through the emptied hallway, his sword arm twitching in anticipation, and perhaps in more than a little fear. There was no telling what awaited them further into the laboratory, and after Nibelheim, he refused to allow himself to be caught off guard. But for now, there was nothing to swing at. When they had opened the door to the Science Department – using that keycard, and Zack made a silent note to ask Sephiroth about this Lucrecia person, because the last time he had seen his friend make that face was the day that they lost Cloud and there was no way he was letting that particular kind of sadness fester if he could help it – all that greeted them was silent air.

He suspected that it would not remain that way for long.

As the one person who had been here before, Sephiroth had taken point, his pace brisk, but fair. Zack and Tifa followed directly behind, with Barret and Vincent taking up the rear. It was not long before they had passed through the front exam rooms and into the deeper chambers, though most of those were still as empty as the spaces that came before. That fact only amplified Zack's paranoia. Yes, it was late in the night, but surely they would have seen a scientist or two, still burning the candle? Why was there no one here?

But then, as the narrow chamber they were traversing through ended, that question got supplanted by another thought entirely.

Like a dark flower blooming in the night, the next room opened up before them, and it was there that Zack was suddenly reminded of just how enormous Shinra Tower truly was.

The space was huge. Possibly larger than actual other buildings in Midgar. From the entryway where they stood, a metal staircase led down to an expansive platform, illuminated by dim blue lighting. Stacked on the walls and scattered around the floor were rows of glass pods, numbering at least fifty or sixty, and all of varying sizes and lengths. A handful were empty, but the vast majority contained slumbering figures, specters pf an old nightmare from a faraway town that had now burned to the ground. Except at Nibelheim, there had only been eight of these pods, and that had been more than enough to give Zack terrors for the rest of his life. To think that there was more, so many more –

No, he could not think about that, lest he allow the panic to rob him of all his air.

Beside him, Tifa tugged on his arm. "You okay?" she asked.

Zack sucked in a breath. He tore his gaze away from the pods and to her face. "I–yeah. This is just a lot."

She squeezed, gently. "We'll be okay, this time," she said. Then, more softly, a little more unsure, "We have to be."

He knew what she was doing. She was trying to convince herself, trying not to be afraid. Her gaze remained locked forward, refusing to fall on any of the pods. Zack could relate to that instinct, perhaps more than anyone else.

Barret, on the other hand, was willing to be more curious. The gunman moved a closer to one container by the stairs, eyes peering at a sleeping red dog (or cat? It was difficult to tell, but it was furry and had paws and a tail with a burst of fire at the end, so clearly not an ordinary animal), though at least he had enough sense to not tap at the glass.

"What are these things?" he asked.

Sephiroth glanced over his shoulder. "Hard to say," he said. "They are monsters, most likely."

Barret frowned. "Then, hopefully they stay inside these tubes."

They kept walking, moving down the stairs and then across that massive platform, weaving their way in between the numerous pods. Everywhere they looked, sleeping beasts dotted the walls and the floor, like a mosaic of glass and shadow. Most of the pods contained beings that looked similar to the makinoids in Nibelheim, except these were a bit smaller, with skin decorated by glowing red veins. But in spite of those difference, they did share one particular aspect in common, obvious from the shape of their limbs, their bodies, even what remained of their faces. And perhaps because he was the only one unfamiliar with the horrible truth, Barret acknowledged it first:

"Wait. Wait a second. Were these once…human?"

Sephiroth's steps paused. That was answer enough.

The gunman clenched his fist, breathed out a tiny curse. Zack could guess at what crossed his mind – perhaps those men in the black robes, that had made frequent appearances rotting in the streets in the slums. Those would have been victims, too, but at least they still retained some vague resemblance to humanity. Not so with these creatures, who had had their lives and minds and souls torn from their bodies. For them, there was no going back.

Eventually, they reached the other side of the chamber. A makeshift elevator greeted them by the far wall.

"Almost there," Sephiroth said, with a slight tilt of his head. "The floor above is where Hojo keeps his most important work."

It was not difficult to grasp at the implications of Sephiroth's words, at the way the man carried himself through the space. They had only really talked about it once, midway through their travels on the Western Continent, on the one-year anniversary of what had happened at Nibelheim. Perhaps that had been the reason why Sephiroth had been so open, so vulnerable. That night, beside a crackling warm fire, the silver-haired man had told them stories of what had happened to him as a child. He did so, partly to help explain the existence of those makinoids, provide a glimpse of the pain that had transformed them into monsters, but mostly as a silent plea.

Please, do not let this happen to me.

Later, after Sephiroth had left them, in a rare moment of frustration, Tifa shared how much the stories had affected her. How much they made her want to scream, to fight, until no one would have to suffer in that way, ever again.

Cloud. Sephiroth. Shinra. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of all of this!

They climbed into the elevator. Sephiroth pressed the lever, and the machinery began to screech its way upward.

Meanwhile, as Zack waited, an itch began to rise just underneath his skin. Was this horrible place, with all these dead souls, truly where Aerith was being kept? She had told him that she had once spent some time here as a child, but he could not picture it. The setting seemed too dead, too inhuman, too dark, and the fact that she had survived this hell at all was a literal miracle. Hopefully, the kind of miracle that could happen more than once.

But as soon as the elevator bars opened, it appeared that destiny – and Hojo – had other plans.

"Aerith!"

Tifa's quick hands on his shirt, pulling him backward, had been the only thing to prevent Zack from darting headfirst into a line of bullets. But the prospect of imminent death was not his most important concern. Aerith was right there, just across the way from the elevator, sitting in a large glass enclosure, her eyes bright and wide. Directly in front of her stood a series of mechanized artillery, the barrels of their guns pointed directly at them, in unequivocal warning.

"Don't come any closer!" Aerith called. "Please, just don't."

And yet, those weapons were not the largest threat in the room. All around them, even more pods of sleeping creatures were scattered, a few standing on the ground, most perched on the walls. They must have numbered another fifty, and the idea that over a hundred people (maybe more, who knows what else had been trapped inside this place) had been taken, tortured, and transformed fully unshackled the panic from inside Zack's mind. There was, however, no time to absorb the notion.

Because above them, like a god, perfectly ensconced in a fortified observation room, was the man who was responsible for it all.

"I was wondering when our guests would get here," Hojo said, his eyes obscured by the glint of his glasses. His voice ran through the intercom, a bit fuzzy, but loud. "You've certainly taken longer than I expected."

Zack could not help himself. Despite Tifa's tugging, he raised his arm and yelled back, "Fuck you, you prick!"

Hojo paid him no mind. Something else had intrigued him instead. The doctor stepped closer to the glass window, his gaze narrowing – but not at the person they were all expecting him to acknowledge.

"Vincent Valentine?" he asked. "Is that you?"

The reaction was instantaneous. Without care for machines currently threatening to shoot them, Vincent responded by pulling out his gun and firing at the window. The bullets merely grazed the glass in front of Hojo's face, bouncing off and slipping to the ground like rain droplets. Even so, as soon as his magazine emptied, Vincent reloaded and tried again, and again. Every shot seemed only to add fuel to the fire, to the desperation. It was only after the fourth round, when Hojo's usual impassiveness gave way to a light and cruel laughter, that Sephiroth stepped forward and took hold of Vincent's arm.

"Stop," the silver-haired man said. There was something swirling in those green eyes, something unnamed. Like an apology. "Please."

Vincent looked at Sephiroth. And that was when Zack – and everyone else – saw it.

The guilt.

(He made a mental note to ask about that later, too).

"Interesting," Hojo noted, sparing a moment to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But no matter. As surprising as it is to see you return, I cannot have you interfering with my work again. The reality is that this has to be the end of the line. For all of you."

Barret glared. "Cocky little bastard, ain't ya?"

Again, Hojo brushed the insult aside. He sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled out his tablet, pressing a few buttons. "No. It is just simple science. Based on my calculations, this next challenge should be more than sufficient. Having the Ancient witness your deaths will be an added bonus. The impact on her psyche would facilitate the next step of my work."

In his old life, Zack would have wondered what type of person could have experimented on another human being, to the point that their very cells would rot. He would not have believed that a person could willingly create monsters from real people, could actually be capable of torturing a child into adulthood. He would not have thought there was someone who talked about ending a life like it was wiping away a scuff on a shoe.

Now, he knew better. And it enraged him.

"Fuck you," he repeated.

Once more, the scientist ignored him. Those beady eyes then drifted to Sephiroth, and if Zack did not know any better, he would have thought that there was a spark of sadness in the look.

"You should not have returned," Hojo said.

Sephiroth returned the gaze. Direct. Unyielding. But Zack knew him well enough to see the tiny tremor in his hands.

"You did not give me much choice."

A pause. Something like a silent agreement passed between them, just like it had at Nibelheim. There was disappointment, regret, and a whole lost childhood. All things that were better left unsaid.

Finally, Hojo broke the silence. "Sentiment," he murmured, with a shake of his head. "Do not say that I did not warn you."

That was as close to mercy as they were going to get.

As soon as the words left Hojo's mouth, he pressed something on his tablet and the floodgates opened. One by one, the pods lining the walls emptied, green liquid slipping down like winding waterfalls. When the makinoids – at first a handful, and then ten more, and then too many to count – slipped out of their containers and opened their eyes, they pointed glowing eyes toward them and started their howling song. It was all Zack could do to keep his knees from buckling from the familiar fear. Behind him, he could hear Barret's curses and Tifa's shaking breaths. To his right, Vincent reloaded his gun. In front of him, Sephiroth summoned Masamune and readied his stance.

There would only be another second before the end would begin. In that moment, Zack looked over to Aerith. She had her palms pressed to the glass. She was crying. She was screaming.

"Zack! " she said. The tears were slipping down her cheeks, off the cliff of her chin. He hated that she had to see this. He hated that this might be the last time he would see her. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!"

His heartbeat was so loud, he could not tell if he spoke the words or merely mouthed them. Either way, Zack knew what he said in reply.

I love you.

He drew his sword.