Chapter 31 – Puppet
At first, everything was dark.
Cloud did not know what he had expected, had not really expected anything at all. At the end, there had only been one thing filling his mind, and it was encapsulated by the wisps of silver hair and the gentle sense of warmth that had started to slip from his fingers.
Sephiroth.
Those green eyes, brilliantly refracting through the tears. That once-smooth baritone, falling over its own sorrow as it pushed out the words: Please, I love you, please. In the moment that came next, Cloud had found that he had only one regret, and it was that they would have no more time. But at the very least, when the darkness took him, he knew that he would have one small comfort: his final thought would be of the man that he loved the most in the world.
Sephiroth.
Sephiroth.
I love you.
Then, suddenly, he woke up.
It was cold and bright. Something was beaming down on him, hot against his flesh. He could not see clearly, everything reduced to shadows and feelings – the tightness around his wrists and ankles, the white fabric draped over his body, the buzzing in his ears. His gaze continued to dart this way and that, above him and below him, latching onto one blurry detail and pulling away quickly to the next. There were the beeping monitors, the tubes puncturing his skin, the hushed murmurs of people in white coats, the line of glinting instruments laid out on the nearby table – though none of the pieces seemed to stick to his mind, none of them seemed to hold. Cloud did not know where he was, nor had he any hope of comprehending what was happening. But one thing, one powerful thought, did manage to burst through the fog, a current pulsing in his blood, a lighthouse signaling the way home.
"Sephiroth…?" he whispered.
Something shifted, but whether it was to his left or right, Cloud could not tell. Regardless, a dark figure emerged, hovering above him. Its expression was obscured by the wire-thin glasses that seemed to shine like mirrored moons in a black night.
"Welcome back, Specimen C," Dr. Hojo said.
As if on instinct, panic brewed in Cloud's chest. The heartbeat on the monitors flew into a frenzy, and the blond's limbs began thrashing against the bindings that kept him strapped to the table. Cloud moved until the chafing wrought blood from his wrists. He screamed until his throat ached. And all the while, Dr. Hojo continued to watch, beady eyes silent and unforgiving.
"Please relax," the scientist continued. From the side table, he picked up a syringe. A shadowy liquid glowed inside the canister, like the green of a deep ocean. "After all, there is much work to be done."
Work? The words would not settle. They did not make sense. The questions flew through as fast as the images, rattling the inside of Cloud's skull. What happened? Where am I? Where was the monster, Jenova? What happened to Nibelheim? Where was Zack and Tifa? And, most important of all:
"Sephiroth – Where is –"
Hojo's lips curled into a frown. He pressed two fingers to the skin of Cloud's upper arm. "You should no longer concern yourself with him," he replied, as he lined up the syringe.
"But –"
"He has left you."
No. That couldn't be true. Sephiroth wouldn't leave him. He wouldn't.
"Sephiroth – Sephiroth –"
This time, the response was pain.
The needle punctured Cloud's skin, and the liquid burned through his muscle and his blood. The blond tried to scream again, to force out the sound, the breath, but nothing came out. Instead, consumed by the confusion and the hurt, his body collapsed and fell still on the table, though his mind continued to beg, to plead, to pray.
No, please. Sephiroth, it hurts. Please, please—
"Sephiroth is not here," Hojo said. He pulled out the needle from the flesh in one long, slow motion, agonizing enough to make Cloud sob. "He will not save you."
Then, before Cloud could even say or think otherwise, the doctor picked up a scalpel and proceeded with the first of the thousand cuts.
At some point, when it became too much to bear, everything became dark again, except this time, the rest no longer brought with it the promise of eternal comfort. Because minutes, hours, days later, Cloud's eyes would inevitably flutter open, and the same, terrible cycle would start anew. The surgical lights would tickle his flesh, the monitors would play their beeping song, and he would see Dr. Hojo standing next to his table, a needle and a knife already at hand.
Welcome back, Specimen C, the doctor would say. And on the days that Cloud could remember, he would reply, That is not my name.
Sometimes, other details would change: the faces of the laboratory assistants whispering about cellular extractions, regeneration and viable cell growth; the shade of green in the syringe that Hojo would prepare; the areas of the pain on Cloud's body – mostly in his chest or in his arm, but sometimes from his back, like a bone threatening to burst through skin. Still, however variable the strokes, there were two pieces of the ugly painting that remained constant. There would always be Hojo, impassive as he dug his scalpel over and over into the flesh of Cloud's blackened wound. And there would always be Sephiroth, haunting his fleeting consciousness, a ghost of invisible silver.
"Sephiroth?"
"He is not here."
"Sephiroth – Sephiroth, please –"
"He will not come for you."
"But —"
"I have told you. He will not save you."
Cloud did not know how much time had passed. He had no way of marking the hours or the days. All he knew was that the only painless moments were the tiny pockets of dreams that he still had of the man he loved. And Cloud dreamed as much as he could, about soft long hair and a smile so gentle and sad and beautiful, about strong hands holding his waist and kisses that blended passion and affection into perfect sweetness. As he drifted between the dark slumber, the warm green, and the cold metal, Cloud clung to these pieces of Sephiroth as tightly as he could, refusing to let them go. Because they were evidence of the truth that he needed to survive, a truth that he believed as irrefutable as the existence of the universe itself.
(I love you.
I'm yours, Cloud. Truly. Yours.)
Yes, it had to be true. Cloud loved Sephiroth and Sephiroth loved him. Hojo was nothing but a liar. Sephiroth would come for him, and Sephiroth would save him. Until then, Cloud would not stop fighting and fighting, with every last piece of strength he still had.
"Call the protocol!"
"What happened?"
"Specimen C tried to escape again!"
Most of the time, Cloud's limbs would be jelly, and his mind would be even less solid. During those attempts, he would only make it to the hallway outside of the exam room before something happened and the darkness captured him again. There had been one instance when the laboratory assistant had been careless, and Cloud had made it down to the large chamber on the lower floor. But that was the farthest he had been able to go. Each time, some combination of mechs and men would stop him. Each time, he would wake up once more to Hojo and his inscrutable sneer. That syringe would burn and that scalpel would tear and Cloud would scream over and over – for mercy, for freedom, for Sephiroth.
But Sephiroth never came.
"Sephiroth –"
"He is not here."
"But –"
Movement. The clinking of glass cannisters. The lights were too hot. The table was too cold. The mako was too green.
"He will not come for you."
"Please, Seph –"
"Enough of this. He will not save you."
Over and over and in and out. Light to dark to light to dark, again. It all seemed so vast and endless, like clutching onto a splintered piece of wood in the middle of the ocean, waiting for the water and the starvation to finally grant peace. Except this did not feel peaceful, and each time Hojo tore Cloud open, he cut past the skin and straight into the soul. That scalpel sliced through the belief and the memories, leaving only the tatters behind. Cloud tried so hard not to let it happen. He had tried so hard to keep hoping, keep dreaming, and keep fighting. But as time went on, the knife drove deeper, the pain became sharper, and the despair weighed heavier. And in the rotten soil watered by his own blood, the poisonous questions easily began to bud.
Was he forgotten? Was he abandoned?
Why was he fighting? Why was he trying?
What was the point if the man he loved would never come to save him?
That was it. A single seed was all that it took.
Finally, one day, when Cloud opened his eyes, it happened.
"Welcome back, Specimen C."
Silence.
"I can see that you've made some significant progress. Tell me, how do you feel?"
How did he feel? His eyes burned hot, like the mako, and his back hurt terribly. Something was protruding from his left shoulder blade, bound between his body and the exam room table. It felt simultaneously soft and bony, though Cloud still had his wrists tied tight, and he could not reach around to grasp at what it was, even if he tried.
Not that he wanted to try, anymore.
"Oh? Is that it? You do not have anything else to say?"
What was there to say? Did he used to say something? Cloud had, hadn't he? Yes, a name. What was it? Was it someone important? Someone who he cared for? Someone who cared for him?
No. That couldn't be true.
And it did not matter, because –
"I understand. You've finally accepted your fate."
– because whoever it was would not be coming for him anyway.
"Good. Now, the real work can begin."
Cloud stopped dreaming after that.
The pressure around his neck hurt, and in more ways than one.
There was a scramble. People were moving, crossing the room, lurching forward. Zack's face was wide with shock and his voice was loud, booming from somewhere to his left. But Sephiroth could not respond it, could not even comprehend exactly what was said. The moment Cloud's fist had tightened, it was like a powerful Stop spell had washed over Sephiroth's body and mind. He found that he could not breathe, nor could he stop the fingernails from digging deep crescent moons into the skin of his throat. There was just something in Cloud's eyes (green, so green, like the mako) that kept him petrified, stilled, even as a dark voice flared through their connection, threatening to burn out his brain within his own skull.
How could you leave me?
How could you do this?
This was all your fault.
"Sephiroth!"
Zack had to make the first move. Quickly, the young man slid across the floor and pulled the blond away, grunting as the tiny body thrashed against his grip. Sephiroth did not see what happened next. He had immediately collapsed onto the cold floor, next to the puddle of mako left by Cloud's body and a heap of black leather that was his jacket, strewn aside. He hardly registered the faint noises of the struggle, of Zack's pleading tones. He also barely noticed when soft hands had turned him back over to face the ceiling, just saw the brown hair and the metal staff aglow with healing magic through the dark spots in his vision. And yet, as if on instinct, Sephiroth's fingers reached up and brushed against his neck, ran along the marks of the tender, bruised flesh. It hurt to the touch, excruciatingly so, and again, in more ways than one.
Because there was no denying it, not anymore. This was no nightmare. This was real. The physical pain was the ultimate proof. Sephiroth had come too late. Sephiroth had failed.
And it seemed that Cloud had come to know that, too.
This was your fault.
You hurt me.
How could you do this to me?
The voice was overwhelming. It sounded so much like the Cloud that he knew and loved and yet felt nothing like him. Even so, Sephiroth could not help but be captivated by the sound of it, echoing inside his mind. It drowned out nearly everything else, made it hard to focus, concentrate, see, hear, what was happening around him.
There was the click of a gun, foggy and faint.
"What the fuck? Who is this kid?"
A tear-stricken voice, young, female, pleading. "No, Barret! Please don't shoot!"
Thud. Thud. Thud. The drumbeat of punches and blows, relentless and fast, like a frantic animal.
"Shit, Cloud, buddy, snap out of it. Stop!"
"Zack! Watch out!"
Shifting, clamor, and then a crash. The air gushed forward, pushed by the beating of a beautiful, white wing. Feathers were floating, like the soft prelude to a menacing blizzard, and suddenly, Zack went flying through the air, his back colliding against the glass of the open mako tank in the center of the room. His Buster Sword had fallen, rattling on the floor right beside Cloud's feet, and the blond stooped down to pick it up with a single hand.
Then, Cloud turned around, slit green eyes locking back onto his original target.
"Oh no," Aerith gasped.
At that moment, Sephiroth finally remembered how to breathe.
When the air hit his lungs, tugging his body upright, the clarity settled. Sephiroth could see it all now: Cloud in his hospital gown, standing before him, that powerful, heavy sword weighing like nothing in his small grip; Zack crumpled up on the floor by the mako tank, wincing in pain; Aerith rising to her feet, readying her staff; Tifa fearfully crying out, standing between the others and the chaos; Barret, Vincent, and Red frozen in place, uncertain of what to do, where to go, how to help. The room, with its machines and exam tables and surgical lights, felt larger than it had any right to be, like an oddly designed set of a tragic play. There was the pitiful audience, locked to their seats by the horror. There was the broken friend, lost and defeated. There was the poor heroine, praying for a different finale. And here were the contenders, the two men with matching sets of eyes, reunited for this very moment.
As if this was destiny.
(A fire in a village. The blond versus the silver. That sword, straight through the body. The death of a monster.)
As if this was how it was always meant to be.
("Did you find me to kill you?")
No, Sephiroth thought, begged. He pushed against his knees, stood up, ignored the trembling of his limbs. Cloud, he said, trying to traverse against the tide of their connection. Cloud, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm here for you. Please, I –
It was like lightning through water, the way that Cloud moved. There was a single second to spare, and in that blink of time, Sephiroth had just managed to push Aerith out of harm's way and summon Masamune to block the blow. The contact of the blond's attack against his nodachi rang straight through the steel and down his arms. But before Sephiroth's muscles could recover from the strain, the next strike came – followed by another, and yet another, a continuous beat marked by each meeting of the blades, by each breath of that one wing, seemingly marching them straight to the bloody end.
Sephiroth ducked, he parried, and he tried once more. Cloud, stop!
A jab, followed by a slice. Red bloomed on the side of Sephiroth's shirt. He swallowed the pain down as deep as he could.
Cloud, please, can you hear me?
Still, no response, other than another blow, another wound to an already broken heart.
No, Cloud! Cloud!
Fast, almost too fast. The only reason Sephiroth kept up was his familiarity with the subtleties in Cloud's fighting style, the things that he had come to know from their old spars: the tendency for fast and hard motions, the distinctive footwork, the timing of the jumps. But it was difficult to pay attention to those details when it took every ounce of Sephiroth's concentration to not stare into those eyes, to not get lost in the darkness brewing behind the irises. Because those eyes were not the brilliant blue of the sky on a perfect morning. They did not have the spark that had made Sephiroth fall instantly in love in his dreams. No, instead, they looked like someone else's eyes. The eyes of someone who had been abandoned over and over, who had razed a continent during a war, who had burned down a village, and who was destined to bring about the end of the entire world.
They were Sephiroth's own eyes, staring back at him, shining like a mirror into the life that he had been trying to escape from. Except now, that life had caught up with him, in the worst possible way.
No, Cloud, please! Please, answer me!
Nothing but static, but hollowness. Sephiroth could not tell if Cloud was still in there, could not feel the old warmth through their frayed connection, could not hear that voice like sweet sugar in the back of his mind. Perhaps that was because his Cloud could no longer speak. Perhaps his Cloud had fallen, destroyed by the pain of Hojo's torture.
Perhaps in trying to save Sephiroth from his fate in Nibelheim, Cloud had made the ultimate sacrifice: forgoing his destiny as a hero and taking the villain's place.
And if that were the case, then that left Sephiroth with only one other role to play – and only one other option.
Another strike, this time to his left. By now, Sephiroth had gotten used to some of the patterns. Next, Cloud would go right. So, in response, the silver-haired man switched his grip and watched as the blade came, the Buster Sword screeching as it slid against the edge of Masamune. When the broadsword reached the hilt, when Cloud stepped in closer to use the proximity as leverage to disarm, that was when Sephiroth made his move.
He simply let go of his sword.
"Sephiroth!"
Masamune tumbled from his grasp, chittering against the tile floor, somehow loud enough to drown out Zack's cry. In the edges of his vision, Sephiroth could see others – Tifa rushing forward, Vincent drawing his pistol, Barret cursing, Red firing up a spell. The only person who remained still was Aerith, who had closed her eyes, in sorrow, in regret, and in silent prayer.
Sephiroth readied himself to do the same. But instead of turning to some goddess, he reached out the one thing that he had loved enough to worship. He pulled on the thread to Cloud, and spoke the last truth, his truth, the only truth that mattered.
Cloud, I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
I love you.
Then, he closed his eyes and waited, for the end he had once dreamed about to come.
Cloud was dreaming.
Somehow, he was dreaming.
The setting was familiar, though he could not quite place why. He was standing in a square room, with strings of small lights hanging from the rafters. Shelves of firewood lined the far walls, a dusty cot was placed in the back, and a desk covered with papers and books was pushed off to the left corner. But for some reason, Cloud felt like he did not even need to see the details to be able to navigate the space, could do so even with his eyes closed. An itch brewed underneath his skin, whispering to him that he had been here before. It said that he had spent hours upon hours here, wrapped in the blankets, reading the books, and basking in the warmth of the small standing fire pit.
Only that was impossible, right? Cloud could not have been here before. He had no memories, no recollections to explain why this place felt so well-loved and so safe. Any thoughts that suggested otherwise seemed to slip away from him, like water falling through his fingertips.
And yet, there was a part of him that wondered if maybe, just maybe, the feeling was true. If so, perhaps there was something in the room, something in the dream, that could tell him, that could help him.
Slowly, Cloud turned. He looked around, searched for anything, despite the fact that he was uncertain of what to focus on. On the desk, the photographs and drawings were all empty, faces blurred into smears of white and grey. The ink of the books had bled black through the pages, and all of the letters were written an indecipherable script that blurred right off the paper. The shelves held no secrets, only firewood, and the cot was bare save for some quilted blankets, wrinkled, as if someone had just slept on them recently. There was nothing hanging on the walls, nothing discernable through the windows or the small crack in the door. Nothing to tell him where he was, or what he had possibly been doing here. No light to fight through the fog of lost memory.
He sighed. Some dream this was. Why was he here? And what was his mind trying to tell him now? Cloud could not recall the last time he had even dreamed, the last time he had experienced the sensations, the imagery. His existence was empty and dark, and it stayed that way from day to night, from waking to slumber. At some point, it had become easier to curl into the shade, to be small and alone, to sever his mind from his body and let something else, something cold and unfeeling, spread its wing and take control. At some point, it had become easier to forget that there was a time when he had wished to be something other than a puppet to his pain, a time when things were different – because it hurt too much to remember.
Wait.
Remember?
Remember what?
There was something to remember, wasn't there?
His breath caught. And it was then, that Cloud saw it. At the foot of the cot, tossed aside, like a gently used artifact, was a black leather jacket. One that belonged to someone tall and strong. Someone important. Someone familiar.
Someone who was calling to him now.
Cloud, can you hear us?
Wake up.
Wake up, please.
The memories came tumbling, like ghosts wrapping around his frame. Cloud could feel it all in a single instant: the gentle hands, with fingers stroking lines over his jaw, down his chest, the trail of kisses that followed. The person who had owned this jacket had loved him here, had tied their bodies and their souls together, for that night and for the rest of eternity. He could picture it so clearly, sense the hum in his bones and in his chest. Back then, it had almost seemed too much. How could his heart possibly hold this much love, and all for this one person? How could he find the space to accept the love that was then pouring into him in return? Now, just as it had before, a pressure had begun to build, so strong in his core, that there was only one thing that Cloud could do – and it was to call back out to the man that he knew his heart and his body and his soul belonged to.
Sephiroth!
In that instant, everything became alight. Fireworks burst forth from all corners. The walls of the room collapsed, and all the details – the desk, the firewood, the cot, the jacket – faded, until the only thing left was a sea of stars. For miles and miles, that was all Cloud could see: starlight and darkness, married on a perfect canvas. There was now just an empty plain of rock at his feet, and a beautiful nebula of pinks and purples and blues and reds above, leaving Cloud with the feeling that he was standing at the very edge of creation itself. But somehow, even in this vast and lost space, he knew he was not alone. Because there was a voice, calling his name over and over, reaching out to him, and tugging him close.
Cloud, I'm so sorry. I'm here for you.
Cloud, please, can you hear me?
Cloud, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
It was a lightning strike through the spine. Cloud knew that voice. He knew it. Could it be?
And, like a murmur spoken, a breath breezing across the back of his ear:
I love you.
Cloud sobbed aloud. Yes, it was. It really was.
Sephiroth, he called.
At first, Cloud could hardly believe it, and yet he knew the truth in his bones, with absolute certainty. Sephiroth was here! The silver-haired man, his first love, was right here, present through the invisible strings that bound them so tightly together. Sephiroth had come for him. Sephiroth had not left him. Sephiroth still loved him. There was no force in the universe that could change that fact, no scalpel sharp enough to sever this connection between them. Even after all this time, even in the dreamless night, even in this hollow galaxy, that thread was still there, strong enough to show Cloud the way back home.
His heart swelled. There was only one thing left to do, and there would be no other choice that Cloud would ever make that would feel as right as this one. He took hold of the string and ran.
He ran as fast as he could. And he did not stop, not until he flew through the stars, not until he was out of the shadows, not until he was finally free.
He could only hope that he was not too late.
Sephiroth, I'm here!
I'm coming!
I love you, too.
Sephiroth was not sure what he had expected. Perhaps blackness. Perhaps nothing at all. He at least assumed that there would be pain when the blade sliced through his body.
But what collided into his chest and brought him falling to the floor was not sharp like a sword.
Instead, it was warm, like the arms of a loving embrace.
He dared to open his eyes.
"Cloud?"
A stir, quiet, soft. Then, the head that was burrowed against him shifted and looked up.
The eyes were as blue as the summer sky.
"Sephiroth," Cloud said back.
Something like a breath curled out of Sephiroth right then, a sound caught between shock and joy, and his heart jolted in his chest as if reset by lightning. Was this real? Was this true? The evidence was right there, in the tenderness of the crystalline blue, in the way that Cloud reached forward to curl his fingers around wayward strands of silver hair. Oh, this was real, this was true. Cloud had returned. Cloud had come back to him. And while there were things that were different, notes that struck thousands of questions and concerns (the boniness of Cloud's arms, the pallor of his skin, the tiny specks of green in the eyes, the remains of the now-dissipated wing strewn around them in the form of snow-like feathers), right now, none of that seemed to matter. Not when Cloud was here, smiling at him softly, and not when Sephiroth was finally, blessedly, holding the love of his life once more.
"Oh, Seph," whispered Cloud, and that voice, how much had Sephiroth missed hearing it? In fact, he was so caught up in the tones that he nearly missed the words that came next:
"Wait. Did you – did you cut your hair?"
A beat.
Then, from a few feet away, Sephiroth could hear Zack stifling a fit of laughter. He would have found it in him to be irritated – seriously, did everyone have some sort of bizarre preoccupation with his hair? – or even bemused, but at the moment, he genuinely could not bring himself to even care. All that was left in his mind was Cloud. The self-restraint that would have normally stopped him vanished, and his hands moved, pulling Cloud flush against him – enough so that a simple dip of the neck would allow Sephiroth to recapture those lips, at last.
It was short, chaste, and by far the very best kiss they had ever shared.
Cloud's eyelashes ghosted like butterflies against his cheek. "Seph," the blond said, pulling away to nuzzle at his cheek. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I–"
"I should be the one to apologize. I should have come sooner."
"No, I should have believed in you. I should have been stronger. You didn't know."
"That does not matter. I still–"
"No, Sephiroth, listen–"
"Oh, will you two shut up?" interjected Zack, rolling his eyes. "Hasn't even been a minute and you two are already sucking face."
Both men finally tore their gazes away from each other long enough to look up. It appeared that at some point, Zack had gotten up from the floor and wandered closer. The dark-haired man was now standing just a few steps away, with his hands thrown upward in a pose of mock exasperation – though the grin stretching his lips easily gave him away. Beside him, Aerith was giggling and Tifa was laughing, her fingers wiping away the last traces of tears from her face. The others were at the farther end of the room, and though less familiar with the nuances, the circumstances, all of them, even Vincent, exuded some form of amusement in their expressions.
Immediately, Cloud blushed. The blond scrambled to get up, struggling with the weakness in his knees and tugging at the hem of his hospital gown in embarrassment. "Shit, Zack, I'm sorry. We just, I just –"
Zack did not give him a chance to finish. He threw his arms around Cloud, nearly toppling the blond over, squeezing those shoulders for good measure. "Stop apologizing," he whispered. There was a subtle crack in his voice. "Besides, you'll be lucky now if we let you out of our sight, ever again."
Muffled by the embrace, Cloud managed a huff in reply.
Tifa was next, followed by Aerith. Their hugs were just as strong and as unwavering as Zack's, and the three of them spoke amongst themselves for a few seconds in hushed, gentle voices. Afterwards, the former whispered something into Cloud's ear, and then shifted away, gesturing to the rest of the group.
"So, you probably are wondering who everyone is," started Tifa.
Cloud ducked his head. "Yeah."
While Tifa and Aerith made the quick introductions (this is Barret, and he's the leader of Avalanche; this is Vincent, and he does not talk much; this is Red, and he's…well, we haven't quite figured that out yet), Zack stooped down, offered his hand, and pulled Sephiroth up off the ground. The young man also returned the forgotten leather jacket, which Sephiroth took wordlessly in reply. After all, there really was nothing more to say, and nothing that could be said, about the relief, the release, that they knew they both shared. It was all there, in Sephiroth's softened eyes, in the smooth plains of Zack's face, now the brightest it had been for years.
That did not stop Zack from pointing out the obvious. "You're smiling," he said.
Sephiroth looked at him. "So are you."
The grin stretched a little bit wider. "Touché."
A peal of laughter turned the two's attention back toward the others, who were exchanging various levels of delight (except for Vincent, though there was something like a curious smile playing with that stoic mouth) at Cloud's surprise over Red actually speaking aloud (Wait, you can talk?!). Watching the scene, hearing the joy, Sephiroth could not help but pause and consider the winding path that had led him here. Long ago, when he had lost his two closest friends in the world, he could not imagine ever opening himself up to love. Then, when he had also lost Cloud, he thought he would never again feel true warmth in his heart for other people. But now, both those blessings had been returned to him, in the form of this odd collection of individuals, somehow still alive despite every dark trial that had been thrown their way this night.
But the mission was not yet complete. They had yet to escape the laboratories, and there was no doubt that by now, Shinra would be ready for them. And even if they did manage to make it out of here alive, Sephiroth still had to finish the work that he had started. He was supposed to go to Junon, to chase down WEAPON, to find a way to eliminate the remnants of Jenova's influence. And then, maybe then, he would be able to find some semblance of peace.
First things first, however. It was time to move. Sephiroth started by approaching the rest of the team and placing his jacket around Cloud's shoulders. A small layer of protection for what was next.
"Time to go?" asked Aerith, evidently taking the hint.
"Yes," Sephiroth replied. He was about to add something else, explain that they should retrace their steps, when, for the umpteenth time that evening, an old voice interrupted, fizzling through the intercoms in the room.
"What a lovely reunion this has been."
Hojo. Goddamn Hojo. All heads turned to look for the source, once more. This time, however, the doctor was not physically present, his face instead illuminating the screen affixed to the far wall's computer terminal, though those eyes were still obscured by those ever-present, wire-thin frames.
"This bastard, again?" exclaimed Zack.
Dr. Hojo ignored the insult. He stared ahead, and what felt like straight at Sephiroth, and somehow, the silver-haired man felt that gaze like a sword through his gut.
"I must admit now that I was wrong," the scientist continued, with a slight dip of his head – though Sephiroth knew better than to read the motion as anything close to an apology. "Truthfully, after Nibelheim, I did not expect much. But this discovery, this shifting of the winds, well, it changes everything."
Barret vocalized it first. "What the hell is this guy talking about?"
Vincent was even less verbose. He simply pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the computer.
A flash of crimson stepped forward. "Don't shoot," warned Red. His voice was calm, but the flame at the end of his tail sparked in a telltale sign of anger. He explained, "This laboratory is under Hojo's control. It will be difficult to escape without his consent."
"The specimen is correct."
Tifa curled her fists, tight. "Then what do you want?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at the screen. "What do you want to let us out of here?"
Based on all his experience, on all his memories, Sephiroth had expected Hojo to respond in one of two ways. The first option was silence – for what scientist bothered to explain himself to specimens he considered below his intellect? The second was cruelty, perhaps in the form of more monsters to fight, though regardless of the method, there was a strong possibility that the evening would end with their blood on the walls.
What he did not expect was what actually happened next.
Because then, Hojo smiled.
"I do not want anything," he said. "In fact, you are all free to go."
What?
Aerith responded with a fury. "Bullshit," she cursed, almost lunging herself at the computer. Zack's arms around her waist were the only thing holding her back. "You don't let people out of here alive. You just don't."
The doctor sighed. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, before tucking his hands casually behind his back. "My girl," Hojo stated, as if he were a tired professor delivering a lecture, "I will admit that your mother was a regrettable circumstance, caused in large part by those buffoons in the Shinra army. However, I believe that I have addressed this issue, granted that you have enough strength to see it through."
"What the fuck are you–"
But that was all Aerith managed to get out, before the answer came.
A growl, loud enough to shake the room, resounded through the air. And it did not stop, at least not with one. More and more came, a symphony of terrors, accompanied by the sounds of metal tearing and walls crunching. Some of it felt close, but most seemed far away and faint, like the lights of a sleepy town on a distant shore. Quickly, Sephiroth strained his ear to listen, to discern what was happening, and he could see Cloud and Zack and Vincent doing the same. After a moment, he finally heard the rest of the proof, caught the screaming and the gunshots and the howling. They sounded like they came from both the floors below and the floors above. But that did not make sense, not unless –
It clicked. In one horrifying moment, it clicked. Why Hojo did not think the Shinra army was going to pose an issue to them.
The monsters are out.
They are out in the Tower.
He let them all out.
"No," Sephiroth breathed, turning to face the computer. He tried to scan the holograph of Hojo's face for a sign, for an explanation, for something, as he used to do as child. Unfortunately, just as it had often been back then, there was no understanding to be wrought, not from the doctor's fixed, impassive expression. "How could you?"
Hojo continued to stare, straight ahead. "I am doing what I have always done," he said, and there was no doubt in his voice. "I am doing what is necessary."
Sephiroth's mind whirred. This just made no sense at all. Hojo had tried to kill them all mere hours earlier. Something must have happened to change his mind. There was Cloud, of course, and everything that had transpired with the blond, but what exactly in that terrible chaos had compelled the scientist to unleash his horde upon the other lives in the Tower, to betray the company that he had spent his entire life working for? He could not fathom it, he could not understand. There had to be something that Sephiroth was missing, a larger piece of the puzzle, a key.
However, there was no time to figure it out, not right now. Another growl interrupted, one which felt much closer.
"Was that a monster?" Cloud asked.
Vincent broke his perpetual silence. "No. Not one. Monsters."
Sephiroth did not need the connection to know what Cloud was thinking. That last day at Nibelheim, the memories of the makinoids and of Jenova – all of it fresh scars forever borne on their souls. He reached down and clasped at Cloud's hand, and when the blond glanced up at him, he affirmed his promise. I'll protect you.
Aloud to the group, Sephiroth added, "We need to go."
"Wait."
For a moment, he thought about taking a page from Vincent's book and unleashing all the frustration and anger in the form of a fire blast through that computer. But because Hojo had raised him with too much discipline, Sephiroth did not. Instead, he turned, glanced at the man from over his shoulder, observed the way that the static of the screen seemed to lend the scientist a ghostly, demonic glow. Once again, that gaze felt like sharpest of arrows, watching, aiming, piercing, destroying. It had hurt living underneath that stare for so many years, and as much as Sephiroth hated to admit it, it still hurt now, like a wound that refused to heal.
"What?" Sephiroth asked.
Hojo looked at him, one more time. He said: "Remember what you were born to do." Then, the computer went dark.
There was nothing else left to be done. The team gathered their things and moved to the door. As they stepped out of the chamber, they could see the evidence of the destruction that would await them: a hallway torn to shreds; scraps of metal hanging from the walls; claw marks rising large from all angles; heavy footprints carving dents onto the floor. Sephiroth knew enough about Shinra, enough about Hojo, and enough about death, to follow the story these signs foretold. After all, at this time of night, there were almost certainly still plenty of employees wandering about, burning their midnight candles, not to mention the many tourists probably lounging on the visitor floors. Even if the Shinra army mobilized against the threat and executed an evacuation on such short notice, the body count was going to be significant. Hojo was right – under these orchestrated circumstances, Shinra would likely be too preoccupied to seriously hinder their escape.
If only the price of freedom was not so steep.
"Oh, fuck," Cloud said.
Zack also let out a breath. "Why would Hojo do this? Why would he let these monsters go free?"
It was an impossible question to answer. And yet, Sephiroth was beginning to understand. There really was one logical reason, and it was the very star that had stood at the center of everything, just as it had thousands of years ago. He could feel it, perhaps had felt it all along, from the very moment he had seen Cloud floating in that tank of mako, his wing unfurled like a hand waving hello. But Sephiroth had not wanted to believe it, even when he had heard the voice in his head – a voice that he had assumed was Cloud's. Now, however, the truth was getting even more difficult to deny. No longer distracted by the rush of trying to save the blond, the familiar sensation was roaring to the forefront, tingling underneath his skin. It was electric enough that when Sephiroth reached out to stroke the outline of a gash on the wall with his fingertips, the memory flashed readily in his mind, as if he had been the very creature to slash through the metal, to feel the steel give way underneath his strength.
But that was not the only image he could see.
Green tendrils snaking out from a dying Planet. A world coated with fire. A giant Meteor suspended in the sky like the fist of a goddess, ready to smite the world.
And that sickly sweet voice, one he had hoped never to hear again, loud and clear in his head:
This is what you were born to do.
No. This could not be. She had drowned. She had burned. Cloud had suffered a terrible fate to ensure the outcome. There should have been nothing left of her, save for what lived inside Sephiroth, and perhaps now inside –
Oh. Oh, no.
Sephiroth looked at Cloud. Swaddled inside the leather jacket, the blond appeared so human and so small. But it was only a few minutes earlier that a wing of pure white had been jutting outward from that back and that those wonderful blue eyes had been painted completely green. Just like mako. Just like Sephiroth's own. Just like –
The name, the reason, the realization, slipped out of his lips.
"Jenova."
Yes, my son.
I have returned. I have come back.
For you.
Sephiroth almost fell to his knees.
"She's – she's here."