Happy start of the week! I hope you all had a good weekend :)
Now, before we begin:
Trigger Warning - Hojo, The Lab, Experimentation, and all the dark/heavy emotions that come with that. Not kidding. If you're here then I'm assuming you've read past lab POVs, so you may have some idea of what to expect. I've provided a summary at the ending author's notes so you don't have to read it if you would be uncomfortable doing so, and to further warn you, the lab sections is the last POV (so when you hit the POV in italics, you'll know you're close).
Take good care of yourselves 🌸
As always, thank you to silver-doe287 for beta'ing this chapter 💙
Enjoy 😊
Cloud felt better with a weapon in his hand. The feeling of cold steel biting against his palm ignited something with him, sparked a blaze so strong that for a moment he could forget who he was, where he had come from, and what had happened along the way. Strangely enough, he almost felt like himself again, which was a thought so foreign that it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. As it was, he only stumbled a bit before he recovered and continued his run back to Sector Seven. Dust pillowed his footsteps. An acrid scent burnt his throat with every breath. His chest felt like it was compressing in on itself, like someone had shoved a Gravity materia into his lungs and then ignited it, yet he somehow didn't mind. All of his senses thrummed in unison: fire licked his nerves, sparked across his skin, sent his pulse skipping. His heart beat heavily in his chest, wild and frantic and alive.
Ah. Realization flickered across him like white lightning, hot and cold all at once. That's it.
I'm alive.
It was as if he had suddenly woken up from a long dream, and now he was left sputtering and blinking at an unfamiliar, vivid world. Foul slum air singed his throat and clawed at his lungs, yet at the same time it somehow tasted sweet. I'm alive, he thought again. Despite everything that had happened — despite Sephiroth's rage, his hometown's destruction, the following experiments, his mako poisoning — he was still here in the world, with breath in his lungs and with a sword in his hand, out to make some sort of difference.
And that was all thanks to Zack.
I hope you can forgive him, Aerith had told him earlier that morning. But as far as Cloud was concerned, there was nothing to forgive. If anything, Cloud felt like he was the one who needed to beg for forgiveness, that he was the one who needed to apologize.
I'm sorry for being so useless, he wanted to say.
I'm sorry for worrying you.
I'm sorry for making you take care of me.
I'm sorry for being a burden while you fought to keep us alive.
But thank you, he would then add, thank you for everything. I'll make it up to you. I'll make sure that all of the pain was all worth it. His eyes stung with heat, and he blamed it on the fumes. I swear I will.
In the distance, the tin roofs of Sector Seven glinted beneath the artificial sun. His footsteps sped up, and the dull black leather of his boots clouded with dust. Both despair and relief warred in his lungs, a clashing of glass and metal and birdsong. He was almost there. Just a little bit further now, and when he got there, he'd climb his way up Sector Seven's support column and save the world.
Or at least, so he hoped, but doubt was a ravenous thing and he had been starving for a long, long time. He couldn't help but wonder: what if he failed? What if he couldn't make any difference at all? What if this was Nibelheim all over again, and no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't be able to change a thing?
— But the answer came immediately. If he failed, then he'd just get up and try again. He was alive after all, wasn't he? Wasn't he breathing right now? Wasn't he holding a sword, preparing to fight, preparing to win?
Thanks to Zack, he reminded himself again, and that was the second, more fundamental reason why he needed to believe in himself. The life that Zack had saved needed to be worth something. It had to be. Cloud wouldn't settle for anything less, not anymore, so if he failed then he would keep trying. He would get up, over and over and over again, no matter how many times it took or how bad it hurt, because he was alive. He was breathing.
He could do this.
Cloud hurried through the Sector Seven slums, sweat beading on his brow and palm clammy against the gunsword's hilt. He was vaguely aware that there were less people on the road than there had been earlier in the morning, and the few he did see were carrying large packs and trudged — slowly, regretfully, clearly hating every step — towards Sector Five.
They're evacuating, he realized, and the thought sent hope trilling within him. Tifa did her job. His elation quickly faded however, because that made him recall that he was admittedly not doing is job. Zack had specifically told him that he needed to stay with Aerith and stay safe, but… well, obviously he wasn't doing that anymore. Aerith had been right earlier: He was an adult, and he could make his own decisions. He'd just have to apologize to Zack later.
The thought lifted the corner of his lips, though there wasn't any humor in the small gesture. I'm going to have to do a lot of apologizing, he knew.
Soon he had approached a warded-off area, one that was nestled deep in the Sector Seven slums. It was quiet here. It was also considerably darker. The artificial light didn't quite reach this small corner of the slum city, so his shadow spread long and black against the dry ground as he stepped up to a thick chain-link fence. Behind it was the support column. If he tilted his head back and squinted, he still couldn't see the top.
He hardly noticed though, because something else snagged his attention first: the front gate was already open. Its rusty hinges squealed with every stale breeze, a brittle ballad to a broken world, and he pursed his lips as he pushed it further open. He was holding his gunsword so tightly that he could feel his pulse drumming in his palm, a staccato rhythm that urged him onward.
It was too quiet. The small hairs on the back of his neck lifted as he took a step forward, his head on a swivel as he slowly approached the metal staircase. Yet… nothing happened. The world remained still, with only the occasional stray breeze disturbing the quiet, and it was admittedly a bit underwhelming. He had been expecting Shinra infantrymen with turret guns on standby, or maybe even a set of drones patrolling the stairway, but not complete abandonment.
But this makes sense, Cloud told himself as he flicked his eyes upward. If Shinra had suddenly begun to dispatching guard units around Sector Seven's support pillar, then that would have alerted the town that something was wrong. Therefore, Shinra likely sent out only a small team — maybe three or four at the most, with support drones on the side — to keep the operation covert. That way, Shinra could stay under the radar, and the people of the slums would remain none-the-wiser to their imminent destruction.
Except the slum-dwellers hadn't, had they? Avalanche had found out, and now him, Zack, Aerith, Tifa, and the rest of Barret's team were all going to do something about it.
The thought struck a deep chord within him, a low throb that twisted in his gut, and it took him a moment to realize that this uncomfortable feeling had a name: nostalgia. In his mind, it hadn't been that long ago when he was similarly trying to protect a town. It was familiar — too familiar, and for a moment he could smell the smoke as his home burned, could taste the burning bodies on his tongue, could feel the ash fall against his skin as gently as snowflakes. The vision had him staggering into the steps but then it was gone, just as quickly as it had arrived, and he was left leaning against the guardrail one hand pressed flat against his temple.
He could hear songbirds shrieking in his mind, a tangle of melodies that had his ears ringing. I'm okay, he immediately told himself. Eventually the frantic song faded, and he felt well enough to drop his hand — he didn't even remember raising it in the first place, which had him biting his lower lip. A relapse, he knew immediately.
This wasn't the first time this had happened, and he recalled enough from Zack taking care of him that he immediately knew what to do. He fumbled for one of the potions in his cargo pants pocket and found it quickly, a glass vial that cheerfully clinked against his fingernails. The green liquid sloshed within its confines as he undid the cork and took a greedy drink, grimacing all the while.
It tasted rancid, like a bad memory in the night, but he choked it down anyway. It did the trick. His mind immediately cleared, and he sighed his relief before resealing it — he still had one and a half bottles, thank the gods — and began climbing up the infinite number of steps.
No mistakes, he told himself as his boots clanged against the dull metal. No more relapses. The wind tugged and pulled at his dark clothes, and he clenched his jaw and determinedly did not look down. The moment things feel… fuzzy… I'll take the rest of the potion.
It seemed like a good plan, and the fact that he even had a plan at all made the ground feel a little more solid somehow. The staircase didn't seem to groan beneath his weight as much anymore, but his confidence took a second hit when his thighs began to burn from the climb. Mako-enhanced or not, pseudo-SOLDIER or not, his post-coma body still wasn't accustomed to so much activity shoved into so few days. But he ignored it. Yes, it hurt now, but it would hurt far worse if he didn't get to the top in time. The pain now would be nothing compared to the pain he would feel knowing that he had let everyone down… Again.
So he continued to climb.
He climbed until the Sector Seven's tin roofs were little more than fingernail-sized scales, and and the town's wide roads were little more than brown cracks spiderwebbing through the cluttered town. He could see the other sectors as well, and it was only now that he was high up did he realize that each of the slum cities had their own distinct look. Sector Eight appeared to be more ruddy in color, while Sector Six was far more densely packed and colorful than the other two. If he lifted his gaze even higher, up above Midgar's encompassing wall, he could see a burnt landscape stretching as far as he could see. Midgar's wastes truly were a wasteland. Shadows fell down its cracked, jagged canyons, and its packed red earth wavered beneath the midday heat. The sky, unobstructed by the upper plates, was an impossible shade of blue despite it all.
The sight had him blinking. He suddenly wasn't sure if he had seen such a pure blue before; certainly some sort of memory bubbled up within him, a mirage of sorts dancing beneath a hot summer day, but it faded quickly and slipped from mind. If he had seen such a rich indigo shade, he no longer remembered it.
A lump formed in Cloud's throat, though he didn't know why. Something cried out within him at the sight of that endless, indifferent sky, a mournful keening that quickened his heart rate and had his free hand clenching the fabric over his heart. Grief filled his lungs. He choked on it. He felt like he was drowning beneath the weight of it all.
There's something wrong with me, he thought then, his hand gripping the guard railing, but it didn't come as a sudden realization. It felt more like a remembrance, like yes, of course there's something wrong, there always has been. The thought dulled something within him. It cooled the fire that had been blazing just moments ago. Yes, he was alive, but what of it? What did it matter? His life was so small compared to the rest of the world; what could he do that hadn't been done already?
As if summoned, Tifa's past statement suddenly bubbled to the forefront of his mind: I don't care that you never made it to SOLDIER, she had told him. I don't care that your name was never in a newspaper, or that you never became famous, or any of that stuff. What I care about is that you're alive, and that you're okay. That's enough. That's more than enough.
With her voicecame the memory of how she had tied her hair back with a hair tie, of her smile as she looked back at him, of the way her cheeks flushed with color despite the seriousness in her expression. Then the image faded as her voice trailed off, and Cloud found himself blinking aimlessly into empty space.
That's right, he thought numbly. Of course, how could he have forgotten? The only one who cares about the other stuff, he thought as he relaxed his grip against the guardrail, is me. Suddenly the stairs didn't feel quite so tall, his muscles didn't burn as much, and his mind didn't feel quite as hazy as before. The sound of songbirds began to fade as the potion continued to warm him, soothe him, steady him. He inhaled, and the air tasted cleaner than it had tasted before. He felt lighter than he had been before. I'm okay.
I'm okay, he repeated and then he was turning, running up the steps, taking them two at a time. No more distractions. No more getting stuck in his thoughts. I'm alive. His two potions, one half full, felt heavy in his pockets. I can do this. I will do this.
Above him, security cameras glinted beneath the artificial sun.
But the cameras went unnoticed. In Cloud's mind, the only thing that mattered was getting to the top. His entire focus was narrowed on this moment, this fracture in time: he was hyper-aware of the weight of the gunsword in his hands, how heavy it was with all the blood that had yet to spill, because blood would be spilled. It was an inevitability. Too many lives weighed down the other side for it to be avoided. His mind snagged on that small fact, considered it for a moment, but he shoved it to the side along with all of his other doubts, fears, and insecurities. He would deal with all of that later. Later. Not now.
He had a job to do.
As Cloud climbed he began to hear sounds of battle: a spattering of bullets, the whir of machinery, the harsh groan of metal buckling beneath its own weight. It was enough to send adrenaline hissing through his system, and the world shifted into shades of green. When he finally stumbled across his first enemy, a flying patrol drone called a Slug-ray, Cloud was almost relieved. Finally, a distraction. He was tired of being stuck in his own head.
The Slug-ray paused its patrol just long enough to turn towards him, its movements shaky and erratic, before the small turret mounted beneath its main body clicked into place and began to aim. But it was slow, far too slow, because Cloud had leveled his gunsword and fired. The bullet tore through the drone's motion detector and sent the small robot reeling backward, but it had no time to recover because Cloud had already thrown himself forward, blade bent behind him, and in the span of a single breath his sword had impaled the drone. He slammed it against the stairwell's supporting beams, effectively pinning it in place.
Electricity crackled around the drone's gaping wound. Free wires sparked in the open air. The Slug-ray's red indicator light flickered once, then twice… and then went dead. Cloud made a face as oil spilled down his sword's edge, a darker version of blood, and he ripped the blade free. Without anything left to support it, the drone free-fell through open air and to the empty dirt lot below.
But Cloud didn't stop to watch its form grow smaller as it fell. He did not wait to see it slam against the distant ground. He did not pause long enough to appreciate the dust cloud that formed in its wake. He only tore his gaze back to the staircase and continuing running up the stairs, one level at a time, slowing down only to take out the occasional Slug-ray that still patrolled their sections.
As he climbed, he began noticing more signs of battle: a dented guardrail, a crushed drone sparking in a forgotten corner, oil slick dripping down the stairs, a spattering of scarlet blood drying beneath the early afternoon heat.
The bloodstain in particular had Cloud frowning. He knew that Zack had left to grab Barret, Wedge, Jessie, and Biggs to defend the control panel, and he could only assume that they had gotten there before him, but… Did they get hurt? He spun around another flight of rickety metal stairs, a move which sent him face-to-face with another Slug-ray. He dispatched it easily, and its inky blood spilled out of its cleanly split hull and splashed against his jeans as he continued running. But from what? The drones? The thought had his mood souring. No, that can't be right. Zack was far too strong to get hurt by something so weak, and he knew from experience that Barret was no pushover. Biggs also seemed to have combat experience, which left… Jessie or Wedge? He considered this as he climbed another level. The sounds of combat above grew louder with every step, and the harsh clanging of metal clashing against metal sent his heart racing. He must only be a couple floors beneath the front lines now.
The thought bolstered him, and he quickened his pace. His enhanced hearing was able to pick up smaller details of the fighting above; the distinct crunch of metal giving way beneath a fist, the sharp metallic echo of a foot stomping against the stairs, a smothered yell right before a second drone was smashed into the ground.
But it was the yell that had Cloud going cold.
He knew that voice, could recognize it anywhere for that matter, and he knew for a fact that it sure as hell didn't belong to Zack or anyone from Barret's side. He forced himself to run faster. His rapid breaths scraped against his throat like glass as he flung himself up the next set of staircase, the burning in his thighs completely forgotten, his worry now sliding into sick dread.
No no no, he silently, wordlessly begged. He was just one level away now. A few more steps, and…
… And there was Tifa, standing tall and proud in the middle of absolute wreckage. Her knuckles were bleeding. There was a bruise on her cheek. There was a burn streaking her thigh, and one of her black stockings had ripped at the knee. There was a fire smoldering in her carmine eyes that Cloud had never seen before.
Except he had, now that he thought about it. It was an expression he had seen only twice. The first had been in Don Corneo's mansion, when they had just stepped down into the sewers and she had looked about the dark cavern they had found themselves in, her gaze bright and chin held high despite her trembling hands. The second had been that very morning; how her entire demeanor had shifted when she heard Zack read the text message he had received, and Cloud had been struck by the look on her face — like she was staring down a battalion with nothing but the wind at her back, her spine straight as she prepared herself to do battle where she stood.
Yet there was something buried deeper in her eyes as well, a chill tucked within the fire that blazed within her. It was quiet and cold, a silent fragility that was both as constant and discreet as bleeding from an unstitched wound. It was a heavy, bone-deep grief that she wore like a pair of wings.
It was then that Cloud realized that he hadn't been the only one hurting.
He took a step forward, and his footstep echoed hollow against the staircase. "Tifa," he whispered.
His voice was low, but Tifa reacted as if he had shouted. Her head snapped towards him. Her frame was backlit by the blue sky, and her eyes widened as her mouth pressed into a small o. "Cl - Cloud?" Emotions warred for dominance on her face: surprise, fear, worry, relief. "Cloud, what… What are you doing here?"
Cloud's throat tightened. His gunsword felt heavy in his hand as the answer withered in his tightening throat. I came to help Zack, he wanted to say, but that didn't sound quite right. Neither did, I'm here to prove to everyone that I can be useful, because it was more than that. He ran up those steps so that the town sprawled beneath them wouldn't be crushed. He had hurried in order to prevent another tragedy. He was here because Tifa's home was down there, and he wanted to protect it properly this time around.
He sharply inhaled; he had been quiet for too long, Tifa was expecting an answer, and his mind fumbled before he heard himself say, "For you." The world stilled around him. It hadn't been what he had been expecting to say, and Tifa appeared to be equally caught off guard, but now that the statement hung between them, and it was too late to take it back. He was helpless against himself. He was falling, and the only thing he could do was blink at the rapidly-approaching ground. "For you," he repeated, like it would make it any better, like it would make it hurt any less. "I'm here for you."
Above them, the security camera contracted its lens and, noiselessly, took a single, fatal photo.
"You've received the coordinates?"
Nobody's voice slipped across Kunsel's awareness like a shadow, and he glanced towards her, the world slightly warped from his full-faced helmet. Even though her features were obscured by a dark hood, he knew exactly who she was… or rather, who she had once been, as she had specifically stated that she was no longer a Turk. That had rattled him earlier. As far as he knew, the only way a Turk left the service was in a body bag. It was the most poignant way that the Turks and SOLDIERs were similar; they didn't retire from Shinra, they just died.
So why is she still alive? Kunsel couldn't help but wonder, but he filed that question away for another time. There were more important things to worry about right now. Like Zack, for instance, and the fact that he was also alive.
I knew he was, Kunsel thought, but he didn't allow himself to bask in self-assurance just yet. Until he confirmed it with his own eyes, he'd take everything the ex-Turk said with a grain of salt. Who knew — maybe she was just manipulating him. It wouldn't be the first time.
Kunsel turned back to the motorbike, which purred beneath his capable hands. "Yes, I've received them," he replied, his voice low. The ex-Turk had guided him down to Shinra's garage using a passage that not even he had known about, which was stunning in of itself, and then introduced him to a fully-stocked Hardy-Daytona. It had been fully equipped with a variety of weapons, a first-aid kit, and even more basic necessities like food, blankets, and a small one-person tent.
He had asked her how long this mission was supposed to take, as he wasn't equipped for a multi-day trek through the wilds, but Nobody had only smiled and said, Those hadn't been meant for you.
Whatever that had meant, but Kunsel stopped caring about it. He cared about very little except the fact that Zack was supposedly alive — and Cloud, for that matter — and his grip tightened on the handlebars. "The security cameras will notice me the moment I leave," he told her, but only out of politeness. He would be leaving either way, but he might as well warn her that the moment he did, she'd be surrounded by Shinra personnel.
"They won't," the ex-Turk promised. "The bike itself is equipped with jamming equipment. If you pass through an identification checkpoint or beneath a facial-recognition scanner, it will scatter its signal and render the machine momentarily blind. You'll essentially be a ghost."
Kunsel's mouth tightened. A ghost, huh? he thought, and his gaze dropped down to the bike's flickering speedometer. Again, he wondered who this bike had been meant for, but he immediately stopped caring. Becoming a ghost seemed fitting, in a way. He had surrounded himself with ghosts for so long that it only made sense that he would become one itself.
"And my objective?" he asked.
"Your objective is to find Aerith Gainsborough," the ex-Turk ordered, and Kunsel's eyes widened a fraction by the familiarity of the name. She was Zack's girl. "She will be on the other end of the coordinates," Nobody continued. "The coordinates may not be an exact match, but she should be nearby."
Kunsel school his voice back into neutrality. "Aerith?" he repeated, just in case he misheard. "Why?"
"Do you know her?"
Just like that, Kunsel was suddenly transported to another time: strapped down to an interrogation chair, a hand pressed against his bare forehead, sharp nails digging into his temple. "How much do you know?" Heidegger had asked him, in a voice far too calm considering how tight his grip was. "Answer me, SOLDIER. We know what you've been up to, what you've been trying to unearth."
Kunsel's jaw tightened as he forced the memory out of mind. "Zack knew her."
"Would you recognize her if you saw her?"
"I would." That seemed safe enough to admit, at least for the moment.
The ex-Turk seemed pleased by this. "Then that's enough," she said, and she took a half-step back to allow him more room. Kunsel released the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "I'll be waiting her for you."
"How soon do you need her?" Kunsel asked, but only because every mission needed to include time parameters. It was just the way things were done.
The ex-Turk seemed to consider this for a moment. "As soon as possible, though ideally within two hours," she replied, and then glanced down at her phone. "I have to attend a meeting right now, so I will not be able to reach out to you before then."
Two hours? That was a wider margin that Kunsel had been expecting, and the tension rolling within him relaxed a fraction. "All right," he said, and then kicked the kickstand up so that it was parallel with the ground. It made a satisfying pop as it snapped into place, and he eased his balance to keep the bike upright. "I'll see you soon, then."
He hadn't been expecting much of a reaction, but to his surprise the woman smiled at him — a true, genuine, warm smile, which had him blinking in surprise. He hadn't known an ex-Turk could smile like that. Moreover, it had been a long time since anyone had smiled at him like that.
The spell was broken when she took another step backwards, and Kunsel resisted the urge to shake his head. He had a momentarily lapse in judgement. He'd make sure that it didn't happen again.
"See you soon," the ex-Turk murmured.
Kunsel swallowed past his suddenly dry throat, and only allowed himself to give her the curtest of nods before he revved the engine. The noise rumbled against the concrete walls and soon he propelled himself out of the garage, the wind tugging at his clothes, the bike growling beneath him. He inhaled, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.
It felt good to be doing something meaningful again. Plus, maybe if he got back earlier than the two hours Nobody had given him…
Maybe he'd be rewarded with another smile.
Shinra Headquarters' very own Situation Room, located in the central conference room of the sixty-fourth floor, had exploded into a hub of activity. In just a few short hours, the otherwise quiet, dark room had filled with the company's top executives and a handful of operatives specifically chosen for this particular mission. After all, not just anyone could be handed the details of a scheduled plate drop, now could they?
Of course not, Hojo thought. All of that made perfect sense, but even so, the scientist leaned back in his chair and wondered why he, exactly, had to be here then. His department had nothing to do with the structural integrity of the city.
He knew why he had to be here, of course — all Shinra executives were expected to congregate in the Situation Room if there was ever a situation at hand — but that didn't mean it make a modicum of sense. He didn't give a damn about these ridiculous power plays. Didn't give a damn about the city either, and everyone in here knew it, which brought him back to his original point: Why the hell did he have to sit through this?
Yet here he was anyway, leaning back in his chair and sipping on lukewarm tea, mentally twiddling his thumbs. He listened to Reeve make predictable but futile attempts at convincing President Shinra to reconsider the plan to drop the Sector Seven plate. Heidegger was mocking him, understandably, while Palmer sweated nervously in his chair. Even Shinra's dog Tseng had made his presence known and was currently standing by the door as if guarding it.
However, one chair remained distinctly empty.
Scarlet had never arrived.
Seeing her empty chair soured Hojo's mood further, and not because he missed her or any similar, nauseating emotion. Mainly, he was furious because if he had to suffer through this damnable custom, then she should suffer here as well. It was unfair, truly. He could practically feel his neurons tingle and rot from the mediocrity of the nearby conversations.
Gratefully, a distraction immediately provided itself.
"Sir." One of the Shinra's many assistants — a woman with black hair that Hojo couldn't be bothered to remember — strode up to him, a cell phone in her gloved hand. A cursory glance at its screen told him that Scarlet was on the other end. "You have received an urgent phone call from Scarlet Cottrell. She insists that you take it immediately."
Take it immediately, she says? Peeved at being given an order, Hojo leaned back in his chair and made a show of how exasperated he found all of this. To make matters worse, the assistant's voice seemed… familiar somehow, though Hojo interacted with so many Shinra employees that the familiarity faded immediately. "I have a hard time believing that anything Scarlet has to say needs to be considered urgent," he told the assistant.
To her credit, she didn't even blink at the bite in his tone. It was then that he noticed that her eyes were a striking — and again, a strangely familiar — shade of copper. "She expected that you would say this, and she wanted me to add that it involves one of your, and I quote, 'precious specimens,' and that if you do not answer her call, she will kill him and let the body decompose in acid, rendering it unusable."
Hojo felt a vein throb in his forehead. That bitch, he thought vehemently and then held out his hand, wordlessly asking for the damn phone. He felt its weight a moment later, and he glanced up just in time to watch the assistant return to her post beside the President.
Hojo glared at the screen a moment — that bitch, he thought again — before lifting the phone to his ear. "You'll regret threatening me," he began.
"Oh? Will I?" There was laughter buried in Scarlet's high-pitched voice, and Hojo allowed himself the brief pleasure of imaging her body floating in a mako pod. "On the contrary, I think that you'll find my news rather pleasant."
"Just get on with it while you have my attention."
Luckily, even Scarlet knew when she should stop poking the proverbial tiger. "I have captured one of the specimens that you had been looking for. Sample Z, not C," she clarified when Hojo's hand tightened on the phone. She had been aware of the bounty and knew which runaway sample Hojo actually desired. "That said, I believe that you'll find its condition… satisfactory… once I turn it over to you."
"And what's your cost?" Hojo asked, because there was always a catch when it came to Scarlet.
On the other end of the phone Scarlet laughed, airy and light. "We can discuss the trade-off when I give you the second bit of information I have gathered," she said. "This one involves your other precious specimen."
As if on cue, the phone lightly buzzed in Hojo's hand.
"Take a look," Scarlet prompted, and he could hear the sly grin in her voice. "You won't be disappointed."
He frowned — not disappointed was a rather high bar — but when he pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at the screen, he found that Scarlet had been right after all.
A broken glass smile found its way onto his lips as he studied the image. Sample C seems to be in good health, he thought as his eyes roamed the specimen's form. The photograph, undoubtedly lifted off of one of the city's many security cameras, was crystal clear compared to the blurry photo he had been given previously. In this picture he could distinctly make out the mako shine in Sample C's eyes, the taunt way he held the blade, and the strange expression on his face which had Hojo frowning. It appeared as if he was speaking to someone, but if he was, the other individual had been cut out of the frame.
Interesting, Hojo hummed, and then returned the phone to his ear. "How did you get your hands on this?" he asked, his tone mildly curious.
Scarlet chuckled. "Not all of Heidegger's underlings are loyal to strictly him. In fact, many of his men are actually quite willing to share when given the… proper motivation."
"I see." He heard what Scarlet wasn't saying on the company line; that if she was given the opportunity, she could usurp Heidegger from his place on the executive board and potentially replace him as the Head of Public Safety, in addition to her position as the Head of Weapons Development. It would be a bold move. Hojo couldn't say that he disapproved of it. "Did you have anything else to share?"
There was a pause, then: "No. I already sent you Sample C's location, so you're free to collect it yourself. I have other matters to attend to."
"Of course." He wouldn't have preferred it any other way; after all, if he wanted something done right, he ought to do it himself. "And your price? I'm sure there's something you want."
Scarlet's laugh reverberated through the speaker. "Don't worry," she purred on the other end of the line. "I'll call you."
Hojo felt a spike of irritation hiss through him. Bitch, he thought again, but slowly exhaled his frustration. He was above this. She was a lesser being and not worth his time. "Fine," he said, his voice bland. "Please contact my secretary if you have anything further you'd like to discuss."
"I think I prefer talking to you directly."
"I don't," Hojo replied, and he hung up before he had to listen to Scarlet's grating laugh once more.
The assistant was beside him in a moment, and wordlessly took away the offered phone. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked.
"Nn — Yes, actually," Hojo corrected. He stood up, and it wasn't lost on him how President Shinra, Reeve, Heidegger, and Palmer all glanced in his direction. "Prepare one of the company helicopters for my arrival. It needs to be ready in exactly two hours."
The assistant considered this a moment before clarifying, "Not immediately?"
"No. Two hours," Hojo echoed. "Don't make me repeat myself."
She inclined her head in understanding, and then returned to her post behind Shinra's chair. Her fingers danced across her cellphone's screen.
"Care to tell us where you'll be headed?"
President Shinra's cool, dry tone filtered into Hojo's conscious, and he turned towards the CEO with a somewhat pleasant expression. "Something came up that requires my direct attention," he smoothly replied. "Apologies, but this is a particularly delicate experiment." The false apology felt slimy on his tongue. He hated apologies; he felt as if they were wasted words, especially when they were unearned and directed to the undeserving.
That said, it worked as intended, and though the President's expression hardened, he finally flicked his gaze away. He did not explicitly dismiss Hojo, but the intention was obvious. Hojo left without another word.
His steps were silent against the carpet as he neared the elevator, which lit up when he hit the up button. Soon he was inside, and his fingers pushed floor sixty-five; moments later, the elevator lurched in a stomach-turning fashion before beginning its slow, steady ascent up. Anticipation had his foot drumming the floor.
Soon, the experiment that was five years in the making would finally be concluded.
He could hardly contain himself.
In the conference room, Tseng had involuntarily stiffened when Hojo rose out of his seat. An earpiece within his ear had relayed the conversation between Hojo and Scarlet, and it was worse — far worse — than he had been mentally prepared for.
Across the room, a pair of copper eyes lifted to meet is… and then immediately slid away, seemingly bored and uncaring of the chaos spiraling around them. However, Tseng knew that she was anything but relaxed. No one but him could recognize the rigid set to her shoulders, the hard tension to her jaw, her steely gaze half-hidden beneath her black wig.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her eyes flicked back to his.
He moved his hands, which had been clasped behind him, to instead clasp at his front. His fingers tapped minutely tapped against his knuckles: Y - R - U - H - R - E.
Why are you here.
Cis — no, she's Nobody now, Tseng corrected — turned away to directly address Palmer, but he couldn't help but catch the way her eyes glittered beneath the iridescent lights. A moment later she replied in turn, masking her quick taps within her conversation with the executive. H - L - P - U.
Helping you.
Tseng's expression was a mask of indifference, but his heart rate spiked at the statement. Helping him? That was ridiculous, frankly. Why on earth would she think that he needed something like that? He didn't need help. What he needed was a sixth cup of coffee and, maybe, a nap.
B - D - R - S - N, he subtly tapped. Bad reason.
Her eyes warmed with amusement, and she said nothing in response.
Zack didn't think that he had ever truly appreciated sunlight until this very moment. It had been so long since the last time he felt its warmth dappling skin… so, so long, and his eyes burned with unshed tears as he picked his way down the craggy mountain face. Everything hurt. His body was a mess. His muscles cried out from disuse, every breath was like inhaling glass, his hands wouldn't stop shaking as he hurried down the steep slope. Hurry, every instinct screamed within him. Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Hojo is coming.
Zack shakily exhaled as memories danced before his eyes like mirages baking beneath the sun; glasses glinting beneath the artificial light, a pen tapping against a binder, syrupy mako bubbling within the glass cells. Blond hair drifting across a pale, sunken face. Blue eyes, hazy and unfocused, staring back at him. An overlong fingernail scratching at the glass, the sound chipping at his consciousness.
Zack's stomach lurched, and he stumbled against loose gravel. Stones pinged down the rocky face, but he managed to steady himself, his arms lurching at his sides before he somehow regained his balance. Harsh gasps pushed past his lips. Sweat beaded on his brow, though it had nothing to do with the midday heat. He felt like he was going to be sick.
"Cloud," he rasped. His throat hurt as he spoke; it had been a long time since he had properly used his voice, though the constant feeding tubes certainly hadn't helped matters either. "Cloud, are you… Are you good?"
Cloud, who was draped across his back like a dead thing, had no response… just like all the other times Zack had tried speaking to him during their first few days of freedom. Zack was beginning to get worried. He had thought he was just out of it, but this… this was beginning to look a lot worse.
Cloud's silence had something with Zack splintering. "Cloud, please say something" Zack said — no, begged — and he glanced at the green-tinged hair that was resting on his shoulder. "Cloud?"
No response. Zack's chest felt like it was imploding. It was as if someone had taken all of his ribs and twisted them out of place, and now everything felt wrong, wrong, wrong, never to be made right again. "Cloud, please…" His voice cracked. "Please say something. Anything"
Don't leave me alone, the child within him cried.
But Cloud didn't make a single sound, and Zack was struck with equal parts anger and guilt. The guilt was easier to decipher; if he hadn't stupidly ordered Cloud to go after Sephiroth, then Zack would have been the only one to go to the lab and Cloud would have been okay. The anger, however… that was something else, something new, something horrible and wrong, and his chest crumpled as a fresh wave of guilt threatened to pull him under. He was drowning beneath the weight of it all. He wasn't sure if he could ever breathe right again.
"I'm sorry," Zack murmured through a tight, painful throat. The world blurred for a moment until liquid heat traced down his cheeks, and it was then that he realized that he was crying. But even though he knew, he found that he couldn't stop. Something had cracked within him, had irrevocably broken and splintered and fell apart, and a strangled, shattered sob clawed out between his lips. His knees gave out. They cracked against the ground, but the pain was familiar and welcome and completely, utterly deserved.
"I'm sorry," Zack cried to the ground. It was a choked, brittle sound. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. Please, say something," he begged. "Please tell me that you're okay. Are you okay? Cloud?"
Cloud's head lolled uselessly to the side, and he did not respond. He did not respond even as Zack cried himself out and, after a few silent minutes staring blankly at the ground, forced himself back upright to continue his way down the mountain. Hurry, every sense screamed within him. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Hojo's on his way.
That's right; he didn't have time for a breakdown. He needed to find food, water, and shelter before the sun sank behind the mountains, because if he didn't, then they'd be exposed in the open, and that was a bad place to be. His SOLDIER training had been engrained deep enough that no matter how Hojo had tried to beat it out of him, he could remember that much.
All of a sudden, the sunlight didn't feel nearly as warm as it had before.
"We're not going back to the lab," he whispered to Cloud. His jaw ached; his eyes stung, his voice was ragged and raw. His back ached from having Cloud draped over him for so long. "Everything was my fault, so I'll fix this. I'll find a way to make you better. I'll do everything," he swore, voice breaking, "to make this right.
"So… So please…
"Don't leave me alone."
Please don't leave me.
The year-old cry chased Zack to awareness, and he blinked open his eyes to artificial lights and the smell of antiseptic. It was a scent he was deeply familiar with, and his physical reaction was instinctive: his body tensed, his heart rate quickened, and his fingers twitched against the cold, hard ground. But his panic was muted. It was quiet beneath the layers of rolling fear and disgust, because his body instinctively understood what his mind had not yet comprehended: to move was to hurt, to breath was to suffer, and to remember was to die piece-by-brittle-piece.
And then his mind snapped back to the present moment. The chemical scent of cleaning agent hit him first, overpowering to the point of gagging, and yet it was still unable to completely mask the layers of mako, blood, and vomit. His head ached. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. His vision was blurry as he flicked his eyes through the warped glass of his cell…
… his glass, cylindrical, specimen-grade cell.
Zack's breath hitched as he pressed his fingers against the warped glass, his touch feather-light and trembling. It was so cold it bit his skin, and his breaths came in shaky gasps. There was no denying it now.
He was back in the lab.
The realization started slowly and then hit him all at once, like stitches stretching before they finally tore. What lay beneath was a raw, open wound, and he could feel his old fear bleeding down his bones as his gaze slid across the far wall. The lights were brighter here, the equipment newer. The mako still bubbled the same though, a frantic pulsing that mirrored his own heartbeat, and strangely enough the sound steadied him. It hardened something within in. It reminded him that he had survived this before and could do so again, and he backed into that thought like he would an old coat; or maybe instead it was more like a disrobement of sorts, a shedding of skin, because the person he had been with Aerith and Cloud was no longer the person he was. A part of him had to die if he were to survive the experiments. His own blood coated his hands. How much could he cut off of himself before he turned into someone else, until it became a sort of murder?
If he was broken beyond saving, then it was because he had ruined himself.
The raw wound stretched even further until he could taste blood in his mouth. His fingernails scraped against the cell's glass walls, and somewhere in the bubbling mako and humming lights he thought he could hear Cloud's familiar screams. They echoed in his head. Every single night, they echoed in his head.
Don't leave me, Zack remembered begging, and old memories swelled in answer because Cloud had left anyway, hadn't he? He was there physically, but mentally he was lost in the stars, somewhere only he could see. And Zack recalled being jealous. He remembered being furious and angry and just unspeakably sad, because he had no right to be upset, no right to cry about anything. Everything had been his fault. He knew that. He had done this to himself.
After a lengthy pause, Zack slowly pushed himself upright and leaned back against the glass. It was stiff and uncomfortable, just as he remembered, and he minutely shifted himself to it wasn't so awkward against his spine. His gaze flicked up to the hallway as he slowly, steadily exhaled.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the way things had to be. It would be poetic in a sense, a great injustice that would look nice in one of Genesis' old Loveless plays. Someone with so much blood on their hands didn't deserve to be happy. Someone as broken as him didn't deserve to live a life of freedom because the price of that freedom had been steep, too steep, and he had died bit by bit without him noticing. Now he was only a shell pieced together by a warped sense of responsibility and guilt, a hollow echo of the person he had once been.
Therefore, this ending was well-earned.
Though… if he did have a regret… then he regretted not apologizing more to Aerith. He regretted not reading all eighty-eight of her letters. He regretted not fixing her cart or selling more flowers with her, and for promising her the world when he couldn't be a part of it. He also regretted not apologizing to Cloud, for leaving him alone in the end, and for a sudden, brilliant second, he suddenly had the wild wish that he could go back and…
… But he cut that thought off before it could bloom, because wishes weren't worth shit and wouldn't help him anyway.
He kept that thought firmly in mind when a set of footsteps echoed from somewhere down the hall. Zack didn't even need to lift his head to know who it was, and he kept his expression completely natural despite the instinctive tightening of his body. A violin screeched in his lungs, off-tune and dangerously high, a shrill scream that had his fingers tapping against his knees.
"Hello, Sample Z," came a grating voice.
Zack's eye twitched, the only indication of his discomfort. He didn't respond.
"Hmm, you're more mellow than I recall. Have Scarlet's drugs not worn off yet?"
Well, that explained — or at least, partly explained — why he currently felt so shitty. A dark part of him wished that she had given him more. He didn't want to be awake right now.
"Well, no matter," Hojo continued. "I suppose that's not what's important now."
There was the distinct sound of a pencil grating against parchment paper, and Zack's jaw clicked with how tightly he clenched it. But no, no, this was right, this was how it was meant to be. This was justified. He felt the most like himself in moments like these; weaponless, surrounded by enemies, his back against the wall and blood on his teeth, the promise of salvation eating him alive because if he could just survive this, and then…
And then what? Another battle? Another chance to burn? But he was tired of fighting, tired of setting fire to himself to keep others warm. Had he only been put on this planet to bleed?
"Sample Z, I am going to ask you a few questions, and you will answer them," Hojo said. Zack could hear his pencil tapping against his notepad. "The first question is, do you remember how you got here?"
Memory exam, Zack's mind supplied. For a wild moment, he thought about not replying. Something terrible would happen then, he was sure; maybe a new type of gas would get injected into his pod, or maybe something horrible would happen to someone else and he'd get to listen to a stranger scream in agony for hours. There was a sort of morbid curiosity to this line of thinking, a type of clinical desire to see just how bad things could get.
Yet he found himself saying anyway, "Yes." Yes, because he still wasn't ready for the bad just yet; he needed time to prepare for it, to kill off the piece of himself that cared, because to survive was to die and he was a survivor.
Hojo ticked something on his paper. "Good," the bastard replied. "And how are you feeling right now?"
"Like murder."
There was a chuckle then, and it sounded like dry leaves scraping down asphalt. "And physically?"
"Fuck off."
Silence stretched between them, one that was long enough that Zack dared a glance up. Hojo was staring down at him, his glasses reflecting the iridescent lights and his pencil hovering over his clipboard.
"Want to try that again?" Hojo delicately asked. "This will go quicker if you cooperate, though I suppose you know that already."
Zack pressed himself further into the glass cell, and listened to the staccato rhythm of the mako bubbles bursting in their tubes. "No," he spat. Maybe he was ready for the bad after all. "Now fuck off."
Hojo stared down at him above his hooked nose, and after too many uncomfortable seconds, finally sighed. "You're being uncooperative, but that's to be expected considering the circumstances. Even back in Nibelheim, you were extremely difficult if you were separated from Sample C, and particularly when Sample C was… unable… to cooperate. But," he continued then, "I recall that you were very compliant when Sample C was involved in some way, now weren't you?"
All of a sudden, Zack felt like one of those birds that flew into a window; stunned, lying on the ground, blinking away the stars. This is real, he thought, as if he hadn't noticed before. This is actually happening.
To survive was to die… but there wasn't much of him left.
"Fine," Zack hissed, but it was just an angry tone bellied by exhaustion. "I'll play along. Just —"
"Just what, Sample Z?" Hojo cut in. His voice sounded artificial through the warped glass. "Do you think that you're in a position to make demands with me? Don't forget your place, specimen. You are an experiment, nothing more, and a failed experiment at that. Nothing you say matters. Nothing you do matters. You are to comply with your directives; beyond that, nothing. Understood?"
The threat there was obvious, and though every fiber with Zack's being rebelled at the thought of complying with this man…
"…Fine," he ground out. His finger drummed the top of his knee. Sick; he was going to be sick. "I'll do it."
"That's wonderful to hear. It'll make Sample C's stay much more pleasant, I'm sure."
The world went still.
Zack's breath stuttered in his lungs. What did Hojo just say? It had sounded like… It had sounded a lot like…
… Oh.
He didn't recall getting to his feet. He didn't recall the moment his fist connect with the glass wall, couldn't recollect how the reinforced barrier split his knuckles and sent his blood splattering them. He certainly didn't recognize the pain, the blazing hurt spread across his skin, or the acidic taste of mako in mouth. "Don't you fucking touch him!" he heard himself scream.
Hojo smiled at that. It was crooked and twisted in all the wrong ways, and that was all Zack saw before Hojo pivoted on his heel and start walking away.
"Hojo!" Zack screamed. His voice cracked; it was so dry, so hoarse, it was like speaking through broken glass. "Don't you fucking touch him! Leave him alone! I'll kill you! I'll ki…!" But then a new thought occurred to him, and his mind spiraled; a paper airplane ducking out of orbit. "Use me," he then begged, and his hands fisting against the glass. There were red smears beneath his hands. "Use me instead. I'll do anything, I swear it. I'll do anything. I'll —"
"Why?" Hojo began, and Zack went deathly silent. He could feel his heart beat in his throat. "Why would I use you," the scientist continued, "when I have a successful sample in my grasp?"
In an instant, Zack recalled a year of carrying Cloud through the wilderness, carrying him off of Midgar's upper plate, hand-feeding him soup and making sure he stayed healthy because he was no longer able to. Successful? his mind echoed. Successful?
"If you touch him," Zack swore, "I'll kill you." His voice was ice blossoming across a window pane, a steady chill that only grew colder as the long night wore on. "I swear I'll kill you. If there's one last thing I do, it's that I'll kill you with my own two hands."
Hojo only laughed, a dry, brittle rattle that shook the walls, before abruptly going silent. "You won't be doing much in there," he pointed out, and then he turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
Zack watched that hallway for a moment, his chest heaving, before everything snapped within him. "Damn it!" he screamed and slammed his hand against the wall, further slipping his abused knuckles, before he pressed his back against the glass and slid all the way back down. Heat pricked his eyes, but did not fall. "Damn it…"
In the cell beside his own, a red wolf twitched its flaming tail before closing its single, unscarred eye.
Lab POV Summary:
Zack wakes up in a glass cell in Hojo's lab, and is soon visited by Hojo. Hojo asks him various questions and when Zack is difficult and doesn't comply immediately, he implies that if Zack does as he is told, then Cloud - aka Sample C - will have a much more pleasant stay in the labs. Zack reacts violently, then begs Hojo to use him instead in order to keep Cloud from harm. Hojo declines, as Zack is a failed experiment while Cloud is a successful one, and then leaves. Zack falls into despair, and in the cell beside his, Red XII closes his eyes.
...
Anyway, I hope this chapter wasn't too much for anyone? We are beginning to approach the end, so it'll get worse before it'll get better, but I promise that we'll eventually reach that happy ending I've been promising :)
Feel free to visit my twitter if you'd like to see chapter previews and get a better idea of when I'll publish :)
Stay safe and stay well, until next time :)
