VII
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE TOWN THAT SHOULD NOT BE
Cloud remembered the crisp warm air on his skin, the inferno climbing into the night sky above Nibelheim. He remembered the dense black smoke as it billowed from windows and doorways, smothering the houses, the paths, the orchard. He remembered coughing and gasping for oxygen. He remembered the fires creeping over rooftops, charring stone walls, melting hanging wind chimes.
He remembered the adrenaline, the terror, the despair.
He remembered the silence. He remembered losing his balance, scrambling down the steps to the town square. He remembered the smouldering shops, the collapsed annex of Gramps' Inn, the crumbling and futile water tower. He remembered the villagers, slain and scattered mercilessly around the forum. He remembered their sword wounds. He remembered their faces. He remembered the intensity of the flames; the anger of betrayal.
He remembered falling to his knees. He remembered tears plunging down his cheeks. He remembered his stomach churning, the guilt, the abandonment.
He remembered his mother. He remembered the fate she met that night.
Yet here, in these foothills, where the scorched husk of Nibelheim should have resided, where the ashes of his youth ought to be buried, there stood a town which on the surface seemed just as quaint and peaceful as the one Cloud left all those years ago.
"What. The. Fuck?" Tifa swore under her breath, the usual coolness of her persona slipping. Her features were chalk white as she stared out through the Buggy's windscreen, a stark contrast to the lengthy strands of ebony hair cascading across her shoulders. "Is this…am I dreaming this?"
They had pulled up alongside the grassy knolls at the edge of the village, about fifty feet from the archaic iron gateway that loomed over the main thoroughfare. The boulevard was a broken mosaic of paved granite, mottled with moss and weeds, meandering between rows of two-storey buildings. The creamy limestone and dark pine façades accurately honoured regional architecture, but there was something uncharacteristic – sterile, one might say – about them. There was even a rusted motortrike parked in the garden of the first house, its bronzed shell turning a pleasant golden colour as the winter sun peaked over the jagged, snow-capped mountains.
Everything was both hauntingly familiar and unnervingly alien. Whatever this place was, it was not home. Cloud and Tifa exchanged a horrified glance, lost for words as the magnitude of the discovery struggled to take hold.
The morning's travel along the old dirt roads of the Nibel Forest had been uneventful. The pair had spoken little of what they expected to find here – nothing at all, in fact, since the night they were ambushed by Sephiroth in Gehenna – and the others knew better than to ask. Tifa had just as much reason to loathe Nibelheim as he did; just as much reason to want Sephiroth dead. Every doubt, every intrusive thought, every sense of apprehension, every ounce of grief for a murdered parent: these were things the two shared, no matter what lay in wait.
Had it not been for the certainty in his heart that some of the answers he sought still lingered beneath Shinra Manor, Cloud would have likely vowed never to return.
Now there are only more questions…
"The hell's goin' on?" Barret growled, glaring accusingly at the ex-SOLDIER, slamming his gun-arm against the nearest chair. "That don't look like no burned-down town to me! You been playin' us for fools this whole time?"
"I wasn't lying." Cloud matched his gaze, doggedly shaking his head. His voice cracked, his mind a swirling fog of dread and confusion and denial.
I remember. I…I'm sure I remember.
"It's true what Sephiroth did here," Tifa defended her childhood friend, her tone distant. "There should be nothing left of Nibelheim."
Aerith joined them at the front of the cab, scanning the landscape. She closed her eyes for a moment, mouthing a silent incantation, much the same way she did when conducting Planet readings. "Something very strange is going on."
"How does it feel?" Sephiroth's words from five years ago suddenly echoed in Cloud's subconscious. He peered towards the frail, gothic archway, and could almost see the silver-haired captain addressing his sixteen-year-old self. "It's your first time back here since you made SOLDIER, right? So, how does it feel? I wouldn't know…I have no hometown…"
And it was that very desire to uncover his heritage which ultimately drove him to commit an unfathomable atrocity.
"What y'all waitin' for?" called Yuffie, rearranging her Materia on one of the bunks. "Ain't we gonna check it out? You guys have family 'round here, doncha?"
"Yuffie!" hissed Aerith, glowering at the teen. The young girl simply shrugged, ignorant of her insensitivity.
Tifa's eyes shot open in response, glazed and delirious. As if watching in a car crash unfold in slow motion, Cloud recognised the chain of microexpressions that crossed her face, each a fleeting reflection of his own irrational hopes. If it was possible – even remotely – he was wrong about Nibelheim's destruction, he too had considered, perhaps he was wrong about his mother.
It appeared a similar thought had now occurred to Tifa.
"Papa!" she shrieked, her hands grabbing clumsily for the door release on the dashboard. "Papa!"
The hatch on the side of the vehicle buzzed and lifted immediately outward. Quick as lightning, Tifa darted across the cabin and leapt onto the trail, taking off in the direction of Nibelheim. Aerith let out a startled cry and made to follow, but Cloud placed a firm palm on her shoulder.
"Let her be," he instructed quietly; he understood Tifa's desperation all too well.
"But, we don't know what kind of danger she might be in!" argued the Cetra, observing her friend vanish between the buildings. Aghast, she turned to her comrades for support. "Barret? Red?"
"Sometimes an anxious heart cannot be told the truth," Nanaki replied softly. "It must see for itself."
Barret exhaled, deliberating the matter, but eventually nodded to signal his own agreement with Cloud. "Tifa can take care o' herself, kid. She'll find us when she's ready."
"If Sephiroth really is here," their leader added, inferring her concerns, "he won't be waiting to ambush us in the village."
Aerith frowned, her jade green eyes narrowing. "What makes you so sure?"
"It's too obvious," Cloud assessed; open space would benefit the party and offer little opportunity for Sephiroth to toy with them. "There's no tactical advantage. No sport in it."
"So, whit dae we dae, noo?" Cait Sith piped up as he peeked awkwardly out of the gaping doorway, scratching under his tiny gold crown.
"We take a look around…" Cloud paused, gathering his strength and casting his fears aside. "Stay vigilant."
Neither the gateway nor the avenue beyond were broad enough to accept the sheer bulk of the Buggy. At Cloud's command, the company abandoned the great crimson vehicle on Nibelheim's periphery, venturing into its ghostly streets. His stomach was in knots as he inspected every dusty window, every creaking shutter, every shadowy lane. The Buster Sword hung heavy on his back, but its presence was reassuring, a constant that linked this warped reality to his haze of traumatic recollections.
Last time he was here, he had felt so proud; now, he had no idea what to feel. Cautious and alert, yes, but determined to unravel the chilling mystery of his hometown's resurrection.
The road led them north through the village, rising with the gentle gradient of the Mount Nibel foothills. Wind chimes jangled eerily from the exteriors of the houses, swaying in the gusts that danced indecisively hither and thither, whipping clouds of dirt against their ankles. The pungent odour of processed Mako loitered on the air, aided by the vapours filtering from the chimneys.
There was certainly evidence of life emanating from the homes, but they saw no-one on the path, no movement at all save for a murder of crows watching them warily from the shingled rooftops.
I wouldn't know them anyway…
They soon came to the town square, a large forum at which all primary boulevards merged. It was unsophisticated in design, bound entirely by various shops and traditional grocers, their signage lacking the corrosion and grime Cloud had been accustomed to in his youth. The Nibel Accessories store in particular made no attempt to capture the local-business warmth and hospitality that generations of the Fergus family had achieved, epitomising the fabricated aura of the place.
Neither the timber frame of the water tower at the centre of the plaza nor the distinct pinewood exterior on the three-bedroom annex of Gramps' Inn possessed a hint of rot or aging. The latter had always boasted an element of grandeur and luxury – most likely because the architecture of neighbouring buildings paled by comparison – but its supposedly-decades-old frontage was now void of blemishes or character.
This isn't the same Nibelheim as five years ago…
Ushering the others forward, Cloud gestured for them to assemble by the well, attracting the attention of a small brown mongrel who had been lurking amid the tower's wooden foundations. The dog cowered in fright, however, when it glimpsed Nanaki and the hulking Barret. With a sympathetic sigh, the giant lowered himself onto one knee, presenting his hand to sniff. The animal approached tentatively, but was wagging its tail only seconds later, relishing some rubs behind the ears.
"This fella seems a bit more welcomin' than the rest o' the folks 'round here," remarked Barret. "Where is everyone?"
"Perhaps a few enquiries with the shopkeepers may grant enlightenment?" Nanaki suggested, his snout twitching, irritated by the Mako fumes. "The outlets at least appear open for trade."
Yuffie reached over her shoulder and tapped one of the four blades of her shuriken, grinning mischievously. "I've always found threats work fastest."
"Best not to pick any fights until we know what we're dealing with," Cloud discouraged her. He peered absently in the direction of the eastern quarter and its residential estates. "The inn was usually a good spot for news and gossip, so you should try there first. I have somewhere else I wanna check out."
"Your home, right?" guessed Aerith.
Cloud closed his eyes. In his mind, his mother stood before him, clear as day, dressed in her purple frock-and-apron ensemble, her wavy blonde hair thrown back in a ponytail. She smiled at him, an expression of joy and pride at the man he had become. He could not bear it; could not bear the shame, the anguish. Exhaling, he motioned for the group to head for Gramps', then trudged off alone towards the edge of the square.
"It's not my home anymore…"
There was a palpable chill with each coastal flurry that blew through the streets, breaching the woven fabric of his poloneck and combats, and creeping over his skin as he made his way down the cobblestone paths. Old-fashioned, cast-iron lanterns accompanied the houses, the inhabitants of which had always been strangers to Cloud. The breeze murmured softly as it passed among the structures, like a veiled memory of some ominous dream.
He at last arrived outside a low, single-storey dwelling. A modest selection of flowers and ornaments festooned the plot, and he could hear a Mako generator sputtering and groaning within the garden shed. Steam drifted from the chimney above the kitchen, luring him forward, yet every fibre of his being screamed at him to turn around; to leave this replica, this bastard manifestation of his childhood.
Cloud lingered there for more than five minutes, staring blankly at the ashwood doorway, hoping against hope that he had imagined the annihilation of Nibelheim. His remembrance of the night his mother perished was fragmented to say the least, but to question her death was to dishonour her.
Composing himself, Cloud knocked twice, his pulse racing as footsteps suddenly reverberated from the corridor inside.
"Can I help you?" answered an unfamiliar elderly woman.
He hesitated, feeling his heart sink like a rock under the weight of disappointment. "I…uh…I'm looking for someone."
The lady wore a burgundy skirt and knitted grey cardigan, her plump, wrinkled features poking out from beneath a maid's headscarf. The outfit was definitely not one Claudia Strife would have owned, and her accent betrayed her as being native to Midgar. She regarded Cloud with suspicion, relaxing slightly when she noticed the crest on his old SOLDIER belt.
"Oh, you mean Lieutenant Goulde?" she presumed. "I'm afraid he's currently out of town. He was assigned to escort the researchers to the Cosmo Airbase."
"I see," Cloud replied vacantly, perplexed by the response.
What possible involvement could SOLDIER have?
"Shall I give him a message, sir?" she offered.
"That won't be necessary." His gaze wandered from the flawless, polished doorframe to the flower pots on the little patch to his right. It was a nice touch; something his mother might have loved to care for. The thought of this imposter tending them instead made his blood boil, but he battled to suppress his emotion. "I like your garden."
"Thank you, sir."
"How long have you lived here?"
"It'll be over twenty years now," lied the woman. The narrative was charming and well-rehearsed.
"Then, we must've met before," Cloud posed coolly.
Her amiable demeanour receded in an instant. "How so?"
"Because I grew up in this house."
"I…I beg your pardon?" she spluttered.
"Every birthday, Mum would carve a notch into the wood to chart my height," he asserted, pointing to the frame. "Right there, by the hinges. There are no markings now."
"W-why you say such things?"
"But, I already knew there would be no markings," snarled Cloud, taking a step towards the fraud, "because I watched this house burn!"
"You're sick!" she hissed, her jowls quivering. "Get out of here!"
"Who are you?" he demanded, cursing loudly as she slammed the door in his face. "Tell me!"
As brief as the exchange had been, it left him significantly more desperate. He could not shake the apprehension that, by some cruel twist, he may really be losing his mind. He tried to cling to Tifa's corroboration as if it was his centre of gravity, yet still his sanity was spinning off course into the dark void of oblivion.
Conspiracy or not, his very sense of self was teetering on the brink.
A flicker of movement nearby distracted Cloud, causing him to glance up. As he squinted to identify the source of the disturbance, a bolt of ice streaked down his spine, and sent him scrambling for the handle of the Buster Sword. For there, in a gloomy lane between two buildings, stood a figure in a hooded black cloak.
[BREAK]
Her mother died on a Tuesday morning. The air had been bitter and the sky bright, filled with the birdsong of the needlekiss. Several people she vaguely recognised had visited the house, mumbling words of condolence to her father as they said their last goodbyes. The illness had spread rapidly in the final months; at eight years old, Tifa had barely noted the increased fatigue, and the shadows that lined her mother's features.
All she knew was Mama's smile. And, after that Tuesday morning, it was gone.
There was an old legend in Nibelheim that claimed a person's spirit would pass beyond the mountain when they departed this world, following the winding trails high into the heavens until eventually they crossed its peaks, fading into the afterlife. It was a beautiful sentiment, and one Tifa had adored since she was a kid. Overwhelmed by grief and a longing to see her mother's smile again, she had set off up Mount Nibel, eager to glimpse what lay on the other side.
I almost died that day, too…
A gentle draught floated in through her bedroom window, flirting with her neck and running its silken fingers along her arms. It was enough to make Tifa slip back to reality, abandoning the melody she had been playing on her piano. Closing the lid over the ivory keys, she sat in silence for a time, allowing the tender memories to slowly ebb from thought.
Another stronger gust suddenly swept into the room, tossing the curtains to and fro, and scattering the pages of Dan's letter onto the floor. On the duvet, the cat let out a disgruntled meow, wrapping herself in her white tail and falling asleep once more. With a sigh, Tifa rose from the piano stool and traipsed to her desk, gathering the sheets and setting them down on her books.
Dan's clumsy handwriting stared back at her from the top of the pile, rambling on about his new life in the Midgar Slums, how he was still hunting for a job, and asking a load of questions about what was going on at home. It had been genuinely lovely to receive a letter from her friend, and she appreciated his communication, but one passage in particular had struck a nerve:
Yesterday, all the old crowd from Nibelheim got together to welcome me to the city. The only person we couldn't get ahold of was that dude Cloud. Everyone said he wasn't really that close to us anyway. Even if we'd invited him, I doubt he would've come.
Well, enough about him…
Tifa had mulled over that for days. It was true Cloud had been a bit of an enigma when they were younger, but she had at least expected him to value his roots. Perhaps his missions with SOLDIER kept him too busy, or he had found himself a girlfriend. It was strange: she did not remember much of Cloud from when they were kids – even though they lived near one another – but she had thought about him a lot since he left the village. She often caught herself wondering how he was doing or checking the newspapers to see if there was an article recounting his heroics.
Maybe he's just forgotten the promise we made…
"Tifa?" a voice called from downstairs.
"Yes, Papa?"
"You're late!"
Consulting the clock on her nightstand, she swore, and scampered to the mirror for a quick, final inspection of her outfit. She had selected a sleeveless hiking top and miniskirt, with a brown leather waistcoat for warmth; they were both practical and complimentary to her figure. Grabbing her cowgirl hat and blowing the photograph of her mother a kiss, Tifa sprinted out the door.
Her father was waiting at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded across his chequered red shirt, his moustache twitching. He was broad in stature and could be intimidating when he wanted, clearly opting to dress in the most masculine clothes he owned.
"You'll have Sephiroth trembling in his boots with that lumberjack impression," she teased him.
"You should stay away from them," he replied with concern. "We don't need Shinra's help to protect our town."
Tifa rolled her eyes. "So you keep telling me. You sound just like Master Zangan."
"If I thought you'd one day get roped into something this risky, I would've made mountain climbing off limits."
"Stop worrying!" She squeezed his shoulder. "I'll be fine. Now, let's go meet this SOLDIER Investigation Team…"
[BREAK]
"Hello…?"
The oak floorboards of the old Lockhart family residence moaned underfoot as she slinked through the front entrance, but for the dozenth time there was no response to her holler. Those childish hopes of finding her father here had swiftly evaporated, yet neither her brain nor her heart could quite process the scene that greeted Tifa.
The main lounge area was relatively bare, furnished simply by pinewood cabinets of varying size, and porcelain ornaments that were as alien to her as a normal life. Through the open doorway beyond, she saw a large kitchen and dining table, complete with crockery, flower vase and a fruit bowl. The bluebells and apples in the latter two seemed fresh enough; it suggested, vacant as it currently was, the house had certainly not uninhabited. A peculiar smell hung on the air; it was sterile, if anything, like the place had been repeatedly scrubbed down with bleach.
This is not the home I remember…
A creak from upstairs drew Tifa's attention, and she instinctively clenched her fists. She stood perfectly still, listening, blood pulsing in her veins. The sound did not come again. She was all too familiar with the weird and wonderful noises the archaic buildings of Nibelheim used to make in her youth, but this was not an archaic building.
This was a fake. Albeit a good one.
It was probably just a draught, she assured herself. Nevertheless, she remained alert as she tiptoed over to the staircase that scaled the eastern wall.
At the height of the steps, she discovered a similar lack of décor, with only a dated portrait of some random lady betraying the blandness. Despite the residence's impressive dimensions, her parents had long ago reduced the number of rooms on the upper floor. The converted space was thereafter split between Tifa's room, an enormous master bedroom, and the modest landing on which she had emerged.
Pausing outside her father's old chambers, a sudden rush of emotion flooded over Tifa. A thousand happy memories cycled through her mind all at once – and for that she was grateful – but the carousel of momentary bliss came to an abrupt halt with the image of his bloodstained body strewn on the Mako Reactor walkway. Scolding herself for letting the darkness in, she wiped away a stray tear, and crossed the hall to what had been her own bedroom.
Contrary to the gloom of the overcast sky, an intense shaft of natural light illuminated the patterned rug at the centre of the floor. Disconcertingly, the furniture was arranged just as she had preferred it as a kid: the wardrobe faced the doorway, the desk was tucked in the opposite corner, and the single bed was positioned below the window. She took a minute to try and piece together her feelings, incapable of deciding if it pleased or disgusted her to stand in the room again.
It was then that Tifa spotted the upright piano in the alcove by the bed, the very sight stealing her breath away. She gaped, dumbstruck, at its dusty keys and varnished pine frame; the exact same brand and model as the one she had owned.
Why would someone go to all the trouble of getting the details this precise…?
Wandering absently towards the piano, she hovered over it for what seemed like an age. Her fingers ached to caress the magnificent instrument the way an addict craved their vice. Embracing this rare opportunity to play, she shed another tear, the sweet harmony of musical notes touching her soul. A tune began to form as her hands drifted gracefully back and forth, a local folksong her mother had always loved: 'Other Side of the Mountain'. Tifa could not prevent her grin as the chord progression readily returned to her.
Clunk.
The anomaly of the broken key roused her unceremoniously from her enchanted state. She glanced down at the ivory finger in disappointment and pressed it with a bit more force. Clunk. The sound was unusual, as was the stiffness of the key, like there was something wedged under it. Crouching, she examined the thin gap beneath the row, gasping as she noticed a fold of paper hidden there. She carefully removed the parchment, brushing the dust from its creases, her jaw dropping as she started to read:
My dearest Tifa,
I hope by the time you locate this letter, you'll have recovered from the horrors of what happened here. It will require that untameable strength of yours to comprehend the extent of what has befallen Nibelheim. Was that night an illusion? Was it just a dream?
No, it was neither.
I remember pulling people from the flames, the heat, the devastation. Even as the square crumbled around me, I struggled on. I did all I could to help them. I swear to you I did…
But it wasn't enough.
I sent your friend – the SOLDIER – to the Reactor after you. I soon followed, though, unable to bear the thought of what Sephiroth might do if you challenged him. I wanted to kill him. I feared I was too late.
But, when I arrived, Sephiroth had vanished. Instead, there you were, collapsed and wounded. Saving you was far more important than hunting that bastard. There were others still alive inside, but you were the only one I managed to get out before the Shinra troops swarmed in.
As I was escaping the facility, I recall a scientist named Hojo taking command. I overheard him order the soldiers to gather the survivors. To what ends, I could not say; I did not linger long enough to learn his plans.
It would have been folly to return to the village, so I carried you down the north face of the mountain. You were in bad shape. My healing spells slowed the blood loss, but I had to get you medical attention. An old contact, Dr Eugene, patched you up so I could get you to a hospital in Midgar. I hate that city, but I had people I trusted there.
I'm sorry I abandoned you. It wasn't safe to be seen together; the Company does not show mercy to loose ends. Sephiroth has been declared dead by the Shinra Media, but there was no mention of what became of Nibelheim. It meant they would come for us. I had no choice.
I pray you have it in your heart someday to forgive me.
I've been on the run since then, never settling in one place for too long. Shinra has spies everywhere. Three years have now passed. I came back seeking closure. All I found were questions. I can't fathom how the whole town has been rebuilt. To the untrained eye, everything seems normal…
Except for the folks with the black hoods I've encountered. As well as the cover-up, there's something unnatural going on, but I haven't yet got to the bottom of it.
The situation reeks of Shinra. I won't go after them, though. Not now. Not here. When you read this, you may think I'm burying my head in the sand. Perhaps I am. I just don't want anything to do with Shinra anymore. My muscles are weary, Tifa; I have lost what fight I had left in me. It feels like time is running out.
But, you…you could change the world if you so chose. I implore you to continue sharpening your skills and remember what I taught you.
You were always my most precious student.
Zangan
Master…?
Tifa gripped the letter tightly, her legs weak as she skimmed over it twice more. She was entirely numb, paralysed by the shock of her old martial arts instructor's words. Allowing herself a second to regulate her explosion of thoughts, she sank onto the bed, the unexpected firmness of the mattress jerking her back to the present.
So much of her own story had been a mystery until now; the only true evidence of that night being the scar Sephiroth's Masamune had carved from breast to navel. When she had woken from intensive care in Midgar, the hospital staff explained a strange man had checked her in, but that he had left before accounting for her injuries. He had used a pseudonym and concealed his face, so they could not even give her a description of her saviour.
Tifa had never openly discussed the matter, but she had always believed it was Zangan.
And he knew I'd come home sooner or later, she mused, the corner of her lips curling into a smile. It was reassuring to have a mentor somewhere out there who was on her side. He knew I'd go to war with Shinra…
Another loud groan of floorboards resonated from the landing outside, this time accompanied by an odd shuffling noise. Tifa was immediately on her feet, fists raised, eyes scanning the doorway. Silence resumed as swiftly as it had been disturbed, but with it came an eerie sense of being watched. It made her skin crawl.
Is…someone there?
Stuffing Zangan's letter into a pocket, she stealthily retraced her steps, peering out into the hallway. The coast was clear. She hastened towards the stairs, but again hesitated outside her parents' bedroom, her gaze drawn to a bundle of official paperwork on a low coffee table. Powerless to overcome her curiosity, she crept warily into the chambers, quickly inspecting the space for signs of another presence. She was alone.
Get it together, Tifa!
As suspected, the documents were each headed with the red Shinra diamond, the corporation's emblem. They were addressed to Annette Townshend, and a brief perusal revealed them primarily to be the smallprint of a basic employment contract; nothing of any real value to Tifa. Setting the papers back onto the table, she frowned, glimpsing the framed photograph of a blond-haired teenager. It took her several blinks and squints to determine it was not actually Rufus Shinra, but the boy bore an uncanny resemblance.
She began to explore the room, wistfully tracing her fingertips over every piece of furniture, every cut of fabric. Its most recent occupant – whoever this Annette lady was – enjoyed a mishmash collection of cabinets and wardrobes filled with a few simple items: a handful of white blouses; two empty suitcases; a half-composed postcard to someone called Evan.
The kid in the photo, maybe?
However, as she approached the twin beds, she spied the blank sleeve of a file atop the duvet. Picking it up, Tifa discovered it contained a periodic report that had been sent a month earlier to Professor Hojo, Director of Shinra Inc.'s Department of Science, presumably prior to his unauthorised resignation. The memo's contents were unambiguously classed: CONFIDENTIAL.
Scrutinising the text, she started to wonder if such a careless data breach was deliberate:
SUBJECT: THAUMATURGE ACTIVITY
Despite your hypothesis, we are yet to witness any of the clones attempt to leave [xxx] this quarter. They continue to behave in the fashion they assumed following the murder of the President. As previously detailed, the clones appear to be sensing something. Their activity remains unremarkable and localised to the areas they were assigned, but they have adopted a shared trait: their speech, limited as it is, relates exclusively to "Sephiroth" and "Reunion".
SUBJECT: RESETTLEMENT PROJECT
A total of eight people have visited [xxx] this quarter. Two of these are the new employees hired from Midgar to assist with daily care of the clones. Neither the recruits nor the travelling parties were familiar with [xxx]'s past and thus unaware of its restoration. As per the terms of their non-disclosure agreements, most of the resettled community has now completed their roleplay training. None have reported any problems or potential security incidents.
That is all.
As she read the last sentence, a subtle scrape on the floor behind Tifa made her scream. She was suddenly enveloped by a crushing wave of dread and panic. Everything seemed to slow as she spun around, her body barely responding as the fear took hold. The sight she was met by would haunt her forever, etching the chilling image onto her mind.
A man robed in a black cloak stood at the centre of the bedroom, one arm lifted in her direction, pointing. His features were hidden under a heavy cowl, but the skin on his hand was taut and deformed. She realised it was the resultant scarring of terrible burns, causing the stone in her stomach to sink even deeper. From this distance, she could also make out a numerical 'IV' had been tattooed on the back of his hand, in almost the exact same size and style as Nanaki's.
"Se…phi…roth?" rasped the figure's nightmarish voice, as if his throat was being shredded by shards of glass. "Where…are…you? Great…Seph…i…roth…"
Frozen to the spot, Tifa waited for the man to make a move towards her, but it never came. Instead, he lowered his arm and shambled casually to one of the cabinets, his head bowed as he repeated the words over and over. It occurred to her that it was he who was responsible for the creepy sounds she had been hearing. Unnerving as his appearance was, though, his manner did not indicate he was a threat.
So, he's one of the "clones", huh? But…what does that mean? Who are they?
Still clasping the quarterly report, Tifa edged her way cautiously back around the bed, sticking as close to the wall as possible to avoid interrupting the male's mumbled chants. She could not quite put her finger on why, but now that the original fright was receding, she was beginning to take pity on him. He was just another unanswered question in the great conspiracy of Nibelheim's destruction and resurrection. Slipping from the bedroom, Tifa hurried down the stairs, feeling no sense of loss as she bade farewell to this hollow shell of artificial history.
My house, my hometown, she reminded herself, they don't exist anymore…
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