AN: A special thank you goes to motchi for helping me get through the tougher scenes in this chapter. If I'm really lucky I'll be half the writer you are someday. And to bofoddity for her ear (so to speak), advice and suggestions. I can't thank you both enough!

Also, Thank you! for those of you that take the time to review, I sincerely appreciate it. On with the story…

Splintered Dreams

Chapter One

"The Angel of Seventh Heaven"

He'd studied her picture until her face was committed to memory; he'd searched sector after sector and used every back alley snitch and source he knew of and after four long months of tireless searching Zack found himself nestled amidst chaos and poverty in the middle of the Sector Seven slums.

Dressed in mourner's black, Zack stood silent as his thumb worked the worn edge of his bequeathed photograph. He read, then re-read, the hand painted sign hanging crooked above the door: Seventh Heaven. A more ironic name he'd be hard pressed to come up with, he thought, and flicked a glance toward stilted buildings and dreary surroundings.

The Sector Seven slums were just as dark and oppressive as the other areas Zack had been through in his search. The slums, as a whole, were all strewn with wreckage, broken machines, and components of various dismembered buildings left behind after Shin-Ra's overhaul. The majority of the homes littered throughout the area were made of collected scrap, shaped into modest dwellings without any architectural stability. The poor making due with the waste Shin-Ra left them.

In stark contrast to the grim and depressing setting, however, thick, tempting aromas wafted over muted conversation and through broken slats. Zack's stomach clenched and his mouth watered. He decided he could find a hot meal here, if nothing else.

Before he could move toward the entrance, the double doors swung out and a swearing, staggering man emerged, holding his jaw. "Damn gun wieldin' maniac! All I said was she had nice ti--!" The remainder of the sentence was cut short by face meeting dirt. The drunkard stumbled down the steps and landed with a huff and a groan on the ground at Zack's feet.

Zack tilted his head to the side, mildly amused. "Hey, pal, you okay?" No response. He nudged the motionless man with the toe of his boot in the same manner one might poke a dead animal on their lawn.

"Mmffrfcknn asshole…" Bleary, bloodshot eyes blinked up at Zack and a mouthful of dirt was spat through broken, crooked teeth. "'S pro'lem? Huh? Guy has needs, y'know!" No, Zack didn't know. In fact, he had no clue as to what the sloppy man was rambling about, nor did he have the inclination to find out. The drunk was alive and thus Zack was alleviated of any guilt he may have felt over his amusement in the face-first tumble.

With a bubbling gurgle, the prolific ramblings became no more than a garbled retching sound. Zack made a face; scrunched nose and twisted lips. "Yeah…sure. Whatever you say." With a shake of his head, he stepped over the vomit, shouldered his way into the bar and stopped dead.

Honey-toned walls and soft overhead lanterns blanketed the room in a dim, amber glow, and Zack, taken aback by the unexpected homey atmosphere, did a double-take over his shoulder. It was like walking into a completely different world than the one he'd just come from. Seventh Heaven, indeed.

Glasses clinked together, forks scraped against plates and conversation was animated. Given the lateness of the hour, he should have been surprised by the number of occupants still milling about, but looking around Zack understood why there were so many still there. The warmth of Seventh Heaven took the edge off the harsh gray of the outside; provided residents with a haven--a place of escape, a place of hope—however fleeting that may be.

Zack, due to training and habit, immediately began a mental inventory of the room's occupants: Two men in the corner, one swaying in his seat, the other doing an admirable job of keeping upright given the amount of empty tumblers on their table; a middle aged woman with dirty blond hair and watery eyes heading his way, followed by a sullen faced man in a dark green tee-shirt and beaten leather coat; three more gents were chatting in a corner booth with a couple of doe eyed girls as they picked the last remaining bits from their meals; a short, balding man sat at the bar, and a behemoth of a man leaned against the back wall, near the restrooms, arms crossed over his barrel-sized chest, glowering intensely. Zack shifted his stance and scrutinized the man more closely. It wasn't his scowling face that gave Zack lingering pause, but the massive amount of metal being sported as limb.

Instead of two matching biceps, his right arm was covered by a piece of worn leather under twisted steel. The extremity was large and heavy looking; cumbersome even, but Zack knew it for what it was. A weapon. A gun. His jaw tightened and he looked away, continuing his surveillance.

So far, no sign of the elusive Tifa Lockhart. Unconsciously, his thumb began to play with the edge of the photograph in his hand. The past few months had been one dead-end after another, but this lead had seemed more promising than most. The snitch from Sector Five had informed him-- for a few gil and a bottle of gin-- that there was a knock-out bartender in the Sector Seven Slums that went by the name Tifa. She was rumored to have ties with some eco-terrorist group that was very anti-Shin-Ra.

Zack recalled, with a sharp stab of guilt, a broken voice, softly accusing. "I hate it. Shin-Ra, SOLDIER, and you too…" Carried with that voice was the remembered smell of scorched flesh and the screams of the dying. She had every right to hate Shin-Ra…and him. He shoved the memory to the back of his mind, the photo to his back pocket and maneuvered toward the bar.

The clang of dishes and the indecipherable din of many voices quieted to a hushed lull as he went, the regulars casting curious glances his way, and Zack felt unwelcomingly exposed. He settled up to the bar, doing his best to ignore the way the hairs on his arm stirred and his muscles tensed beneath the questioning stares. He turned to the man beside him. "I'm looking for a woman--"

"Ain't we all, son." His chubby bar stool companion downed what remained in his glass with a satisfied belch.

"I'm looking for a particular woman," Zack continued and snatched some nuts from the bowl in front of him. He got the impression of a relatively tight-knit community and he figured nonchalance was his best in. If he appeared too aggressive they may close him out completely. "Tifa Lockhart. Know her?"

As though on cue, the swinging door that led, presumably, to the kitchen banged open and out she walked. Zack straightened abruptly and blinked in astonishment. She looked familiar and yet not. The youthful potential for prettiness she'd held at fifteen had blossomed into something far more substantial; something that couldn't be described in such fluffy terms as pretty. She was something unexpected.

She headed toward the behemoth against the back wall, a wad of towels in her hand, maneuvering around crates and upturned chairs with a dancer's grace. Long, well-toned legs flexed beneath a miniskirt the size of a placemat and Zack couldn't help but notice the pleasant bounce of her figure.

"Barret." There was a hint of exasperation in her dulcet voice when she spoke. "Let me see your hand."

Mr. Gun-arm himself-- Barret, apparently-- glowered down at the floor, unresponsive. Lines of contention were etched across dark skin, channeling deep grooves along a grim set mouth and between heavy, brooding eyes.

"Barret." She stopped in front of him, one boot tapping expectantly. "Now."

"Fuckin' bullshit, Teef." Barret grumbled, but obligingly lowered his arm.

She bent over his outstretched hand, examining it before placing the towel across scarred knuckles. Her long dark hair hung loose over one shoulder, the strands swaying as she shook her head. "What's bullshit is you nearly knocking some poor guy's teeth out--"

"He was gropin' all over you!"

Her head snapped up and her mouth thinned. "I would have handled it."

"Well, now you don't have to. It's handled." He scowled, bottom lip jutted slightly.

Zack leaned his elbows on the counter, interested. Less than half of Barret's size and Tifa seemed to be the one doing the intimidating.

"Yeah well, I don't like the idea of people being hurt on account of me." She dabbed at his knuckles. "Okay?"

Barret seemed flustered by her concern. "I don't need ya babyin' me," he grumbled, but without heat.

She nodded once and removed the towel. "And I don't need you knocking out any more of my customers. At least try, okay, for me?" He mumbled something that Zack couldn't quite catch, but whatever it was appeased Tifa. She smiled then. It was a mega-watt smile that never quite reached her eyes.

Finished with Barret, Tifa turned back to the bar and stopped abruptly. Her mouth parted on a startled gasp, and Zack was almost certain he heard his name. Her wide-eyed reaction wasn't one that he was entirely unfamiliar with; he'd received similar responses from the fairer sex his whole life.

A tall man, nearly six-four in his booted feet, lean of hip, and wide of shoulder, he radiated strength and confidence. His black hair swept dramatically back from a face that was said to be a gift from the gods, or so he'd been told. Strong bones beneath dusky, sun-kissed skin, dark lashes--the kind that every woman swore they'd kill for-- framed rich blue eyes and glanced against arched brows. His nose was straight-- despite being broken twice-- and his mouth had been called sinful by the same women that had claimed willingness to do bodily harm for his eyelashes.

Despite his gifted features, Zack knew it wasn't his good looks that had stopped Tifa Lockhart dead in her tracks. Distrust and suspicion were evident by her stiff posture and clenched fists. He recalled, only too well, the circumstances that had surrounded their last encounter and he couldn't blame her for being less than thrilled at the sight of him. Not that this encounter was likely to shed any favorable light on him either, he mused.

She leaned to the side, scanning the shadows behind him, and he saw the unspoken question in her eyes. Where's Cloud? At once his chest felt heavy and tight, laden with guilt.

He swallowed against the constriction in his throat and pushed himself away from the bar. He didn't bother with formalities or a cheeky, 'Hey long time, no see', but instead went for, "We need to talk."

Her brows drew together causing a crease to form between them. She looked ready to outright refuse him, until he added, "I have news of Cloud."

Whatever objection to his company she may have had vanished beneath her curiosity and concern for Cloud. Eyes, darkened with speculation and uncertainty, studied his face and Zack got the distinct impression he was being measured. He drew his shoulders back and managed to meet her curious gaze without flinching. She nodded once, seemingly satisfied with what she saw, and motioned for him to follow her.

Barret glowered at Zack with open disdain when he and Tifa reached the kitchen doors. "Yo, Teef, you know this chuckle-monkey?"

Chuckle-monkey? Had Zack been there for any other reason he may have found himself amused at the other man's obvious protectiveness and odd choice of insults, but being that he was about to tell his best-friend's girl that she was never going to see him again, Zack found he didn't have the patience for amusement. He met Barret's hostile gaze with a cold one of his own, a silent testosterone battle taking place in the space between them.

"Yes." Tifa eyed Zack speculatively over her shoulder. "I know him."

Barret didn't budge. He leaned forward, peering into Zack's face. "Ya've got SOLDIER written all over you."

Zack didn't bother to deny or confirm that last remark. His eyes generally spoke for themselves with their swirling ring of green in the center of lapis pools, a dead give away to the treatments he'd endured. Mako eyes; a sure sign of a SOLDIER. He hated his eyes.

"Barret!" This time there wasn't just a hint of exasperation. "Let him by."

Barret glanced at Tifa. She cocked an eyebrow. Grudgingly, he took a step to the side but leaned closer to Zack before he could pass, his voice low and tinged with warning. "I'm watching you."

"You know, you're really not my type." Zack replied with deceptive calm.

"What'd you just say to me, boy?"

Zack sensed rather than saw Barret's arm come up and his own hands flexed at his side. He'd had no intentions of fighting here, or anywhere for that matter, had, in fact, left his Buster Sword in his rented room, but he wasn't about to back down either. He turned slightly offering Barret his profile.

A hand slipped between barrel and face, gently, but firmly, pressing downward. "Barett. Please." Gone was the irritation, replaced by a sweet cajoling that momentarily distracted both men. "Please," Tifa enunciated. "For me. Remember?"

"Count yourself lucky." Barret jabbed a finger, blunted by years of hard labor, in Zack's direction before stalking away.

Lucky wasn't a word he associated with himself anymore, Zack thought, but refrained from giving it voice. He watched Barret hustle the remaining stragglers out the front door with more force than was probably necessary, slamming the doors and banging trays together. "He's a charmer," Zack commented dryly.

She pushed through the door, careful not to let it swing back in his face. "You said you had news of Cloud," Tifa reminded him promptly.

Not that he needed the reminder. For weeks he'd lain awake at night playing this scenario out over and over in his mind. Staring at unfamiliar ceilings, in unfamiliar sectors, he had held her photo and tried to pick and choose just the right words to break the news to Tifa Lockhart that she would never see Cloud Strife again.

He realized now how utterly useless that exercise in nightly self-torment had been. There were no magic words that were going to make this any easier; for either of them. He cleared his throat. "Uh, you may want to sit down for this…" Oh, yeah, there's a great beginning.

At his words Tifa, who had begun to pile dirty plates and flatware into the sink, stopped. The look she turned his way was guarded, but searching, and despite the overwhelming urge to look away, Zack did not.

"Where is he?" she asked, voice tight. "Is he all right? Is he hurt?"

Zack shook his head and hoped he could have left it at that.

A clattering sound—dirty plates meeting the counter top abruptly—told him she wasn't going to let him off that easy. "So, what is it?" she demanded. "No, he's not all right? No, he's not hurt? What?"

Gone was the softness from a moment ago. Her mouth was drawn in a tight, expectant line, as if she already knew and was daring him to lie. I dare you.

"He's dead," Zack stated. There it was; the truth in all its glory.

Time itself held its breath, waiting for her reaction. The noise from the other room faded into a muted thrum and his words hung in the air between them, heavy, but never falling into place.

She tilted her face away from him, hair crossing the threshold of her shoulders like a veil, closing off her expression. "I see."

What do you see? Zack wondered grimly. Did she see Cloud, bleeding out, lying cold in the mud while he knelt there, helpless and useless? Because that's what he saw every time he closed his eyes--every damn time.

The clink of metal against cheap earthenware kick started time again and drew Zack's gaze to the sink where Tifa, still turned away from him, recommenced her task of picking up the dishes and piling them. Pulling napkins from glasses. Raking forks into piles. Methodically stacking plate onto plate onto plate. One after another after another…

"How?" she asked, startling him.

Zack sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There were two answers he could give her. One was long and complex, one was short and blunt—and neither were pleasant. But the short one left the least amount of bile in his mouth so he said simply, harshly, "Shin-Ra." Then scowled. The word still tasted like shit.

Her shoulders tightened, the only response that she'd heard him. She bent to retrieve a red rag from beneath the sink. "Tell me what happened to Cloud."

His voice was as hollow as he felt. "I'm gonna need a drink for this."

She tossed the unused rag onto the pile of dirty dishes. "The bar should be empty now." She brushed past him, this time letting the door swing uncaught behind her.

Zack followed her out. He stared at her back, confused by her lack of response to the bomb he'd just dropped on her. No anger, no sadness. Just…nothing.

Barret was standing sentry behind the bar when they emerged, his gaze as unfriendly as before. He straightened to his full height, eyes darting between the two of them. "Teef?"

"Can I get a minute with… him." She inclined her head in Zack's general direction.

Something like irritation flickered across Barret's face. "Wedge and Biggs will be back--"

"Just a few more minutes, okay?"

Barret gave a curt nod, eyes on Zack. "I'll be around."

Tifa motioned for Zack to sit and grabbed a tumbler from beneath the bar. She set it in front of him, waiting.

"Beer's fine," he answered the unspoken question.

Deft, agile hands spun the tumbler back and replaced it with a beer from the mini-fridge in one smooth motion. She leaned back, regarding him in much the same way a rabbit watched a fox.

Zack said nothing for a long minute, then he spoke to the bottle in his hand. "Cloud died during our escape to Midgar."

Tifa shifted back away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Escape? From where?"

His stomach knotted in familiar pain. "Nibleheim."

An indiscernible emotion flitted across her features before she was able to school them back into placidity.

"After Sephiroth--" he paused; took a drink, swirled the beer around the bottle, watching, but not seeing the liquid inside. "After the reactor incident… Cloud and I were taken to a lab, beneath Shinra Mansion." He cleared his throat. "For what purpose, I'm still not entirely sure. After a time, I was able to get out of my Mako chamber--"

She stared at him. "I'm sorry, you're what?"

"Mako chamber." He waved a hand. "Big tube-like thing full of Mako." He sent her a quick look. "It's hard to explain."

She didn't seem interested in his explanations anyway. "And Cloud?"

"In the tube next to mine," Zack sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "He had Mako addiction pretty bad. Too much Mako can poison the body, corrode the mind."

"And…this killed him?"

His mouth twisted bitterly. "No."

The crease was back between her brows. "Then how?"

"We were ambushed during our escape. Shin-Ra infantry." Zack swallowed the remainder of his beer, head bowed. "He was shot. But, before he died, he asked that I tell you…" Ifrit, why was this so hard?

"Tell me…?" she gripped the bar top.

He had the hardest time meeting her eyes, but he did it. "Cloud wanted you to know that he never forgot you, or your promise." His fingers curved around his beer reflexively. "Never."

Tifa inhaled sharply and turned her back to him. The next few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence. Zack fingered the Junon Ale label, pulling it off of the amber bottle in jagged strips.

"Thank you," she turned and reached for his empty bottle. "For telling me."

Zack blinked at her composed tone. He felt like he was about ready to crack, raw and wounded, and here she was, supposedly the love of Cloud's life, taking the news of his death with no more reaction than a bat of her lashes. Anger, and the sting of betrayal for his fallen friend rose up in Zack.

"You can show yourself out, right?" She didn't wait for his reply. One moment she was standing idle behind the bar, the next the kitchen door was swinging back and forth wildly. Zack rose with a shake of his head. He reached into his back pocket, felt the photograph there and clenched it in his fist. He dropped it and a few gil on top of the bar. He'd done his part, he'd told her. The fact that she was about as warm as an ice materia, well, that wasn't his problem.

Zack was halfway to the door when he heard it; the shattering of glass. He stopped, startled by the abrupt sound, turned, and was greeted with Barret's bulky chest practically flush with his nose.

"Ok, Sparky, that's your cue," Barret jutted his chin toward the entrance.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going." Zack shrugged, walking away. He cast a cursory glance over his shoulder when he thought he heard a strangled cry followed by the continued smashing of glass.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out!"

Zack didn't bother to acknowledge the last comment, instead opting to leave Seventh Heaven and the sounds of glass shattering like a broken heart behind him.

Barret shoved open the kitchen door, a worried scowl etched on his already grim face. "Teef? What'd that dumb motherfu--" he came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide in alarm. Standing amidst a kitchen littered with debris, with one hand pressed to her mouth, and the other flat on the counter Tifa's shoulders shook. "…Tifa?" Barret took a hesitant step in her direction.

Head bowed low, her voice came out forced and wobbly. "Just…just give me…a minute." she hiccuped.

Barret's good hand folded helplessly in on itself. "If he said something to hurt you--"

She stepped away from him, boots crunching glass from broken beer bottles. "Please…"

"I'll be downstairs." The scene of destruction around him was unsettling. Whatever news the SOLDIER chump had brought with him had upset Tifa like nothing Barret had ever seen before. "If you need me."

Tifa waited for the sound of the door thumping back and forth before allowing herself the luxury of a sob. She took a stumbling step forward, then another. She turned, leaning against the wall, her world dangerously off center.

She had known four years ago that fateful night in Nibleheim, when life as she knew it had gone up in flames, that maybe she wouldn't see him ever again. But to know that she would never look into those blue--so very blue--eyes again, or see that timid half smile on his face… It was too much and so unfair. They never had a chance. Hadn't they deserved a chance?

Back pressed to the cold slats of the freezer, she sank to the floor, tears in her eyes and a fistful of apron in her mouth. Oh, Ifrit, not Cloud… She muffled a scream, rocked back and forth.

When the worst of the tidal wave of grief had crashed over her, leaving her trembling and weak, lost in a sea of despair, she folded her arms across her knees and buried her head in the darkness there.