Disclaimer: Dirge of Cerberus and Crisis Core belongs to Square Enix.
A/N: I apologize for the delay, but I had many personal complaints about the chapter, particularly on the presentation of Zack and Cloud. The editing took awhile, but hopefully you shall enjoy this chapter.
A/N: This chapter is written while under the influence of D'espairs Ray.
Requiem
Chapter 3: Heavenly
The cadets gazed at each other nervously even as the instructor shouted the orders to the daily training exercises. The majority tuned out the voice of the instructor as the latter reminded them of the appropriate rules and regulations of the dueling—seeing as how the class was mostly practice and therefore should follow all safety procedures strictly unless specifically told otherwise. As the cadets meandered their way to the side racks to choose their weapons, they gulped and tried to prevent their limbs from trembling due to suffocating anxiety. No one had expected General Strife—of all people!—to show up unannounced to watch their performance while they were mentally unprepared! This sort of sordid business had previously been handled by First Class SOLDIER Zachary Fair, who, while still impressive in the eyes of the cadets, had been so friendly and outgoing that most forget that the was the officer evaluating them.
The silence was nerve-wrecking as the cadets faced off against each other, each praying that he or she would not screw up during the duel, for impressing the general would mean an automatic 'PASS' into SOLDIER—or so they would love to believe. But if that fact alone did not send them into a near mental breakdown, then it was the fact that they had absolutely no idea what the general expected of them, especially not after they had all witnessed the extraordinary spar between the two generals.
"On my mark!" bellowed the training instructor, pitying the cadets by deciding that this sort of exposure to the elite officers will be good for the cadets should they continue in their studies. The cadets snapped to attention in front of their designated partners and raised their weapons into the respective offensive stances—defensive for those rare few who either did not trust in their abilities to fight or preferred to let their opponents make the first move. "Begin!" commanded the instructor when he observed that all the cadets looked ready.
A moment later, the training gym room was filled with the sound of numerous pairs of wooden weapons clanging together as the cadets rushed at each other under the close scrutiny of the general. While the cadets fought with all the spirit and skill they could muster, Strife mentally evaluated those possible few that might garner an ounce of his future attention, but blinked when he suddenly registered a flash of shockingly scarlet hair at the corner of his eyes. He focused on the sight of a decently built cadet who expertly wielded a stick, the weapon being a club of equal proportions lengthwise.
The graceful, nearly casual movements displayed by the red-haired boy put all the rest of the cadets on the floor to shame—especially the partner, whose attacks were easily parried or blocked. Strife watched with a hint of a smile—hidden from view underneath the heavy silk scarf wrapped around his neck—as the red-head effortlessly defeated his opponent after apparently decidedly he had humored the other for far too long. At the sounds of the wooden rod striking the tender flesh of the victim and the weight of a fairly muscular body thudding against the mat from the impact, Strife stood up from the side observatory chair and approached the pair he had been observing. The general barely noticed—or rather, chose to ignore—the abrupt stillness and quietness that slipped over the room as the cadets cased their duels to salute to their superior officer. Strife wanted to laugh: he was the shortest and nearly the scrawniest of all in the room, yet these boys showed such respect and fear to him. He briefly wondered if he would have been bullied for his miniature stature without his rank, but pushed away the train of thought as he reached his destination.
"Your name, cadet," requested Strife, his voice muffled but undoubtedly clear even over the rustling of clothing, the gasping for breath, and the shuffling of feet by the other cadets.
"Reno—" (1)
"Reno, is it?" interjected Strife rudely, and the cadet raised an eyebrow at the general in a careless, almost bored, gesture, but Strife knew he held the attention of the other teenager. "How about a little spar between us?"
"Whatever, yo," replied the cadet as he shrugged his shoulders, but the gesture looked tense even to the untrained eye. Strife turned to the cadet to his immediate right to acquire a wooden sword—slightly old and decrepit, but useful enough for his purposes.
It was not much of a duel, really. When Reno chose to assume a defensive stance as a precaution, Strife had thrust his sword forward in a series of lightning fast strikes that knocked Reno's stick out of his hands within the short five second of the duel. Strife did nod as the red-head approvingly, however—much to the confusion of the cadets—because Reno had managed to parry and dodge a good four or five hits before he could no longer keep up with the attacks.
"Retrieve your weapon, cadet." Reno made a noncommittal-noise—his hand smarted sharply—and bent to pick up the fallen stick. "This time, come at me."
Reno charged forward as soon as his hand touched his weapon, but his offensive was easily and quickly broken despite the fact that his third strike would have grazed the general's forehead if he had not hesitated, suddenly seized with the irrational fear of angering the general. Within moments, his weapon was once again knocked out of his hands, but this time he tripped over his feet while trying to avoid a strike at his head. Reno looked up at Strife as the tip of the wooden sword rested at his throat, and he—along with the onlookers—realized how easy Strife was going on him.
"Fight me with the intent to kill, cadet," frowned the general as he withdrew his weapon and lowered it onto his side. "On the battlefield, your enemy will not be so lenient on you."
"But, sir, the instructor told us not to go overboard, yo," responded Reno when said instructor made no effort to excuse him from the general's wrath.
"The rules were meant for the safety of other cadets, not your superiors…particularly not the one who specifically asked for the duel," murmured Strife as he watched Reno stand up while dusting off and adjusting his clothing. The cadet rubbed at his sore hand momentarily before bending back down to pick up his fallen weapon once more.
Strife narrowed his eyes in contemplation of the method employed by the instructors in teaching the cadets the basics of close combat. Surely it would be appropriate to allow these duels as all-out sessions to weed out those worthless cadets through discouragement rather than failure of the SOLDIER examinations? After all, the list of casualties and the severity of the injuries should be diminished in these duels—with wooden weapons, no less—than in the physical portion of the examinations. 'Mother' hummed in disagreement, because she believed his energy should not be wasted on caring about these insignificant beings—
His thoughts were disrupted as Reno once again rushed forward, and the general took a step back to dodge a well-aimed strike at his shoulder. Reno twisted around and brought his stick down on his opponent only to have it blocked. Even though his arms and legs were starting to ache from having exceeded his limits for far too long, Reno continued his onslaught of attacks, but a sharp pain blooming in his arm caused him to drop his weapon and reach up instinctively to his other arm to cover the flesh where he was struck. Just when I thought I had hit something! thought Reno as he rubbed at his arm, where a nasty bruise was starting to form, causing him to wince when his massaging actually made the pain flare instead of subside.
"Congratulations," praised Strife as he handed back his wooden sword to the speechless cadet he had borrowed it from—who had clumsily attempted to salute and utter out a 'Sir' without making a fool out of himself. "You aren't completely worthless, Reno."
With that, Strife exited the room without a single glance backwards. The cadets broke out into heated whispers: some moaned about the high expectations of the general and the high probability, they were sure, of failing the SOLDIER examinations; others, however, complained about the cruelty of the general to show up out of nowhere and force them to miss their 'golden opportunity' because of lack of preparation. All Reno could do, however, was grin.
A single strand of golden hair, unseen by all who did not know what to look for, lay on the training mat where the general had stood.
He did not really know why he had decided to observe the cadets that afternoon instead of cooping himself up in his office, as he had done for the past few days, but the little trip had managed to pacify 'Mother', strangely enough. However, as he passed through the crowded hallways of the administrative floor—the crowds eagerly parting before him, much to his amusement—he started to crave the words on the pages while 'Mother's' words flickered through his consciousness.
His footsteps stilled outside of Sephiroth's office and his eyes darted quickly to his side to survey the glass panes separating him from the other general. 'Mother's' voice was absent in his mind, but 'her' presence was overbearing all the same. Out of the corner of his eyes, Strife observed that the silver-haired man sat alone in his office and appeared to be pouring over some maps and charts, though the careless manner with which those brilliant green eyes skimmed over the sheets of paper spread out over the desk suggested the man was not actually paying attention to the reports.
Strife felt incredibly drawn to Sephiroth, and supposed that it should come as no surprise: the man was gorgeous and exuded power, two characteristics, he was sure, most would love to possess and exploit. Still, he wondered why he felt the attraction at all, especially since neither of them preferred to interact with each other more than was necessary—unless in the company of Zack, in which case they conferred only as much as was provoked without completely aggravating the black-haired lieutenant (which, unfortunately, was more than either could bare). 'Mother', ever since the trip to Rocket Town, had encouraged him to befriend Sephiroth, and it was gradually getting harder to distinguish his own preferences from 'her' thoughts and desires. There was something about this man, though, that always made him gaze at the closed door of Sephiroth's office before straying off once again, typically with facts and figures circling his head to subdue 'Mother'.
"It has been confirmed that Space Rocket 'ShinRa Number 26' has exploded during…" (2)
Strife paused in front of the television in the waiting room as he registered the meaning of the words he had just heard. Despite the hustle and bustle by disgruntled and sleep-deprived secretaries, Strife tuned in to the blaring of the speakers as the newscaster continued to speak. No one else seemed to have cared about the news bulletin, either worried about completing paperwork or meandering around the general—who happened to stop in the middle of the corridor for no reason!
"…believe that a volatile substance, currently named the 'Huge Materia', had reacted violently to the MAKO used to fuel the rocket…"
'Mother' hummed quietly at the back of his mind, and he could almost taste the delight 'she' radiated.
"Uncertain at the moment if there are any survivors, but an escape pod is reported to have been released. Rocket control administrators at ShinRa Company have speculated that the explosion could have short circuited the radio…"
"General Strife."
Strife turned around, startled by the rich baritone voice, and came face to face with Sephiroth.
"Can we talk?" Strife nodded almost immediately—grateful that the presence of the other general distracted 'Mother'—and followed wordlessly as Sephiroth led the way out of the elite offices.
The rooftop of the SOLDIER barracks was strangely refreshing, with the cool afternoon air caressing his cheeks and the gentle breeze threading through his hair. The sun shone a dusky crimson as it descended into the horizon, and for a single glorious moment, the sky looked tainted with fresh blood and decayed flesh. He noticed that Sephiroth was watching him, almost as if appraising him in a different perspective, and brought himself out of his thoughts—or perhaps 'Mother's'.
"Zachary is under the impression that we should talk." Strife nodded, something unexplainable welling up inside of him from that statement.
"About what?"
"What do you know about her?" Sephiroth watched Strife expectantly as his fingertips brushed lightly over the warm, smooth leather of his coat. His hands felt oddly exposed without his customary gloves to cover up that shameful number on the back of his left hand. The tattoo on his right arm had faded away after years of experimentation, and Sephiroth wondered at Strife's case when he saw no visible numbers on the boy's arms or hands.
"Who?" Strife gritted his teeth and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and apprehension, the latter feeling he wished to have never existed in the first place because 'Mother' started to stir at his discomfort.
"Zachary, childishly enough, refers to her as the 'Illness', though I suppose that term can rightly be applied to her. I called her 'Mother' during the Wutaian War, a feat I'm certain even those your age have heard quite excessively of." Strife watched the darkening skies blanket over the features of the silver-haired general and shadow those eyes without ever dimming their beauty and brilliance—perhaps due to the MAKO burning through the other's bloodstream. "So, General Strife, I ask again: what do you know about her?"
"Nothing." The word sounded false and empty in his mind, but the word spoke the truth. He furrowed his eyebrows as his mind started to churn through the blank recesses of his mind, but nothing seemed to remind him of 'Mother'.
"I see." Strife fidgeted when that intense gaze turned—pityingly?—on him.
"Why did you call me out here?" He wanted to berate himself for the stupidity of that statement.
"I believe I already told you the reason," murmured Sephiroth, averting his gaze when he discerned the unease in that body standing across the grounds. Strife seemed younger every single time Sephiroth could perceive an ounce of insecurity in the boy.
That feeling welled up inside of him again, but a hot, overpowering anger suddenly clenched his stomach and spread throughout his body. "I don't need his concern, or yours." His own voice sounded strained in his ears, but 'Mother' whispered word of encouragement to him—some to befriend the other, and others to commend him for his devotion to 'her'. He suppressed a wince of annoyance as 'Mother' continued to whisper in his mind, and tried to quiet 'her' because the last time he had listened to 'her', he barely managed to battle past the deep bloodlust caused by the poisoned honey of 'Mother's' voice. He quickly recalled the mission reports he had read the previous day—something about a scouting trip with Zack into Midgar, where a terrorist group named 'AVALANCE' bombed ShinRa reactors and murdered innocent bystanders, claiming their work shall "save the planet".
"I suppose not, but Zachary believes you will eventually trust him—or us, since Zachary is too much of an optimist," shrugged Sephiroth dismissively after a few moments of silence.
"If he is so concerned…Why are you here instead of him?" 'Mother' sneered approvingly and he agreed with her grudgingly.
"Today is the anniversary of an event I believe only he has the right to tell you of. Regardless, it would delight him if you met him at whatever bar he decided to drown himself in and accompany him back to his quarters," stated Sephiroth flatly as he started heading towards the doorway to the rooftop stairs, deeming the meeting over.
"I'm to believe that I have to play escort to a drunken man?" asked Strife incredulously as he watched that elegant hair sway with the movements of the other general. He heard a soft, amused chuckle before those cat-like emerald eyes bore into his own again, making him wish he had not spoken at all.
"Alcohol clears our MAKO-enhanced systems faster than normal bodies, but Zachary knows how to keep to his limits. Mostly likely he'll call your office until you go mad from the noise of the phone ringing and find him at wherever he is." The way Sephiroth mentioned the information made Strife suspect that this sort of thing occurred quite often, and he briefly wondered how Zack had managed to reduce his superior officer to a pick-up boy without getting killed.
"The real question, I believe," hummed Sephiroth, sounding oddly amused, "is why you haven't caused him any physical harm."
The question remained unanswered.
When he turned the knob to his office, he had been expecting a decent stack of paperwork on his desk, awaiting his perusal and written response. But curiously, an envelope, somewhat water-stained and wrinkled, sat on top of the pile of papers, drawing his immediate attention. His fingertips gingerly trailed across the wrinkles of the item before grasping the edges to turn the envelope around.
"Tifa Lockhart…" murmured Strife softly to himself as he read the name on the top left-hand corner of the envelope. The sound of those syllables made him feel warm, but 'Mother' did not seem to appreciate the fact that he could derive that sort of comfort from anyone but 'her'. Shrugging his shoulders, he ripped open the envelope, retrieved the thin piece of folded lined paper within, and unfolded the item after its extraction.
'Dear Cloud,
'I'm not sure if you remember me anymore after all these years. After all, the last time we saw each over was when I'd just turned ten years old. I just wanted to write to you though, because we'd promised that when we got news of each other in the future, we'd try to contact one another.
'I could only wish that we'd spent more time together in the past, that I'd been nicer to you, that the townspeople didn't resent you so much because of my mistake. Nine years of being childhood best friends can hardly be called enough time together, and I just want to see you again—'
Strife dropped the letter back onto the top of his desk and averted his eyes from the text, squinting instead into the night lights of the city life sprawled across the landscape seen from his office window. His vision became blurred as he remembered soft brown hair and kind auburn eyes with a lively, youthful face. He did recall spending a portion of his past with her, but his mind seemed to resolve around two separate timelines, each portion of his subconscious dictating the other as false.
A sharp pain pierced his head, making him reach up to dig into and rub at his left temple, and 'Mother's' coos echoing at the back of his head, the noise gradually getting louder, made him forget about everything else. His eyes landed back onto the piece of paper, and he reached out tentatively with his hand again to touch the wrinkles of the letter, as if trying to reassure himself of its actual presence in the room.
He jerked his hand back, as if burned, when the telephone started to ring, and he turned startled eyes toward the loudly ringing object. Strife gulped thickly, letting the wails of the telephone fill up the oppressing silence of the room. He finally picked up the receiver when he realized that not only did the telephone continue to chime, but his mobile phone—when did I get a cell phone?—also started to vibrate in his pants pocket.
"What is it?" ventured Strife, his tone suggesting his displeasure at having been interrupted at a somewhat important personal matter.
"Spike! Come meet me at 'Cloud Nine'! If you leave the compound and take a left, take a right after you see this extremely crowded café and then walk for a few minutes. You'll be there in no time! Oh, and if you get lost, ask around. See ya!" With that, the phone flat-lined and Strife stood there blinking for a moment as he absorbed all the information Zack had just rambled to him in the course of a few seconds.
"'Cloud Nine', huh?" muttered Strife softly to himself as he picked up his jacket—compliments of Zack during their stay in Rocket Town—and headed out the door, all thoughts of the letter gone from his mind.
'Cloud Nine' appeared small and almost run-down compared to all the rest of the elegant, extravagant restaurants and clubs flashing gaudily nearby, but despite the impression from the first glance, the club remained fairly popular. Strife almost grimaced when he saw the long line of people—mostly young adults of some social stature—awaiting for their turn into the establishment, and thought about flashing his ShinRa identification if not for the doorman who suddenly gestured towards him. Strife shrugged inwardly as he stepped up to the burly, tall man, and craned his neck slightly to look fully into the deep brown eyes of the intimidating man.
"Zack's been waiting for ya," boomed the doorman when several customers standing in line shot envious glares at Strife, not quite realizing the boy's position in the most profitable and most powerful company in the world. Frequenters of the club turned away their stares and quelled their anger when they heard Zack's name mentioned, but the rest—those who have only recently been introduced to the club—continued to wonder at the significance of the name 'Zack'.
Strife merely nodded as the doorman pushed open the door, letting a huge burst of pounding music out into the open air. The blonde grunted in displeasure at the noise, but entered the tastefully decorated club nevertheless. As soon as the door closed behind him, someone grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the crowd of gyrating bodies. Strife barely managed to catch a glimpse of spiky black hair before his abductor slammed another door shut behind him.
Zack grinned amiably at Strife before taking a seat once again at the bar, and Strife noticed that the walls and the glass windows effectively shut out not only the noise from the rest of the club, but also the stares of the other occupants of the establishment. Only a few people were scattered around in the spacious, dimly lit room, the majority of which were comfortably seated in luxurious couches as they softly conversed. Strife returned his focus to the reason behind his visit to the club, and took a seat beside Zack while the other ordered some drinks—all containing some sort of alcohol—for the both of them.
"So, you must know why you're here, right, Spike?" asked Zack after he had dispensed with the ordering.
"Not really," muttered Strife as he stared at the bartender's back, watching those skilled, calloused hands expertly retrieve the appropriate ingredients to be mixed into the drinks. In a few quick moments, a drink—light green in color with crystals scattered around the rim of the glass—was presented in front of him, causing him to stare at the proffered object in a slightly confused manner.
"Midgar doesn't really care too much about your age as long as places profit from your stay. So you better drink up or they might think I'm being a cheapskate or something!" grinned Zack as he watched Strife eye the drink uncertainly. He took a sip of his own drink as Strife picked up the glass gingerly and brought the beverage to his lips. Zack caught a glimpse of a tongue as Strife tilted the glass back slightly and took a small taste of the drink.
"Like it?" laughed Zack when Strife coughed a little at the sensation of the alcohol burning down his throat. A light flush crept up onto Strife's cheeks as warmth spread throughout his body, and Strife licked his lips to clean off any of the remaining salt that might have remained on them.
"It's…interesting," conceded Strife as he took another sip, this time letting the liquid linger a little in his mouth before swallowing. He could not remember the last time he tasted any sort of alcoholic beverage.
"As you know, today's my mom's birthday. And while I can't exactly go running off to Gongaga because of ShinRa policies, that doesn't stop me from finding a good cause for celebration!" grinned Zack cheekily, and Strife wanted to snort at Zack's behavior. "Now normally, I would just drag Seph wherever I wanted. But…Years of experience told me that he can get really…'unpleasant', to put it mildly, when I keep him away from his beloved work too long. So, I needed new company, and I guess that victim was you!"
"Lucky me…" grumbled Strife sarcastically, sounding rather disgruntled at the information. Zack slung an arm across Strife's shoulders and laughed boisterously, garnering the heated, disapproving glares of the other patrons in the room.
"Seriously, though…I'm sort of relieved I didn't have to call you a billion times just to get you to come. Truth to tell…" Zack leaned conspiratorially towards Strife's ear, and Strife suppressed a shiver when he felt the hot breath washing over his skin from the close proximity. "It really sucked when I had to ask to use the club phone because I was running out of pocket gil. Well, actually, it probably only sucked so much because the barmaid really wanted to get my number and me calling Seph apparently made me 'unavailable' in her eyes."
Strife supposed it was pleasant to listen to Zack tell stories about all the weird encounters he had during his days in Midgar, but Strife did not quite find it in his nature to answer all the questions posed by Zack in the course of their pseudo-conversation. Zack, for the most part, effectively filled the silence left by Strife, but Strife knew when to put in a word or two before the other start demanding longer sentences. Besides, some of the stories told had been so outrageous in nature that Strife reacted out of pure instinct, though Zack seemed to like it best when Strife smiled.
Strife felt slightly awkward to be able to feel so relaxed throughout the evening, especially since 'Mother' had such a violent reaction the last time he had been with Zack without the presence of Sephiroth. Strife absently watched Zack's lips move to form the words, and he could almost imagine the visible movements of the throat as air pushed through the esophagus. Alive…
Presently, Strife blinked as his eyes suddenly focused on the entirety of Zack's face—only a few inches away from his own—and he registered the oddity of seeing the MAKO-induced green taint the otherwise amethyst irises. When was the last time I'd looked at someone else from so up close?
"You know, if you keep going off into your own world in the middle of a conversation, people might think you hear voices in your head or something," grinned Zack cheekily, though his tone of voice sounded strange in Strife's ears. Zack leaned in closer to peer into Strife's eyes before laying a hand across Strife's forehead, and Strife could almost taste the hot breath being expelled through those moistened lips. Strife was grateful the flush from the alcohol mildly disguised his blush of embarrassment—though he could not be sure exactly what he was embarrassed of.
"Nope, definitely not the alcohol. I doubt it could have really impacted your system that badly anyways! You know, you really should ignore whatever interesting thing it is that lives inside of your chocobo head and decide on what you want…" continued Zack vaguely. "Namely, paying attention to your host?"
"Sorry…" muttered Strife, though he really could not bring himself to sound entirely sincere in the sentiment. Zack suddenly grinned mischievously, and Strife narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the other man.
"Tell you what…for being such lousy company tonight—" At this, Strife glared at Zack in displeasure—blaming Zack since the other dragged him out in the first place—but Zack merely shrugged off that heated look and continued on. "You—" Zack pointed a finger at Strife and poked him gently in the chest, right underneath the collarbone. "—Have to make it up to me with a date." Zack tried to look mildly intimidating after completing his "threat".
Strife did not even need to consider the "or else" part that typically followed such friendly teasing, nor did he particularly think he could withstand the pestering from Zack more than usual. Thus, grudgingly, Strife nodded his head and gave permission to Zack of the first date he had been on for as long as he could remember.
Strife had to wonder though…Why exactly did he feel compelled to listen to Zack?
Heavy rain clouds had been overhanging the skies of Midgar for a good few days, darkening the day and giving the polluted city a gloomy and dirty taint from the usually more vibrant appearance. Not even the brightly-lit buildings in the downtown region of the Top Plate managed to lift the sense of anxiety and depression that gripped every citizen's hearts at the thought of having more of these grotesque days.
It had meant to be a routine patrol around Midgar, a simple—though tedious—mission to show some of the more promising cadets a taste of their future in the field. But the weather dampened the cadets' spirits despite their previous enthusiasm at being 'chosen'—as the other cadets, envious of those allowed on the assignment, had dubbed it—by the general. Even Lieutenant Zack seemed oddly sullen compared to his normally sunny disposition, especially as the troupe trudged through the dampened streets of Midgar, the air rank with a mixture of sewer waste and impure MAKO.
A sharp rumbling of earth and the billows of scarlet fire and black smoke bursting into the dusky sky—followed by a jarring screech as metal collapsed—had the troupe immediately on the alert. With the smoke signaling the position of the site of the explosion, the cadets and the attending SOLDIERs soon found themselves standing in front of one of the ShinRa MAKO reactors. As workers fled the scene, the company noticed broken flesh and fragmented bone littering the grounds further away from the actual reactor, the mutilated body parts a glimpse of the horrors those who had been unlucky enough not to die directly from the explosion had suffered. There had even been bleeding, burnt bodies slumped underneath or above the piles of rubble and metal, accompanied by the less grotesque corpses of those who had been unfortunate enough to suffocate from the smoke.
The cadets could tell that the event had been unexpected, though during the briefings, they had been informed of the possibility of such a catastrophe occurring. While the lieutenant and the general assessed the situation, the Third Class SOLDIERs appointed to the mission turned to the cadets and informed them that ShinRa policies did not require the services, voluntary or not, of any persons below the class of SOLDIER. However, a blond cadet—whose records, Strife recalled, displayed the name Elena—had boastfully argued that the cadets surely must have prepared themselves for potential death when they signed up for the training program.
"Since we already knew about the possibility of dying during the SOLDIER examination, I don't see why this can't be considered part of our training!" finished Elena haltingly, and the other cadets, while anxious of their own safety and terrified of the situation, boldly agreed with the girl to seem less weak in the eyes of their superiors.
"Sir—" retorted one of the Third Class SOLDIERs, concerned that the inexperience of the cadets might encumber the troupe during the remainder of the mission rather than aid it.
"We might need the manpower, so we'll let them choose. For now, let's just hurry and see if we can help out any survivors we find," reasoned Zack before glancing towards his right to observe Strife's response to his decision. Zack swallowed thickly as he saw the flames tinting the edges of Strife's irises scarlet, but focused his attention back onto the cadets when he noticed the general's nod of approval.
Strife divided the troupe into three smaller groups, the first two groups composed of five Third Class SOLDIERs and two cadets, and the last group composed of the general, the lieutenant, Reno, and Elena. He instructed the units to search for and rescue any survivors found, and to report back to the ShinRa compound as soon as the unit has completed the appointed segment—to their best knowledge and own discretion.
"Let's go," ordered Strife after the completion of the arrangements, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the fire and the groaning of concrete and metal.
The general soon discovered that the portion of the mission he had assigned to himself had been most severely ravaged by the initial explosion and the subsequent chaos of heat-induced collapse. Needless to say, the unit could find little to nothing that either had not already been charred beyond recognition or consumed by the fire, or had not been crushed beneath the piles of rubble. All that rewarded the unit after desperate minutes of digging through concrete and metal—when possible—was dust and smoke, clinging uncomfortably to their sweat-slickened skin and uniforms.
After a little over half an hour of fruitless work, the members of the unit were surprised by a rather undamaged clearing, and subsequently discerned that the area housed the side generator—the support power supply to the main reactor should maintenance be needed. The group cautiously spread themselves apart to look through the debris that did fall from the shockwave of the explosion.
Elena thought she heard something striking against metal and a quiet groan, and headed towards the direction the sounds emanated from. She gave a yelp as she dashed towards the pile of wreckage where a worker laid half buried. Another clang, followed by the now audible footsteps, alerted Elena to the presence of an unknown and uninjured person, the sounds of the boots striking the ground suggesting a heavy-set man. She lifted her head, and across the stretch of hallway leading to the controls of the back-up generator stood a tall, brawny man, with a rather daunting machine gun attached to his left arm—or rather, the stump of his amputated left arm. The young man—perhaps only in his early or mid-twenties—noticed only the blue, ShinRa-issued uniform donned by Elena before he angrily and irrationally raised his gun arm, pointing the barrel in the direction of Elena.
"ShinRa scum!" bellowed the man, and Elena felt her body completely freeze in fear, unable to even scream for help to save her own life.
"Cadet! Get down!" shouted someone in the distance just as a body slammed into her own, knocking her out of harm's way just as the sound of bullets firing echoed along with the roaring of the fire. A sharp inhalation and a grunt of pain forced her to focus from the darkened skies to the curtain of scarlet hair tickling her lips and right ear. She breathed in deeply, not even realizing that she had begun to cry, and sat up to discover that Reno had been shot thrice in his legs, leaving a pool of blood staining the ground where she knelt immobile moments ago. The survivor was dead. Everything looked red.
Strife raced across the bridge to where he could see the dark-skinned man—the newest member of AVALANCE, named Barret Wallace—hastily and tremblingly load his gun with more powerful ammunition. If Strife had met this father of one in a different situation, he would have wondered if the pounding of his heart was due to the concern over the safety of his troops or from the pang of almost recognition his mind struggled to match in his memories. But with the adrenaline rushing through his blood stream and 'Mother's' voice eagerly goading him on, he wanted nothing but blood from that man to be spilt onto the ground for a thousand conflicting reasons.
Wallace cocked his gun and aimed, ready to shoot. Reno painstakingly crawled onto his hands and knees, barely hovering over the traumatized Elena, and spared a half panicked, half calm gaze—the expression of one who has accepted their unwelcome but imminent death—at the man about to kill him.
Strife's nostrils flared as he smelled the scent of fresh blood, and his vision was temporarily blinded by scarlet as 'Mother' reacted favorably to his actions—or perhaps by the blood, the droplets glimmering from the fire, which poured out of the choking man. His blade had cut so neatly through cloth and sunk so easily into flesh and bone. Strife watched as the dying man collapsed onto his knees and coughed out the same liquid that blemished Strife's right cheek.
"Mar-Marlene…Can't…Not here…" gasped the man, struggling to breathe even as black and grey spots crept into his vision. The blade slid out of Wallace's body as he crumbled onto his own pool of blood, a small ring of dust rising into the air from the impact, and the man drew his last breath.
"You guys alright?!" Strife turned around as he watched Zack run across the same bridge he had crossed moments ago. He wanted to reply, but his voice had completely stopped working.
A loud, deafening blast erupted all around them. Cloud instinctively turned towards the sound—signaling the detonation of a bomb—which had originated from below them. Zack barely had time to register the explosion before he was knocked off his feet, the bridge breaking into several chunks of metal and bursting from its hinges. Cloud's eyes were wide and his expression petrified as he watched Zack fly through the air, quickly gaining speed as the lieutenant started falling towards the smog blanketing over the slums of Midgar.
Cloud reached the edge of the platform just as Zack disappeared from view.
"Zack!!" screamed Cloud, foolishly hoping for a response.
In that moment, Cloud could only feel hatred. He could only feel hatred for himself.
When Zack regained consciousness, he almost whished whatever train had plowed him over would hit him again so he would stop feeling his pounding headache. However, the sight that met him when he grudgingly opened his eyes definitely forced his disoriented mind to wake itself up to some form of coherency.
"…Angel…" mumbled Zack, but the girl—her youthful face haloed ethereally by soft brown hair, glistening like gold from the sunlight—merely giggled at his comment.
"No, my name is Aerith! Aerith Gainsborough. You're lucky, mister! It seems like the roof and my flowers broke your fall and saved you," informed the girl as she helped Zack move into a sitting position.
Zack groaned pitifully and rubbed at the back of his head, where he could feel a prominent bump throbbing heatedly. A scent in the air, like light perfume, soothed his agony somewhat—at least, enough so that his wits were restored—and Zack realized that they sat in a field of glorious white flowers, the name of which had long since lost itself in the minds of Midgar residents.
"Flowers are a rarity in this city," nodded Aerith as she watched Zack gently appreciate the flowers with the hand that had just been buried in black spikes of hair. "I grow these because one day, I hope to spread their beauty and joy all throughout this city." Aerith stood up in her excitement and twirled around in the flower field to face the sunshine filtering through the cracks of the roof into the dusty church. The hem of her skirt fluttered like petals through the air, and the skirt of her pink dress flowed like water with her movements.
"You must be such a special person," grinned Zack, and Aerith blinked at Zack slightly confused—and embarrassed. "Uh…I mean, it must be really hard to grow anything in Midgar. Speaking of which…Where am I anyways?"
"This is the local church in Sector 5," replied Aerith as Zack glanced around the church to take in the chipped stone columns and the dilapidated wooden benches scattered throughout the room. The light seemed too bright for it to be late in the afternoon.
"What time is it?" (3)
"Well, it's nine eleven in the morning…You've been unconscious for an awfully long time!" Zack grimaced, an image of Strife's frozen expression coming to mind as he remembered the circumstances through which he arrived in this situation.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Aerith," smiled Zack apologetically as he clambered onto his feet, careful to avoid crushing any of the flowers. "Now, I would repay you for your kindness by promising you a date…but I already gave that promise away to someone else. So how about I promise that I'll visit in the future?"
"Uh…" stuttered Aerith, completely not expecting a stranger—one who fell from the sky, no less—to ask her on a date from out of nowhere!
"Great!" exclaimed Zack exuberantly before departing with a quick wave of his hand.
"What a strange person," voiced Aerith to herself, smiling pleasantly at the memory of Zack's behavior.
The flowers seemed to smile with her.
Notes:
(1) I credit Knowing Shadows for the idea of making Reno a cadet (in the story "Fusion"). I must also credit aphelion-orion for inspiring me to write Reno and Cloud as having a sort of "normal" relationship (in the story "The Day Reno Gave Up"). The inspiration for the scene came from imagining Nanaki's grandchildren trying to 'defeat' Cloud, like how some children (particularly cubs) are wont to do during playing.
(2) I realize that having the first space rocket stay up in space for several days is probably historically inaccurate and highly improbable, but I want to point out that the day progression in the game is a bit off-kilter, especially since you can make the meteor take much longer than a week to reach the planet.
(3) Zack had been unconscious for an entire night. This fact has absolutely no relevance to the story.
A/N: Reviews and comments welcome. I am not quite certain when the next chapter will be up, and I shall apologize in advance if it ends up taking far longer than it should.