"What if I… asked you to take down Shinra?"
Zack sits cross-legged outside the cave, his leg bouncing and his mind turning loops. That was a hell of a thing for Cloud to drop on him. He tossed and turned all night.
Cissnei gave him a letter from Aerith when they met outside Nibelheim. It's a folded-up triangle tumbling between his hands now, spinning and twisting around restless fingers.
"One last favor," Cissnei had said. "For a friend who passed away."
He's read it many times over the weeks, to the point where he doesn't need to unfold it.
' Dear Zack,' it says, ' this is the eighty-ninth letter I've written to you.' He closes his fist around it, the points of the triangle jabbing into his palm.
It all comes back to Shinra. The ghosts of dead friends haunting him, the experiments that scarred his body, the Turks chasing them halfway across the globe, and the army of officers standing between him and Midgar.
All the evil in his life flows directly from Shinra, of course he wants them gone. But he was also one of those Shinra grunts before. He knows they aren't all bad, and that a lot of people depend on the company to survive.
What if he ran into a fight only to realize that the man under his blade was an old friend or a recruit he trained?
He couldn't kill them, not if he wanted to live with himself after. And then there's Cloud's safety to think about. It's an unsolvable situation, which is why he can't let it go.
Besides which, what would even say to Aerith if he somehow got to Midgar unscathed?
'Hey, I'm back! Sorry I disappeared for four years. I was busy being turned into a human pin cushion and building an imaginary house in Cloud's head. Oh, did I forget to mention Cloud? He's my new boyfriend, who I totally kissed behind your back. He's a little catatonic right now, but I swear he's a great guy.
You'll love him once he's conscious… except that you probably won't because he kind of stole me from you, and he can be a real jealous bitch when he wants to be, oh and he likes to take over my body and walk off with it sometimes, but I don't mind that if you don't…'
Zack groans and puts his head in his hands. That would not go well at all. Best case scenario he'd get dumped, worst case he'd sound like he'd completely lost his mind.
It was a stupid thought anyway. If he ever got within a hundred miles of Midgar, Public Security would be on him in no time. They know exactly what he's capable of. They would either drag him back to Hojo or mow him down on the spot, and he's not a huge supporter of either outcome.
The nervous energy becomes too much and he jumps to his feet, shoving the folded letter back into the depths of his jeans pocket. Cloud shoves him irately through the bond.
"Oh, you're awake."
A feeling like angry thunder shakes through him, and he grins. Cloud isn't much of a morning person. He watches as the other man's spirit sits up, passing through body and bedroll to shuffle over to Zack's side.
"You're loud as fuck when you're anxious," he says, crossing his arms. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Zack forces a carefree smile that the other man doesn't buy for a second. "Turks, Shinra, the usual stuff. But nevermind that, let's fix up breakfast and get going. I thought I'd look for more work in town and see if I can get us some coats."
"Hmm." Cloud scans the treeline.
"Unless… you think that's a bad call?"
"No. You should," he says, a little too sharply. Zack frowns at his tone, the severity of his expression.
"Ahh, now you're the one worrying," he teases, leaning in and setting his hands on his hips. "We'll find a good job this time, trust me! I'll get that old geezer to tell his neighbors, and one of them will give us a nice big payday. You'll see!"
"Don't get your hopes up." Cloud shakes his head, sighing. "We leave this place today."
Zack's smile falters. "We will?"
"Yeah. Before nightfall." He says it flat, certain. One of those precognitions they've come to call his 'gut feelings.' Unfortunately, they're usually pretty vague.
"Then I'll stay. We can take it slow and pack up the camp—"
"No," Cloud blurts. Zack frowns, but the other man just grimaces and pinches his nose. "Sorry. I don't—"
"It's fine. Your gut's never been wrong before."
Nodding stiffly, Cloud stalks back to the cave.
Zack follows, gathering the dirty pot and empty canteens from last night. If they are going to leave tonight, then that must mean he'll succeed in finding them coats, right? They can't possibly scale the mountain in jeans and shirt sleeves. From that point of view, it feels like a good omen. But then, why would Cloud act so uneasy?
"Should I bring my sword?" Zack asks after a moment. Cloud takes an uncomfortably long time to answer. Eventually he nods, at last meeting eyes and giving an air of confidence.
"No, it would only raise suspicion. You won't get hurt in town."
On that unsettling note, Zack swallows his further questions and walks down to the creek for water.
An hour later sees Zack stomping over gravel and shale, following the village street down from the foothills. The flannel shirt that felt too hot yesterday feels woefully insufficient today.
Each breath leaves his mouth as white fog. After only five minutes on the trail, he already can't feel his fingers. The breeze in the valley is bitter without the shelter of the trees. It cuts right through his second-hand boots and patched jeans.
He ignores all of it, concentrating on the peaked roofs of the village. Almost there, just a little farther. Maybe with frost on the ground someone will see his sorry state and have some pity.
At the first sight of a villager, he pulls a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and folds it into a strip. He ties around his head, partially to disguise his hairline but mostly to keep his hair out of the way while he's working.
Cloud smirks, floating along beside him. "You look like a fisherman."
"Man, don't even joke. I'd kill for fresh fish right about now."
"Come to my place, I'll make you some."
Zack huffs, and shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. "Sure, if we're ever safe enough, which is—"
"Unlikely. I know," Cloud sighs.
"Ahh, don't sound so put-out." Zack says mentally, now that other people are in ear-shot. "We'll get some good food eventually."
"It's not the food I miss."
Zack trips on a cobblestone, stumbling and wheeling his arms around to the amusement of several villagers. A startled laugh escapes as he rights himself, heat warming his neck and face.
"Was that a come on? Did Cloud Strife just imply that I'm not mind-laying him enough?"
"I meant your presence, dumbass. Get your mind out of the gutter." Cloud crosses his arm and scowls. The effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that he'd definitely be flushed to his hairline in real life.
"Keep telling yourself that." Zack laughs hysterically. A man in a brown duster gives him a suspicious look as a mother scolds her stairstep children for staring. Belatedly he covers his mouth, and ducks his head to try and contain himself. At this rate he'll be committed to the local asylum before he ever gets a chance to pitch his handyman services.
He hurries to the bulletin board in the center of town, hopeful that new listings might have been posted overnight. Instead, he's confronted with a single-page news bulletin printed in bold black and white.
"In accordance with an order of the Shinra Electric Power Company," Zack reads. "A reward has been offered for the detection and incarceration of the individuals below, to be paid in the amount of—"
"Five hundred thousand gil?!" Cloud sputters.
They read on, tense silence cloaking their bond as shock hardens into panic.
'WANTED: Two escapees of a Shinra detention facility. One of medium build with dark hair and a scar on the left of the face. Roughly 182 centimeters tall and 75 kg in weight, a trained combatant of significant skill. The other is slight with fair hair and blue eyes, 173 centimeters tall and 70 kg. Suffers from degenerative disease and may show signs of mental instability. Both armed and highly dangerous.'
"Shit, this is bad," Zack rips off the kerchief and shakes it out, folding it in half and then tying it around his face. "We gotta—"
"Hold up," Cloud steels. He nods behind Zack, his spine pin straight. Without moving his body, he twists to look. Turks.
"Shit."
"They're talking to the geezer," Cloud says.
"No wonder people were staring. We have to get out of sight."
Zack walks to the other side of the board, hiding behind it while he pretends to read.
Shops circle the courtyard where the billboard stands, but most of them are closed for the weekend. The only ones currently operating are a fruit stand near the local church and the general store he visited last night.
A crowd is forming around the church for some kind of service, which makes the decision for him. He walks double-pace towards the wood panel building and trots up the steps of the wrap-around porch. Stacks of canned food and bags of flour fill the windows on either side, so the interior is dim even in the daytime.
The same woman from yesterday lifts her chin in greeting.
"Ma'am," he nods.
The counter is high and loaded with goodies he can't afford. Licorice twists and salt water taffy, candy bars and molasses pops. At that very moment she's transferring fresh cookies from a baking sheet into the display case.
Mouth watering, he rips his eyes away and strides to the other side of the store, where rough oak shelves sag under the weight of foodstuffs and housewares. He slides between two and ducks his head.
The Turks come in just after, the bell over the door ringing.
"Morning, madam," a deep voice that he doesn't recognize says. "Sorry to disturb your business. We're representatives from Shinra Administrative Research in Midgar."
"Turks—all the way out here? Must be serious."
"Did they follow us?" Zack picks a random boot, pretending to shop. It quivers slightly from the waves of adrenaline shaking his hands. "Are they looking?"
"No. I think the old man ratted us out."
"Quite serious, I'm afraid," the Turk says coolly. Him and his partner approach the counter, and Zack has to move around the back of a shelf to stay out of sight. "We're seeking escaped prisoners from a Shinra correctional facility. Do you recognize either of these individuals?"
"Shit. They've got pictures."
"Wait," Cloud stands invisibly in the aisle.
"Hmm," the shop owner says, drawing it out in a way that makes Zack's heart pound.
"He'd have come through in the last forty-eight hours. His hair might not match the picture."
Squeezing his eyes shut, he fights to keep his breathing quiet and steady, to remain unnoticed in the stacks.
The woman hums, taking her time before responding. "Let me ask my husband, he's better with faces."
The male Turk sighs, and whips out his phone. Zack stares at Cloud, dumbstruck. The owner and him made eye contact when he walked in. Even with his hair cropped and his uniform gone, he can't look that different. She must know it's him. But she didn't say anything, except to excuse herself upstairs. Is she… covering for them?
Cloud teleports in front of him abruptly, eyes flat and serious. "I counted two guard squads, no officers. Support staff and escorts, mostly. Vehicles, but no aircraft. Bad tires. If it snows we could lose them on the mountain."
"If it snows," Zack echoes doubtfully. "If it doesn't they'll run us down. Assuming I even get out of this store alive."
Cloud furrows his brows, fists clenching and unclenching as he thinks.
"The window. There." He nods. Zack follows it to the stack of tin cans. "We'll need those coats. Grab what you can, jump out, run like hell."
"What? That's stealing. We're not doing that."
"Seriously?"
"It's wrong! The owner gave me a discount."
"And now she's gonna give you to the Turks. We need it, Zack. We can't go up a mountain in street clothes."
"Then come up with another pla—"
Thunking footsteps come back down the stairs. The owner is coming back. The Turk slaps his phone shut and Zack almost jumps out of his skin. It sounded like a gun hammer, it really did.
Cloud looks at him meaningfully, waving at the boots and gloves with a pained look. Zack shakes his head.
The owner's voice comes out reverberant and distorted from the backroom. "He said he hasn't seen those two, I'm afraid. But there have been visitors. There's always visitors this time of year, headed up to Icicle for the winter lights."
"They wouldn't look like tourists," the man replies. "They've been on the run for some time. Perhaps you've served one or two who were… particularly travel worn?"
That gives the woman pause, and Zack knows he's out of time. It's one thing to stall, but people don't outright lie to the Turks. Their reputation precedes them.
He sets his hands on his knees and prepares to stand, imagining the bloody path he'll have to cut through the village. The Turks will need to go down fast, so the shop owner and her husband don't get drawn in.
Shinra security always has a sniper installed on ops like this, so the town square will be a death trap if he crosses it. He'll have to stay behind cover and hop between buildings until he's figured out the sniper's angle.
Most of the parking is located outside the town center, so he'll have a small lead while the guards run to their cars, but after that it will be a matter of luck. If he can find a way to disappear into the foothills before they reach the main road then they might be able to slip away. If not… well, they had a good run.
"Zack, be reasonable." Cloud hisses. "What's the point of running if we freeze later tonight?"
"I didn't wish to be so direct, but you should know that a man named Hutchens has gone on record saying that an individual matching the fugitive's description visited your shop at the end of business yesterday," the Turk says. "I'll remind you that according to Shinra company policy, obstructing a formal investigation is punishable by a significant fine."
The woman sighs, her nails ratatat-tapping against the counter.
"Now that you mention it,," she says reluctantly. "I might recall a man stopping by."
"Zack—" Cloud hisses.
"And this man, did he happen to return this morning?"
"Zack move."
No answer comes this time. Just a long, sad silence. The shifting of fabric. Two sets of leather shoes walk down two parallel aisles. Zack grits his teeth, eyes still shut but seeing blood, blood, blood.
This isn't what he meant when he dreamed of becoming a SOLDIER. It's not the heroic future he envisioned. Everywhere he goes he's forced to hurt somebody, whether it's himself or Cloud or some random woman who only wanted to help, and he just wants it all to stop.
The Turks draw their pistols. Cloud shoves him out of the body.
Streaks of gray and white blot his vision as he tumbles through a swirl of motion. The spirit world is a pale reflection of reality, like looking through foggy glass. Details flit and flicker, dissolving like sand if he stops concentrating on them, and so it's difficult to parse what happens next.
He knows Cloud springs into action with none of Zack's hesitation. He lands a punch that sends phantom pain through Zack's incorporeal knuckles. He runs with a pounding beat that might be blood and might be feet. Gunshots fire, pop pop pop . He counts bodies and bullets with the discipline of a soldier, timing his movements to the reloading of rifles as he crashes through window panes and leaps over fence posts.
All the while he lectures himself relentlessly—out of sight, mind the sniper, watch your footing, idiot. It's not your body to break, don't fuck up, don't fuck up, for once in your sorry life don't fuck this up—
Zack wrestles control back as soon as Cloud stops, blindsided by the burning in his lungs and the wet gasps wracking his chest. There's a pistol in his right hand, not heavy enough for the clip to be full. With a great, big cough he sends a thick glob of mucus splattering into fluffy, fresh snow.
"What the—"
"I shot their tires. Should buy us time. Get back to camp."
Zack blinks, turning a disoriented circle. Snowflakes fall past his face, landing and melting on the heat of his cheeks. Tall, thin trees pack densely around him, the earth soggy and soft under his boots. His new, insulated hiking boots.
With he start, he realizes he's wearing fur-lined gloves as well, in addition to a wool hat and a zipped-up puffer jacket. A canvas bag stuffed to the brim hangs heavy in his left hand. He shoves the gun into his pocket with restrained frustration.
"Cloud," he sputters.
"Not now. No time."
Something snaps in the otherwise quiet forest, and he doesn't wait to see what it was. The village road is just visible downhill, a murky smear through gathering white. Tracing the line against the gray mountain behind gives him a snap of recognition, and he recalls the direction of the cave.
He sprints clumsily, his feet falling into unseen holes and tripping over rocks hidden by dead leaves. His footsteps stand out like a dotted line on a treasure map, a stark sign of his presence and direction, but he can't do anything about that without slowing down.
The totems start appearing as he crests a hill and spills over into a ditch. Snowy eyebrows and mustaches age their faces, turning the ghoulish snarls and bulging eyes into cartoonish caricatures. Zack runs through them with none of yesterday's reverence, too focused on the lover he left bundled in their care and the scattered camp supplies that he really should have packed before he left.
'Before sundown' his ass. It isn't even noon yet. If he knew it would be this quick, he'd have done things very differently.
He ducks under the lip of the cave and waddles inside, steadier on his new boots despite the moisture shining from the craggy floor. Cloud's still there, alone and safe, bundled in near the dying fire.
He rips off his gloves to check the body's temperature, and stills at the smear of blood on his knuckles. Cloud materializes in front of him, looking standoffish and tense.
They don't have time for this—morals and whatnot. He knows that. It doesn't stop him grimacing.
Sliding his new glove back on and cinching the wrist, he works his hands under neck and knees and lifts Cloud's body up. His spirit trials behind as Zack crouches awkwardly and stumbles toward the cart outside.
Awkward energy taints the bond and Cloud shuffles through a half-dozen false starts only for Zack to ignore him in favor of arranging the body on the cart bed. He piles the rest of their supplies around and on top, trying to obscure the distinctive shape.
If the Turks are looking for a pair, then they won't find one. They'll see a lone hiker headed to Icicle Lodge for the sporting season, and hopefully nothing more.
As he kicks away the rocks he placed under the wheels to keep the wagon from rolling away, Cloud unsticks his tongue. Zack honestly wishes he hadn't.
"I didn't know it would happen like that," he says. Because that's why Zack's mad, obviously. Not the theft or the violence or the high chance that they'll have to do it again and again until they die.
"I thought we didn't have time to talk," he snaps, and it's unfair. He knows that, but he says it anyway because none of this is what he wanted when he dragged them out of hell on legs screaming with atrophy and lungs that had forgotten how to pull oxygen from natural air.
It's not the life he dreamed of, or even the life he grudgingly accepted. It's a slow slide right back to where he came from, and that's a sacrifice he simply cannot make. He isn't willing to slaughter whoever comes after them just because they wear a uniform or work for Shinra, and he doesn't understand how Cloud could feel differently after seeing everything they've seen.
In all the time they've spent together, such a sharp, fundamental divide has never happened before. It's more threatening than the Turks, even stifled and unspoken between them—a hairline fracture in a porcelain plate. Perhaps it could be glued and repainted, but once cracked it could never be returned to the unblemished beauty of before. They stand uneasily on either side of it, wary of the pressure they apply.
Cloud's figure thins and dissipates, his eyes shuttering and mouth set in a hard line.
Zack takes up the crossbar of the cart and pushes, fighting inertia to get it going. Like most things, it's easier once it gets rolling. A little effort, and the next thing he knows he's being forced downhill at faster-than-he'd like speed.
The cart pulls them forward, caught up in its own momentum, barely in control. It trundles down the winding path and back up the next hill, over and over until the village road narrows to a proper mountain trail.
A car could catch them effortlessly, but Cloud must have done a number on the tires. The valley basin carries sound all the way from one side to the other, and they hear no rumbling engines or crunching gravel.
The ascent is lonely, and deathly silent.