Hours later, Vincent watches impassively as Cloud patches up the wounds so savagely carved into him by Kadaj, Loz, and Yazoo. The silvery darkness of the forest drapes around them in curtains of shadow and glow. The atmosphere is silent save for the sounds of their breaths and Cloud's quiet movements. Vincent finds himself strangely content to be back in Cloud's company—perhaps due to the somewhat twisted bond that formed between the two of them over similar traumas and horrors of the past. Theirs is a strange sort of camaraderie. Vincent has never found anyone who can truly empathize with the reality of being turned into something else against your will, of being broken and haphazardly rebuilt by Shinra, but Cloud can easily relate. That understanding clears the air of any pretenses between the two.
Consequently, Vincent feels comfortable enough to forgo any etiquette about privacy and swiftly grabs the bicep that Cloud has shrouded with a sleeve, confirming the suspicions that arose upon observing the obvious fatigue in Cloud's fighting and the paleness of his features. Sure enough, Cloud flinches away with a pained hiss through clenched teeth as Vincent digs his thumb into the unnatural heat under the sleeve.
Vincent retracts his hand, almost smirking as Cloud looks sullenly at the ground, not even affronted enough to manage a glare. How could he be? After all, very little escapes the notice of Vincent Valentine—especially when being around Cloud is like looking into a mirror.
With the discovery of Cloud's Geostigma out in the open, Vincent proceeds to divulge the intelligence he has gathered while Cloud hikes up the loose drape to change the bandages around the black blemishes on his bicep. He feels a stirring of pity at the tension that slowly builds in Cloud's frame as he speaks of Jenova cells and Sephiroth's possible resurrection. Such an event is a literal nightmare in the making; it is the undoing of all of their travels and sacrifices from two years ago. Vincent sees the unfairness of the situation, but he knows that sugar-coating won't help anyone.
A sudden rustling emanates from the ethereal brush, quickly growing closer. Adrenaline blooms. Vincent whirls, his hand flying to the holster at his hip, and Cloud springs to his feet with his sword held aloft.
Barret's daughter—Marlene, Vincent recalls—bursts from the bushes and darts straight into Cloud.
"Marlene!"
"Cloud!" She exclaims between gasping breaths. "Denzel—and Tifa—"
Vincent does not miss the way that Cloud's face shutters upon hearing Tifa's name.
"Tifa is alright."
The same cannot readily be said for the boy.
"I wanna talk to her!"
It is quickly established that neither Cloud, nor Vincent have phones with them. Marlene is a small package of distress and energy, and her presence is clearly counterproductive to accomplishing any sort of planning or preparation to move against the Remnants. Vincent's keen eyes pick up the antsy edge cresting in Cloud's countenance—it's a relic from the old days, when Cloud would fall into a singular, quietly anxious mindset that could only be remedied by action—and he expects the request before Cloud can voice it.
"Vincent, will you bring Marlene to Tifa? I'm gonna go see Shinra and get a few answers. The Shera is waiting at the edge of the forest."
"I can't do that." Vincent's denial is immediate and immovable. It may be too late for him to fix his mistakes, but it's not too late for Cloud. He knows from experience that Cloud only wants to run—the difference is, Vincent has never had anyone to stop him from running. At the very least, he can be that person for Cloud.
And Vincent is worried about Cloud's ability to win against whatever they end up facing. He isn't healthy, in mind or body, and that bodes ill for the coming battle. If there is even a slight change for reconciliation, Vincent resolves to nudge Cloud in that direction.
"But I—"
Marlene suddenly jolts away. "Forget it, Cloud! Why don't you ever pay any attention to us?!"
Vincent reflexively opens his cloak when she scampers to hide behind his hip. Cloud's words are pretty and pleading as he tries to appeal to her, to placate her, but their flimsiness is plain. Vincent wonders if he has ever sounded so lost. Quite likely, he decides.
"Cloud," he prompts, as close to gentle as a man like Vincent can get. "You sure this is about fighting?"
Cloud's marble gaze drops to the ground, softening in contemplation. Vincent allows him to leave this conversation and travel along the currents of what-ifs and could've-beens. Small hands grab fistfuls of his cloak. If only Marlene was elsewhere—then, Vincent would probably drag Cloud into the deep end and confront him about Aerith's death and Tifa's role in it. But that is no suitable topic for current company, so he can only hope that Cloud is meandering along that path of his own volition. At any rate, the lack of fury in those mako-blistered eyes is a promising sign, and a welcome change from the last time Vincent and Cloud were in the same company.
"You don't know that there wasn't another way!"
"You can't save everyone, Cloud! She knew that! She knew that her death would save millions, and Tifa knew it, too—"
"Mind if I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"When we found you, under Shinra Manor years ago, you said you were sleeping to atone for your sins."
"Mm."
"…Did it work? Are sins ever forgiven?"
"I never tried."
"Oh. How did you know it was time to wake up?"
"…There was something to be awake for."
Tifa's heart stills in her chest when a lone motorcycle emerges from the thick tree line and makes its way toward the Shera in dawn's light. Two figures sit astride the bike: a lithe pillar of darkness, his arms caging the small smear of pastel pink in front of him. Tifa doesn't even recognize whatever words she shouts at Cid as she dashes away from the glass panel and toward the lowering entry ramp at the rear of the airship. She allows herself to drop off the edge before it meets the ground and scoops up a running Marlene as soon as she is within arm's reach.
"Tifa!" Marlene cries.
Tifa's eyes are burning in relief as she presses Marlene close and exhales a heavy sigh. She peers at Cloud over Marlene's shoulder, noting the unreadable look on his face and filing the picture away for later.
When she mouths Denzel's name in question, he simply presses his lips into a thin line and nods toward the airship. Apprehension builds back up, eagerly returning to the deep well it has been occupying inside her chest, but she takes slight comfort from Cloud's neutral reaction—Denzel is not rescued, but not permanently lost.
"C'mon, sweetie," Tifa murmurs as she sets Marlene on her feet, keeping hold of her small hand. "Your dad is waiting for us in Edge."
"Daddy?!" Marlene chirps excitedly as she ascends the ramp with Tifa.
When they arrive back at the control center, Cid snatches Marlene up and sets her on his shoulder, crowing about how glad he is that she's okay. He shoots Tifa a pointed look as he asks Marlene to help him fly the airship, and Tifa is grateful for the opportunity to speak with Cloud uninterrupted. But her heart rate, which calmed considerably as soon as her eyes alighted on Marlene, begins to skyrocket again as she turns to the specter hovering behind her. Half-healed abrasions dust over one of his cheekbones and the skin of his exposed arm, but he doesn't seem to be sporting any serious injuries. As for herself, Tifa is feeling much better, despite her ongoing anxiety in the hours that Cloud was away—she still aches a bit, but the muscle spasms have abated and the worst of the pain is gone.
Cloud meets her eyes. It seems like a bit of the hostile coldness has thawed from those cobalt beacons, but Tifa wonders if she is merely imagining the reality that she wishes for.
When he turns and retreats to the operations room, Tifa follows. She shuts the door behind them, and they fall into the same seats that they occupied yesterday evening.
The inquiry leaps from her before Cloud has a chance to speak.
"Where is Denzel?"
Cloud rests his elbows on the table and slumps forward, running a gloved hand over his face.
"I saw him there. He was…I don't know. It looked like Kadaj had some sort of control over the kids."
Tifa feels the color leave her face as it crumples. "W-what? How?"
He shakes his head in quiet anger. "I don't know for sure, but I have an idea. I spoke with Vincent."
"And?"
Tifa's eyes widen as Cloud succinctly recounts the information that Vincent passed along. He postulates that Kadaj is controlling the children via the Jenova cells festering within the Geostigma, which would make sense if Kadaj really is some sort of remnant of Sephiroth. As if the kidnappings weren't bad enough, the thought of Sephiroth returning strikes Tifa like a bolt of lightning. The walls of the room seem to converge, pressing the air into a condensed thickness that struggled into her lungs.
Aerith gave her life to stop him. Tifa killed Aerith to stop him.
She swallows, the mounting horror sliding uneasily down her throat before it can blossom into panic on her tongue. "Kadaj wants Jenova's head, right? So, where is it?"
"According to Vincent, Tseng and Elena delivered it to Rufus once they were stable enough to travel. Since Kadaj is still Kadaj and not Sephiroth, that must mean that Rufus hasn't told him where it is."
"Did you see Rufus there?"
"No."
Tifa drops her head into her clammy hands. "But they have him, somewhere. Do you think they'll get him to talk?"
Cloud is silent for a few moments before answering. "I'd like to say no. But Vincent told me that Tseng and Elena had been tortured, so Kadaj isn't pulling any punches."
Tifa frowns at him. "Speaking of punches…" She gestures vaguely in his direction.
He looks away, his jaw tight. "They're strong. Like he was. Vincent…bailed me out."
"But you still got Marlene."
"She found us. Must have gotten away from them during the fight."
Tifa falls silent, unsure what else is left to say. Fear settles like heavy stones in the pit of her stomach; she needs a distraction. So, she takes a moment to marvel at how cordially she and Cloud have been speaking—it's been almost easy, even, as the thick tension between them has taken a backseat to the priorities at hand. And a wave of nostalgia crashes over her, tugging her under its weight with greedy abandon, showing her flashbacks of their travels and the deep camaraderie that they shared. She supposes she should feel glad that Cloud is looking at her with something other than contained rage, but all she tastes is bitter awareness of the fact that everything will reset to normal, should they make it out of this alive. He is merely tolerating her out of necessity, but that won't last forever.
Sure enough, as if reading her thoughts and concurring, Cloud goes to stand. His body unfolds from the chair but quickly collapses back in on itself when he doubles over with a sudden grunt of pain. Tifa flies to her feet as he clutches at his cloaked arm and hisses shallow currents of air through clenched teeth.
"Cloud?!"
He doesn't seem to hear her. The fingers of his free hand curl tightly and his eyes are squeezed shut.
His unresponsiveness prompts Tifa to hurtle around the table. She gives his shoulder a slight shake, calling his name once more, but when he merely releases another strangled sound and slams his palm to brace on the table, she ventures a step closer. One of her hands pries his grip off of his arm and the other jerks up the sleeve to reveal his bicep.
Tifa gasps raggedly.
White bandages circle Cloud's arm, though they are quickly soaking through with black drainage that blots out the white like ink on snow. The dressing reaches from just above his elbow to below his shoulder and looks haphazardly applied. Tifa sees Sephiroth in that darkness, sees the glint of light off his wicked blade and his slitted pupils—
A hard shove lands on her collarbone and she stumbles back a few steps, catching her balance on one of the chairs.
Cloud, too, falls backwards a step, still breathing heavily. The sleeve has fallen back down and his other hand is clenched as if to restrain it from leaving his side. The stare that he pins on Tifa is slightly wild, unhinged—haunted—and standoffish.
"Don't," he grounds out.
"Cloud…" All she can manage is an imploring whisper, but she doesn't know what she wants of him. All she knows is that Cloud has Geostigma. He's dying. Unbreakable, steadfast, heroic Cloud. He's deteriorating, and eventually, he'll be gone. And Tifa doesn't know how to live in a world without Cloud Strife—even if he hates her—Shiva, please let him live even if he hates her for the rest of their lives, she's already made peace with that—but he's dying—after everything, he doesn't deserve this—why couldn't it be her, instead—
He strides around her and out the door.
Tifa falls to her knees and finally cries.
A few hours later, Cloud is holed up in the med bay, meticulously replacing the ruined bandages around his arm. The flare has subsided, leaving him clear-headed but achy and fatigued. The tingling races up and down his arm, pooling in his fingers, residing there longer than usual. These attacks are occurring more frequently, and he wonders how much time he has left.
"Cloud…"
That simple syllable—the lone utterance of his name—replays in his mind over and over again, nonstop. There were universes in that one word when Tifa spoke it then. Other worlds that she wished existed, wished to inhabit, where they and their loved ones were whole and healthy and together. That broken tone with which she painted his name cut through the lingering haze of Jenova's influence like a hot blade, piercing him through and through, and some archaic urge lurched within him, knocking off years of rust and dust. The aftershocks of the impulse lurk even now, tempting his feet to retrace their steps. For what purpose, he doesn't know. Or maybe he does, and simply does not want to know that he knows.
Now, he wonders what it all means.
Cloud hasn't forgiven her. That much is clear to him. He still sees blood in her eyes and on her hands. He still hears betrayal in her breaths. But he cannot ignore their history as easily as he used to. It is starting to creep up on the edges of his focus—a starry night on the well, the warmth of liquor in her homey bar, the dances they shared while fighting off enemies in pure synergy, as if they were a single entity in that moment. And while all of that rests in his periphery, Tifa's broken expression steals to the forefront of his attention as he remembers the tears that spilled while she explained her promise to Aerith.
He asked her to give him a reason, an answer. She did. It wasn't enough, but it wasn't nothing.
"There was no other way."
She spoke that entreaty with the regretful conviction of a person who was forced to accept an unwanted truth. For all the pain that belief has inflicted upon her, she does not doubt it. Just like Aerith had not doubted it.
"It's the only way."
There is a voice deep inside him that he has been stoutly silencing for the past two years, but now it is loud enough that he can clearly hear its questions.
Were they right? Has he been locked away in toxic denial all this time?
Cloud jumps as his PHS—loaned to him by Cid as a temporary replacement for the one he lost while battling the Remnants—buzzes in his pocket, effectively derailing his accelerating train of thought. Feeling decidedly shaken, he hastily ties off the bandage and flips the phone open.
"Reeve."
"Cloud!" Shrill screams and sirens sound off in the background. "They're here—attacking Edge—"
The line goes dead.