February, 1994

Sephiroth leans against the railing, hanging over and feeling the breeze tug down on him. It weaves in between his hair, knotting it against the sky. It's still morning somewhere close to six. He's high in HQ. The view is incredible. The sun colors the sides of buildings red and orange. Midgar is quiet and peaceful ahead of him. The streets he's walked his whole life are dotted with few people. Shinra behind him is still asleep.

His fingers play with the hospital band around his wrist. The barcode means nothing to him. It's dated from yesterday. It has his name and then an odd empty spot that is filled with numbers. The system wouldn't print it out without a last name. Twisting it around his wrist, he allows the fresh air to clear his head.

It's funny how healing works.

He feels well.

And he feels entirely unwell.

Magic bypasses the physical discomfort but the emotional remains inside, unprocessed and raw.

He had stumbled back to the base somehow. His knees gave out as the SOLDIERs came rushing forward. They had dragged him onto a table. A Second, now promoted First, had healed him. His fingers had been shaking in panic. The red gloves, if they had been stained red by his blood or beforehand, pressed warmth into him. Mariella had arrived and screamed at everyone at some point. He barely remembers the journey back. The memories, the jolts as he was moved onto a carrier, the constant pressure against his stomach, the will of everyone pinning him into this body, keeping him in this hell, are all blurry.

The emergency healing had stitched him back together enough.

He was almost lucid by the time they had landed at Shinra.

The First had collapsed on the floor of the carrier.

Mariella held his face, forced him to focus and told him never to do that again.

But even though he limped out of the helicopter, it wasn't good enough for Shinra.

One week was given for him to recover in R&D. They forced him to eat, to take his medicine, to maintain his state as he numbly tried to fit the pieces together. They didn't. Why hadn't Wutai hurt him? How was he still here? Why, in any actuality, was he still here? He hadn't been able to sleep. Eventually they laced his fluids. He slept then until his body reset its natural rhythm.

He had been released to his impossibly quiet apartment.

Birds startle in the morning light. An apartment illuminates inside a highrise. The resident opens the window and if Sephiroth strains, the wind carries pop music his way. Smog hasn't settled over the plate and he inhales deeply. He should go get breakfast and coffee. Maybe he'll go outside of Shinra. Perhaps the coffee shop from his high school days is still open. His stomach curls, reminding him of how easy he is to spot. It isn't worth it. He doesn't want to be pinned down in a selfie or paparazzi photo.

For the last six hours, he's been in a twilight state as the doctors cut back in and finished resealing the last of the internal damage done by his mistakes. The ultrasounds were all gray lines and black voids but they had printed out the images and written them up in red markers. The mistakes shown as clear as day. The healing was sufficient for the short term but if he wanted his body to continue to work optimally, they needed to go back in.

So he had reported to the OR for the last three nights until it was done.

They couldn't do it during the day. PR has refused to let go of him when he had been cleared to be unsupervised even after everything. No one knew he was captured. Shinra doctored footage. They lied. They hired an actor to walk in his office for the paparazzi to find. He needed to "catch up."

But the mornings are his to sleep and rest.

When they cut him off the drugs this time in surgery, the mako bounced him back faster than they expected. He woke up on the table. They were mostly done. The pain hovered far under his tolerance so he laid there and watched.

He saw the doctors' gray faces, his blood on their hands and watched the ways that they moved in jerks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mariella hunched over his monitor. Her body was ridged and tight. If someone touched her shoulder, she would have snapped in half.

Her eyes found his.

They looked at each other silently. He is sprawled across the operating table on his back. The spotlight was bright in his eyes. His body was so thin under the knife. The machines hiss. His lungs pump without him. The doctors mutter. Sephiroth feels the warmth of the materia on him soothing away the pain and panic deep in his stomach. Sometimes the magic overwhelms him and his eyes slide closed.

But they find each other again as he dips in and out.

He can see the worry on her face.

The questions Mariella and Sephiroth ask then are unspeakable and silent.

And they have no answers.

This was the third round.

First was for his head.

Second was for his organs.

Third was for his right hand.

A grid of bright pink scars hang across his palm now. The muscles underneath are brand new and ready for years of more killing. He's asked to leave the marks. PR will have a heart attack at all his remaining surgery scars but he didn't care. Scar tissue is almost impossible to heal and it's negligible anyways. Give them a few weeks and they will be gone too. Until then, they are a reminder of what he has done.

He almost wishes that they had stitched him up. The doctors should have left little black lines digging into his skin. That way he could count them to find the same number as the SOLDIERs who lost their lives because of him.

The scar cuts those lines into him instead.

They curl across his fingers. The strikes interlock in a tight net over his palms. Red lines fall off his body. There is simply not enough room for them.

Hundreds of Third Class.

Almost a hundred Second Class.

One First Class.

More of Shinra's SOLDIER program closed their eyes on that field than ever before.

And it is all his fault.

What if he had been focused on the task at hand? What if he hadn't let his own personal interests get in his way? Would those men still be with them today? What if he had just tried to flee from Dinand's attack, forcing him to stop because of the simple defense of distance?

He hums to himself and leans further over, feeling the gravity play at his shoulders and head, pulling him towards the drop.

Regardless. He has no regret for killing Dinand. He will not allow himself to nor should he.

Even if the death did not give the desired effect.

He is not free from all the mistakes that have been inflicted upon him. The feeling of revenge did not leave him calm and satiated. It did not set everything right as the voice in the back of his head had promised. It is not possible. All those moments are absorbed into the fiber of who he is. That weight will be with him the rest of his life. There is no choice in what has happened to him. He closes his eyes against the bloody face laughing at him in his memory.

The air around him does seem cleaner. The constant danger that has grated against his back for most of his life is gone. Dinand will no longer be physically here. He cannot corrupt his men. He cannot openly mock the way that Sephiroth has decided to move forward. Sephiroth will walk away from him with his life.

That is freeing.

The pink scars on his hand crinkles in the light as he flexes his hand in front of him.

But the cost is high and covered in the blood of his own men. He should have planned it differently. There must have been an alternative. How was he supposed to know about the summon? How clear were the signs that Dinand knew his intentions? The real question of how much of his intentions were his edges under the rest but he leaves that unaddressed.

His memory is hazy. He can walk through the last few years of his life but he stands away from them like he is a stranger. It is all a mix of grief and exhaustion mixed with the bitter aftertaste of hard liquor. He's barely touched the drink in the last week since he returned to Midgar.

He still waits for the final cost to be laid bare.

Orlin Chau's name had not graced the list of the dead.

It had not been on the lists of deployment or reassignments.

It had not even been added to the list of SOLDIERS missing in action.

Even his phone has gone dead. The number no longer valid assures the automatic response.

Orlin had reported for duty. He had been there. Sephiroth had seen him and his smile before going after Dinand. Yet, all the paperwork after the battle no longer traces his whereabouts. He had seen this before. He had reported it upward and he had gotten no response which stated admin knew the answer and were unwilling to give it.

Which meant one thing: Professor Hojo was involved.

Unlike the other times before, Sephiroth had dug.

He had access to medical records. This was supposed to be used if a SOLDIER was hurt. Sephiroth could track the patterns to find ways to minimize these mistakes. He should also only have access to the records of the SOLDIERs under his command. This privilege was never revoked. There was too much to do for ITS to worry about such things.

Since Orlin had been under his command, when he searches his name in the database, the record appears in the results. He scans the record line and stops. He reads it again.

CHAU, ORLIN - SECOND CLASS SOLDIER - SOLDIER ID #36

That is the standard affair. Even if Sephiroth would look himself up, he would have a similar layout except some of the information would be replaced with "- -."

It's the status at the end that drops his stomach through the floor.

CHAU, ORLIN - SECOND CLASS SOLDIER- SOLDIER ID #36 - RETIRED

He has never seen that status before. It simply doesn't happen. The ID photo is grayed out. A black icon sits in front of his name. The medical records are sealed. He can see the clearance level needed to open them. It requires a level 8 from R&D. He does not hold that. Very few people do. That is reserved for heads of sub departments and above.

Like Mariella Haynes whose name and staff number sits as the person who sealed the file.

Sephiroth stares down, idly watching the people entering the building countless floors before him. They should make the railings higher so people don't fall off of it. Shinra doesn't consider these things. Or perhaps it does but they do not care.

He will ask her about Orlin but he is also floating in space.

The Wutai capture cut him free from his responsibilities and the surgeries kept him from returning. It is all so aimless. Soon he will return to his job. They will restore him to his position. He has a scheduled plane later this afternoon to Wutai after having a meeting with the Director. He will call Mariella and learn the truth but he's not ready to know that truth. Logic tells him that Orlin is dead. Hojo snatched him up. He did unspeakable things to him. His body was broken, abused, tossed in the trash.

Having those thoughts confirmed might hurt him even more.

He knows what will happen when he goes back across the ocean.

The aches and exhaustion will slip back over him. He will lose track of these thoughts. He will drink. The world will smear. It will all be the same until someone gets a lucky shot and pierces his heart.

Unfortunately for that soldier, he is sure that his heart is already dead and gone.

Then it will all be over.

There is relief in that, isn't there?

The elevator dings inside the building and he straightens. He slides the divider back down between his emotions and his actions. The combination is dangerous. He shouldn't allow himself to be swept away in them. He should dwell on the solid facts. Those are dependable. The meeting with Lazard is in a few hours. He needs to change into something more proper before being briefed and sent back to meet his own version of hell for the last time.

He takes one last look at the view of Midgar. The tops of the buildings cut against the colored sky. The desert is just a strip beyond on the top of the plate. Birds fly scattered, looking for breakfast. He memorizes it.

It will be the last time he is here.

He pushes off and heads back inside before any employees spot him.

The conference room should be full when he walks in.

He's done this before when he's had to take a few days off for the necessary appointments and press conferences. The table should be lined with staff and the top covered with paperwork. The projector should be humming, highlighting the dust in the air before it displays the important diagrams and strategies that Shinra is employing. The room should be full of noise, everyone getting ready for the meeting while juggling other tasks that they have to do.

The room is empty. Only two people sit in it. One thin folder is on the table. The projector clicks as it sleeps. The air is quiet and anxious.

Every part of Sephiroth freezes internally as he allows the door to close behind him. What has happened? The top button on his dress shirt chokes him. He stands still, trying to understand this and simply not knowing enough. There has been no sign that anything has been amiss. He's already packed his bag to go back to the front lines.

Lazard and Mariella get up from their chairs to greet him. Lazard presses down his jacket, not meeting his eyes. Mariella challenges him as she holds her breath tight in her chest. Sephiroth stays in place. This makes no sense. His heartbeat picks up in his throat but he forces it down. He is in no physical danger here. A bodily reaction will not help him.

Mariella glances at Lazard, pauses and then looks back to Sephiroth.

"Should we get started?" She gestures across at one of the many empty chairs. "It won't take too long."

"Why are you here?" Sephiroth asks and stays where he is.

She smiles patiently. "I'm here as your primary health care physician."

"I am fully recovered." Every part of him wants to leave this room. Something is changing. The floor feels like it is sliding under him.

"Take a seat, Sephiroth," Lazard cuts over her.

He doesn't want to. Standing is better. His legs are locked. Lazard sits and Sephiroth breaks his knees to move forward. The Director of the SOLDIER program gave him a direct order. Whatever is about to happen, he needs all the sway that he can to work against them. He takes the seat across from them. The folder sits thin and ominous between them.

"Sephiroth, I want to start by saying how thankful-" Lazard recites and Sephiroth disconnects, not listening. He can't stand the words that come before what is in that folder. They mean nothing besides a way for these two to feel better about whatever they are about to do. Did they decide that he is too weak after what happened in Wutai? Are they going to throw him out of the program? Are they disowning him? Will they make him disappear over to Hojo? Do they know what happened to Dinand?

The room goes quiet finally.

He gets to ask his question.

"Just tell me."

Lazard's eyes flicker for a second and then he leans back against his chair. "We aren't sending you back to the front."

Sephiroth is so cold that he can't breathe.

"Is this because of the Wutai-"

"No."

"Have I not performed adequately?" He asks quietly as he stares at the folder.

He knows he has made mistakes. He could recite them all now. Perhaps that is what is in there. All their justifications for doing this to him.

"No. You've been more than we ever expected."

"Have I not led sufficiently?"

"You've done wonderfully."

"I believe I have done an appropriate job on the battlefield."

"Yes."

The question of why hangs between them. His mind is broken, jammed on the words he doesn't understand. He can't even look at them. He looks at the folder and tries to wrap his head around this. He entered the wrong room. This is a cruel joke. They are playing with him so he will be thankful to go back.

"But," Lazard says and Sephiroth forces himself to focus. Lazard tries to be kind as he talks. "But as the Director of the SOLDIER program and Mariella as your doctor, we have come to the agreement that you need to be stationed at Midgar for the time being. You need to recover from what has happened."

The numbness takes hold. He decides that this is a dream. He must be still on the table in the OR.

Sephiroth shakes his head. "I am fully healed. There is no need for this."

"You need time to recover," Lazard says the last word like it has a meaning that Sephiroth doesn't understand.

"No recovery is needed. My men need me."

"You have been actively fighting day in and day out for over three years. You've been a prisoner of war now. A lot has happened."

"Yes. I am dedicated to the Shinra cause. These things do not bother me." A sharp edge is coming to the corner of his voice. This is happening. It settles on his shoulders. This is the reality they are forcing on him.

Something sparks in his stomach. Sephiroth swallows and hopes they don't notice.

Lazard pauses, considers and presses forward. "And we are trying to keep you mentally well. We need you to take care of yourself. No general should be going as hard as you have and survived so much. Reassigning you to Midgar has been in the works for the last year. You know we've been putting the new Firsts in a pilot program called 'Preservation'. We keep them here and send them out as needed. It has been incredibly successful."

"I don't understand. I am physically well enough to fight. My mental condition has not impeded my abilities. If this is about the drinkin-"

Mariella speaks and her voice is strong enough to knock through everything. "Sephiroth, I am not going to clear you for active combat. It's done."

That catches him off guard. She's not going to clear him. That is even worse than not being able to go. He can't even fight here now. They are killing him in other ways. The carefully repressed panic flares higher than he can control. They can't take all of this away from him. It is all he has.

It's not possible. He has no life outside this. He finds himself half standing, fingers pressing into the top of the table.

"No. This can't-"

She snaps. "Will you listen?"

Neither of them had moved. He's the one pushing up from the table, losing his temper like a normal human being, something that he has prided himself in never being. Mariella glares at him, unmoved by him. He's proving them right, isn't he? It takes everything to sit back down. The panic finishes burning through him. He allows nothing else.

She waits and continues even and logical. "Three years ago, we threw you into the Wutai War because we needed you there. That hasn't changed but things are dragging out so much longer than expected. You need to rest. You need to be away from the danger. You will still be active in the war but from here with more administrative type duties. If the occasion arises, we will send you back."

This is happening.

He fought his last battle. Everything that he knew has been stripped away from him.

What is he supposed to do now? What about the life he had? They can take it away that easily?

"My men?" He asks because it is the only part of this that he can confront.

"Everything has already been reassigned. They are in good hands."

"My flight today?"

For the first time, Mariella looks guilty. "There is no flight tonight. We needed you to go through your surgery as strong as you could be and we knew what this news was going to do to you. All the pilots have standing orders not to take you anywhere. Just in case you have any ideas."

This hits him but dully bouncing around in the shock.

"We have gone ahead and rented you a real apartment," Lazard speaks like this is a consolation prize. "The other Firsts favor it. We've furnished it. Your old items are being moved from the soldier barracks as we speak. We will be helping you get settled. We aren't abandoning you. You have an office on the 50th floor, just under me with a great assistant eager to meet you."

These words mean nothing.

He isn't leaving Midgar.

"Here is your assignment outlining your new duties and of course, with this promotion, we are raising your clearance level."

The folder gets pushed towards him. Automatically, he opens it. The sentences are nonsense. A new title. Login credentials. Objectives. Deadlines. Salary. Bonuses. Benefits. Scheduled hours. A list of paid holidays. A profile with a picture of a smiling assistant. A new security badge with his face on it. It slips over him like rain. He can't focus. He closes it and puts a hand on top of the papers. He bows his head, closing his eyes, trying to understand. His hair slips half over his face.

This is impossible.

Lazard starts talking again, filling space and grinding against his nerves, "This is not because of what has happened recently. We developed a better system for Firsts. The death rate has gone down significantly. You are the last one alive on the antiquated system. That Wutai battle was going to be your last, regardless of how it ended. That's why Mariella was coming to see you.

He waits for a response. He doesn't get one.

"We'll give you a few minutes and then when you are ready, come out and I'll show you to your new office. You are my only appointment this morning."

The chairs scrape. Mariella's keys chime against her badge.

"May I talk to Mariella alone?" Sephiroth asks. In normal circumstances, there would be no hesitation. In real life, he wouldn't have even felt the need to ask.

This time he has to open his eyes to watch Lazard and Mariella give each other a long look. As if he is going to lash out against her? Do they think that he is that far gone? If someone attacked the meeting room right now, he would sit in this chair and absorb the bullets like they were gifts.

"I can stay an extra moment," she says and sits back down.

Lazard leaves. His strides are quick.

With the Director out of the room, he finds himself crumpling. Dangerously, he is falling in on himself.

"How could you take this all away from me?" His voice shakes. It takes all his strength to look her in the eyes. She doesn't look away. It's like she is leaning into his pain.

This is her doing. She could have fought for him like she had all of his life. This plan has her signature at the bottom. It wouldn't surprise him if she wrote the entire thing.

"I…" She stops at the way her voice breaks and then she swallows and straightens. "I'm not trying to take anything away from you, Sephiroth. I am trying to give you something. The life that you never got to have."

"Let me go back."

"Please trust me. This is a good thing."

That hurts worse than any physical wound.

"Allow me to do my job." He wishes he could put together a logical argument and set together the reasons that this is wrong but he can't. Between the surgeries and the last few months, his mind can no longer function that quickly. The emotions in him are too complex.

She breaks the smile on her face. "You have a new job."

"A new job that wasn't needed before you made it up for me."

She sits back. "We lost more of our forces in one day than we have in two years, what makes you think that you aren't needed here? In a more important role?"

"You are putting me out to pasture." He doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't live how normal people live. He's only known war and that is all that he wants to understand. His heart is pounding in him, shaking him.

"No."

"You are retiring me too." It comes out bitter.

The first flash of annoyance causes Mariella to stiffen. "I am not retiring you. I am giving you a break."

"What's happened to Orlin?" He asks sharply, "it's your name sealing his record."

Pain blooms across her face before she can stop it. "Orlin, Sephiroth, things happened while you were gone."

"So he is dead."

"No."

"He is here."

"No."

"What happened to him?"

She sucks in a breath. "I promise there will be a day that we talk about him but right now, we need to focus on you."

"So you are refusing to tell me? What is the point of this then? Why should I trust any of this? What if this is all a lie? Are you spinning all of this as some kind of punishment? Will I disappear too, slipping first out of the war and then life entirely?" It comes out of him sharp and unfiltered.

She shakes her head. "I will not allow that. You need a break. A break that you clearly need by your reaction to this."

I will not allow that.

This is her decision.

Sephiroth slides folder back towards Mariella.

"I can't do this."

She looks at him, deeply, probably seeing the fear that is crawling up inside him. "You can do this, Sephiroth. I know you can. Nobody expected this to be easy. I'm not going anywhere. I'll help you through this. We care about you, that's why we're doing this."

It seems impossible. If they understood him, they would have let him go back. He would have walked the path that he wanted until he came to the end. The bitterness fills him up until he can't think. He remains calm only on the outside.

"If you cared about me," he says carefully, putting emphasis on every word, "You would send me back."

That breaks her.

She pushes out of the chair. She rises up before him finally angry and it almost feels good. He should be worried but instead he caused this to happen. In a room where he has been lost, something that happened because of something he did. He matches her glare as she puts both her hands on the table and presses forward.

"Fine," she growls at him, "This is how you want to do this? Then look at this."

The folder gets shoved into his lap. It hits his stomach. The papers leak out. The ID clatters to the floor. He doesn't watch it. He's trying to keep himself trained on her.

"Those are your orders from SOLDIER. This is what the Director of your program has ordered you to do. Are you going to contest it?"

He lets out a breath. That is the heart of the issue, isn't it? Doing something that he hasn't done since he was a child. He has never refused an order since.

"Even if you were. What would you do? Walk to Wutai? We've removed all travel permissions for you," she says.

He would find a way.

She throws a hand at him, gesturing at his heart. "It's clear as day what is happening. It's too much for you. The drinking, the reclusiveness, the fight has been dying in your eyes. You want to throw yourself into Wutai until it kills you. Am I wrong?"

He doesn't look away. He doesn't move at all.

"Well, guess what? There are people that don't want that to happen."

"I am fine." He shouldn't bother. They both know that it is a lie.

"Gods. You are so stubborn. You don't understand what this is like-" Mariella's face twists and the straightness in her shoulders melts. She rubs her face and takes a step back. "You don't know what it is like to see you torn apart. You are fucking bleeding Sephiroth, and you don't even know it."

He swallows. "Reevaluate me. I need to go back."

She shakes her head

"Let me go back."

"No, Sephiroth." There is too much finality in her words.

"Reevaluate." Now he is urgent. She's walking away from him. She's leaving him.

"Give this two months."

"That's too long."

She stops at the door with her hand on the knob. "I know."

"Don't do this to me." He hates how vulnerable that sounds. The misery of this is clear.

She watches him.

"Don't hate me for caring about you enough to do this."

He stares at the table.

"I'll be here for you, alright? We are not going anywhere."

The door closes.

And he is alone.