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Aerith kept her wings hidden as she made her way through the streets. It was one of the many secrets that her mother taught her to keep when they fled from Shinra’s clutches. She had only seen her own mother’s wings once— in a hidden moment deep in the slums, concealed by waste pipes and wreckage, a wounded mother cat in her lap. Ifalna had sung, her voice lilting in the false light of the sunlamps. As she did, the air around them stirred, voices began to whisper on the edge of Aerith’s perception, and a verdant glow filled the air. Her mother’s wings were as green as the blood of the planet, as bright as its wellsprings of energy. The cat’s broken leg knitted, and she fled to rejoin her kittens, looking back for just a moment as she twitched a battered ear. The cat’s eyes were green too, perhaps the magic had made them so.
Ifalna’s wings had vanished then, and she slumped heavily against the concrete wall, sliding to the ground. Whatever Shinra had done in the labs had hurt her— placed a sickness so deep within her body that the magic couldn’t fix it. It was one of Aerith’s last memories of her birth mother.
When she was quite sure that no one was looking, she sang the same song to her flowers, and they leaned toward her as if she were sunlight. Her wings were there in those moments, she knew, shimmering like a summer mirage. She had never dared to spread them in their full glory. Growing flowers was enough of a miracle, in a place like this.
On the plate, it rained. Tonight, even the wealthiest in Midgar looked up to a grey sky. Aerith hated it— the drained and lifeless water seemed to sap at her own energies, greedy and thirsty. She imagined her wings wrapped around her like a magical raincoat, but all she wore was the dress of a simple flower girl and a light jacket, and she was soon soaked to the skin. It was then that she heard voices.
“Your Don still hasn’t paid me what he owes.”
The response was cool and calm, but the speaker was concealing a strained tone.
“Corneo sends his regards. He says that you’ll find the favor you owe him cancels out his debt.”
“I don’t owe him any damn favors. And if I did, the last one I sent him should have been more than adequate.” There was the sound of someone spitting on the ground, and a gun being cocked.
“Are you really going to shoot the messenger?” There was a definite note of fear in the voice now, though the speaker was trying hard to cover it.
“Maybe I am. Maybe this’ll show your Don that we mean business.”
“That’s not— I urge you to—”
The gun went off. The wet streets shuddered. People turned toward the noise, then back in their original direction. It never paid to be curious in Midgar.
A man emerged from an alleyway, hand at his belt as if he were holstering a weapon. From the same alleyway came broken, shuddering gasps. Aerith stopped on the corner, flower basket in hand. When she was sure the man with the gun was gone, she ducked into the alleyway.
There was a second man lying there— barely more than a boy really— baseball cap pulled down over silver hair. The puddle of rain beneath him was turning blood red. Aerith ran to his side.
“Are you alright?”
He clearly wasn’t, but the next part would be easier if he were conscious and coherent enough to answer.
“Fine,” the man gritted out. “Got me in the thigh. Seems like he intended for me to make it back alive.”
She didn’t know who this man worked for, or what questionable things he might be dealing in, but in the moment none of it mattered. She kneeled next to him and took his hand, pulled him close so his head lay in her lap. Then she began to sing.
She shot a glance at the entrance of the alleyway, but none of the passersby appeared curious enough to look down it. A breeze rippled between the buildings, voices began to whisper along with her own. Her wings unfurled in luminous green. The rain that dripped through them was no longer lifeless, but infused with the energy of the Planet. As the rain poured over him, the young man in her lap began to breathe easily, the pained expression on his face diminishing as his wounds healed.
“Figures I’d meet an angel in a place like this,” muttered the young man, pulling his cap down further over his face. After a moment more, he seemed to remember himself, and sat up rather hurriedly. He stood, testing his weight on his leg, and Aerith rose next to him, leaning over to squeeze the rainwater from her hem.
She put on a voice that was in parts playful and beseeching, wagging a finger.
“Don’t tell anyone what you saw. This is a secret just between us.”
“Don’t worry,” the man said, a dark look flashing across his face, “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Her instincts told her it was better not to ask. The young man seemed to think the same.
I guess we both have things to hide. Still—
She calls out as he walks off.
“The church in Sector Five. If you ever need—”
He cuts her off with a wave.
“Thanks for the offer. But it’s better that we don’t meet again.”
The rain dripped through her now-invisible wings and on to the cut flowers in her basket. Despite everything, she had a feeling that they would.