Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s supposed to be his rest day.

They come few and far between, especially when Professor Hojo is in residence, but he can count on at least one in every ten days stretch…or he used to be able to.

It has been seventeen days now since his last rest day. Well…he thinks it’s been seventeen, it’s Thursday now…or is it Saturday…the days are starting to bleed into each other. That’s never a good sign.

“Again!”

His musings are interrupted as Professor Hojo’s nasally voice sounds through the speakers of the training room. The high-pitched whine that accompanies it, generated by the volume of mako energy interference, hurts his sensitive hearing, but he can’t complain. He can never complain.

Not when he’s so exhausted, he can barely stand, let alone run the drills they expect him to. Not when the pain from the injections and all the other tests cause his own body to try and tear itself apart in rebellion, only to slowly put itself back together again. Not when his MP is so low that the materia barely glows in his hand.

He sometimes wonders what the point of all this is. What can possibly be the point to all this? They say he’s special. He doesn’t feel special. He feels like one of the hundreds of caged specimens that line the walls of the science department.

“Did you not hear me boy. I said again.” Professor Hojo’s voice is quiet, it’s always quiet, but there’s an edge present that speaks of irritation.

Somehow, he manages to force himself to stand—funny, he doesn’t even remember falling to the floor—but his stance is weak, and his legs feel as though they may give out beneath him at any moment.

He deals with it.

He always deals with it.

Unclenching his fist, he gazes at the perfectly round white sphere that sits innocently in his hand.

He hates it.

He can’t hate the scientists or Hojo—hating something you can’t do anything against is pointless—so he hates the small white materia that does nothing as he glares at it instead.

He hears the click of the speakers, indicating that the professor is about to speak again.

He doesn’t let him.

He learnt a long time ago that giving Hojo the chance to repeat an instruction for a third time is never wise.

Channelling what little MP he has left, he tries to awaken the unresponsive materia. He can feel his magic flowing into the strangely warm orb, feel it connecting to the power that rests within the sphere. The natural light that surrounds every mako infused crystal starts to glow brighter, just as any materia that receives MP from someone whose been trained to use them does, but then it stops.

Suddenly, like a door being shut he’s cut off from the energy he’s been pouring into the materia. He stumbles back from the shock of it and then the wave of weakness that accompanies the sudden loss of so much MP washes over him.

It’s jarring, he had no more energy left to give and now he’s paying the price. Darkness creeps at the edge of his vision, sweeping over his sight and taking all focus with it. He feels weightless, even as he falls to the cold metal of the training room floor. His body doesn’t feel like it’s his own, but it is, and he knows as soon as he wakes the pain will follow.

The pains always there, waiting to embrace him like an old friend. It’s one of the few things that’s consistent. Pain and the darkness that finally consumes his vision, taking his last bit of consciousness with it.

Green.

Everything he sees; even his own hair as it swirls around him—suspended in the viscous green that’s choking him—is tinged with it.

He tries not to think what that means; knowing where he is won’t get him out.

At least the whispers haven’t started yet. No, the only sound that fills his ears is the high-pitched keen of energy flowing through the systems that surround him and the languid bubble of the liquid in which he’s drowning.

He is drowning, there’s no other way to describe it; lungs filled with poisonous fluid that leaves his chest burning as it steals his breath, forcing him to instinctively draw in more of the poison, in an endless cycle that tears at the last dregs of consciousness he still desperately clings to.

The longer he stays here, the more his mind drifts. Snatches of half formed thoughts and feelings float across the surface of his mind, only to be swept away or dragged under by the rolling tremor of pain that overrides his senses.

He blinks through the green, trying to see beyond it. He’s met with only the blurred sight of scratched glass. Reaching out a hand he feels along the tiny indents left on the inside of the tube, evidence of the tanks previous occupants useless attempts to get out. It’s strange how his own nails fit perfectly into the carved grooves that mar the surface of the once smooth glass.

His thoughts must have drifted again because the next time he blinks there’s movement on the other side of the green blurred glass.

Black, like the uniform some of his instructors’ wear…exactly like the uniform his instructors’ wear and…pink? Not a colour he’s used to seeing in the labs, or the training rooms, or in Shinra, and never so much of it.

The two figures move in tandem, the one in black shadowing the movements of the smaller pink silhouette as it flits across the lab.

He watches their actions distantly, unable to interpret the small gestures that pass between the two of them.

They’re looking at him, at least he thinks they are, that’s not unusual.

He blinks again; long and slow, it must have been slow because the pink figure is suddenly closer, standing right before the glass. She, it is a woman—younger than any of the female doctors or Shinra employee’s he’s seen before—leans forward. She’s studying him, again, not unusual, but the expression she’s wearing as she does so is…strange.

There’s none of the ambitious curiosity or sterile clinicalness that draws deep lines in the brows of the women that frequent the lab. There’s no fear either, not even when the figure dressed in black—the SOLDIER—comes to stand beside her. If anything, her posture gets looser. More relaxed and casual, in a way that’s so at odds with the tension he can feel coiling in his own gut.

Even so, he can’t look away. Not from those green eyes, that peer through the depths of poison that surrounds him. They look so clear, so untainted.

Bubbles rise within the green, forcing him to break eye contact. When he looks again, the figures are gone.

The lab is empty, quiet…and then the whispers start.

Chapter Text

When he wakes, he doesn’t remember the two figures he had seen on the other side of the mako tank. Not really, just brief flashes of different colours that get lost amongst the greengreengreen that taints all his senses as he muddles through his lost time.

He knows he needs to focus, to regain his faculties while he’s still alone, but concentrating on anything for more than a moment is all but impossible.

His mind flits between his overwrought senses as he tries to find some form of peace, a calm harbour in the raging storm that is the fresh mako pumping through his veins, crawling under his skin like a frenzied swarm seeking an escape.

He wants to flinch at that thought, to physically turn away from it, but he’s so lost in his own mind he can’t tell if he’s still alone and so he doesn’t dare move.

Eyes firmly shut and breathing as even as he can make it, he forces his attention onto the loud consistent drone of mako energy running through the surrounding machines.

It helps, somewhat, at least it drowns out the other sensations that seem to be trying to drag him back under.

Time passes and the hum of mako through wires and tubes is joined by other sounds. The creak of cooling metal, the whisper of air through vents, and the distant murmur of bored and stressed assistants as they go about their tasks.

He stumbles over a breath at that…he shouldn’t be able to hear the assistants, not yet. His recovery room is separated from the main lab by thick walls and winding corridors. He shouldn’t be able to hear them unless they are coming closer.

His suspicions are confirmed when the sound of one of the labs gurneys—the one with the misaligned wheel that’s resisted all attempts to fix it—reaches his ears.

He breathes, evenly and deeply, as though he’s still asleep, even before he hears them entering the corridor that leads to his recovery room. He has to be convincing, he has to be, otherwise…

The automated door to his recovery room slides open and the murmurs become words. “-ck it in here until we’re done cataloguing what’s left of the main subject.”

Two sets of footsteps accompany the rattle of the gurney as it rolls into the room and the voice speaks again. “And cast stop on it so it doesn’t start to decay before we can get round to studying the remains.”

There’s a shift of fabric that sounds too loud with how sensitive his hearing still is, and soon after the air in the room parts for the spell, making the buzz under his skin flare.

More shifting and what sounds like one of the medical curtains being set up to his left, then the two sets of footsteps are leaving the room.

He waits until he hears the automated door in the next corridor over close and until the words of conversation fade to dull murmurs once more. Then, and only then, does he try to open his eyes.

The bright medical light overhead causes his eyes to water, but he blinks the moisture away as he moves to sit. The muscles in his arm twinge in pain as he rises slowly, but he manages to tip himself forward and brace one hand against the hard edge of the examination table beneath him.

Taking a deep breath, he sits there and waits for the tremors running along his arm to stop, only then does he try to open his eyes again. It’s easier this time, with his face turned away from the harsh medical light the stark shades of sterile white and grey metal that make up the room soon come into focus.

There’s a lot more white then there should be; a large expanse that stretches before him, dividing the room and blocking his sight.

Curious despite the fact that he knows better, he stands using the examination table and a medical cabinet to balance on shaky legs. It’s a long moment before his legs feel stable enough for him to attempt moving but once he starts it gets easier.

It’s only as his hand reaches out for the medical curtain that his movements stall, brought to a halt by the realisation that this is a very bad idea.

He should just turn around and go back to pretending to be asleep, or better yet actually go to sleep. He’s already failed Professor Hojo’s expectations, if he’s caught doing something he shouldn’t be on top of that…

He shivers, disobedience is not tolerated…but neither is failure, a treacherous voice whispers in the back of his mind.

He’s already failed, what’s a little disobedience on top of that? Besides it’s only really disobedience if he gets caught.

It’s with these thoughts that he pulls back the medical curtain.

Whatever the specimen that lies on the gurney is, it’s small…that, or the retrieval squad that had recovered it were heavy handed and this is just all that’s left of a much bigger beast. Considering the blood that’s soaked into the white cloth someone’s covered the specimen with, he’s leaning towards the latter explanation.

The same niggling curiosity from before stirs in the back of his mind. What can be so important that the science department would take the time to catalogue its remains? Usually terminated subjects are just left to rot until they’re thrown in the furnace or fed to the other specimens.

He resolves to only take a quick peek, one brief look to satiate the bubbling curiosity and then he shall return to his own examination table.

Pulling back the blood-stained cloth he is greeted with a sight that makes the air in his lungs freeze.

Verdant eyes that must have been filled with life stare dully at the ceiling above, glassy in death. Tangled brown hair hangs loose and matted around her pale face, both of which are painted in the dull rust colour of drying blood.

He steps back as his fingers lose their grip on the cloth, it falls and folds in on itself, leaving the girls face exposed to the room.

He should replace it, put it back as it was before anyone comes and sees that he’s been disobedient, but a single glance at those death misted eyes just causes him to take another step back.

He jumps when his back hits the edge of the cabinet he’d used to help himself stand, the jerky movement nearly causes it to fall and the few objects that litter its top to be sent flying.

With quick reflexes and a swift turn, he manages to catch the cabinet before it can tip past its centre of balance, there’s no saving the tools and items though.

With a litany of cracks, smashes, tinks, and clangs they all crash to the floor.

He can’t help but wince at the noise even as he covers his ears, too late to shield them but still unable to refuse the instinctive need to cower away from the discordant barrage of sound.

When it finally settles and the relatively quiet ring of the machines and mako returns, he uncurls and begins salvaging what he can.

They’ll know.

Of course they’ll know, there’s a delicate glass beaker in a hundred pieces, but even if it wasn’t, even if he could have restored every item to its rightful place, and cover the girl—the tiny, innocent, looking girl who has to be younger even than him—with the blood-stained cloth that hides her from sight, Hojo will know.

He always does.

Even so he tries, his hands weaving between the sharp shards of broken glass searching for items that are still whole.

His fingers alight upon smooth crystal and suddenly he’s flinching back, recoiling from the cool touch of the hated white materia that seems to follow the path of his retreating hand, daring him to pick it up.

Why is it here? It shouldn’t be here.

As soon as he’d failed it should have been taken from him and locked away in whichever labelled draw Hojo has for it.

Instead, it’s just sitting there.

He can’t stop his eyes from being drawn back to the pale figure of the dead girl. Did she fail? Is that why she’s here? Was she put in here on purpose? Another lesson from Professor Hojo about what happens when you fail.

It’s the logical conclusion.

Which means Hojo’s watching.

His first instinct is to look to the cameras in the room, but he represses it, knowing from experience that it’s better to claim ignorance until he figures out what the professor is trying to observe. To that end he begins subtly looking around the room, all the while still sifting through the shards of glass, searching for unbroken items amidst the wreckage.

When he’s done it’s clear that the only things out of place in the room are the white materia and the body of the little girl.

Only one reason for this set-up comes to mind. This is his last chance to successfully use the white materia before more…strenuous methods are employed in order to deliver results.

Picking up the white materia he studies it closely.

The first thing he notices is the fresh smear of red across its once pristine surface. Checking his hands, he’s greeted with the sight of pale skin dyed crimson with still wet blood.

He glances back at the girl, at the blood wet cloth that no longer shields her from the harsh light of the room. When he lifted it, the blood must have transferred onto his fingers without him noticing.

It’s of little consequence, but for some reason it seems disrespectful to leave her like that.

Before he can think better of it, he’s walking back to the gurney. The cloth falls easily back over her face with the simplest of tugs and just like that it’s almost as though he can pretend he never saw her…almost.

Every time he closes his eyes those somehow familiar green eyes stare back at him.

Shaking his head, he turns his attention back to where it should be.

The strange materia sits inert in his hand, unresponsive but slightly warm where it rests against his palm.

Strange, he could have sworn it was cool to the touch earlier. Perhaps it’s just leaching the warmth from his skin.

This is his last chance, he has to make it count, but everything he’s tried before hasn’t worked; every bit of MP he’s fed the materia has simply been absorbed.

Originally, he thought that he simply wasn’t giving the materia enough MP. That theory had been completely debunked, after he’d taken an ether and channelled all of his MP into the orb and summarily collapsed without even a glint of activity from the vexing orb.

All his other theories have failed as well, proven false one after the other as he’s desperately tried everything he can think of.

He stares down at the mako crystal, wishing that he knew what its purpose was. If he knew that then maybe he could get it to work, but that’s why Professor Hojo’s been trying to get him to activate it in the first place, to find out what it does.

He continues to study the crystal, watching as the subtle hues of green meld and shift with the white depths of the orb.

It’s beautiful, clear and bright in a way that all materia is but something about it seems more…divine?

He dismisses that word from his mind quickly, knowing that it’s not a scientific term and is therefore useless.

Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply and tries to calm his thoughts, if he can just think clearly, logically, then an answer will present itself.

Instead, he finds himself buckling slightly under the weight of the invisible stare he knows is there.

He can’t fail, He is not allowed to fail, and yet he is.

No, he has to at least try.

Gripping the materia he channels a small amount of MP into it. The materia reacts exactly the way it always does, meaning it doesn’t.

He continues, even though by now he knows it’s a useless endeavour. The only thing that changes is the temperature of the mako crystal as it soaks up more heat from his palm.

He waits for the draining feeling of loss that he’s gotten all too used to, and he waits for the searing weakness that follows.

It doesn’t come, but still nothing happens.

He opens his eyes to be met with the blinding white of the void.

“What?” The word escapes him on a choked whisper of breath.

Chapter Text

He takes a step forward, only to stop when something gentle brushes against his bare toes.

Flowers…

Sweet, bright, fragrant, flowers. Stretching out in all directions as far as he can see, breaking up the monochrome void of white with splashes of yellow, green, and cream in varying shades.

It’s stunning.

It’s also completely nonsensical.

Crouching, he tentatively takes a delicate petal gently between his fingers; it feels real. Fragile green veins run underneath his thumb, speaking of life and growth in a way that nothing in the science department can.

“Hmm, another one that’s too big to adopt.”

He can’t help but freeze at the sound of the sweet voice.

It’s not the tone or the volume that sets his nerves on edge, but the fact that the woman has managed to get so close.

He turns, slowly, until he’s facing the direction the voice came from.

An empty white horizon above a sea of endless flowers is all that greets him.

“What are we going to do with him then?” A man’s’ voice speaks this time, deep and tinged with an emotion that he can’t identify. “Can’t send him back where he came from.”

He turns faster this time, but still, he is alone.

“Nope.” The word is said strangely, drawn out and emphasized in a way that must have meaning. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“Where to then?” the male voice asks.

“I wonder.” The words and the tone don’t match.

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense.”

There’s a noise that sounds like one of Professor Hojo’s chuckles, but less—creepy, scary, terrifying, sadistic—fake.

“There’s only one place I can think to send him.”

He doesn’t panic, why would he?

He’s used to people talking about him as though he isn’t there. Discussing his future right above his head as though he can’t hear them.

“It’s settled then.”

That sounds a lot like the end of their discussion, if he wants to run, now may be his only chance.

It’s not, his time has already run out, he just doesn’t know it.

The feeling of a hand coming to rest gently on the top of his head is so foreign it’s alarming.

His mind reels and he’s moving before he can think. Muscle memory surfacing like a rising tide and he’s turning and raising a guard, even though his mind screams that nobody will be there.

There’s someone there.

So tall that he has to look up just to see the man’s face and the brilliant smile that he’s wearing.

Blue eyes.

SOLDIER eyes, look down on him, framed by a mane of spikey black hair.

The man’s hand is still resting atop his head.

“This is a second chance.”

The SOLDIER’s smile gets impossibly wider as he looks up and nods.

He follows the man’s gaze and sees a woman standing there, brown hair and green eyes so bright and alive in the whiteness of the oblivion around them.

“Do your best,” The woman’s voice whispers, as she grips her hand in a loose fighting stance, and then he’s falling.

Falling through the void, the scent of flowers still clinging to his senses as the light brightens and the space filled with blooms slips away.

He has just enough time to start panicking. Time enough to take a deep breath in preparation for the scream that never leaves his throat.

Then his back is hitting something liquid, breaking the surface tension and he’s still falling, wait no, he’s sinking.

At least this is a feeling he’s used to.

He doesn’t know when he decided to close his eyes, but he’s grateful that he did as the familiar sensation of liquid fire running down his throat seizes him once more. He doesn’t need to see to know that he’s once again surrounded only by green.

Did he ever leave it?

Is that the answer? Has this all been a mako induced dream?

It would account for the inconsistencies.

Flowers do not bloom in Midgar.

Materia is not left out unsorted.

The white void filled with encouraging smiles and a gentle hand cannot exist.

When he opens his eyes all he will see is green.

Ignoring the pain, he tries to take another breath.

More liquid fire and a sensation of choking that he wouldn’t normally associate with mako.

He reaches out for the glass of the tube, knowing that the smooth unforgiving surface will help ground him, or at least let him know the limits of his tank.

Except, his hand meets nothing but the gentle resistance of the liquid that is arounds him.

Blinking, he tries to focus on his surroundings, but already black is beginning to consume the edges of his vision, pulling him down even as he sinks.

Suddenly something snags the back of his shirt. It twists into the fabric, drawing it tight around his throat as it pulls upwards. Distantly, he can feel the ends of his hair tangling in the constricted fabric and the sharp tug it causes on his scalp allows him to clear some of the creeping darkness.

Only to be near blinded by the reflection of light off clear water.

Sound returns next, heralded by his own gagging coughs and the rush of splashing water.

He can feel something clawing at the back of his throat, rising as his lungs desperately work to draw in air past the water he’s already inhaled.

It hurt’s, it hurts, it hurts.

It’s so much worse than the mako because the eventual numbing haze isn’t coming and to top it all off, he still can’t breathe.

The support holding him aloft gives without warning and there’s nothing to stop him from falling back into the water, nothing for him to grab as his own weight drags him down even as he struggles to stay afloat.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Every other thought is submersed by this mantra, drawn beneath it as it rises like a towering wave.

He can’t think of anything else, not when the clear water burns through him worse than any concentration of mako ever has.

It feels like something inside him is being ripped away, stripped from him cell by cell.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Distantly, far beneath the pain that’s tearing him apart, he registers that something has seized the back of his shirt again.

When he is pulled from the water this time, he is not held suspended. No, he is dropped onto an unyielding surface that finally gives him something to try and stabilize himself against.

The gagging starts again and this time he can’t stop it. The thing crawling up his throat wants out and no matter how he grits his teeth he can’t keep it down.

The splatter of liquid against the solid surface beneath him is all he can hear as he heaves.

Once he starts, he can’t stop, not until the thing squirming in his chest is out and his stomach is finally empty.

The boking slowly eases then subsides and at last he can breathe.

The air tastes sweet.

He means that quite literally, there’s a sweet scent in the air that’s coating the back of his tongue with every breath he takes. It’s not as all-encompassing as it had been in the void, but it’s present and very hard to ignore now that pain isn’t the very centre of his being.

He wants to open his eyes, to prove to himself that this is all a mako induced illusion, that the pain is just a violent reaction to a new treatment the professor is trying, but his eyes are too heavy, and his limbs are finally starting to feel numb.

He’s not ashamed to admit the relief that consumes him when darkness at last envelopes his waning consciousness.

He doesn’t have the sense to register the shift of something yellow, black, and silver at the edge of his vision as sleep finally wraps soft hands around him in a kind embrace that finally pulls him away from the pain.

Chapter Text

The cry of tempered steel against dulled metal rings out through the mounds of littered scrap that stand as an abandoned monument to the once great city of Midgar.

They are muted when compared to the echoing screams of battle which the ruin has previously played host to. Slow and gentle where previous encounters have been swift, vicious, and cruel.

The next clash produces a clattering gong as the blunt blade is sent spinning from the hands of the boy valiantly trying to wield it.

He doesn’t give up, even as he falls to the ground his eyes follow his discarded weapon as it skitters across the smooth stone of their selected training ground.

He only stops when Hollow Blade comes to rest mere inches from his face.

“Well done,” Cloud says as he offers a hand.

He’s rewarded when Denzel smiles widely and accepts the offered help.

“You did a lot better that time, your stance was good, and you managed to keep up an effective guard,” Cloud elaborates as he moves to pick up the training sword.

It’s nothing fancy, a Shinra issue blade that Cloud salvaged on a delivery, but it’s good enough to teach Denzel the basics. Especially after Cloud took the time to shorten and rebalance the sword to better suit Denzel’s needs.

“Does this mean you’ll teach me a new move?” Denzel’s eyes sparkle as he asks this.

It almost makes him sorry when he has to say no.

“Not until you can do at least fifty squats in a row without having to stop.” Cloud can’t help but smirk when Denzel pouts at this. Nor can he resist reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair when he hands him back the sword.

“Cloud,” Denzel whines, but he doesn’t move away or try to shift the hand that’s messing up his hair.

“Come on, it’ll get dark if we don’t start heading back now.”

He moves towards the path leading back to the church, knowing that Denzel will follow.

“When can we train again,” Denzel asks as he catches up to Cloud.

Cloud mentally goes over his work schedule; he has a few local deliveries he needs to take care of tomorrow but nothing that should stop him from getting in a few hours of training in the evening.

He tells Denzel this and watches as the boy’s whole face lights up.

“There is a condition though,” Cloud says before Denzel can get too excited. “You have to help Tifa with setting up the bar for opening.”

Denzel starts to pout. “I always help Tifa with that.”

“Strapping sponges to your feet to skate over a soaked floor is not helping.” Cloud is glad he’s walking in front of Denzel because the smirk tugging at his lips would only encourage the boy.

“That was Marlene’s idea,” Denzel defends.

“Yeah, but you chose to go along with it.”

Denzel’s got no comeback for that one. So, he does the smart thing and goes quiet.

For all of two seconds.

“Do you think Marlene will be able to come with us tomorrow?”

“Depends what Barret has planned.” Isn’t that the truth, Cloud’s hardly seen Marlene over the last couple of days, but what else can he expect.

Barret barely gets any time off these days, what with the demands of being a drilling supervisor of a new oil well, he’s having to work a lot of long shifts. So, any time he can spend with Marlene is precious.

Apparently, that’s a good enough answer because Denzel just accepts it. “I wonder what Barret bought her this time?”

“I dread to think.” Cloud shivers at the mere memory of the present Barret bought Marlene on their last father-daughter-daytrip. It’s for defence against creeps is not a viable excuse to buy a child a fully levelled fire materia, an unlevelled materia can accomplish that just fine, that’s why Cloud and Tifa are teaching her.

“If Marlene gets a gun, can I have one?” Denzel asks so earnestly that Cloud legitimately can’t tell whether he’s serious or just trying to make him go grey. On second thought Cloud doesn’t want to think about that because grey hair is way too close to silver for his liking.

“What, the swords not good enough?” Cloud asks instead. “I’ll take it back then.”

Denzel immediately starts backtracking as Cloud reaches out for the blade. “No! you gave this to me; you can’t take it back!”

“Hmm, you just said you wanted a gun instead.” That is not what Denzel said but messing with the kid is fun.

“No, I didn’t!” By this point Denzel’s clutching his sword so tight that if it really had an edge, he’d be bleeding. “I just think it’d be cool to combine them!”

“What, use a gun and a sword at the same time?” It wouldn’t be impossible, but it would require a completely different set of skills from the ones Cloud’s teaching Denzel now, maybe he can talk to Barret or Vincent.

Cloud’s mental plans for future training sessions are completely derailed when Denzel continues talking. “No, a gun blade, wouldn’t that be awesome!”

Cloud has a few fuzzy memories of facing gun blade wielders. He doesn’t think the memories are his, they have that staticky disjointed quality that usually accompany one of Zack’s. He remembers them none the less.

“Ask Tifa.” It’s the best stalling tactic he has and in his experience it works. The glare he can feel burning his back tells Cloud that Denzel knows exactly what he’s up to, but the church has come into view as they round the last crumbling mound of rusting debris. Any complaints Denzel has are now going to have to wait until they’re home.

Cloud does a quick visual check of Fenrir as they approach, there’s hardly a fresh speck of dust but he likes to be sure. More and more wildlife has been moving into the ruins recently, nothing too big yet but Denzel found a dark feather the other day that might have belonged to a griffin, so Cloud isn’t taking any chances.

Satisfied, Cloud makes his way up the stairs leading to the church, calling out to Denzel as he goes. “Just gonna check the altar, then we’ll go.”

In answer Denzel runs past Cloud; taking the steps in one leap he squeezes through the small gap between the heavy oak doors that are too damaged to close properly anymore…Cloud chooses to forget that he’s the reason for that.

The sound of Denzel’s heavy footfalls and bright laughter accompanies the loud creak of rusted hinges that marks Cloud’s own entrance to the church.

He catches sight of the boy disappearing behind a fallen pillar near the marble altar at the head of the sanctuary, he’s probably heading for the back room again. After Marlene managed to find a steal materia in the wreckage there a few weeks ago Denzel’s been determined to find something better, so far, he’s had no luck, but he’s yet to give up.

Cloud knows the church is safe—he makes sure it is—so he’s happy to let Denzel explore while he checks the shrine.

Nothing’s changed since the last time they were here; Buster sits upon the altar surrounded by Aerith’s flowers. He can’t help the relief he feels at the sight of them, he’d been so sure that they were gone for good after Kadaj had destroyed them, but they came back. Slowly but surely, they grew back, surrounding the new pond and spreading out on every surface they could cover.

It’s their return that convinced Cloud to move Buster here.

He can’t even remember what he was thinking leaving Buster to rust as some sort of morbid grave marker in the place Zack had died; even now just thinking about it sends a sharp lance of guilt stabbing through his chest, making his scars itch.

No, here, cleaned, polished, and once more sharpened to a fine edge. Amidst light, colour, and the fresh scent of flowers, watching over the miracle that Aerith brought into the world. This is where Buster belongs.

It’s as he’s running his hand along the flat of the blade, checking for any signs of wear or rust that he sees it. A mere reflexion in the mirrored steel of the blade, but it’s there, the briefest glimpse of grey fur.

His gaze turns to follow it, but it’s already vanished, no trace left behind.

Walking forward, he can’t help but rest a hand on the grip of First Tsurugi, drawing comfort from the way his hand naturally sinks into the soft indents worked into the leather of the handle.

There’s nothing there, but Cloud can’t bring himself to relax.

Somehow, the air has changed. There’s a weight to it now that wasn’t there before, charged and waiting.

The sudden sound of a splash behind him has Cloud fully drawing his blade.

He turns, sword ready, stance firm, only to find nothing but the softly rippling surface of the pond.

Moving forward he keeps First Tsurugi level as he searches for the possible threat that disturbed the formerly calm surface of the water.

There’s nothing; the room is empty.

All Cloud can hear are the stilling ripples of the pond and the soft scurry of Denzel moving in the back room.

Moving towards the pool he’s already sheathing his blade, half convinced that the splash must have been caused by a loose piece of roof falling…Cloud knows from first-hand experience that it’s not unusual for people things to fall through the roof of the little church of sector five.

That’s when he sees the child, fully submersed and still sinking, not even fighting to break the surface.

He’s at the springs edge in the next second, his arm reaching down for the child until the water rises past the junction of his elbow, allowing the cold liquid to slide past the rim of his glove, soaking the leather inside and out.

Cloud doesn’t care, he snatches the thin material of the kid’s black shirt and pulls him up.

The child coughs as soon as his head breaks the water, clearly alive and conscious though his previous stillness beneath the water might have led Cloud to believe otherwise.

This isn’t what Cloud’s focusing on.

Cloud can’t focus on that.

Not with the mako green cat slit eyes he can see shielded behind the curtain of water-logged silver hair.

He doesn’t realise that shock has made his grip go lax until he hears the second splash and feels the wave—caused by the sudden displacement of water as he dropped the boy—soaking his legs.

Shaking off the leaden dread that has seized his limbs Cloud grabs the boy again and this time pulls him to shore.

He backs away, giving the child space and because of that his shoes are spared.

The silver haired boy coughs, gags, then retches violently.

The smell is awful: acid, the burning smell of ozone that clings to mako, and a decaying rot that’s so viscerally familiar it’s making sharp static flash across Cloud’s mind.

The look is worse: cloudy water tinged with a black ichor so thick it’s almost solid, ashen skin that’s growing paler by the second as the boy fights for breath, silver hair, and mako green eyes.

Cloud doesn’t know what to do.

He can only stand there, silently watching as the boy slowly regains control.

With one last shivering heave the boys breathing finally normalises, but then the kid is tilting forward.

Cloud lunges instinctively, just as he has so many times when Denzel or Marlene have pushed themselves too far. Catching the boy just before he can faceplant in the puddle of his own making, Cloud pulls the now unconscious child so that he’s cradled in his arms.

The static is back, low key but constant.

The sound of rushing footsteps signals Denzel’s approach.

“Who’s that?”

Such a simple question, but Cloud fears it has a complicated answer.

“I don’t know, but he’s hurt.” That’s all he has to say for Denzel to understand what he’s going to do next, but just to be sure Cloud adds, “He won’t be able to hold on so I’m going to need you to steady him on Fenrir.”

Denzel nods, looking a little unsure and Cloud can’t blame him, he’s feeling more than a little unsure himself.

Hooking one arm under the child’s knees he stands easily, but slowly. Whoever this kid is, it’s obvious he’s been through a lot.

He beckons Denzel with a simple tilt of his head and the boy takes the signal without complaint, but sticks noticeably closer to Clouds side, suspicious eyes glued to the little silver haired boy unconscious in Cloud’s hold.

Making their way to the door, distracted as they are, it’s unsurprising how neither of them notice the little black puddle separating itself from the water the boy had expelled.

As they close the door, they can’t see the viscous, now glowing goo, seeping between a loose floorboard.

As they settle the unconscious boy on Fenrir, safely pinned to Cloud’s back by Denzel’s encircling arms, they don’t know to stop the barely sentient Jenova cells that slowly make their way deeper into the ruins of Midgar.

Chapter Text

The first thing he notices is the lack of piercing ring.

The high-pitched whine of mako energy travelling through wires and machines has been there as long as he can remember, it’s the first thing he hears when he wakes up and the last thing he hears before he goes to sleep.

Now though…it’s loud in its absence.

There are other sounds that replace it, but they are deafening in a way that nothing in the labs ever is, because even his hearing has trouble discerning specific noises through reinforced and insulated steel.

Here…he can hear everything.

The swift sound of traffic rolling through streets, the reverberating noise of construction, all sharp clangs and mechanised banging, and above that the tide of voices, mingling together into a cacophony of madness that’s impossible to interpret.

It’s too much, too loud, and too muddled.

If it were only one of these things, he’d be able to deal with it, but all of them together, mixing and fighting to be heard over each other. It’s overwhelming,

Covering his ears, he tries to block out the worst of the noise, hoping that it will stop, or that his hearing will adjust as his sensitivity declines with the natural settling of the fresh mako in his veins.

Ideally, he wants to go back to sleep, or pass out, but with the noise that just isn’t an option.

He tries to open his eyes, hoping that the addition of sight will temper the acuteness of his hearing. It’s a mistake.

His eyes water and he is forced to shut them once more as light stabs at his cat slit irises, leaving him blind.

He switched to the next sense, but he is doubtful that the experience will be any less painful, the bedding issued by the lab technicians is scratchy at the best of times and after a fresh session in a mako tank it feels more like a form of torture than a source of comfort.

Bracing himself for the familiar sharp tingle that leaves him with the impression of glass shards being dragged across his overwrought nerves, he runs his hand along the blanket he can feel draped around him.

His breath catches when instead of the course material he has come to expect, his fingers glide along a softness that feels plush against his sensitive skin.

Caught off guard and desperate for something that doesn’t elicit pain, he can’t stop himself from turning into the soft warmth that surrounds him, nor can he shake the sudden impulse to burrow down into it in an attempt to escape the ache that attacks his other senses.

It works, if only a little, but it’s enough for him to be able to hear his own thoughts.

That comes with its own set of problems.

The cameras in his room will have picked up his movement, Professor Hojo will soon be alerted to the fact that he is awake.

He knows he should at least sit up in preparation for the next round of tests, it’s always better when he cooperates and submits willingly, the assistants then at least go about their jobs brusquely but efficiently. On the odd occasion he can’t bring himself to fully surrender to their poking and prodding he’s left with more bruises and deeper needle track lines, all of which are left to heal on their own.

He’s already in enough pain, he doesn’t want to feel more.

So why can’t he bring himself to uncurl from the warm embrace of the miraculously soft blanket that’s shielding him?

Before he can bring himself to answer that question, he hears the muted sound of muffled footsteps approaching from somewhere to his right.

His time is up.

With great reluctance he forces himself to rise. He keeps the blanket over his head for as long as he can, but that soon becomes impractical as he moves into a half sitting position. Finally, he allows the plush throw to pool in his lap and the noise of the world falls on top of him once more.

Too much. Too much. Too much. Too much. Too much!

He slams his hands over his ears and curls forward.

He has a few more seconds, he hasn’t heard the automated whoosh of the door to his room being opened, as long as he sits up straight before that happens, he’ll still be okay.

A sharp gasp and the sound of rushed retreating footsteps, has Sephiroth trying to open his eyes again. It’s as useless as his first attempt and trying to push through it only leaves him blinking spots out of his otherwise white vision.

It’s too much.

He has no choice; all he can do is sit there.

He flinches when he hears two pairs of footsteps making their way down the corridor.

He doesn’t have time to do anything other than lift his head slightly before a voice calls out, “Easy there, no need to get up.”

The sound of the voice is unfamiliar and Sephiroth can’t tell if that’s because this is someone new, or whether the ambient noise and the spike of pain that accompanies any tone louder than the barest whisper is making it hard for him to identify them.

A light touch on his shoulder sends a spark of jittering shivers down the entire length of his arm, but he doesn’t flinch, if he does they will know how sensitive he is right now how vulnerable, and they will take it as a chance for more conditioning training.

Hojo always says that the most effective lessons are taught through pain, and he takes every opportunity to prove that theory.

In a way the Professor is right, after all, Sephiroth learnt long ago never to show weakness in the labs.

The voice keeps talking and Sephiroth tries to make sense of the words. He needs to listen out for any instructions and carry them out as quickly as possible, otherwise they will know.

“Can you lie down for me sweety?” The words grate against his ear, but the instruction is clear, even though the way it is delivered is strange. He doesn’t even bother to try and figure out what the last word means, it wasn’t part of the command, it doesn’t matter.

He lays down slowly and does everything he can not to reach for the blanket, but even thinking about its warmth makes him notice the similar comfort of the mattress beneath his back.

It’s so confusing, this definitely isn’t one of the medical beds that his assessments are usually carried out on, nor is it his own bed.

Just where is he?

“Can you try opening your eyes for me?” the person asks.

Why are they asking when they should just be giving him instructions?

He starts to panic when his muddled thoughts finally land on the only logical answer.

This is another test.

He can’t fail, not after his recent poor performance, not with Professor Hojo still in residence, not again.

Fear and the adrenaline finally allow him to open his eyes.

He blinks through the searing pain of harsh light burning through his skull, but even as his vision clears the feedback is just too much.

He has to slam his eyes shut again.

“Are you okay?” the question is loud, so loud, he can’t stop himself from covering his ears with his hands again.

“Marlene.” It’s another word he doesn’t understand, but it’s said in clear—if gentle—reprimand. “Is it too loud?” this time the question is asked quietly.

“Yes,” he answers succinctly without hesitation.

He cannot lie to them, they’ll know, or they’ll find out.

The person gives a soft hum of acknowledgment, Sephiroth expects to hear the sharp tap of fingers typing on a screen next as the person takes notes.

Instead, the soft blanket is pulled up around his head again and Sephiroth can’t stop himself from clinging to the warmth of it.

“Marlene, go and fetch me Denzel’s spare earmuffs.” Instructs the soft voice.

“The ones Cloud likes to borrow when he’s having a bad day?” asks the louder one.

“Those are the ones.”

“Okay.”

Footsteps pound against the hard floor, echoing strangely and lacking the ring that the steel floors of the labs should have.

“You’re going to be fine sweety, it’s all gonna be okay.” The soft voice soothes, “Can you tell me your name?”

A simple question, are they checking for concussion, or mako poisoning?

He tries to answer but his name gets stuck in his throat and all that comes out is a strangled squeak, followed by a sharp series of coughs.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to answer right now,” the quiet voice soothes, and against his better judgement—every instinct that’s been burned into his cells—he allows himself to curl deeper into the blanket, retreating away from the world as much as he can. “You can try to go back to sleep in a minute I just want to try something first.”

Sephiroth hates the feeling of disappointment that lodges itself deep inside his lungs, but at least he’ll get to go to sleep again after the assistant tries out their theory.

As quickly as they left the other person reappears, heralded by the thump of their tread against the stairs.

“Tifa, I found them,” the persons voice is lower than before, but it still carries a high-pitched quality that seems strange to Sephiroth.

“Thanks Marlene.” A hand comes to rest on his shoulder once more and again he manages not to flinch. “Okay sweety, I’m gonna pull the blanket down, but only for a second. You can keep your eyes closed.”

The voice follows through and Sephiroth doesn’t dare to move.

The sharp jab of a needle he’s subconsciously expecting never comes, instead something as soft as the throw is slipped onto his head until both his ears are firmly covered.

Instantly the world becomes muffled, the sounds that had assaulted his ears muted from a screeching clamour to a dull and distant roar.

Lifting his hands he presses the fluffy headphones—at least that’s what they feel like—closer. The quiet intensifies, to the point where he can hear his own heartbeat above it.

“Is that better?” comes a muffled question, and Sephiroth nods in answer, because for such a simple fix it really is.

“Okay, you can try and get some sleep now, I’ll come and check on you in a few hours.” Gentle hands guide him down to the mattress and he can already feel himself drifting back to sleep as the blanket is pulled back up around him.

Chapter Text

Cloud glares down at the cup of coffee in front of him, watching as steam curls up along the edges of it before fading into near invisible whisps that dissipate into the air.

He wishes it was something stronger, not that it would actually affect him if it was, but it’s the thought that counts.

The soft drag of cloth on steel draws his attention back to the room.

Denzel’s sitting in one of the booths, going over his training sword with an oil rag. He keeps sending nervous glances towards the stairs where Marlene and Tifa have just disappeared, either waiting for them to return or contemplating whether he should give into his own curiosity and follow them upstairs.

Cloud takes the decision out of the boys’ hands as he catches his eye and beckons him over.

Denzel sets aside his sword and takes a seat at the bar next to Cloud, but even still his eyes dart to the stairs at the barest noise from the first floor.

Cloud had been hoping that they could distract each other, that he could get Denzel talking about something harmless, like his earlier request for a gunblade, but Denzel barrels over that idea when he stutters out the question that’s obviously been weighing on his mind.

“Is it a new kind of the Stigma?”

“No,” Cloud reassures immediately, his voice firm but gentle.

It isn’t the Stigma, of that, he is sure. If the boy had been afflicted the little dip he took in Aerith’s spring would have been enough to cure him. No, the thing that concerns Cloud-

“But…he looks so much like them,” Denzel whispers the words so quietly, that even Cloud has a tough time hearing them.

He can understand why, he didn’t want to give voice to the words himself. It makes it all too real, breathes life into an idea that Cloud doesn’t want to consider.

‘I will, never be a memory.’

“Some people do have silver hair naturally.” It’s a weak deflection, one that has him wincing even before Denzel can raise an unimpressed brow at him.

“Are cat slit eyes also natural?”

“…No.”

“So?” Denzel pushes, as his eyes anxiously flick towards the stairs again.

Cloud doesn’t know how to answer that, so instead he takes a sip of his coffee, and hopes that his effort to stall isn’t too obvious.

Apparently, he fails, because Denzel stands abruptly from his chair and makes for the stairs.

It’s easy enough for Cloud to snag the back of his t-shirt before he can get very far, but Denzel is determined. As proven when he continues trying to walk, to the point where Cloud has to actually put down his mug or risk spilling his coffee.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“We can’t leave Tifa and Marlene alone with him,” Denzel says as though it’s obvious.

It isn’t, for many reasons, but Cloud latches onto the one that will do the least damage to Denzel’s growing confidence.

“I doubt that kid could take on a Doom Rat, let alone Tifa in the state he’s in right now.”

As if to either confirm or derail that statement, hurried footsteps pound against the concrete of the stairs leading to the first floor, and a concerned Marlene soon appears.

“What did he do,” demands Denzel as soon as his eyes lock on her.

Marlene just blinks and looks slightly confused, which has Cloud instantly relaxing.

“What did who do?” Marlene asks, tilting her head in that way that makes her look like an inquisitive cat.

Even with his back turned to him Cloud can still see Denzel rolling his eyes. “The kid we brought back, who else?”

This just confuses Marlene more. “He’s sick, how can he do anything?” It’s obviously a rhetorical question because Marlene ignores Denzel’s spluttering protest and turns her inquisitive eyes on Cloud. “Have you seen Denzel’s Moogle muffs?”

Cloud coughs at the question, knowing that it would be more accurate to describe them as his Moogle muffs, given the number of times he has borrowed them.

“Last I saw them they were in my side table draw. Why?”

Marlene points to the room she’s just come from, genuine concern colouring her tone as she explains, “he can’t take the noise.”

Cloud nods. “Any other symptoms?”

Marlene shrugs. “Um, he keeps screwing his eyes shut and he doesn’t seem to like to be touched.”

Touch, light, and sound sensitivity, all common indicators that the boy recently had mako treatments.

“Is he unresponsive or staring off into space?”

“Nu-uh, he’s tries to answer all of Tifa’s questions.”

Cloud nods, and pulls Denzel into the seat next to him, resting a firm but gentle hand on top of the boy’s head, in order to keep him there. “Tifa’s waiting.”

“Right.” Marlene heads right back upstairs, straight for Cloud’s bedroom this time.

“Why are you helping him?” Denzel accuses in a low voice that would be hard to hear if Cloud wasn’t enhanced.

“Well, I guess I have a habit of picking up strays that I find at the church.” He lightly ruffles Denzel’s hair before taking his hand back, not wanting to push his luck.

Denzel untenses slightly, a little bit of guilt tempering his suspicion.

“Are you sure he’s not a Remnant?”

No, the constant low-grade static at the back of his mind whispers.

“The second he starts talking about ‘Mother’, ‘Reunion’, or world domination, you can tell me I told you so,” Cloud offers, completely unsure what he’s going to do if the kid does turn out to be a Remnant.

Kadaj had been bad enough, and he’d been Sephiroth when Cloud killed him.

The other two, Kadaj’s brother’s, he never got their names, took themselves off the board and tried to take Cloud with them…did take Cloud with them.

This kid, and he is a kid, no older than Denzel.

Could Cloud really…

“Could he be Sephiroth’s bastard son?” Denzel muses and all of Cloud’s thoughts derail.

“Where did you even…Barret!” his shout is directed at the back door, where his friend stepped out to make a call and grab what he thinks is a sneaky cigarette.

The sound of rattling metal and the screech of a stray cat heralds Barret opening the back door. He only sticks his head round, just enough to glare at Cloud. “What?”

“How many times has Tifa told you not to swear around the kids.”

“I didn’t you damn fool,” Barret scoffs as he rolls his eyes, “Tifa gave me enough shit over that last time she heard me.”

Cloud can’t stop his hand from rising to cover his eyes. “You just did.”

“What the fu-.” He stops himself, barely. Managing to cover the slip with a cough that’s fooling no one. “You never give Cid this kind of crap over his language.”

“Where do you think the Highwind got that dent in its hull from?”

Barret blinks. “Cid said that happened when a raging Nibel Dragon took a swing at him.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time Tifa’s been compared to a Nibel Dragon.” Cloud deadpans, only for Denzel to give a sharp tug on his top.

He looks down at the boy, to see that he’s gone pale and quiet, his eyes fixed on a point behind Cloud.

Cloud follows Denzel’s gaze.

Tifa stands at the top of the stairs, her hands resting on her hips, her leather gloves already in place.

“A Nibel Dragon am I?” Her voice is so light, so teasing, but even though she’s smiling her eyes seem to glow with the burnt embers of a rage that Cloud has unwittingly stoked.

Grabbing Denzel by the back of the shirt, his fingers twisting in the strong fabric to ensure his grip, he swings the boy over his shoulder, unrepentantly using him as an admittedly very small human shield as he uses all his SOLDIER speed to head for the door.

Knowing though, that this most likely will not be enough he also throws back the statement that might redirect Tifa’s anger.

“Barret taught Denzel a new swear word.”

At the speed he’s going, he only catches the beginning of his friends betrayed yell, “Son of a b-”

Chapter Text

It’s raining.

Again.

The sky crying for the world that lays below.

Just as he sits crying for his brothers.

Biting his lip, he tries to supress the tears, because he doesn’t want to be like the world. She’s the horrible one that took his brothers from him, that sent the water that silenced mother, turned big brother against them, and took away the gift that was going to make them all one big happy family.

Their Reunion.

That hope is gone now, along with the comforting static of mother’s voice he always used to be able to hear, a constant reassurance that she was there, that she loved them, that she would look after them, so long as they brought back Sephiroth.

They had.

Or Kadaj had.

But Yazoo had felt it, the elation as mother had reunited with Kadaj, making him whole in a way they could never be without her.

Sephiroth had been everything she promised.

He was the one that gave Loz and him the strength to stand even after all the TURKS had done to stop them, his voice calling as loudly as mother ever had, accompanied by the soft whisper of static that promised they would never be separated again.

The world had turned that promise into a lie.

Robbed them of the chance of even meeting the one that mother wanted back so badly, and worst of all, the planet had taken Kadaj.

They had wanted to hurt her for that, wanted to make her feel a fraction of the pain they felt, and so he had attacked big brother.

Struck a mortal blow that should have been impossible to recover from, because they were meant to go together.

They knew that.

They all knew that.

So why?

Why?

Why had Loz cast a manawall?

His shoulder twinges at the memory, and Yazoo can’t help but pull himself into a tighter ball as his body naturally curls around his missing arm and further away from the rain his dismally small shelter is shielding him from.

Nothing more than a collapsed office buildings whose supports were strong enough to survive the fall of the Shinra tower. The structure is littered with cracks and debris, but between it and the tarp he was able to pull from a nearby scrap pile he’s managing to stay mostly dry. There are still holes in his defences, ones that the cursed rain can use to get to him, to cast small drips that feel like acid atop his head, forcing him to shift and retreat, sending more pain screaming through his already failing body.

At this point it’s a battle merely to hold himself together, a constant struggle powered by what little of mother remains within him.

The small part that even now the world is trying to take away from him.

He hates it for this.

He hates it so much, but there is nothing he can do about it, not now, not with mother all but gone, the last of her cells destroyed when Sephiroth was killed by big brother.

Big brother who somehow came back, no longer marked by mother’s gift, but still one of them. Yazoo knows this, because big brother is the only real static left, a constant warm buzz at the edge of Yazoo’s consciousness, not as strong as Kadaj and Loz ever were, but still there, still marked for Reunion.

At least, that’s how it was until yesterday.

Something has changed.

Where once there had only been the last connection between him and big brother, now there is another.

Muted and small, like a broken string trying desperately to stay connected by the last fraying strand that keeps them bound.

He wants to go out and find it.

Needs to, but then the rain had started, trapping him here.

“Kadaj…Loz, what should I do?”

His only answer is the pouring rain and the low static that grows ever quieter with each passing day.

Time passes, and cold sweeps in with the night, settling over him like a blanket made of snow, making an already miserable situation even harder to bear. He draws the ragged remnants of black cloth he scavenged, and managed to fashion into a very basic cloak, closer around his chest, but the press of it against his ruined shoulder sends sparks of pain dancing throughout his nerves.

With only the sound of rain to concentrate on in the hopes of distancing himself from the sensation of his own body slowly shutting down, it makes him wonder; what would happen if he stepped out into it?

Would he be able to see Kadaj and Loz again?

Would mother be waiting for him?

Could they all be together again?

He had seen it after all, Kadaj reaching up, a smile on his face.

He had to have been looking at mother.

Isn’t that where he belongs?

With them?

The idea threads itself throughout his thoughts, settlings amidst the memories he shares with his brothers, making his eyes mist as he silently watches the rain continue to fall.

Cautiously, he takes a few unsteady steps towards the entrance, but stops far enough back so the curtain of water that has formed there has no hopes of reaching him.

Unbalanced as he is, it’s no surprise when his legs give out beneath him, forcing him to his knees, his only remaining arm braced against the floor in an attempt to keep him from collapsing to the ground.

 As he blinks away tears, his gaze focuses on his reflection looking back at him from within the twin puddles that have formed by the entrance, except, it’s not his own image that he sees but his brothers, concern and sadness writ within their features even as they smile at him.

He somehow finds the strength to stand again, to take another step forward, stopping when he reaches the true line between his shelter and the outside world.

All it would take is one more step, just one more.

Almost without his permission, his hand moves towards the curtain of rain, all he has to do is touch it…

The feeling of something liquid falling atop his head is not accompanied by the stinging burn he has come to associate with the water sent by the planet, but the smooth coldness of mother’s touch.

Blinking in surprise, he stumbles back and finds himself, again, unable to keep his footing as his stability flees and he tries to catch his balance instinctively with the arm that is no longer there.

Inevitably, he falls.

The landing is rough and painful, as everything has been since he lost his brothers, the sharp edges of his wound scraping against the harsh surface of the cracked concrete beneath him, prying a half scream from his sealed lips, even as he clenches trembling fingers to the clumsily wrapped stump, in an attempt to staunch the fresh blood he can feel flowing from the wound he has just reopened.

It’s when he opens his eyes to assess the true extent of the damage that he sees it, a shadow in the corner of his vision that stands out against the silver strands of his hair. Black ichor sliding down, dripping onto his injured shoulder, moving in a way that no fluid should as it flows upwards, weaving, branching, and expanding as it drips and rolls across his leathers, and all the while Yazoo can hear her voice. Comforting him, assuring him that everything will be alright as the static overtakes his thoughts and strips away the pain.

“Mother?” the query is so plaintive, and he braces himself for the silence he will hear in return, when instead the sharp, familiar static of his mother’s voice clicks back into place. Her soft coos and promises that everything will be alright now, echoing through his mind as he watched with awe as his injuries heal over at the slightest touch from mother’s new gift.

Desperately he looks up, searching the darkened recesses of the crumbling ceiling for where mother came from, he finds her easily, now that he knows to look the dark mass curled within a broken pipe that hangs from an exposed section of the roof is unmistakeable, as is the shock of elation that numbs his thoughts, even as he reaches out his hand towards her.

As soon as he does the liquid falls, pooling in his palm. It’s as he grasps her that he realises how weak she is now, how close to disappearing, and yet she came here for him.

Without hesitation, Yazoo lifts the liquid to his lips and drinks.

Ice forms in his veins until the freezing turns to burning pain as everything that was taken from him is slowly returned. He can feel his wound burning from it, smell the mist and smoke that forms from the cold heat of bone, muscle, sinew, and skin reforming. All the while mother’s static glitches across his vision and he can at last see her again, see what she wants, who she wants, and he throws himself into that wish.

He only has himself to give, and he does, he gives it freely, just as Kadaj had, but even as he feels himself getting stronger, as he senses the return of all he had lost, it’s not enough. Not after what the planet has done to both of them, he is so close, he can feel it, knows that it will take but one more step to give mother what she truly wants, but they’re both less than what they should be.

The mist finally stills as cool leather over his restored right arm, and Yazoo can only kneel there and gaze in wonder as he tests the dexterity of his new fingers.

The far-off pull that had been a dull glow on the edge of his senses before becomes so clear now, like a sole light burning in the darkness, all of Yazoo’s attention is drawn to it with an encompassing focus, and when he finds it…

Mother shows him what they need, in flashes of images that pass so quickly but still stay ingrained with photo like clarity within his memory.

A young boy, silver haired, with cat slit eyes, and mother’s memetic legacy encrypted so deeply into his being that not even the planet’s waters could fully cleanse her from him.

This is what Yazoo needs, who he needs.

He starts to laugh, happy and so excited that finally he has a purpose again and a means by which to fulfil it.

“Mother, I’ll bring him back for you, Sephiroth will be with you soon, I promise mother.”

At his words, Yazoo once again feels the gentle caress of ghostlike fingers though his hair, before a breath of unnatural wind sweeps across the ruins, finally dispelling the clouds and the rain that have been keeping him trapped her for so long.

With clear intent and a predator’s bearing, Yazoo steps out into the world.

Chapter Text

He wakes with the groggy alertness that comes from having slept too long.

Usually, this state is accompanied by one of the technicians agitated voices and the sudden cold of the blanket being ripped from his bed as he himself is pulled to his feet before his mind can fully process that he needs to be awake, but he’s used to this routine and so can usually fumble through the activities of cleaning and dressing himself as he slowly comes back to full alertness, always finding himself standing at attention, ready and waiting for orders by the time the technician or his trainer is back to retrieve him.

This time, there are no loud voices to bark orders that must be obeyed, no, there is simply warmth and softness the likes of which Sephiroth has never felt before.

Confused, he opens his eyes and finds himself lying in a bed that is not his, in a room that he has never seen before, but this makes sense because the space is set up like an office, grey walls, with simple furniture, a desk loaded with books which are predominantly medical texts from what he can see, nothing unusual there, the plant sitting next to it is though, especially since it isn’t dying, that is strange. Sephiroth allows his eyes to linger on it for another few seconds, taking in the vibrant green leaves and delicate white petals, he sniffs the air and finds his nose tickled by a gently sweet scent that seems somewhat familiar, but he can’t remember where from.

Below the flower rests a photo depicting four people, two adults and two children, Sephiroth studies it quickly, noting that the man in the photo must be a SOLDIER by the way he is dressed and the mako tint in his eyes, meaning he must be the prized subject of whoever owns this office, that or a family member, or both.

Moving on he looks to the window, but the blind has been fully closed meaning that he can’t see anything beyond it, though the light that filters through it and the noise would suggest that it gives a view of the outside, so whoever owns this office must be fairly disliked by Professor Hojo, as the assistants that have windows tend to be the ones most likely to be assassinated.

Which begs the question, why is he here?

The ill-favoured assistants never have access to him, let alone get to take him to their offices, so how did he end up asleep in the bed, that most certainly should not be here considering Professor Hojo’s policies and response to perceived laziness.

Whatever the answer is, he knows he won’t get it by lying here.

Stealing one more moment to appreciate the warmth he’s going to be leaving behind, he sits up, only to feel something shift atop his head.

His first assumption that it’s an array of sensors that have been placed atop his head to monitor his brain activity while he sleeps is immediately disproven as he reaches up to readjust it. He expects to feel cold plastic and stiff wires, instead something plush and fuzzy sends a tingle through his fingers as he runs them along the object that he now realises is covering both his ears.

 The fuzzy headphones, the female scientist soft voice, and gentle words, it all comes back with clarity as he tentatively pulls the headphones from his ears.

The expected rush of noise he braces against never comes. There is noise, a constant drone made up of near uncountable sounds he can hardly identify, but it’s not as bad as before, not painful as he always comes to expect with the high-pitched ring of mako that constantly simmers beneath the natural sounds of the labs. In fact, for the first time that ring is completely absent, and the world seems quieter for it, even though Sephiroth is wholly convinced this place is louder.

It's so strange that Sephiroth immediately moves to put the headphones back on, only to blink in utter confusion when he finally looks at them.

The red pom is definitely the most eye-catching thing about them, but the fluffy white ears it sits between is also worth noting. Only because they are both features that appear completely non-sensical to him.

He can understand the fluffy texture of them, a natural dampener that did exactly what it was meant to when it came to quieting the noise, but the ears and the pom, that he only now realises are meant to emulate the features of a Moogle which he had seen in one of the bestiaries he was given to study, seem to hold no purpose that he can discern.

His observations are drawn up short by the sound of steps outside the office and the door opening shortly after to reveal a woman with long dark hair and honey red eyes, the very woman that is depicted in the photo on the desk.

She’s not wearing a lab coat, Sephiroth blinks at that, even the assistants in the Science Department wear lab coats, it’s a requirement, part of the uniform, and what she wears instead doesn’t resemble any other Shinra Company uniform he’s ever seen. Comfortable black leather that looks like it might be behemoth pelt given the grain of it, made for manoeuvrability with a half skirt that could easily be utilized as a distraction depending on her fighting style.

It's an assumption, one he’s confident in given her build and the way she carries herself as she closes the distance between them, her steps so balanced the glass of water she carries barely even ripples.

He blinks as his eyes lock on the glass, only now realising how thirsty he is.

The woman holds it out in offering as she takes a seat next to the bed.

“Good Morning, sleepy head, did you have a good rest?” the woman asks.

Sephiroth doesn’t understand why she’s speaking to him like this instead of just demanding answers. Professor Hojo has never been one to entertain small talk or niceties and he expects the same of his staff, seeing anything less as a mark of unprofessionalism that he would never allow past the threshold of the Drum.

Even so, he answers the question, this woman may be willing to break the unspoken protocol, Sephiroth isn’t, he may not have found any cameras when he looked around the room, but he knows they are there.

Though he does take the offered water and sips it before he tries.

The effect of the cool water on his parched throat brings him instant relief, but his voice still sounds slightly raspy when he speaks, “yes, mam.”

“Mam?” The woman smiles warmly, and strangely the expression also affects her eyes, making them appear softer. “Oh no, my age is catching up with me.”

That statement doesn’t match the facts that Sephiroth is observing, from what he can see the woman is still quite young, at least younger than any of the scientists, even the interns he has interacted with, but it has never been wise to correct an assistant and he is not going to start now.

The woman’s smile soon fades, but strangely her features remain soft as she continues her questions, “So, I can’t keep calling you sweety all the time, you look about Denzel’s age and he gets so annoyed when I do that,” a huff that may be annoyance escapes the woman, and Sephiroth feels his spine instinctively straightening. “What, I mean to say is, are you ready to tell me your name? or where you’re from? You see, we’re all a little lost here and anything you can tell us will help.”

Again, Sephiroth cannot help but find this woman strange. She’s here, she’s been granted access to interact with him, so she should already know all the answers to these questions she is asking.

This more than anything convinces him that this is a test.

He failed, just like he thought, Professor Hojo was watching when he attempted to activate the white materia, and he failed.

Fed the materia so much mana that he passed out again, and now he’s being put through a test to see if he’s worth keeping, or if…

The image of the brown-haired little girl drowned in her own blood flashes before his eyes, and he cannot help but physically flinch away from it.

The feeling of fingers carding through his hair instantly has him stilling and his breath freezing in his lungs.

Seeing his reaction the woman pulls her hands back and raises them palms up, showing that they are empty. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry, okay? I won’t touch you, sweety. You’re safe, I promise.”

A lie, he knows it’s a lie because he can’t be safe unless he succeeds.

He just has to figure out how to do it.

The woman keeps talking after another moment filled with silence, “why don’t we start again, My name’s Tifa.”

Remembering her previous question which he has still yet to answer, Sephiroth places the glass on the side table and shuffles to the edge of the bed, all the while ignoring the lingering aches that have seized his muscles.

Tifa sees what he is doing and nonsensically tries to get him to stop. “You don’t have to get up.”

Yes, he does, its basic protocol, and her words now weren’t spoken as a command but more as a suggestion, so they do not override normal procedure.

Standing to attention beside the bed, the headphones clutched behind his back where she won’t be able to see how his fingers run along the fluffy material that will soon be taken from him, he speaks, “my name is Sephiroth, I am based in Midgar under the jurisdiction of Professor Hojo.”

He stops there, having answered all her previous questions, and waits for orders.

He’s expecting a nod and more questions, or to be given instructions, or to be taken to a lab for tests.

None of that happens.

Instead, Tifa goes pale as her eyes widen, both signs of shock that Sephiroth has been taught to recognise, but she recovers quickly.

“Professor Hojo?” the tone of her voice lowers to a growl, a clear indication that she does not like the Professor, not uncommon, lots of people don’t, but when those people speak of him it’s usually with fear, not clearly projected anger.

Sephiroth now has a question of his own. “Is this not the labs? Do you not work for Shinra?”

Tifa immediately shakes her head as she reaches out for him again before stalling as she remembers that she said she would not touch him. “What? No, no, of course I don’t sweety, you’re right this isn’t the labs.”

Oh, well at least he finally knows what he has to do.

The glass of the window is luckily very easily broken, one punch does the job and Sephiroth is out before Tifa fully processes what just happened.

Chapter Text

It’s peaceful, a rarity at Seventh Heaven with two young kids living there, but for now Cloud and Barret are managing to keep them entertained enough that there more destructive tendencies aren’t showing.

They’re using the tried-and-true method of divide and conquer; Barrett has Denzel at one end of the yard setting up targets for a gun range.

Meanwhile Marlene sits next to Cloud painting cans with different monsters while he works on Fenrir. She’s currently working on a Bomb that looks pretty convincing, something that Barret notices as he comes to collect her latest creations so he and Denzel can string them up from the tree they’re using as a frame, “Hoh, you’re turning into a real artist there, baby girl, almost seems a shame to shoot them.”

Marlene smiles as she raises the paint can for Barret to take. “Do you need more?”

“Hmmmmm,” Barret sighs as he makes a big show of considering the fifteen cans they already have to work with. “You got it in you to make five more?”

Marlene smiles and picks up her markers, spreading them between her fingers in a very impressive impression of Yuffie with her kunai. “Watch the master artist Marlene create five more before your very eyes, shh, shh, shh.”

Barret oohs and ahs appropriately as Marlene scribbles away, so Cloud takes the chance to go and check on Denzel. The kid’s fine, but Cloud can see the way his eyes keep darting to the second-floor window, the same window that looks in on the office where their silver-haired guest is sleeping.

Cloud himself is doing his best not to look at it, and for the most part he is being successful, but when he isn’t the low-grade static that shoots across his vision soon has him turning away again.

Shaking his head he again focuses his attention on Denzel. “How’s the gun range coming?”

They call it a gun range, but this is a residential area, so the only guns Denzel and Marlene are going to get to use are paintball guns.

It’s an easy distraction that will keep them occupied for hours and hopefully out of mischief, he’s already caught them both trying to sneak into the office at least three times in the last twenty-four hours. For what purpose he can’t comprehend other than avid curiosity on Marlene’s part and suspicion on Denzel’s, either way, he and Tifa have agreed its best to keep them away for now, at least until they figure some things out.

“Nearly done,” Denzel declares with pride as he ignores the ladder he’s meant to use to climb down from the limb he is perched on, and instead jumps down to the ground. He wobbles a little on impact, but otherwise it’s a safe landing.

“It’s looking good,” Cloud compliments as he scans the cans that have been strung up at different heights from the branches of the tree.

“It’d be better if they moved,” Denzel complains.

Cloud has an easy answer for that, “hit them and they will.”

The pout that Denzel wears at that answer is cute and easily dispelled by Cloud ruffling his hair.

Laughing Denzel runs out of Cloud’s reach and picks up the paintball gun he will be using. “Is there any chance we can test out the range while we wait for Marlene to finish?”

Again, Cloud has a simple answer for this, “sure, but you have to be the one to explain to Marlene why you started without her.”

It works like a charm, Denzel instantly lowers the gun and starts looking for something else to do, and Cloud quietly praises the day that Tifa let him in on the secret that Marlene’s teary face worked just as well on Denzel as it did on them, maybe better, as Cloud had developed some immunity to it, though admittedly not much.

He’s just about to suggest a quick sword lesson, by that he means him watching as Denzel practises the sets and combos they’ve been working on recently, but suddenly that idea goes out the window when the sound of breaking glass cracks the relative peaceful quiet of the backyard.

Cloud’s eyes lock on the second-floor window where he sees a streak of black and silver rolling across the extended roof of the back porch, seconds before the sharp stab of static forces him to look away until he can control it.

By the time he can look back the black and silver streak—that’s paused long enough to assess his surroundings—has resolved itself into the kid I̴͖̤̫̘͙͗̈́̊̚t̵̜̰̪̺͊̍̎ͅͅ'̷̞͚̙̥̉͊͊ṡ̴̖̫̋ ̸̨̤̗̤̗̿̆̀̽̚͠S̶̛͈͔͒e̷̳̮͖̰͇̒̏͑͝p̴̛͈̫̖̫̅́͠ͅh̷̩͖̮̐̆i̵̢̺͕̼͂̚͠r̷̹͑̽͝͠ö̸̖͖́t̷͕̝͎͎̊̅̅h̶̦͔͍̾̅͜ͅ,̸̧̖͙̟͍̓ ̵̧͕̼͇̯͊́͒I̶͇͙̽̄͌̒ẗ̴̼̜́̃͜'̶͖̖̝̝̗̦̿̂̀̒͝s̷͕͗̽̽ ̵̻͇̪̞̋͛̈͆͋̈S̷͕̬̼̈̄̈́̈́̕e̴͍͠p̸̢̞̼̳͇͍͊̑h̸͎͕̗̮̘̒͜i̸̢̟̗͊̒͌̏͝r̴̼͈̝̲̲͚͌̏̔͋̿̓ȍ̷̭̹̜͎̃̅̋̌͝t̷̳̥̠̗̞̿̚ͅh̸͕͎̟͚̀,̶̖̱̘̱̳̘̇̏́̈́̒ ̴̨̯̩̞̝̰̾̍͛'̸̲̣͙͆͛̋͛̐I̷̱͙̹̓ ̷̧̢͍͎͚̔̇̉̈̔ẇ̵͇̲̩͉̈́̀ǐ̶̢̨͇͚̻̜̕̚͠l̶̻͕̾́̾̀̾l̶̞͉̋̈̃̀̒ ̴͉̲͚̀n̶͚̞̪̳͇͌̈́̃͆͌͂e̵̯͇̭̲̓̚͝v̸̛̹̊̐͋̇è̵̥̻͉̪̭̇̿͑̒͠ṟ̶̩̟͛̈́ ̷͔̮̙̊̓͂b̵͚̰͈̤͈͊̐̄̕ͅe̸̱͊̈̎́̾͝ ̴̢͍̜̭̳͉̈́̐̂̔̕͝a̶͚̯͎̣̥͛ ̷̝̠̜̥͉̩̏̀̀m̸͚͉͛̌̔̍̕͠ē̸͚̳͕͈͆́̆̉̕m̷͖̭͓̈̀̃̒ó̷̡͖̫̰̜̣r̷̖̪͐͊̓͘y̷̼̒͆̕͜'̶̛̞̥͒̑̐ that nearly drowned in the spring at the Sector Five church.

A kid that’s not only willing to break a window to escape, but one that’s also making a dash for the edge of the porch with the clear intention to jump, barefoot no less.

Obviously, Cloud has to stop this, a fact that’s made clearer by Barret freaking out over the display and Tifa sticking her head out of the second-floor window as she tries to open it so she can get out herself shouting, “stop him!”

By the time all of this has happened the kid has already made the jump, and Cloud has moved to intercept.

As such he manages to scruff the kid when he’s still in mid-air and very shocked, very wide…very cat slit eyes turn on him in—f̶̖̙͍͋͆̓̀̎͘ẻ̸̼̮̱̼̖̮͆̓å̴͍̙͔̱̈́̏͌ͅr̶͚͕̱̀́͐͘͠f̸̫̠͕̌e̶̳͚̞͉̎͂à̸̝̬͍̥͖̺̗͊͒̈́̅̈́r̸̫̭̬͈̞͇̈́̊̄́͆̕͝ḟ̸̻̻̭͎͎̏̾̂͠è̵̲̪̗̘̣͍͂͆̈́́͝ą̸̨̞̳̔̕r̵̺̈́f̴̡͍̥͚͇̝͊͂̓͂͝͠ȩ̶̹̟̮͉͇̯͠a̸͓̮̪̺̚r̴̗̱̜͊͐̽͠f̴̩̖̥͖͈͍̺̆ë̶͔̀́͑ȧ̴̦̳̑̀́̊̕͠ŗ̵͇̐̐͐̂̌--surprise.

It’s the only emotion he has time to recognise as the static that hits him this time is the worst yet. Mind numbing and painful in a way that he dreads, and Cloud can’t stop himself from letting go in order to grip his own head with both hands as flashes of images invade his mind so fast he can barely process them.

Ǵ̴̨̗̽̕r̵̻̫̹̓̎e̴̛̗͉͊ḕ̴͖̦͉n̸̘͛̾̄ ̶̱̝͐f̸͍̭̌̈́ẹ̸̥̪͠ả̷̫̰̈́ṙ̶͓̼̹͋̔f̵̥͍͐͐ë̵͓͉́͒a̶͈͔̓̃͝r̴̤̿̑̈f̷̬̄́̎e̸̔͜ã̶̼̹̼̀r̵̜̮̈́̿f̸̲̐̄è̴͍̃͜a̵̜͋̅r̴̦̝̳̾͠ ̶̞̠̀̐à̶̠͊ ̶̢̰͓͂s̷̢͑m̶̹̲̽a̵̻̎́̓l̸̥͊l̵̙̼̂͂̈́ ̸̲̩͊g̶̭̫̽ȉ̸̢̜r̶̗͈͗l̷͖̍̈́ ̶̯͓̓o̸̠̅̅͠n̷͔̥̔͐͝ ̷̩̾ä̸͎̬́ ̶̪̼̈ţ̸̙̪̄̅̓ả̶̭͇̇͒b̸̙͠l̸̤̏͑̈e̵̼̿̃̓,̸̻͕͛̈̄ ̴̹̱́̀̂b̴̦͓̟͗ļ̶̨̩̂̑o̶͍̟̤̔̀͒o̵̢̗͛̐ḏ̶̈́̋̕,̴̰̰͇̄͊͘ ̵̣̭̄s̶̲̆͝ó̸͓̖ ̴̢̬̓̓m̴̱̰͚̃ų̶͂c̸͎̉̃h̵̦̰͕͂͗̀ ̷͚̪̜̎b̸͉̬̗͐͂͗l̵̻͊o̷̫̻̻͋͑ó̷̦͙̠d̶̰͖͊̒.̵͉̭͍̈́ ̶̹̾̍Ḩ̷͗ë̵̪̦̟́'̵̌̐͜͜s̵͎̥̄̅ ̷̢̈́b̵̺̄̕ȩ̷̾͊͠ė̸̯ǹ̴̨͚͚͒ ̴̖̰̌͂c̶͙͔̅͆͝a̵̛͓p̴͇̟͋̊t̷̫̔ṷ̸̉ŕ̴̨ȅ̸͉̖̾͑d̸̲͒͗,̵͉̯̍ ̴̳̈̇̿ẗ̶̮͔́h̴̪̥́ī̷̜̹̋ṡ̸̗̬͜͠ ̷̧͇͚̏i̷̞͈̺̅́͝s̵̳͉̍n̴̻͉͔͌͗͂'̶̰̱̼̈t̶̞͔̀͂̈ ̸̛͉̉͜S̴͙̄̽̽h̵̹̋i̵͓̓͂͝n̶͇͋̂r̶̤̃̋̆ä̵́̕ͅ,̷̼͘ ̶͖̗̗̀̈́h̶͎͙̑̒͜è̴̥͙̖̂͝ ̸̛͓͘n̷̬̗̓͌ͅė̴̢͉̝͋ë̶͇̎̔d̶̟͇̥̐͊ś̶͕̣͝ ̵̻̟̪̈́t̴̢̰͌̓̽o̵̫̅̐ͅ ̶̨̪͖͋͠g̶̝̒e̸͈̒̿t̸̻̮͓͐̈̿ ̴̳̓̈̿ȧ̸̳̓̆w̷͓̫̬͝a̶̩̬̺͛̎̆y̷̳̖̿̓͒.̶̟̪̦̿̉ ̵̜́̀͝ͅP̶̈́͑͝ͅr̷̦̻̦͆̄̏ō̶͉͊̕f̵͖̿̀͝e̸̦͕̽̎͠s̷̺̼͑̈͊s̵̢͉̍͑̕o̴̼̿r̴̡̡̰̀ ̶͔̮͕̏͂H̸̟̪͒͑ó̸͓̺̈́̾j̶̛̱͕̀͊o̷̜̥̅̊̓Re ̵͉̐͘͠w̷͐͐͜i̷̳͐͐l̵̳̱̿̇l̷͇̝̮̋͑̂ ̷̣̩́̑̄b̸̝̝̖̊̄̂é̷̲͝ ̴͉̽̊́ả̴̩̭̊n̸͈̯̐͝g̵̞̤̐-unr̷̗̤̖͛̀y̷͍̲̖̓,̴̳̆́ͅ ̷̩̘͛f̷̰̽͛̌é̵̢͔̾a̶̰̙̬͠r̷̞͐̓f̸̙̗̃̈́͠e̸̙͉̅́a̵̛̺͔ionr̷̪̫͠f̵̤͙̃̈́e̴̡̛͖͒̊ͅā̶̰̼ͅr̶̫͖̟͛͆̀f̴̡̛̖̟ė̷̯̣̗̽͠ȁ̵͖͐r̷̳̬̅f̵̮͚̊̍̏e̷̟̦̗͐à̸̘̄̕r̴̟̠̃.̵̧͗̇ ̵̯͉́̒G̷͇̋͗r̵̦̍̃e̴̦͓̩͒͝ȇ̵̩n̶̬̝͆͐̈,̸̳̗̔ ̷̩̬̇̓͂j̷̰̙̚ú̴̙̦s̷͎̔̔t̴̹͗̽̚ ̸̙͋͆̂š̷͕͌̇ǒ̶͉͌́ ̴̠̥̠̄m̴͖͕̲̒͆̅u̸̦̥̇͠c̶̺̾h̶̬͛̊ ̵̭̽͑̈́g̷̙͉̳̅r̵̨͈̆͛ͅé̴̛̮ę̵̧̲̀͋̃n̴̲͖͆ ̴̱̾͠ḁ̶̢̋͜͠ṅ̴͈͐̈́ḍ̸̨͖͆̌ ̴̙̎t̵͙̱̭͂ȟ̶͕̏e̷̲͕͌̃ ̵͖͖̈p̵͖͍̹̓a̴̦͑͝ḯ̴̧n̵̩̏̀͐ ̶̭̣͛̂͠t̵̼̒͝h̵͚͇͕̆͝ḁ̵͉͂͝ẗ̶̡̧̝ ̵̲̯̬̏͝c̷̳̣̝̈̌̚ō̶̺̟̫̚͝m̵̳̹͝ȅ̴͉̦͘͜͝s̷͇̈́ ̵̰̘̆ͅw̶̠̗̘̔̑i̶̙͍͆t̴̜͙̂̿͋h̵͙̯̑̅ ̷̤̦͇̉̒í̶̫̮̟̆Ret̸͈̿͝.̸̳̍́ ̴Ẃ̵͓̱̕h̶̜͗ę̷̭̩̉͘ṛ̵̼͉̉̕ě̷̤̯̟un ̴̢͈̄̂unì̶̩̖̊̓s̵̝̿̃́ ̵͔͔̙̀h̴͇̋͂é̷̮̬̊,̶̻́͐ ̴̠̟̟̉w̸̜̓ḫ̴̃e̷͖̰̒ŗ̸̈́̿͋e̸͕̥̎ion ̴͙̲̣͆͠͠i̴͔͔͌͑́ș̷̠̃͘ ̷̮͒͛h̸̻̼̙̋ę̴͚̀̀̚,̵̥̦̿̎̚ ̷̢̟̺̒̕d̸͕̑͆̕͜o̷̜͔̓ẹ̶͖͒̉̈s̸̰̲̖̿̋̀n̶͉̭̩̂'̸͍͑t̷̖̣̽ ̴̩͈͑̀m̸̛̘̥̭͂a̵̡͓̻͒̀͌t̷̗̿̈́̎ṫ̴͈̗̔͠e̸̢̨͝r̶̙̜̦̿́͝ ̵̼̮̲̎̀̂h̴̳̟̗̊̐e̷̩͠ ̶̢͔̍̓͜n̶̢̝̬̚ë̶̡̫̑̚ė̸̖̏̎d̶̘̊s̴̝͑̾Reun ̷̺̥̋ṯ̴̊ỏ̴̼̐͝ ̵̫̞͎̓͝g̸͖̋́e̸̠̖̮͗͑͝ṱ̷͉̱̀ ̶̛͖̜̣ḃ̸͓̘̤̍́ionă̸̭̩̹̈́͝c̶͎̫͐̿͠ͅk̵̜̈́͝,̴̡͇̰́͌̅ ̷͍̺͊̾͝h̴̗̻͓́ẻ̷͇̟ ̴͕͈̭̈́n̶̝͕͌̂͛è̴̱͈̇͐e̴͚̾̀d̶͖͈̈́͠s̶͕̐͝ ̶̻͠͝ẗ̵̗́̍ŏ̸́̍͜ ̴̃ͅg̴̨̬̥̋̒ō̵̘͙ ̴̫́̔b̶̤̤͗a̷̖͇͋̈́c̵̮̥͛̽̊k̸̢̺̾̿̕͜ ̶̢̦̂̎̒o̷͚͙͝ṙ̸͇̖̹͒Reuni.̵̤̽̅͝.̷̧̢͐.̷͈̓t̸͉̖̖̐͌̂ẖ̴͚̘̆e̷͇̺̅ ̷̪̻̃͝g̷̘̞͂͠i̶̻͛r̴̥̫͗l̴͎̈́͑ ̴͉̜͒̔͝o̵͖̤͒͘͝n̷̥͕̠̎̌ ̴͕́t̷̯͚͆̓͝h̴͖̹͙̆͒̿ė̵̫̜̃ ̵̥̻̈͐͌ţ̷͎̞͂͋ã̵̫̱̈ͅb̸͙͆̃́ľ̶̞͆̋e̷̛͎̔͜͠ͅ ̴̪̞̥̓̿͘c̶̞̣͛͝ionno̶̞̎͑v̷̨͈̙͂͗͠e̷̻͛r̵̪̈́e̴͍̯̼͗̽͘d̵͇̲̜͋̌ ̴̡͌i̴̡̧̯̍̓n̷̫͔͇̈́ ̴̲͉̋͊a̶̞͐̅̑ ̸̜͍͎͑̉͑o̴͙͗̽n̶̩̂̈́͠c̶͇̳̟̈́̐ë̷͖́͜͠ ̷̫̑̍̉w̸͕̰͂͒ȟ̵͚͇i̷̗̓͒͋t̴̖͌͆e̴͇͗͠ ̶̙͂̃ç̸͓͝l̵̬̗̥͑́̄o̸̝̽͑̏t̸̛̠̔ͅh̴̢͉̯́͗̾,̸͍͝ ̸̞̐ḙ̷̝̃̃̈y̶͈̰̿͘̚͜e̶̢̎s̶̩̈̒ ̶̪͖͑̒̌ṣ̸̈́͛ṱ̶̭͗ȧ̸̼͚r̸͉̈ḭ̴̯͘n̸̞̤̐̈́g̵̨̊ͅ ̸̖̆b̴̭̥͔̒ľ̴̜̘̑̈́a̸͓̓̈́̽n̸̡͎̣͌̓͌k̶̲̑͌͂l̸̝̝̄͐ỹ̶̟͉͆͑ ̴̠̗̫̀̓ḁ̴͒̀͒ͅͅt̷̩̜̑ ̶̨͎̝̍̈́n̴̲̳͈̽ỏ̸̙̠̇͜ṯ̵͖̅̒h̴͖̅̓̀ḭ̸̀͑̊ñ̵̺̟͔͛̎g̵̦̥̍ ̸̨͍̮̎̉̐f̸̠̟̌̍͜é̵̤̑ä̶̡ŕ̵̢͝f̶͉͊e̷̛̳̩̳ä̷͓͓r̵̨͖̲̃̓̈p̴͙͂̈́a̶̜͠ḯ̷͍n̷̺͌̏f̷̬̊͆͜ë̸̹́a̵͕͎̿r̸̰̂p̷̯̈́̈a̷̻̮͙̾i̶̡͓̱̾̊n̷͓̹̭̉̍̿f̵̡͒é̶̝͇͚̀́a̶͈͌ř̷̢̃̅f̷̻͂̕e̶̛̮͍͒̈á̸̙̿r̶͕̤͚̃͠p̷̗̄́͘a̸̪̜͓͛̉́ī̴̮̂n̶̙̂͝p̴̨̛a̵͙͒̆̄ȉ̷͔͉ͅn̸͍̅P̶̘͍̓͘A̷͚̔̒͊Ị̴̮͌N̵͇̙̘͗̓̋!̴̠͎̜͗̏!̶̫̠̅!̶̟̩̼̈́̄

Cloud raises his mental walls so fast he flinches away from it physically, cutting off the tide of emotions and memories so completely that it leaves him feeling unmoored. 

When he blinks and his focus returns, it’s to a very strange sight.

The kid’s no longer in his grasp. Instead, he’s taken the chance Cloud’s brief disconnect from reality has provided him to make it to the other side of the yard, hands already gripping the top of the wall that marks the boundary of the property, muscles coiling with the clear intent to pull himself up and over and make his escape.

Cloud stands to stop him, overtaking Barret who was already running, uselessly, the kids obviously enhanced and has too much of a head start, there’s no way either of them are going to have a chance to grab him before he hops the wall.

That dire prediction meets an inglorious death as the ‘ptoomph’ of a paintball gun sounds behind them.

Three shots hit the kid dead centre in the back of the head with enough force to make him crack his face against the wall.

It’s no surprise that he loses his grip after that, slumping to the ground as one hand instinctively rises to clutch at his face, only slightly muffling the shocked squeak that escapes him.

When Cloud reaches his side in three more steps, he finds the boy sitting slightly dazed in the grass, bleeding, not badly, just a little nosebleed, nothing that would even need a cure or a potion and then he looks at the kid’s hair.

He has to be serious about this, when he looks at Denzel he has to have a serious face, but he’s struggling.

The decision is taken from his hands when Barret starts laughing.

Cloud ducks his head to try and hide it but the smirk that takes over his own lips is so obvious that he has to raise a hand to hide it.

Marlene, like him, is trying to hide her mirth, but Denzel’s just as bad as Barret, laughing so hard he has to grip his sides to stop them from hurting.

What makes it all so much worse is the look of complete incomprehension the poor kid is wearing as he sits there staring at them, his no longer wholly silver but instead mostly neon green hair, sticking up in weird angles from where the paint pellet hit him in the back of the head, in a convincing recreation of stylised malboro tentacles.

Their mirth comes to a very abrupt end when the backdoor slams open and Tifa’s voice shouts across the backyard, “Denzel!”

Another ‘ptoomph’ and a sharp cry that cuts off some of the laughter, makes it clear that Denzel didn’t put the safety on when he tried to hide the paintball gun behind his back.

Cloud is dying, this is all too funny, seriously, he can’t breathe, but he refuses to laugh out loud, but he has to pull it together, especially when he sees the kid working himself up for another escape attempt.

He puts a stop to that with one arm, as he lifts the kid bodily from the floor, making sure not to look him in the eyes this time, still the contact is enough to send little tremors of static racing along his arm.

It’s a sobering feeling that allows him to finally breathe out without the threat of choking on his own laughter.

Tifa rushed forward then, looking worried as she starts to fuss over the kid. “Sweety, why did you do that?”

The kids struggling in his hold, putting up quite the fight that leaves Cloud noting again that the kid is definitely enhanced and that, in combination with his bony elbows that seem to know exactly where to find all the pressure points is very painful.

“Let me go!” the kid demands, “I won’t let you hold me here; I will not be used against Shinra!”

Cloud looks at Tifa for answers, but she looks as confused as he feels, even as she explains, “he said he was from the labs, that Hojo had jurisdiction over him, and…”

She falters, clearly unsure whether she should say the next part.

Cloud breathes, part of him already knowing what she’s going to say and prepared for it. “And?”

“That his name is Sephiroth.”

Okay, not as prepared as he thought, not when the wounds in his chest seem to shriek with the phantom chill of cold steel being slid between his ribs.

The Remnants had at least had different names.

Cloud shakes his head, one crisis at a time, first they have to get the kid to stop fighting, the question is how?

An idea forms in the back of his mind as he racks his brain for what to do, a memory of Zack overseeing a training session for the Troopers who were hoping to make Soldier…what was the command that ended the simulation?

“Trainings over, mission abort.”

The kid stills in his arms, instantly going limp like a doll.

Tentatively, Cloud lets him down, but keeps a hand on his shoulder, just in case.

The kid doesn’t try to run, he just looks at him, gaze assessing.

“Rank?” the kid asks, quietly.

The lie comes so easily still. “Cloud Strife, First Class.”

Chapter Text

This is the strangest training facility Sephiroth has ever been based at.

That’s all he can think as he’s led back into the building he just escaped from. Small and comprised of only three stories, the relatively new build, identified by the pale white walls that have yet to fade to grey, can easily pass for a civilian building…there has been some talk of Sephiroth learning to blend in with the populace, but he thought Professor Hojo had vetoed that, he wants to ask, but it seems unwise at the moment.

First Class Strife keeps a hand on his shoulder the entire time they walk in order to guide him, but also as a familiar silent command for him to behave that Sephiroth is used to from his other instructors, though he will note that First Class Strife’s grip is lighter than any of the instructors that came before him. It’s more of just a warm presence on his shoulder instead of strong fingers sheathed in the meat of his shoulder with the grip strength of a Zu.

Still, Sephiroth is expecting that he’ll be led to a transport that will take him to the labs now, or to the barracks where he will be staying while he is here, where First Class Strife will debrief him on his failure to perform.

It’s due to this assumption that he’s left blinking owlishly when he is instead steered into a bar and picked up so he’s now sitting on the counter.

The woman from before, Tifa, comes hurrying in after them and ducks down behind the bar, pulling out a case that’s obviously a first aid kit given the cross and the caduceus plastered on the front of it.

“Where does it hurt sweety?” she asks as she comes to stand in front of him.

“I’m fine, mam,” he answers honestly, because it never hurt to begin with, not in the sense that he noticed. The impact didn’t break his nose, if he has to guess he thinks he merely burst a blood vessel and head injuries always bleed more than other wounds. He doesn’t feel dizzy or nauseous, or any of the other symptoms he would normally associate with a concussion.

He doesn’t tell Tifa this because speaking more than necessary is a sure way to get disciplined.

Tifa smiles warmly at him, even as she tilts his head up so she can get a better look, wiping away the blood that has flowed down his face and is beginning to dribble down his chin. “Still mam huh?” She shivers, “please don’t call me that, makes me feel old, just call me Tifa.”

The air in Sephiroth’s lungs stills, as if a band has suddenly been tightened around his chest, turning his ribs into a cage. This is the second time she has had to issue that instruction; it will be his last warning.

“Not broken,” Tifa declares with confidence as she hands Sephiroth a clean tissue. He moves to quietly blow his nose, in order to clear the blood, only for Tifa to stop him. “Not too hard sweety, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Another peculiarity to add to the ever-growing list, his pain has always been secondary, an afterthought of how the results of a test may be affected by it.

He follows her instruction, but still, he can’t help the doubt, the gnawing suspicion that something isn’t right here. It’s why his eyes remain trained on First Class Strife as he moves away and pulls out his phone.

He types fast, and when he is finished flicks the phone shut with a snap and a look of unease that darkens his features.

Sephiroth cannot stop himself from looking away when First Class Strife’s gaze meets his, the sharp static that briefly fogs his mind compelling him to blink rapidly in the hopes of clearing it.

His attention latches back onto Tifa when she asks him a question, and he’s grateful for something to focus on, “how’s the back of your head? Can I take a look?”

He nods, and Tifa moves around the bar so she can get a clear look at his head without forcing him to move it.

With her out of his direct line of sight he now has a clear view of the door he just came through and the three people entering.

“It was a reflex!” the boy being carried under the arm of the burly man with a mechanical hand excuses.

“Your reflex is to shoot people in the back of the head? And double tap at that?” the man scoffs as he deposits the boy down in a corner booth, where the young girl who had been trailing behind them soon slides into place next to him, strategically trapping him in the corner and cutting off his most immediate route of escape.

“Yes?” answers the boy unsurely.

The man reaches out for him with his mechanical arm, and Sephiroth unintentionally tenses as he waits for the sound of metal hitting flesh to ring through the room. Instead, the man simply places his fist against the boy’s chin and pushes very slowly in a way that looks like it doesn’t hurt at all, instead it causes the boy to laugh as they continue to talk, the conversation flowing easily. “Weren’t you the one who said to always double tap?”

“No, no,” interrupts the girl as she strikes a pose and puts on a deeper voice, “keep shooting till the targets so riddled full a holes, you can’t tell his a—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” begs the man, “I know what I said, no need to repeat it,” he looks over nervously at Sephiroth, or rather Tifa who’s still standing behind him and weirdly, Sephiroth would swear that the temperature in the room just dropped a few degrees. “Besides, that only applies to bad guys.”

The boy lifts his gaze to glare at Sephiroth, the accusation clear.

For his part Sephiroth has no idea how to respond, this is the first time he has seen—lie, the little dead girl wasn’t much younger than him—other children his age, let alone interacted with them.

Sephiroth’s distracted from this observation when Tifa prods just a little too hard at the welt on the back of his head the shots caused.

“Sorry,” she apologises as she smooths down his hair again, “well the paintballs didn’t break the skin but it’s clear that we need to get rid of the paint.” As if to emphasize that statement Sephiroth feels his paint-soaked hair resisting Tifa’s attempts to try and arrange it with some sort of order.

“Showers this way,” First Class Strife moves forward again to guide him, and Sephiroth follows willingly, as he does his best to hide his relief at the thought of being clean again.

He spares one glance for the other children, but they are no longer paying attention to him, too engaged in their conversation with the man with the mechanical hand to notice as he leaves the room.

The sound of their laughter follows him up the stairs.

The shower room he is led to is small, but private and actually fitted with all the amenities that would usually only be awarded to a high ranked officer.

“Leave your clothes there,” the SOLDIER instructs, pointing to the small wicker basket by the door, “I’ll find you some of Denzel’s clothes that’ll fit, and leave them just outside the door for you when you’re done,” as he says this he walks to the sink and fishes out a fresh towel from the cabinet underneath it, which he hands to Sephiroth. “Any questions?”

“No sir,” Sephiroth answers promptly with a crisp salute, which strangely causes the ghost of a grimace to tense the edge of First Class Strife’s eyes.

“You don’t need to do that.” He gestures awkwardly with his hand in a half salute that never quite makes it to his brow.

“You’re my handler,” Sephiroth says before he can stop himself. Answering back is never a good idea, correcting or stating the obvious is even worse.

Straightening to attention, he stretches his spine so much, he swears he can feel the gaps between his vertebrae growing wider and waits for the reprimand he just knows is coming.

It doesn’t, First Class Strife simply sighs as he raises his hand to massages the bridge of his nose, looking very much like he is trying to hold back the beginnings of a growing headache.

“I’ll be in the office, if you need anything just call and I’ll hear it.” Sephiroth understands the unspoken threat, if he tries to escape again, First Class Strife will hear.

With that order he leaves the room, giving Sephiroth his privacy.

Stripping quickly, Sephiroth turns on the water and steps under it, already braced for the ice-cold spray, still, his body naturally trembles with the shock of it, but he’s used to it, so used to it in fact that he yelps when the water suddenly turns warm.

His hand immediately comes up to cover his mouth, as if he’s trying to muffle the sound that has already escaped, it proves a pointless as he knew it would when a knock on the door echoes through the room and the quiet voice of First Class Strife sounds behind it. “Everything okay?”

“Fine, sir,” Sephiroth answers, hoping the answer will be sufficient.

There’s a pause, filled only with the continued fall of water, and Sephiroth is beginning to grow nervous until First Class Strife calls through the door, “I’ll check on you in half-an-hour.” The sound of his boots then fades down the hall and Sephiroth is left reeling over the fact that he has a full half hour in order to wash up, triple the time he would normally get.

Unwilling to waste it he works quickly, using the cleaning products available to get the job done, he stumbles a little over the flashy and brightly coloured products that are available to choose from, and so instead decides to skip right over them and use the blander looking bottles squished into the corner of the shower shelf. When he pops the cap of the shampoo the smell of vanilla and chocograss fills his nose, a steep departure from the harsh chemical smell of the military issued soap he is used to.

Ten minutes later he’s clean and the last of the green paint is slowly draining away in an almost mesmerising swirl down the plug hole but having twenty minutes left and with the water still being warm, Sephiroth is having a very hard time convincing himself that he needs to get out.

“Just another minute,” he tells himself, but it turns into fifteen minutes of just letting the calm sound and the downright luxurious feel of the warm water lull him into a soft state of relaxation.

Eventually though he manages to work up the will required to turn off the shower and get out. Grabbing the towel, he left on the side within easy reach, he dries off to the point where he’s no longer leaving small droplets on the tiled floor before moving to the door.

He opens it just a crack to find the clothes exactly where First Class Strife said they would be, but lying on top he spots some basic toiletries, most importantly a brand-new toothbrush still in the packaging.

Picking up the items he rushes back inside.

The clothes are soft and obviously freshly laundered, though they lack the abrasive starchiness that he is used to. They also come in much brighter colours than he is normally given, the trousers being dark blue, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a grey nearly white short sleeved hoodie.

They feel nice against his skin when he puts them on and fit quite well, but it’s undermined by the tackiness he can feel as he runs his tongue along his teeth.

Grabbing the toothbrush, he heads over to the sink, only to pause at a strange sight there.

There’s something perched on the edge of the sink, staring at him with big, black, beady, eyes.

It’s meant to look like a chocobo, that much is obvious with the general features, and the colour, but it’s tiny, like the scale models of potential monster hybrids the scientists used to try to use to demonstrate why their project deserved funding.

Picking it up, Sephiroth finds that it’s made of rubber that gives quite easily under his fingers when he squeezes it.

“Kweeeehhhhh!”

He drops it like it burned him when it makes a sound like a chocobo that’s been forced to breathe in helium.

Panicking, he picks it up quickly but fumbles when he tries to put it back exactly where he found it only to find that he cannot get it to balance on the edge of the sink, it either keeps falling in and sliding along the slippery side of the sink or straight down to the floor again.

It gets worse when the toothbrush and toothpaste get knocked into the sink as well, but he doesn’t have time to sort it out because he can already hear the swift stomp of military issued boots coming towards the door.

With the little time he has left he grabs the toothbrush and the toothpaste and completely ignores the rubber chocobo, even as it looks up at him looking rather sad where it rolls at the bottom of the sink.

A quick rinse and spit and he opens the door himself before First Class Strife has the chance to inform him that his time is up.

“Are you done?” First Class Strife asks, and when Sephiroth nods, he turns and walks back the way he came.

Sephiroth hesitates for a moment, but catches up quickly when First Class Strife turns back to look at him when he realises he isn’t following.

They head down into the bar, only to find more people there, two men dressed in black suits with an air about them that silently screams danger.

First Class Strife pauses as he enters the room, putting out a hand to stop Sephiroth from walking any further as he greets the two. “Reno, Rude.”

Chapter Text

“Cloud! Long time no see,” greets Reno.

“Don’t try to weasel your way out of answering my question by dragging Cloud into this, I banned you two and the rest of the TURKS after the last karaoke night, so why are you here?” complains Tifa from where she stands at the bar wiping down a glass in a way that makes it look like she’s about to use it as a weapon.

“Technically that was Rufus’ fault and also why we’re here to bargain,” taunts Reno.

Rude, from where he’s seated next to his partner, doesn’t say anything, but the way he adjusts his glasses speaks volumes.

“You’re not going to change my mind,” Tifa says, steel in her voice.

In response Rude pulls out a file from his jacket and slides it across the counter and at the same time Cloud’s phone buzzes.

As he’s checking it, Tifa opens the file and reads.

His emails show he has one new message, from Rufus Shinra himself, and despite the annoyance he feels over Rufus having his personal e-mail instead of just his business one, he opens the files attached.

His old Shinra I.D with a few obvious tweaks, such as the rank changing from Trooper to First Class, and his photo being replaced with a more recent one, which he is pretty sure had just been ripped from his old wanted poster, stares back at him, and just below that are transfer papers with Sephiroth’s basic details on them, listing Cloud as his new Commanding Officer. Best of all is the file beneath that, Professor Hojo’s death certificate.

That said, Cloud is very much the type of person to look a gift Chocobo in the beak and beware of TURKS bearing gifts.

“What does Rufus mean by this? And how do you even know?” Cloud demands, unamused, he texted Reeve about this less than an hour ago.

Reno shrugs, “think of it as a peace offering, plus after last time it was made pretty clear that you’re the only one that can handle these sorts of situation.” His eyes trail to the kid standing behind Cloud, assessing and curious green eyes trained on a new target. “This him?”

Cloud steps to the side, completely hiding the kid from view as he looks to Tifa for help.

“Barret, the paintball target range is ready to go right, why don’t you take all the kids and go test it out,” Tifa suggests.

Glad to have a reason to leave but also a bit sceptical, Barret nods his head as he ushers Denzel and Marlene out of their seats, Marlene seems happy with this outcome, rushing ahead shouting, “wait, wait, I still need to finish those last targets!”

Denzel obviously has issues, but he keeps them to himself even as his eyes lock onto the back of the kid’s head, if looks could kill…

Cloud pushes the kid—he refuses to call him Sephiroth—forward, and he goes without resistance, even as Barret still looks a little unsure.

Cloud isn’t worried, he knows how good Barret is with kids, he’s just hoping it applies to…whatever this kid is too.

“Any problems, just scream and we’ll hear you,” Cloud advises as he then looks down at the kid and says, “Go with them, and listen to what Barret tells you.”

Cloud is not expecting the sudden move to stand to attention and the picture-perfect salute the kid gives him as he accepts the command without complaint and a quiet “yes sir.”

“Seriously Spikey, what the hell,” Barret complains, but when Cloud just looks at him and Tifa smiles, he just swears quietly under his breath before waving the kid forward. “Fine, how much trouble could a mini version be?”

“Leave the door open,” Tifa shouts as they exit, making it so Cloud won’t have to break the door down if he has to quickly rush to Barret’s aid, which he is really hoping he doesn’t, but if he’s being honest, he’s putting a lot of faith in Barret’s near supernatural ability to be great with kids.

With a sigh and two fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to relieve the tension headache that is really not being helped by the constant low grade buzz of Reunion the kid is giving him, Cloud returns his attention to the two TURKS sitting at the bar.

Reno smiles in that way the makes Cloud want to hit him with the blunt end of the Fusion Sword, as he opens his mouth and says, “aww, look at that, you already got him trained.”

Cloud sidesteps that statement and goes straight for the throat, “I’m not working for Rufus, and he’s not getting the kid.”

Reno puts his hands up, as Rude ducks his head and coughs into his hand.

“Oy, you got this all wrong, we don’t want him,” Reno says as he shakes his head for emphasis.

“More trouble than he’s worth,” agrees Rude as he shifts in his seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Then why even help us?” Cloud questions.

Rufus Shinra is a man out for himself and his company.

He can throw around all the money and favours he wants, proclaim that he’s changed, reformed, and seen the light, but Cloud will never be fooled by that.

Both TURKS meet his gaze, measuring how much truth they can get away with bending, the answer is none.

With a shrug, Reno surrenders.

“Hah, do you know how big the lawsuits were after the last attack?” He laughs, trying to act nonchalant, but there’s actual pain in his voice, “we weren’t even responsible for that fiasco, not really, but every idiot whose kid got a little possessed, is determined to sue us.”

“The paperwork is a nightmare,” Rude adds.

Cloud has no sympathy for them, they brought this on themselves.

Tifa’s a little less cold hearted than he is. “Are you guys going to order anything?” she asks, offering to let them drown their sorrows.

“A Ramuh’s Gift,” Reno requests, before Tifa can change her mind.

“A Tonberry King,” Rude orders.

Tifa sets about preparing them, but she skips her usual skilful routine, sticking to the barebones preparation of the drinks.

Over the sound of cocktails being shaken Cloud tries to get some clarification. “So, let me get this straight, we’re meant to believe that Rufus is willing to surrender any legal claim to the kid, no strings attached, for what? Previous service rendered?”

“And potential future service if the kid turns out to be another remnant, plus the lift of our ban.” A wistful look overtakes Reno as he adds. “karaoke night used to be the highlight of the week, morales at an all-time low without it.”

“There are other karaoke bars in the city, ones that are fully dedicated to it,” Tifa points out as she, ever the professional, does not slam the freshly prepared drinks on the counter.

“None that allow pets,” Rude mumbles but Tifa still hears him.

“With good reason!” she states as she slams her hand down on the counter.

“Come on, we’re offering a really sweet deal here, the President is even willing to pay for the replacement of your old sound system,” Reno cajoles.

“He should have done that when he broke it,” Tifa states.

“In his defence, it’s kind of hard to do that when you’re literally being dolphin flip kicked out of the bar by its owner,” Reno notes as he sips his cocktail, his shoulders slump instantly in relaxation as soon as the dark purple drink passes his lips, only to grimace when Rude elbows him in the side. “What? It’s the truth,” Reno grumbles.

“Not helping,” Rude admonishes as he takes a sip of his own dark green drink, that like its namesake is crowned with gold.

Amidst the argument, Cloud continues to look at the files, torn over whether to accept. It is a good offer, and it would make life for the foreseeable future a lot easier. Sure, the kid is following his orders now, but only because he thinks Cloud is a First Class, that he’s working for Shinra.

The idea of continuing to lie to the kid sits ill with Cloud, not only because having to rely upon a lie he used to fully believe himself makes something cold coil around his heart, but because he’s pretty sure being lied to was the reason Sephiroth went insane in the first place, at least that’s what he thinks happened from what he can piece together from the fractured collection of his and Zack’s memories.

It's as he continues to look through the attachments that his eyes land on the one file that doesn’t really fit with the others. It’s smaller and right at the bottom of the long list of documents that have been sent to him.

Walking behind the bar he shows his phone to Tifa, uncaring about the fact that he’s cutting off Reno right as he’s built up enough steam to try and defend his boss again. “Is this amongst the files they gave you?”

Cloud does not miss the almost defeated sigh of, “caught out,” from Reno, before he takes another sip of his drink.

Tifa takes a moment to look between the papers and Cloud’s phone, eventually finding the single piece of paper, tucked away right at the back of the folder she was given.

She reads quickly.

“What the hell do you think you are trying to pull here!” Tifa yells as she scrunches the paper into a ball and throws it at Reno’s head.

He ducks and wisely begins to back out of range as Cloud takes his phone back so Tifa can deftly leap across the counter.

“Wait, wait, wait, it’s just a harmless little waver,” Reno defends as he puts a stool between himself and Tifa.

“One that makes us completely responsible for any damages caused and absolves Shinra of any responsibility,” Tifa clarifies.

“Oy, oy, Like I said, we’re swimming in lawsuits here, we gotta find some way to mitigate potential future costs.” Reno states as if that’s actually an excuse.

“Not interested,” dismisses Cloud as he goes to delete the email. They’ll find another way to explain this to the kid, besides, they still don’t know his full backstory, and what little they do know is making Cloud question whether he accidentally took another dip in the Lifestream.

“Come on.” Reno smiles. “He’s tiny, how much damage could he actually do?”

“Chibi,” agrees Rude.

Tifa’s opening her mouth, probably about to yell at them about the office window and hold Reno up for the money to repair it, when Marlene’s scream shatters the air.

Chapter Text

“Most interesting,” Hojo comments to himself as he walks about the room, his hand coming up to run along the fine stubble that coats his chin. “Fascinating really.”

This is what he says as he notes the disorder that still dominates the room, the blood that covers the floor, the smashed glass, the covered body of the last descendant of the Ancient’s, and the lone abandoned white materia sitting amidst it all.

His thoughts run along a distant course as his eyes gather the evidence that could not be perceived by merely watching the recording of the events that had transpired here.

Advanced as the camera system of the Drum is, it can still miss some of the finer details, as proven when something flickers at the edge of his perception.

Turning, at first, he sees nothing, but assumptions are the death of scientific method.

Working out the angle at which the brief distortion of light had affected his peripheral vision, he quickly eliminates the glass scattered across the floor, the metal railing of the gurney, and the metal medical tools as causes, which leaves…

His train of thought is interrupted as an assistant that had previously been tasked with the simple job of recasting the stop spell on the specimen, in order to ensure it is kept preserved until Hojo can get around to cataloguing its remains, steps straight across the scene.

The sound of glass crunching beneath the man’s shoes is grating beyond reason, setting Hojo’s teeth on edge even as his anger rises to the fore.

With a spindly finger scratching at the edge of his lips he contemplates how best to be rid of the fool and comes to the perfect conclusion as he remembers his latest experiment.

“You,” he snaps, and the room stills as every employee inside it freezes like the lab rats they truly are.

The incompetent assistant soon to be put out of Hojo’s misery visibly trembles as he points at him.

“Since recasting a spell is already too complicated a task for you, perhaps your services will be put to better use elsewhere.”

Fishing a key from his pocket he flicks it in the man’s general direction and is left unsurprised when the waste of time fails to catch it. “There, take the elevator down to level three, some of the specimens down there haven’t been seen to in a while.”

The man practically runs from the room, not questioning the change in his orders and lacking the basic sense required to hand off the time materia to somebody less inept.

He waits until the door closes behind the man before taking out his phone to input the command that will lock the doors of the level three lab but unlock the specimen’s cages as soon as the motion sensors detect that their next meal has willingly walked through the entrance.

With that chore taken care of he returns his attention back to the discrepancy that had first attracted his attention.

His gaze alights upon the space above the white materia, where a strange shimmer has overtaken the air.

Unlike the buffoon he has just sent to his death, Hojo does not disturb the scene by walking straight across that glass that surrounds that materia, but instead crouches so he is eye level with the event.

Just by looking he can understand why the camera failed to capture the phenomena, razor thin and only notable from a certain angle, the thinnest tear appears to have bisected nothing but empty space.

“Fascinating,” he notes with an intrigued chuckle, elated at the knowledge that he has a new venture to explore, that the death of the Ancient and her spawn is not the end of one of his most intriguing experiments, but simply a new beginning.

Chapter Text

“Ptoomph!”

The paintball hits the target dead centre.

“Ptoomph! Ptoomph! Ptoomph!”

Three more shots and three more bullseyes.

“Ptoomph!” He hits an image that looks vaguely like a Bomb, if it was in the midst of exploding.

He’s down to his last shot now, and all the targets are already swinging, making things a little bit more difficult.

Add to that the breeze that’s starting to pick up from the north-east quadrant of the small training yard, the inaccuracy of the paintball gun, and the ill-defined parameters of what actually constitutes as a perfect hit, and it makes things slightly challenging.

He goes to take his last shot, knowing already without it being said that this has to be perfect.

“Ptoomph!”

The strobe of light that hits his eyes the moment he squeezes the trigger, forces him to blink at the worst possible moment.

He opens his eyes again just in time to see the paintball barely glance the side of the target he was aiming for, and he cannot stop himself from freezing in place.

Waiting.

Waiting for the hand to grab him by the back of the neck, waiting to be marched towards the target to see by what margin he has failed this time, waiting for the reprimand that will make his ears ring, waiting…but none of that happens.

In fact, nothing happens, and when Sephiroth turns to see why he is met with expressions that he can only equate to the ones the new assistants wear when they are first exposed to Professor Hojo’s more destructive tendencies.

A mixture of disbelief, horror, and slight awe that leaves them speechless and staring.

Without any orders being given, he automatically defaults to the protocol he has already been taught, in this case, flicking the safety back on and assessing his ‘weapon’ for any wear, tear, or possible faults that may impact its future functionality.

Though, this is where he runs into an issue.

The paintball gun he was given was damaged to begin with, dented and scratched to the point where it looked like it had been dropped not just once but several times.

Though, Sephiroth found himself unsurprised, the same thing happened when he was first transferred to basic training at the main Shinra compound. Instructors insulted over the fact that they were expected to give the ‘pet project’ as they called him, one on one training did everything they could to make his life harder.

The number of demerits and punishments he earned in that single month alone soon outweighed any that he had gained before it, and Professor Hojo had made it perfectly clear what would happen if he ever turned in such a poor performance ever again.

At that thought, Sephiroth cannot stop his hand from trailing to the crook of his elbow, where the tiny scars from the track marks of his mako injections have forever left the skin there marked.

A sudden cough draws Sephiroth’s full attention back to the man called Barret, who seems to have regained his composure.

“Who the hell taught you to shoot like that?” he asks, his voice gruff but not accusing.

“Corporal Myers, Sir,” Sephiroth answers promptly.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Barret starts but then stops, apparently stalling over the right words.

The little girl, Marlene, she had instructed him to call her in a nervous but energetic voice even as she had hidden behind Barret, takes the opportunity to jump in. “You beat Denzel’s score.”

“No he didn’t!” snaps Denzel, who has yet to address Sephiroth, even when Barret told him to introduce himself.

“He did,” Marlene defends, “he didn’t miss a single one.”

She points to the targets still swinging in the breeze and Sephiroth cannot stop his gaze from instantly locking onto the single target that he missed.

“I didn’t,” he admits quickly, wanting to avoid being accused of lying later.

“Yes you did,” exclaims Marlene with a huff and a stomp of her foot. “Every one of those targets has paint on them, that counts as a hit?” she declares with a confidence that makes Sephiroth want to believe that it’s true, but he knows when he’s made a mistake.

“I didn’t hit the centre,” he clarifies as he indicates the paint can with what he thinks is some sort of canine on it, maybe a Nibel wolf given the colour, he really isn’t sure.

“Centre?” Barret gasps, “hitting them at all is impressive, I mean damn, you’re just a kid.” Barret encourages.

“It’s not that impressive,” interrupts Denzel as he storms towards Sephiroth.

Grabbing the other paintball gun, he brushes past Sephiroth as he takes a stance on the small patch of dirt that they are using to mark the shooting line.

“Oy, Denzel, you might want to wait until they stop swinging to try and shoot them,” Barret instructs.

“I don’t need to,” Denzle answers back.

Sephiroth tenses again, waiting for the strike.

He flinches when Barret laughs loudly, “hah, suit yourself, you little brat.”

Denzel doesn’t waste any time, he doesn’t even check the gun, simply flips the safety off and takes aim.

“Ptoomph!”

The shots ring out across the yard and a good few of them hit, but so many of them fly wide, missing the targets completely and instead painting the wall and tree behind them.

Marlene laughs as Denzel huffs and throws that paintball gun to the floor. “Oh yeah, I’d like to see you do better.”

“I will,” Marlene chirps, but instead of picking up the gun she runs to the targets, acting on Barret’s previous advice by actively stopping the targets from swinging instead of simply waiting for them to lose enough momentum.

Sephiroth watches her go, completely perplexed by the events that are unfolding before him.

This isn’t like any training he’s ever been given; basic rules of conduct haven’t been observed since they started, and what little structure there is seems to fall to pieces as soon as the two other children start talking.

The fact that they are allowed to talk, let alone talk back, is shocking to Sephiroth.

In all his years in the labs the one rule that had been constant is that he was to be seen and not heard.

The only time he is allowed to speak is when he is directly given permission, and even when he is allowed to, it is always expected that he shall be concise and quiet, because of this it is not an uncommon occurrence for several days to pass before he is permitted to speak.

The suspicions from earlier that had been allayed by the appearance of First Class Strife are beginning to bare their fangs again.

It’s all too different and chaotic, by the time he thinks he understands what is happening, what is expected of him, something comes along to derail his assumptions, leaving him racing to catch up with new instructions that make no sense.

The sudden sound of a phone has Sephiroth looking back to Barret, whose turning out his pockets in search of the device. When he does find it, he very nearly drops it, but manages to juggle it in the air for a moment before catching it securely in the palm of his hand and answering it in the same move.

“Yeah, what?!” He demands in a loud voice.

The man on the other end of the phone is equally loud. “Barret! You finally picked up, what the f—”

Barret covers the speaker as he pulls the phone away from his ear, cutting off the words.

“I gotta take this, no shooting until I get back,” Barret commands looking them both dead in the eyes as he does so.

Sephiroth gives a salute to show that he has received the order and will obey, while Denzel grumbles something unintelligible before walking off somewhere without even waiting to be dismissed.

Again, there is no punishment for what is clearly a breach in protocol, but Barret doesn’t even acknowledge it as he turns his back and resumes talking to the person on the phone.

Denzel soon returns, carrying a Shinra issued sword. He doesn’t even look at Sephiroth as he begins to work through a set of stances, and Sephiroth is mildly impressed.

Denzel has the basics down, he knows how to shift his weight through each move in order to make the transition into the next seamless, he also seems to have good control, never putting too much strength into attacks against the invisible enemies he’s imagining.

That said, he soon loses focus.

With a wild swing that lacks the control of all the moves that came before it, he levels his sword at Sephiroth.

“What?!” There’s a wild look in his eyes, one that makes them darker beneath the shadow of his fringe.

Sephiroth can feel his own pupils contracting in response to the challenge, as the world before him becomes sharper and clearer as his body naturally prepares itself for a fight.

With a deep breath and his fists gripped tightly, he is able to suppress the response and shake his head.

Usually this would be enough, the assistant or the instructor would get bored with his lack of reaction and return to whatever they were doing, this is not the case with Denzel.

“Come on, you have something to say,” he goads.

Sephiroth’s gaze flicks to Barret, who still has his back turned to them, one hand covering his free ear so he can better hear the man he’s talking to on the phone. The only instruction Sephiroth has been given so far was to listen to Barret and ‘no shooting till I get back’…does he dare?

“Say it!” Denzel shouts as he takes another step forward with his sword still pointing directly and Sephiroth’s face.

Sephiroth doesn’t move, doesn’t cower away, the blade is blunt, he can see that, there’s nothing to fear.

“Why do you skip from form three into form seven?” he asks.

Denzel blinks at him, but it seems Sephiroth has said something wrong as anger soon causes Denzle to growl, “are you saying I’m doing it wrong; this is what Cloud taught me, I know what I’m doing!”

“No,” Sephiroth tries to defend.

He’s just curious, if anything the forms look more efficient in this configuration compared to the order that Sephiroth has been taught, actually he could see where the other stances would come into play with this new arrangement, providing a better economy of movement and leaving less openings.

Before he can say any of this though Denzel is storming away from him, his feet kicking up dry dirt with every stomp of his feet as he marches over to a small shed that almost blends in with the pile of scrap metal that’s been abandoned beside it.

Denzel emerges from the small storage shed, which Sephiroth realises must be used to store the facilities training weapons, as Denzel emerges with another sword.

Sephiroth is not ready for Denzel to throw the weapon at him, but he still catches it.

Heavier and broader than the swords Sephiroth is used to, it takes him a moment to find his centre of balance.

Still, he naturally adopts the stance that has become as easy as breathing for him.

Fingers hovering above the blade as he crouches low and assesses the opponent before him. It’s a little strange facing off against a person that of a similar height to him, but other than that it’s a situation that’s so familiar he can’t help but relax.

“I’m not going to lose,” declares Denzel as he leaps forward, only for a scream to rend the air.

The flare of a Fira spell flickers at the edge of Sephiroth’s vision, soon followed by the yelp of something inhuman and the chalky smell of burning fur.

“Marlene!” Barret shouts as his hand suddenly morphs into a gun, he shoots two of the attackers, red soaking brown patched coats, as sharp bucked teeth snap at nothing in an attempt to stop the bullets that have already ended their lives.

Barret shifts to take out the rest, only to curse wildly when he realises the rest are too close to Marlene. “I’m coming Baby Girl!”

Sephiroth is already there.

The practise blade catches one in the side with enough force to crush its ribcage and drive the fragments of those bones into its now undefended organs.

The next dies from a precise but devastating hit to the back of the neck that crushes the back of its skull and rips apart the connection between brain and spine, all without breaking the flesh.

The third and last has enough time to lunge at him, he uses its own momentum to drive the blunt blade down its gullet and out the back of its throat.

Quick, but not clean, not precise enough, not good enough.

He looks to Barret, expecting to see a look of disappointment, a few words of reprimand, this was obviously another scenario, wererats are a common enemy to fight when he starts a new training regimen.

But Barret isn’t even looking at him, he’s crouched down next to Marlene, one arm wrapped around her as the other wipes blood away from her face.

The tread of Heavy boots announces the approach of First Class Strife.

“What happened?”

Chapter Text

He walks out into the backyard only to be met with the scene of a massacre.

Red stains the grass, the tree, the targets, everything but the child that stands in the midst of it all, he’s spotless, even as the blade in his hand drips with the blood that now covers it.

It’s a near perfect copy of an image from Cloud’s worst nightmare, a twisted mimicry of a scene he’s played over and over again in his mind as he wrestles with the fact that there was no way he could have stopped it.

When cat slit eyes turn to him, he expects to see madness, the excitement of a predator that has finally realised it has sharp claws and is surrounded by helpless prey.

All he sees is fear.

The fear and nervousness of a small child caught doing something that they know they should not have been.

He’s seen the same look on both Denzel and Marlene’s face so many times, but he will say that the expression the kid wears leans more toward true horror.

The static of thoughts that are not his own which soon batter against his mental walls backs up this assessment.

Ẉ̴̼̮̈́͌̒h̴̛̟̠͕͕̋̈̕a̷̢̛͉̺͎̓́͛͋̊ţ̵̖̀̃̀̈ ̷̢̘͖͎̙͖̏̍̏ḋ̵̡̬̝͉̯̕i̴̢̭͇̺̳͋͑̉ḓ̷̽̈́͘ͅ ̵̜̓I̷̖͌̇͊̅̑͠ ̴͍̯̮̑̉̌͌͊͘d̶͖̪̖̉ö̴̗́̎ ̶̨̙̮͚͒̚w̶̢̟͗r̴͕̝͚̠͛̍͋̅͂ŏ̶̮̟̍̔ń̷̡̺͑̉̊͜g̸̢̱̿̃̂̃?̵̦͊̃́͂̏ ̷̛̞̈F̷̨̛̘̜͈̺̯̾̃̚͘è̵̛͚̼̩̹͛̌͋͝a̶̡̙̺̠̜̍̀̌̍͠r̴̲͎̱̆̈́̏̓͝.̴̦̼̲̻̅͗͐ ̴͚̼̲̅̇̔H̶̟̦̐̉̍͝a̵̤͆̅́̌̿̅v̴͕̯̜̝͎̆͜é̴̪̖̜̎̄̂ ̵̼̈̃̂̓̚Ḯ̶̩͘͝ ̴̦͇̞̌̕f̷̗͕͍̬̖̓́͊̒͐͝ã̶̮͉̦̺i̶̠̹͖̠̒͜l̶̪̘̰̍̔̚ę̸̪̗̘̉̽̒͌̒̚͜ͅd̴͙̪̮̣͓͌̍̕͝ ̷̗̺̇̓ā̵̞̦̞̘̒̅̓͝g̷̗̫̽a̸̛͖̪͂i̴͓͓̮̊̈́n̶͕͈̬̿?̶̖͙̃̈́̓͠ ̸̤̠̣̝͂̄̈Ī̴̦̲̲̄̀ ̷̢̠̱̓͛͆̓c̸̛̦͙͎̭͉̉á̶̰n̶̢̧̨͒̀͐͜'̷̧̮̰͐̈́͘t̷̡̩̼̝̯̽̈́̇̍͜ ̶̯̣͍̰̱͘f̵̨͚̙̰̩̂͜ą̸̨̛̪̭̞͂̽́͜ȉ̸͕̺͘l̷̰̳̜̮̀͋̇́,̴̧̲̖́̆ ̷̯̻̳̜̺̑n̵̝̜̣̠͔̘̔͊̅͐ȯ̴͍͇͓̿̑͆́͝t̵̡̻͔̠̖̩͋̓̉͋̚ ̸̡̧̠̩̣̣̈a̶̟̯̦̋͑g̴̣̩͆̾͛͗͘̚ȁ̶͔͍͎̩ͅi̴̜̗̥̦̳̟͠n̶̺̰̐,̶̩̇̓̊͝ ̶̱̫͍̰͇̍̓́P̸̭̭͉̔͗̃͝r̵̩̯̹͓̺̈́͌́͑̎͘ó̷̭̘̱́̅f̷̦̤͔͐͒̾e̵̘̯̗̓̉s̴͓̪̋̄̃s̷̢̱̤̈̍͌̾ȏ̴̗͊͑͑̂͝ͅr̶̨͔͌̀̇͛ ̷̨̉̾H̶̘͔̮͔̖͂̽͐ơ̴̧̔͐͐j̵̡̹̩͔͆̍͠o̵͎͎͋̊̚͠͝ ̷̘̮̰̫̆̑ẅ̴͙́̏̀ă̸͉r̸̪͈̄̓n̴̖̪͚̂̆̂̏̌ȩ̴̨̝͋́̈͂͗̄͜d̶̡̼͈̳́͑̈́͂̚ ̶̬͍̲̞̉m̴̢̛̔̿͊̌e̸̼̯͊́,̸̛̞̳̖́͆̀ ̷̓͜ḫ̵͇̀͌͆̄̔͘ẻ̵͔̼̠̲͉̒̓̒̌͝ ̵̳̗̦̼̩͂̿͋w̷͉̫̫͛a̶͍͆̂̊͗̉̐r̷̞͋̓̿̍̀̍n̷̩͙͉̞̈́̿̎͗̚͝e̷͎͆d̸͚͔̼̰͂͒̀̽͑̚ ̶̛̪͍̮̱̩̀m̴͕̰̝̐̉̊ȅ̵͉̇͗̑̆,̵̛̦̋͋̃ ̶̰́͆͐̊͘a̷͇͉̝͎̲̻̅̈́̽̓̒ṅ̴̛̰͉̝̩̲̤̐͋͝d̸̲͆͂͊́͝ ̵̪̞̻̭̞͊͜Į̸̩̝̓̋ ̶̡̭͕̌͛̇́̕ͅd̸͓̞̾́͌̿̑̕į̶̼͉͓̐̿̋͜ḑ̴̳̹͎͕̟̆ń̵̨̧̰̂͆̋͜'̸͇̍̌t̸̪̝͔͑̑͋̅͆͊ͅ ̴͕͖̞͒̓̓̾̈́͜͝ͅḽ̵̻̖̊̑̚͠i̵̘͙̺̞̒s̷̡̮̲̀̐̀̅͆̐ţ̸̛͚̻̙̄̂̚ͅë̵͇̱̖͓̤ņ̷̛̳̥͚̒̽̍̈́͌,̸͚̒̚̕ ̴̗̰̫̭̒͜w̷̠̔ͅā̵̧͍͔̟͎̆ș̵̰͆ ̶̦̄̈́̎̃Ï̵̯͓̋̓̓͋ ̶̡͕̠̜̠͋̌͠n̵͚͔̙̺̤̙̂́̋o̴̡̼̠̬̗̔͊͊̏̀t̵͔̱̲̞̩̓ ̷͖̼̲͕͗͐͜s̴̺̙̒̍̈́̒ű̷̹̲̲̜̩̯̉͛̉̔̐p̵͕̃͌p̸̖̯̏͊o̸̢̢͕͓̗̓̅͛s̸̛̙e̸̪͛̍̃̉̅͠ḓ̸̜̎͛ ̵̝̳̫̰̲̓̽͝ͅt̷͎̤̞͕̣̊́̈́o̵͇̟̭̎̽͒͝ ̴̱͉̔̏͜s̴̨͓̟̯̻͋͗̀́̓͊ạ̸̢̺̌v̴̗͖̩̄̍͊è̵̲̪̗̳̜̋̎ ̴̨̨͔̟̙̺͋̈́̌̽̀Ṃ̴̧͓̭͋̈́̋ã̶̹͓̙̰͊̈́̄̈́͘r̸͈̦̓̇̈́̍͜l̴̢̡̘͇̫͗͆̒͆̆̈́͜e̶̙̥̥͇̽̿̿̊̀ṋ̴̞̲̰͛̔̉̉̑̅ȩ̸͚̾͛̉̂̀̍.̸͉̭͎̖͔̠̈́.̵̖̘͗̉̉͘ͅ.̵̧̱̤͕͉̳̉̒̽F̴͙̮͓̗̘̄e̸̮͇͊̕a̵͓͔̅̃͂̔͐͘r̷̝̟͈͉̘͋.̵̢͎͇͈̣̉̄.̵̡̪͉̬͙̔͜.̴̛̥͕̙͓̇̈́͌̀ͅw̶͉̥͗̀͂̂͝â̶̰̻͔͉̋s̸̙̘̖̝̖̱̀̅͊̚ ̸̢̊̂̃́̈̾s̵̖̱͖͒͗h̷͚͙̄̿̊̽̄̉e̸̗͓̼̤͕͚̅̌͐ ̶̦̭̜̜̹͆̀̚͝m̵̢͓̠̳̭͋̽́̓̍ͅė̶̙̱͖̩̔͋̈́̏̚ȧ̴̪͙̻͒́n̷̨͎̱̆̋̑͝t̷̻̟͌̀̄̊̈́ ̵̖̬͝t̸̡̫̅͊̿o̵͔̍́͘̕ ̵̥͍̓̉̔̈́͛ĥ̴̹̱͋͑a̸͈̺͗͝n̸͉̯̦͒̈́́́̀̚͜d̵̨͈̳̮̣̗̋͑̈͂̾̏ļ̴̧͓̝̖͔̓͑̌̚̕͝ë̴̢͔̯̀̅́̇ ̷̧̨̞̯͚͛t̸̡̲̞̘͂̇̎͘ḩ̷̧̬̊̽̓͝è̵̢̠̖̳̫͖̀̊̀͘ ̵̣̣͕͉̂̀͐͛̇s̶̮̖͂͂̔̌p̶̝̮̠̠̊̈́̾̽̓͜e̵̦̣̎̌̍͝͠ć̷̨͎̃͠ì̴̗̯̘̝͗̈́͜ḿ̷̤͖͙͈̩̭e̶̪̭͇̯̻̔̑͗̊͝͝n̸̢̬̆̀̀̀̀͊s̴̨̲͉͙̤̬̀́̕ ̸͈̐̓͆o̶͖̽̈͘͝n̷̢̛̳̯̙̲̩͌̓̐͝ ̴̧̬̦̘̈́̑̾͘h̸̫̜̲͔̖̗̒̾̔͠e̷̤̐̅͂̈̾͘r̷͖̙̜̬̐͌̋́̕ͅ ̷̢̛̰̳̝̝̂ö̷̲̺̼́ẃ̵̙́̒̈́̕n̴̘̈́̒̑͘̕ͅ?̶͖̮̗̋̈̿̒ ̶͈͛͐̉͌̚Ḑ̸̀͗͌͒̃r̴͇͕̟͎̬̿ę̸̡̹̜͆̾̈̄à̵͉̼̤̪̩̊̾d̷͓̈͂̋͒͝!̴̢͚͚̻̤̍̃̔͊ ̶̯͓̔B̴͇̣̈́ũ̴͚̽̇́̈͆ͅẗ̶̞̰̾̔̅̅ ̴̫̱̗̻̽̿̆̃̽̕s̸͈͓͖͍̼̻͒̓̐ḩ̷̳̞̻̃e̷̩̖̜̤̼͆̋͝͝ ̸̡͇̟̖̐͝͝͝w̴̹̯̰͝ò̷̧͔̺͙̅͑͊͝ü̴̧̜̖̫l̷̢̫̪̼̱̱̚d̸̨̯͓̈͗͗͝ ̴̡̧̛̩͚̝̍̿ḫ̴͎̂̆͊ḁ̶͇̙͍͎̾̎͝v̸̗̬͔͕̣͑̈͛͝e̷̖͎̦̼͎͒ ̶͓͚̅̈́͝d̸̟͔͖̭̳̻̔̽͒͌̚į̷̇è̴̤͙̳̗̲͚ḏ̵̺̙̲̑͌̈.̶̫̝͖͊.̶̡͍̐̆̿͛̾.̸̩͓͂̋͝t̶͇̥͓̜̩̅̆͂h̶̰̠̖̜͙̎̂e̵̡̦̗̮̕ ̵̭̯̣̺̟͑̒ḟ̸̛̣̟̩̈́̆͝ͅl̸͓̿̿́a̸̭̬̔̋͐s̷̬̹̼̊̿͘͝h̵̡͍̜̠͉̍͑̓̓̽̿ ̴̡̜̫̝̪̌̏͛͐͠o̴͙̙͕̊͆́ͅf̷̡͍̫̥̞̔̾͒ ̵͚̩͚͍̏́͜a̷̯̦̦̪̜̽n̸̼̈́̈́͋͗̐͊ ̶͉͍͚̄̾͗̀͘͝ͅi̶̳͐͑̏̂͊̒͜m̶͖͒̓̕a̷̬͚͝ͅg̶̢̗̠͉̗̺͗͂̏̅e̶̮͉͉̻̭͑̈́,̴͓̤͌ ̴̊͐̂͜͝ä̵̟́̇̃͊ ̶̠̥̙̦̮̫̒͋̃͑͑ḷ̶̖̦̗̬̽͠i̵̧̤̩͒͑̀̊̂͠ţ̴͙͕̪̮͓̌̎̌̊͝t̶̪̂̉̌l̸̪̏͛̈́͊e̸̛̲̼̔̈́̈͋̊ ̴̡͇̱̇̓̒͝g̴̜̭̝̖̹͗i̸̬͈̒̊̋͊̊r̵̩̪̜̻̍̔̍̆͝l̵̲̩̲͚̊͗̒̕͜ͅ ̷̧̫̫̰͌́͌͆̏ẅ̸͑̒͗́̐ͅh̴̝͖̤̝̊̈́̆͌o̶͇̬̒̓̂̉̏̾ ̶̡̛̭͓̰̮̬̌͛l̶̨̦̱̅̇ǫ̵̛͈̰̜͈̹̅͛̆̅o̵͉̪͎̥̹̱̓̋̍͠k̵̢̜͈̲̿͜s̵̩̀ ̶̤̫̹̟͇͊͒̊͘͝l̵̗̀i̸̠̹̰̟̪͎̕ḱ̵̨̛̲̞̳̞̹e̷̛͕͈̋̌̃̂ ̴͖̘͎͙̭̎͜͝M̴̖̟̣̎ã̸͝ͅr̶͚̳̫͙̽͂̏̾l̸̝̫͙̿ẹ̸͚̝̝͖̺̈́͛̐̅̂͠ñ̸̟̊̃̾ḛ̸̈́,̷̬͚̭͙̈́̓̌̿ ̶̜̻̊̚d̵̘̖̱͗̈́̅͌͘ē̶̡̱̟͇͙̻̂̽̌̚̚ȧ̷̜͈̪̖̹̮̓͠d̷͚̮͙̩̹̽̀̿̈͒̅.̸̫̳̮̱̪̐͆͘̚͜.̴̥̜̙͎͉͔̓̃̎̕.̶̨̻͇̔̌̈́̏̍ͅw̴̡̱̺̞̗̥̌͑͗͛ạ̴̀̇̽̈́ș̵̤̱̄ͅ ̷̨̛̱̤̀̔͠s̴͙̒h̵͍͇̱͎͍̯̽̓̓ė̵̙̩̫̲̩ ̸̡͓͙̠͕̄̌̄̊͛̈m̴̱̰̲͝e̵̛̗̙͙̐͋͠a̷̭̹̾́̾͛̈́̚n̵̩̓ṭ̷̋ ̷̩͓̺̩̗̉̍͛̀͐͆t̸͓̪͔̺̐͠ȏ̴̤̯͗̑͂̀͊͜ ̸̧͓̦̬͕̻̀͌̌̎͝d̴̳̖̣̏̓̾̔͘i̴̧̗̖̬͉̮͛̀e̸͚͓̠̰̭͖̎͐́̕͝?̵̢͔̻͓̔̒͜ ̷̙̭̿̋̒̈́̿͘w̷̰͒̏̀̌̇̄a̸̬̥̍̊s̷̨̤̦̞͕͉̀́̒ ̴̻̤̒I̷̢̛̝͎̪̜̓͆̕͝͝ ̷̞̣͗̈̓̇̕͘ͅṡ̶̨͍͇͉͚ͅu̸̠̳̱̣̍̌̄͑̚ṕ̶̢͑p̸͇̳̹͖̓̈́̈ͅo̷̤̅͑̂̄̀͐ŝ̶͍̺̱ë̶̘́̋ ̵̘̗̏̔̐̑̎͘t̷̖̞͍͌ǒ̵̼̤͇̲̙̝̋͑͆͛͝ ̴̝͈͍͉̉l̸̨̩̩̬̓͛͊͜ͅë̶̫͕̲̉̈́͗̍̆͜t̸̫̰̀̎ ̷̨͖͂̈h̷͚̹͍̰̬̙͘e̶̗̤͌r̵͓̣͎̘͚̫̂̈́̑ ̷̢̺̯͇̜̜́̆̋͝d̷̤̻̙̩͇̬̈̿̀̈́ĩ̸̗̮͔̞̍͆̀͌̚͜e̷͓̻̤̟̞͕͂͋̚?̷͉̤͋̊̍ ̵̲̒D̸͔̯̲̽̔̂͝Ṙ̴̫̺͑̆̅͜͝ė̷̦̰̟̝̰̔̀a̷̳̥̺̋͘͝d̴̰͍͌͠F̶͍̻͕͔͈̮͑̀͆̓̒ë̶̺́̿̑͘a̵̯͌̅R̵̡̽̋̋̆̅D̵̨̜͔̞̮̗́̚r̸͙̰͕͛̓̀͝͝e̴̠̖͐͌̂͊̚͘Ȧ̸̡̪̫̮̬̰̀̕D̶̠̜͈͖̼̯̿̇̓f̵̨̬̻̔̂̂͑͊e̴̤͇͇̓̀ą̸̯̳͍̑͛ṛ̶͕͔͑͌́͊D̸͕͎̔R̵̪͍̽͌̆͝E̴̢̠̺̙̙̒Ą̴̻͍͒Ď̸̨̅̿̕͝͝f̷͍̹̕ę̵̙͙̥̹̖͑͐͊̕a̵̠͆̐́́͝͝r̷̙̽f̶͖̈̍̓̈́͛͘e̸̻̯̯͔̐̈́̈́̍̒̕ą̸̟̲͖͚̔̕r̵̢͑͑͑̓͌̈F̶̺̼͔̦̰̈̂E̷͖̎͂̑̽̚̚Ä̷̪͕́̋̆R̷̺̲̲̗͍̄̔͘!̸̝͎̃͌͌̉͋̀

“Sephiroth,” he calls out.

It’s only after the name leaves his mouth that he realises that’s the first time he has used the kid’s actual name.

He has little time to focus on that, as the sound of his name has an immediate effect.

Sephiroth sheathes the blade in the earth and takes one very deliberate step back from it, his hands resting at his sides, his head lowered slightly in submission, as if he’s expecting to be hit or shouted at any second now.

Cloud takes a second to strengthen his mental defences, to ensure there isn’t a single gap in them, and then he kneels and meets the child’s gaze.

“Are you okay?”

The boy glances at him briefly but his gaze instantly falls to the floor again. “Yes sir.”

That’s a lie, Cloud doesn’t need the cursed connection from the S cells to know that, but he can sense that if he calls the boy out the reaction will not be good, as the fine tremors that run across the boy’s form make it seem as though he is one harsh word away from shattering.

Seeing that this approach isn’t working, he turns towards where Denzel is standing, his training blade held lax at his side, his eyes flitting back and forth between where Barret is still comforting Marlene, the bodies of the were-rats on the grass, and Sephiroth.

“What happened?” Cloud asks again, voice gentle, he wants Denzle to know that he is not in trouble, none of them are.

“We were going to spar,” Denzel starts off slowly, “just spar, Barret was busy, and Marlene was occupied with the targets and…and we were told we couldn’t shoot, so I got my sword, and he questioned me about the forms you taught me, so I…” he falters there, clearly giving away that he did something he thinks will make Cloud disappointed, but he takes a deep breath, resolves himself and continues, “I got out the spare training sword and challenged him.”

Denzel looks at him so plaintively as he starts to rush, his explanation coming so fast he nearly trips over the words, “we didn’t end up fighting, Marlene screamed before then, I was running to help, I was going to help, but he was already there.”

Cloud raises a hand and places it on Denzel’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, in the next second, the boy is hugging him, arms looped tightly around Cloud’s waist. Used to this, Cloud simply shifts his hand from Denzel’s shoulder to the back of his head.

He gets it, Denzel’s protective of Marlene and he wants to be strong, seeing someone else succeed where he feels he has failed is demoralising and words like, “he’s enhanced,” or “Marlene is safe,” will just make the situation worse.

Looking back at Sephiroth, he can see the kid still hasn’t moved.

Barret’s busy comforting Marlene, though the little girl seems to be in a better state than her father, she’s not even crying anymore.

Tifa’s standing behind them, acting as a human shield between the kids and the TURK’s who linger by the door.

Standing, Cloud herds Denzel towards Tifa before crossing the small distance to where Sephiroth is seemingly waiting for orders…or punishment.

Something else that Cloud gets, both from his time as a Trooper and his own time spent in the labs.

“You’re not in trouble.” The kid blinks at those words as though Cloud has just spoken in a foreign language.

“You saved Marlene, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Cloud stresses, focusing on the words he could hear blaring through the unwanted connection before he slammed his barriers down.

The kid shakes his head, not believing him.

“They weren’t clean enough,” he states as he glances at the corpses around them that have already begun to dissolve into the lifestream.

“You reacted to an unknown enemy with quick reflexes and enough force to exterminate them but not cause collateral damage,” Cloud explains using technical terms in the hopes that it will sound more familiar to the kid and get him to relax some.

Instead, the child just shakes his head as one hand rises to grip the fabric of the hoodie he is wearing. “Not good enough,” the kid strains, as his breath begins to stutter.

“Why?” Cloud asks, voice calm, tone even.

“My performance was sub-standard, I didn’t use the correct forms and…and…Professor Hojo.” the kids breathing is getting faster, more erratic.

“You saved Marlene,” Cloud adds, hoping to cut off the kids spiralling thoughts.

“Was that the objective?” questions the boy, as he looks up at Cloud with confused but hopeful eyes, latching onto anything that might fit the parameters he’s clearly been instructed to live by.

With a sigh, Cloud looks back at Tifa, she’s been watching this entire time, even as she kept back Reno and Rude, both of whom are looking more interested by the second.

“Tifa?” he asks, begging that she knows him well enough that he will not have to explain.

“Dilly Dally, Shilly Shally.” She’s already bullying Rude for a pen and getting Reno to turn around so she can use his back as a flat surface to write on.

Cloud turns back to the kid and pulls out his phone, scrolling through the documents Rufus sent him until he has the two he needs both open on the screen.

“Professor Hojo isn’t in charge of you anymore,” Cloud explains as he shows the kid the documents, “he’s dead.”

The kid’s eyes lock onto both the transfer of authority papers and the death certificate and stay there.

Cloud remains quiet, giving the kid the time he needs to absorb the information.

Eventually, the kid does say something, but it is so quiet that even with his enhanced hearing Cloud cannot hear it.

He moves a little closer as he asks, “what?”

The kid is shaking now, tremors raking up and down his spine as his breaths come in stuttering gasps.

It’s only when the kid’s lips move and absolutely no sound escapes him that Cloud realises that he’s having a panic attack.

“Sephiroth, look at me,” Cloud urges.

The kid obeys, because of course he does, he’s been conditioned to obey no matter the situation, but for now Cloud will save his complaints for later.

“Deep breaths,” he instructs as he pulls Sephiroth’s hand away from his throat, where blunt nails had already begun to dig shallow furrows into the skin there. “Can you look around?”

The kid does as asked and gives a shallow nod.

“Can you list five colours that you see?” Cloud starts simply, working through the tips for panic attacks he read in that one medical journal when he was looking into how stress might accelerate Geostigma.

“B-black,” Sephiroth stutters, as he takes another deep breath, his next words are a little steadier. “Green, blue, brown, red.”

“Good,” Cloud encourages, in a bad facsimile of the voice Tifa always uses when the kids are sick, or he’s having an off day.

Still the kid shakes his head, even as he keeps following Cloud’s instruction.

When he speaks again, his voice is small but at least its intelligible this time, even as Cloud wishes it wasn’t. “Please don’t terminate the project.”

Chapter Text

“Please don’t terminate the project.” The words leave his mouth without his permission, so quiet it takes him a moment to process that he has actually voiced them.

He shouldn’t speak without permission, that’s always been the rule…but the other children here, Denzel and Marlene, they both speak freely, with no thought for protocol or the rules. They laugh and shout, are animated and unreserved.

‘You’re not like them,’ whispers a cold voice in the back of his mind that sounds too much like Professor Hojo, ‘you were created for better things, but only I can understand your true potential, you would be nothing without me.’

The words haunt his thoughts, cling to them like the grime that marred the cages of the worst kept specimens.

He knows Professor Hojo is right, he has proof. Professor Gast had left, abandoned the research he had dedicated his life to because he concluded that Sephiroth was not good enough, that he was defective in some way.

It had taken Professor Hojo promising results and a demonstration of Sephiroth’s healing capabilities to convince President Shinra not to defund the project then and there.

But now Professor Hojo is dead, the proof is there before his eyes, written in big red letters stamped across the photo on the document that holds all of his attention.

DECEASED.

Apart from that the certificate looks like any other document Shinra issues, mundane to the point of being so boring that his eyes should slide straight off of it, and yet the weight that settles in his gut at the mere sight of it is a physical thing.

‘You’re only here because of me, none of these incompetents can come close to comprehending your potential, they will only see your existence as a way to make profit, I am the only one keeping you from being cast away with all these other failures.’

It’s an old lecture, one Sephiroth obviously knows by rote, as Professor Hojo had liked to reinforce it at every opportunity, so Sephiroth knows, he will only get one chance.

“I can still be useful, and Professor Hojo has a lot of assistants, surely one of them can continue the program?” Sephiroth doesn’t dare to mention the other elite of the Science Department, Professor Hollander, he never liked the way the man looked at him, a jealous hate smouldering in his eyes directed at Professor Hojo but focused on Sephiroth, as though his every failure could be tracked back to Sephiroth’s success.

First Class Strife opens his mouth to say something, but the red headed Turk beats him to it. “Err, kind of a hard request to fulfil when the projects already been cancelled.”

Ice and static overtake his mind and body with a slow creeping dread that freezes him in place.

No hope, he never really had it to begin with because he knew it only led to greater disappointment in the end, but here and now, with every chance stripped away from him and his only shield gone, what does he have left but the yawning maw of oblivion that opens wide to swallow him.

S̶̙͓̗̣̀̀͘ͅě̴̝͎̜̳͇̳̇p̸͈̬͔͔̮̑́́̈h̵̞̙͊.̶̱̥̓̃̉͘͝.̶̛̟͕̠̒̌ͅ.̵͕͉̏̄̇̔̕͝i̵̧̧̼͚̺͋̚.̵̪̜̙͈͍̬̐̂̎͒̍͆.̸̛̛̛̬̓̿.̸̪͈́ř̸̡͈̪̠͓̯̈́́o̶̺͔͗̅̄͛t̵̘̥̫̟̦̏̿̅.̵͎̟͋̎̋̊͘.̸̖̏͆̚.̵̻̠̓̌h̵̢̢̖̬̩͔͐̅̇

The static suddenly turns to a sharp stab of pain that has him flinching and gripping the side of his head.

M̵͓͂̓̚̚ͅỳ̵̻́̍̍̏̕ ̸̨̗͔̻̀̆͠S̵͉̈́̒o̴̧͚͎̭̬͌̾̀.̷̨̞͇̽͐͝.̸̢͎͂̌̚.̸̛̙̩̽́͊͂̒ņ̴̟̜̜̺̈́͐̀͆̊

The pain grows, it feels like something is clawing at his thoughts, looking for a way to slip between the spaces of his consciousness so it can dig into his mind and take root somewhere deep inside, but at the same time it’s chasing away the cold, the dread, replacing it with something that would feel warm were it not for the oil slick darkness that it seems to flow with.

M̶̢̜̭͇͙̥̥̺̭͍͚͙̹̺̖͔͚̞̱̘͙̠̭͍̘͇̲͂͛͐̓͌͆̓̎̾̒͆́̐͊̈́̇̄̈́̌͑̓͆͌̀̋̐͊͒̎̑̂̿̒̒́͑̚͘͜͝ͅi̸̡̢̡̧̧̨̨̡̛̛͈͉̩͈̼̱͚̝̭̝̩̱̜̹̹̠͔̩̩̯̟̭̮̔͆͋͛͋̆͑̃́̔̋̑̓̈̉̓͑͒͑̄́̈̔̈̄͐̅̅̈́̍̉̌̀̑̇̉̐̋̇̾̈̕̚͘͜͝͠͝ͅņ̴̹͕̞͍̞̮̫̲̻͈̼̻̞͈͔̗͈̳̹͈̜̮̦̯͐̈́͒̆̐̊͗̈́̍͌͛͌̈́̅́̓͐̔̽͆̾̏̔͂̃́̽͌̍̐͌̌̿̅͊̚̕͜͜͠͝ͅę̶̡̢̛̤͖̤̭̳̮͍̯̳͔̦̟̹̠͙̠͓̬̩͔̓̀̿̓͂͊̅̂̓̋̽͌͑̔́̃̃̉̑̌̽͐̏̍̎͋̽̌͋́̓͑̈́̊̈̕͘̚̕͠͝͝

He doesn’t even realise he’s opening himself up to it, letting it in willingly and without resistance until another voice that is not his screams inside his mind, "̷̘̈N̴̥͕͐̽ö̴̪!̵͆̕ͅ"̴̖̜̽

With the force of something slamming shut the voices that are not his own are purged from every corner of his mind, as the shock of hearing First Class Strife’s voice inside his head snaps him back to reality.

The first thing he sees is cat-slit eyes, and for the briefest moment he thinks he must be facing a mirror until he spots the blond hair that frames them.

Seeing them on another person is strange, but also comforting in a way that Sephiroth has never felt before. He’s almost sad when he sees them returning to their normal rounded appearance, and idly Sephiroth wonders if that’s something he’ll be able to do as well.

“Don’t let her in,” First Class Strife commands in a firm tone as he seizes Sephiroth by the shoulders. “No matter what, you can’t let her in.”

Sephiroth nods even as he asks, “who?”

The question seems to draw First Class Strife up short as his lips move to answer, but the sound never escapes them.

He goes so far as to bite his bottom lip until the skin turns white and threatens to split, as if trying to seal the name behind his teeth, but something suddenly shifts within his gaze and the silent war he seems to be fighting against himself is won or lost, as he finally allows the answer to be heard.

“Jenova.”

Sephiroth blinks in shock as he recognises his mother’s name, heard so infrequently and yet held tightly like a treasure clutched close to his heart since the first time Professor Hojo had told him the name of the woman who had died to bring him into the world.

“My mother?” Sephiroth asks as confusion overtakes him, dampening his common sense to the point where he voices the question before he can think about the consequences.

First Class Strife shakes his head firmly. “No, Sephiroth, no, that thing is not your mother.”

Something angry and defensive flares in Sephiroth’s chest, the name Jenova is all he has of his mother, everything else is blank, will even this be taken away from him?

“She is, I may have never met her, but her name is on my documents, and it’s the only information Professor Hojo told me about her.” He had worked so hard to have Professor Hojo even confess that much, trained and studied to the point of exhaustion but it had all been worth it when he had passed every test without a single error and Professor Hojo had begrudgingly relented and provided her name as his reward.

For some reason his words just seem to make First Class Strife sad, Sephiroth can see it in the way his mouth turns down and his irises begin to contract.

Sephiroth shouldn’t be trying to correct his commanding officer, but this is the one thing he refuses to back down on, everything is changing, everything is different, and it feels as though this is just another thing being taken away from him, so for the first time in a very long time, he pushes back. “My mother’s name is Jenova, I know it is, so why are you lying?”

First Class Strife’s expression turns cold as he shuts down in the face of Sephiroth’s defiance. “Sephiroth, no, you don’t understand, Jenova is a mo—”

“Cloud,” interjects Tifa as she places a hand on First Class Strife’s back, he flinches almost imperceptibly but recovers quickly, glancing at Tifa he takes a deep breath before relenting with a shake of his head as he takes a step back.

Tifa takes over, crouching she smiles at Sephiroth and asks, “Sweety, what do you know about your mother?”

“Just her name, and that she died giving birth to me,” he answers honestly.

Tifa nods, not denying these facts, before asking another question. “Have you ever seen her picture?”

Sephiroth simply shakes his head no, he’d asked, once.

The sound of shuffling papers draws his attention to the documents Tifa still holds in her hands, that she is currently flipping through, she stops about five pages in, pulling free a single document which she hands to Sephiroth.

“Have you ever seen any photos of this woman before?”

The woman pictured in the document Tifa hands to him is young, maybe a little older than Tifa herself, her long chestnut hair is bound with yellow ribbon in a high ponytail that keeps her hair out of her face apart from the long bangs that hang slightly over her left eye, her face itself is narrow, but not in a way that might denote malnutrition, but the feature that holds Sephiroth’s attention the most are her soft brown eyes.

He can guess by the lab coat she is wearing that she is a scientist, however, if she wasn’t wearing that he doubts he would be able to tell. She doesn’t share the usual traits that define the scientists that work in the labs, she’s not pale or pasty from a substantial lack of natural light, and she doesn’t have the deep-set dark circles that come from a mix of a lack of sleep and stress caused by working for Professor Hojo.

 Again, Sephiroth finds himself focusing on her eyes, the photo is a little grainy with age, but Sephiroth cannot help the sense of familiarity that overtakes him, it’s as if he should know this woman.

“Her name was Lucrecia Crescent,” Tifa offers, “she’s your mother.”

It clicks the instant Tifa reveals this, genealogy is part of his extensive studies, he knows that parents and their offspring share certain traits, and now that it has been pointed out he can see it. The shape, if not the colour of his eyes, is similar to hers, the way her hair falls and frames her face, that too is similar even if the style isn’t the same.

A collection of small details all begin to line up and practically scream that they are related, even as a small staticky voice kept behind a wall screeches and wails in denial. It doesn’t matter, he can barely hear it when the answer to one of his most ardent questions is resting in his hands.

“Her name was Lucrecia?” he asks for confirmation. The name sounds weird on his tongue, unpractised, and wobbly, like the first steps taken by a chocochick.

Tifa smiles even as she raises a finger and proclaims, “Lucrecia Crescent,” she pauses as if she suddenly remembered something before adding, “which makes you Sephiroth Crescent.”

His eyes sting as tears well up, and his fingers tighten on the page he holds in his hand as he lowers his head to try to hide the tears.

He shouldn’t cry, he’s not meant to cry, but even as he manages to remain quiet the tears flow silently and traitorously down his face.

“Oh Sweety,” Tifa says as she moves a little closer and places a hand atop his head, “It’s okay, you can cry.”

Sephiroth feels something break at those words, like dam waters being unleashed by a storm, the tears flow. He reaches forward blindly, still half expecting for his hand to be slapped back, instead he finds his hand being taken in a soft grip before he is pulled forward and wrapped in an embrace that feels soft, warm, and safe.