Chapter Text
It’s snowing.
He tips his head back, lets his tongue hang from his open mouth joyfully, shamelessly. His breath floats in small clouds in the cool night air. There is nothing quite like the first snow in Nibelheim.
But the first snowflake hits his tongue and it’s wrong,
and something almost imperceptible shifts beneath him, and then
it’s hot, unbearably hot
and people are screaming
and his mother’s house is in flames
The flake melts to ash on his tongue. He folds over to cough and retch, and as soon as he regains himself, he’s running, unsure if it’s the smoke or the cold mountain air that sets his lungs on fire. His feet pound the burning packed-earth footpaths
where he would run with the other kids when spring finally brought the thaw, where he would leave out food dishes for the local strays, where he had stood just days ago while he used his PHS to tap out a message to his only friend, his hands shaking slightly, inviting him to dinner at his mom’s because he was too painfully shy to just f*cking ask him in person
then he is on the loose rocky trails of Mt. Nibel, then the metal stairs leading to the reactor.
He’s standing in the ruined antechamber, his lungs stinging from the thick mako gas emanating from the destroyed pods. Zack lies dead. Tifa lies dying. His hands shake around the handle of the buster sword, his muscles tremble from its unfamiliar weight. Laughter echoes, low and chilling and unhinged and getting closer.
For a long time, Cloud thought that he couldn’t scream while he was asleep. It didn’t matter how much his nightmares terrified him. In the dream, he would open his mouth and nothing would come out but a hoarse wheeze, and he’d startle awake to the feel of that small sound rasping from his throat in reality.
Apparently, Nibelheim changed that. Nibelheim had changed a lot.
He doesn’t remember screaming, but the raw feeling of his throat and the fact that Biggs is grumbling with a pillow shoved over his face on the other couch tells him enough, and he flushes. He looks down at his hands, balls them into fists in the fabric of his pants when he realizes they’re trembling. His skin is slick with a thin sheen of sweat.
The lift starts to rumble and he shuts his eyes, only a little mortified that he was loud enough for someone upstairs to hear. There’s a muffled, “f*cks sake,” from Biggs, met by a snort from the other side of the room. Jessie is perched at a cluttered table, her legs pulled up into her chair, hunched over the laptop that is currently the sole source of too-blue light in the basem*nt.
“‘sa matter, Biggs, did Cloudy interrupt your beauty sleep?” she calls with unreasonable cheer for the late hour.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Jessie, but we can’t all be socially inept shut-ins who survive on energy drinks.”
She tsks. “Ahh, it’s your personality sleep that’s getting f*cked. That’s rough, Biggsy babes.”
The lift clunks at its conclusion and Cloud hears the kitschy music from the pinball machine. He can still smell the smoke, a nauseating blend of a wood fire and charred meat—
A hand lands softly, tentatively on his shoulder, and he has to consciously bring himself back into the dimly lit room. Tifa stands behind the couch, her face kind, warm with care.
“Hey there,” she says when he meets her gaze in the dark. Her other hand is holding out a cool bottle of water.
“Heya,” he croaks softly. He takes the bottle, downs a few gulps to soothe his throat, to give him something to focus on in the present.
“You okay?” she asks. Cloud takes a little too long to nod. “What do you hear?”
He makes a dismissive tch sound even though he knows it will help. “Biggs bitching. Jessie typing. The pinball machine.”
Biggs grunts. He’s turned his body in toward the back of the couch and is squeezing the pillow more tightly around his head.
Tifa bites her lip, asks gently, “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not backing out, Teef.”
“You know it’s okay if you aren’t ready, you’ve already done so much—”
He shoots her a glare. “I’m the only one of us who’s been in a Midgar reactor. It’s not nerves. I’m f*cking going.”
She folds her wrists over each other, her hands soft, and dips her chin down to rest on her arms. “Nibelheim?”
His eyes flick to the side, away from her steady gaze, and he grunts again.
She sighs. “Come walk with me?”
Few things make Cloud more pissy than being fussed over, but he knows that few things make Tifa more of a thorn in his side than having her concern rebuffed. He pushes himself up with a huff and follows Tifa toward the bright, cheerful noise of the pinball machine. “Tell me you’re at least smoking me out if you’re gonna make me talk,” he rumbles.
He can hear a clatter as Jessie perks up. “Y’all smokin’?”
“Bitch, don’t you have bombs to make?” Cloud quips.
A pout. “And it’s very stressful work, I’ll have you know.”
Tifa laughs. “Tell you what, Jessie, I’ll get you higher than the plate after the mission. I’d really prefer if you didn’t take out half of Sector 1 by mistake.”
The brunette mutters but waves them off. “I’m gonna hold your ass to it.”
Tifa leans over to reach into the pinball machine’s coin return and flips the switch hidden there, and the lift whirrs as the platform rises back to the ground floor. Seventh Heaven is dark and empty this late, the only light the neon signs on the walls and the small strip lighting under the bar; Cloud is at least grateful that there weren’t any customers around to hear him. He tips his chin up toward the second floor. “I didn’t bother Barret and Marlene, did I?”
Tifa shakes her head with a small smile. “Nah, they went upstairs hours ago. Only reason I heard anything is because I was down here cleaning.”
And maybe because she’s come to expect Cloud’s nightmares, especially when things are stressful.
Tifa reaches up to still the bell over the door when she holds it open for Cloud, and he steps out into the cool night.
The slums are never exactly quiet, but it’s late enough that the porch is empty and there are only a handful of guys leaning against the shops across the way, kicking back drinks and smoking. Cloud shoves his hands in his pockets, appreciating the way the cool air bites his bare shoulders. Tifa pulls the door shut and locks up behind her. She passes Cloud a thin joint and he finally cracks a smile.
He slips it between his lips and she cups a hand around it, flicks her lighter to life, and he pulls a long drag. He hands it to her, exhales, follows her as she begins to make her way back to the Heights.
“Why were you still at the bar, anyway?” she asks, takes her own small hit.
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Are the nightmares getting worse?”
His brow furrows. “Was kinda hoping Biggs’s snoring would keep them at bay.”
She laughs and passes the joint back. Cloud takes another deep hit, feels the buzz start to soften his edges. He lifts his chin in greeting as the neighborhood watch passes by, and Tifa waves and exchanges pleasantries. When they’re out of earshot, she offers without looking at him.
“You know, you can stay with me tonight, if you want.” She looks over just in time to see him pull a pout, and she reaches for his hand, tangles their fingers together gently. “It helps me too, you know.”
He squeezes her fingers back. “Yeah, okay.”
She takes another puff. “I’m nervous about tomorrow.”
He nods. “I know.”
They reach the building and Cloud takes a last long drag, then grinds out the butt against the metal railing as they climb up to the second floor. Tifa unlocks her door and ushers him in. He crosses the small room to sit on the edge of her bed and unlaces his boots, kicks them off.
She toes off her own bright red boots, twists her hair up to the top of her head, and shucks off her suspenders and skirt, then kills the light. The mattress dips in a familiar way as she drops her weight beside him. Her head rests on his shoulder, and his arm goes around her waist like second nature.
After a moment, just breathing like that, she pats her hand over his chest. “C’mon,” she says, and he scoots over toward the wall and lies down. They slot together the way they have for years now: one of his arms bent to rest his head on his hand, and her head on his bicep. His other arm around her waist, their chests pressed snug, their legs tangled.
Before Midgar, before they could count on having a roof over their heads, he’d count her breaths like sheep to try to fall asleep. He’s mostly broken himself of the habit.
“You won’t…you won’t hurt anyone you don’t have to, right, Cloud?”
He strokes her back gently. “Tifa, we’ve talked about this.”
“Killing innocent employees doesn’t change anything.”
He sighs. He knows this is a sore spot, has been for Tifa ever since the crew first started entertaining the idea of a direct attack. He knows that asking just how innocent a Shinra employee can be isn’t going to win him any points. So he stays quiet.
“It won’t bring them back, Cloud.”
Her dad. His mom.
Then that easy smile flashes in his mind, the clear blue eyes flecked with bright, impossible green, the loud laugh.
Cloud pushes the memory down before he can feel the emptiness that comes in its wake, before he remembers the exact shade of red that dripped out of Zack and through the grated metal flooring.
“Sleep, Teef.” He pulls her head into his chest, presses his lips softly to the top of her hair. “I don’t want to argue tonight.”
Her fingers clench in the soft fabric of his tank top, and the arm she has draped over his waist squeezes tighter, like she’s scared to let go. But she nods, goes quiet, and he starts counting. When her breaths are spaced enough that he knows she’s fallen asleep, he closes his eyes and lets himself fall into quiet and darkness.
It’s been five years since Cloud has worn the infantry uniform.
He didn’t remember it feeling so foreign on his body, but that might be more about him than the uniform. There are the physical differences: he doesn’t have to bind under it anymore, for one, so there’s nothing between the thin undershirt and his chest. The uniform Jessie managed to find for him is a proper men’s fit.
For two: it’s almost identical to what he was first issued back when he was a teenager, but as he goes to fasten his belt he realizes that the gig line is flipped. The feel of his dog tags against his skin is familiar, at least. Even now, years after he deserted, taking them off feels too much like sacrilege, so they’re always tucked under his clothing, out of sight.
But he imagines it’s his feelings toward Shinra, more than any physical difference, that has him wanting to scratch his skin off to get away from the uniform.
The standard issue rifle adds insult to injury. He’s come to understand that it’s utter trash, especially since he’s seen the beautiful, lethal machines Biggs can engineer from an old rifle or pistol and some scrap.
The way it knocks against his hip when it’s slung over his shoulder conjures unpleasant memories and it feels even worse, almost crude in his hands, compared to the now familiar heft and ache of the buster sword.
He leaves the rifle at his side now as he approaches the squad waiting for relief. He greets the sergeant with a crisp salute, strikes up friendly conversation, confirms the duty schedule for the rest of the night. His hand flexes slightly when he hears the whistle of the approaching train, the screech of its brakes. He’s reassured by the weight of the bangle on his wrist and by the flash of the red bandana tucked into his back pocket.
There’s a short scuffle, a muffled shout rises from behind him, and the sergeant he’s talking with snaps to attention. Cloud’s hand is on his shoulder before he’s able to raise his rifle, and as he breathes, “Sleep,” with urgency, the man crumples to the ground.
The two junior guards who had been leaning idly against the fence, already mentally checked out and ready to go home, are slower to parse what’s happening. Cloud is able to cross the space between them and get one in the side of his head with the butt of his rifle; he manages another cast just before the other guard’s finger finds his trigger.
He kneels, takes the helmet off the guard he hit, checks that he’s out but still breathing. He tears his own helmet off and tosses it aside, looks up to see Jessie running in his direction, a small submachine gun tucked close to her side. She calls, “Thanks, Cloudy skies!” as she skirts the corner and jumps the turnstile, headed for the first console.
Biggs follows at a light jog, and Cloud is relieved to see that he’s holding the buster in one hand.
“Thank f*ck,” he says, then he pulls the clips and ejects the chambered rounds from his rifle and those of the downed guards, pockets them.
The infantry rifles may be sh*t, but at least Shinra’s attempts at cost-cutting mean they use 9mm across the board, and he doesn’t pass up the opportunity to thrift ammo. He tosses the emptied weapons to the side and takes his sword from Biggs, who winks and offers him a two-fingered salute before jogging faster to catch up with Jessie. Wedge follows close behind him.
Barret brings up the rear at an unhurried pace, intimidating in his size alone, never mind that his eyes are hidden behind shades and one arm ends in a literal f*cking gun. He looks Cloud up and down and grunts.
“Don’t get too comfortable in that uniform, kid.”
Cloud smirks and hefts his sword over his shoulder, clicking it to the magnet at his back. “You don’t think I look cute, boss?” He plants his fists on his hips, juts one out and pouts. “I bet I’d have a shot at the ‘Bad Boys of Public Safety’ calendar.”
Barret’s lips press into a flat line and he waves him on with his gun arm. “Get a f*ckin’ move on, ‘fore I knock your ass out.”
Cloud would really love to get a blush out of him, but with his dark complexion, he thinks a sour face might be the best he’ll ever do. He jogs ahead of Barret to catch up to the others.
Jessie is typing at the terminal. Biggs is pressed to one side of the gate, his pistol ready in a cup grip, pointed at the ground. He lifts his chin toward Cloud. “Still skeleton-crewed, yeah?”
Cloud nods. “Once we get past these external gates, it’s all automated security, no personnel. Mako levels get too high near the core.”
Biggs nods. Barret grunts. “Surprised the Shinra give enough of a sh*t.” The terminal chimes and they all step aside as the gate slides open. They clear the room and keep on to the next, and then Jessie’s at another terminal.
“They don’t,” Cloud confirms dryly, “but the MPs’ and the engineers’ unions still have some bite, if you can believe it.”
Fortunately, there are no surprises. A newer sweeper model in one of the storage rooms makes them work up a sweat, but between their weapons and Cloud’s thunder materia, they’re able to handle it.
It’s been years since Cloud’s fought with purpose. It’s different from drilling with Tifa or even taking out the occasional nest of monsters with the neighborhood watch. It lights him up. He feels quicker on his feet, feels like his focus is sharper.
Finally Wedge breaks off to secure their exit, Jessie falls behind, and Barret and Cloud make their way to mako storage and the core.
The atrium of the storage chamber is cavernous, and mako gas rises up to them from the open reservoir under the core. The uncanny green glow reflects off of the vents and circulation tubes, washes everything out. Cloud’s chest tightens as he feels the familiar burn of the gas in his lungs—something like panic rising as he recalls a different reactor, a nightmare covered in blood. He freezes for a moment, reaches for a railing to steady himself, pulls his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth.
Barret pauses, looks him up and down. Gruffly, but not unkindly, he asks, “You good?” and Cloud finds himself glad this isn’t their first interaction. That he’s had a couple years to build rapport and trust so that Barret doesn’t give him flak for this stumble.
Cloud takes a deep breath through the scarf. It’s not a respirator, but he convinces himself it’s better than nothing, and he’s got a f*cking job to do. He nods briskly. “Yeah. Let’s get it done.”
They descend to the catwalk and Barret approaches the core controller, passes a satchel he’d been carrying to Cloud. “Might want more than one hand for this.”
Cloud finds the adhesive putty and affixes Jessie’s homemade bomb to the controller. “How long?”
“No need to be flashy, give us some breathing room.” Cloud starts to set the timer, but there’s a loud crash and the gangway shakes.
“f*ck was that?”
“Sure sounds bigger than a sweeper,” he offers. He stops before the bomb is armed to look toward the noise. Barret’s face is set in a deep grimace, his gun arm raised toward the sound. Cloud takes his sword from his back and readies his stance.
A massive mech prowls one of the catwalks above them. Its six pointed legs move deftly, and it has two arms outfitted with cannons, an articulated tail like a scorpion.
Cloud scoffs. “Well, weapons dev sure isn’t hurting for funding.”
His shoulders raise and his body tenses as the upper turret pivots, certain that’s where the camera’s seated. The mech pauses its movement, other than a twitch of its tail. After a long, tense moment, it turns away and begins patrolling again.
“The actual f*ck?” Barret swears, disbelieving.
“You know what they say about a gift scorpion,” Cloud says as he swings his blade back onto his back and turns to finish arming the bomb. “Let’s assume it read me as a friendly and get the f*ck out of here.”
“I don’t like this one f*ckin’ bit, but I’m not gonna wait for it to change it’s mind. Double time, boy.”
“Figured I’d find you here, even at the ass crack o’ dawn.”
Red warning text flashes briefly in his line of sight, blocking the view of enemy combatants, and then the sim twitches, falls away in a rain of translucent voxels.
Zack stands with his sword at the ready in the center of the training room. A thin layer of sweat shines on his skin and he casts an annoyed look toward the door. “I didn’t think they gave the spooks access to the SOLDIER floor.”
“Fair, baby, words can hurt.” The slender redhead clasps his hands over his bared chest in an exaggerated, wounded gesture, but his pale eyes are sparkling. “You seen the news?”
Zack racks his weapon on his back in a gesture that carries the ease of years of practice. It’s a damn good sword, beautifully balanced and made of sturdier stuff than the standard issue carried by the Seconds or Thirds, but it still feels oddly light in his hands. He retrieves a towel to wipe down his forehead, takes a swig of water and leans back against the wall with his arms folded.
“Reactor 1? Yeah, Heidegger’s been blowing up our phones all night. He’s ready to f*ckin’ skin the squad that was on duty.” He tilts his head. “I know you didn’t barge in here just to make sure I’m keeping up with Shinra News.”
Reno gives him the smug grin he wears when he knows more than anyone else in the room, and it’s insufferable.
“Nah—you know I’ve got the hots for the night anchor, that rack is a great incentive to keep up on current events, but this ain’t gonna be on SNN.” He pulls out his phone, tapping at it as he saunters over toward Zack.
It’s security footage. The ID text at the bottom places it in one of the lower elevators in Reactor 1, the timestamp—f*ck, just ten minutes before it blew. There’s a massive guy with—with a gun for an arm? Seriously? Built as hell, dog tags around his neck, scarred, tattooed.
He looks antsy, tapping his foot, talking, gesturing emphatically with his hand, but there’s no audio on the clip.
Next to him is a trooper with spiky blond hair, leaned back easily against the wall of the elevator.
Well that’s interesting—and maybe explains why they didn’t get wiped out by Scarlet’s latest toy.
Something shivers in the back of Zack’s mind—a feeling of familiarity that he can’t quite place. The blond is considerably shorter than the other man, slight, but if his bare forearms are any indication, he’s made of lean muscle. He looks almost bored, his arms crossed, his gaze wandering.
After several moments the doors open and his companion hustles out. But the blond waits a beat, looks up directly at the camera. He smirks, lifts one hand, and flips the bird. Then he saunters out, breaking into a light jog just before he exits the frame.
Zack’s eyes are wide. He can feel Reno watching him, still with that sh*t-eating grin. He taps at the screen to bring the video back—to that smirk, the middle finger, and then pauses when the blonde turns his back to the camera.
The little terrorist has Angeal’s sword—his sword—on his back.
The grin that spreads over Zack’s face is unsettling; it doesn’t reach his eyes, and his laugh is darker than it used to be.
“Oh, this one is mine.”
