医者に行け

He plopped down on his bed, watching Cloud closely, seeing the world cross behind his eyes without an outlet. Rather, without a point in which to leak through. Soon as it made an appearance, it was gone again, nearly in the blink of an eye. He lifted his head, but didn't breech the topic again quite yet.

One corner of his lips quirked, a half laugh escaping parted lips. "Naaaah, whatever job's are out there are allll yours, buddy. I'm a drifter in a different way." His eyes shifted to regard the little hut. "I mean, really, this is deceptive. Don't spend a lot of time here either. It's just a convenient little hovel that, shockingly, remains vacant." He didn't believe in Fate or whatever, but he did think that a mighty fine coincidence.

“Like I said, haven’t been back long.” 

Does that sound defensive? He’s not defensive. 

Everyone in this city has some kind of problem or other, with themselves, with the crush of industry, or even with the Tower itself. It’s not like he or Zack can ever go back to Shinra, but…what else can he do? What can he strive for now? He thought if he could be like Zack, then he’d have it all figured out. Zack hardly applied any pressure and Cloud already feels himself cracking. Cloud frowns and tucks his chin down and away to partially obscure his expression. 

 Zack has gone out of his way to make himself scarce for a reason.

Energy like that did not come naturally. It was birthed. Through circumstances perhaps, people clawing their way above adversity to finally rise from the ashes.

It almost made one wonder, had discontent once riddled those streets? Had cruelty shut the doors of nearby shops, putting a stop to the fragrant aroma of baked goods? Had people felt compelled to retreat into their own private dwellings, a false comfort against what had come beckoning them at their doors?

Midgar had suffered more than most, and yet.... people still lived. Because they had no choice. Because the alternative was absolutely not an option.

"Complicated, huh. I get it. Everything worthy always is~" Funny how much time could pass and still some things never changed. Even as other aspects of their existence changed so drastically, they no longer resembled the thing that was before.

"Well, come on in!" Zack held open the door, gesturing Cloud inside his humble abode with a sweeping bow. "I'd offer you something to drink, but I ain't got anything." Honestly, there was a modest dresser for his measly few garments and an old mattress he'd found somewhere on his travels set off in one corner of the shed, farthest from the door where he could have a good shot at whoever was brave enough to venture in unannounced.

"I know, right?" He said, before Cloud even remarked on the place. "Surprised no one else laid claim on this diamond in the rough. So what have you been up to?" Mercenary work, as he might have suggested, if Zack heard that right. Admirable work. Thankless but necessary in that world.

“Beats sharing all your breathing room with twenty-seven other guys.”

As he steps past the threshold and Zack shuts the door behind them, Cloud regrets bringing up the question immediately. For all he knows Zack has no interest in reviving memories of the past, where the tall flames licked up along the sides of collapsing houses and cracks spread across the surface of curved glass like a spider building its web. The malevolent glow of the reactor’s core as Sephiroth disappeared beneath its light was unforgettable. No one could survive that, not even the strongest SOLDIER. 

No one. 

As if the spotlight on the inside of his skull has been turned away, Cloud finds the ache between his ears finally easing. The lines on his face are less severe when he isn't fighting through the fog of pain anymore.

“...no, it's fine. It's old news anyway.” Back to the present. “What's going on with me? Well, mostly been moving from sector to sector scoping out possible jobs. Nothing like being on Shinra’s bankroll, but it's honest work.”

Cloud crosses his arms over his chest, and offers Zack a cocky little grin for the first time. “Guess that makes us competitors, huh?”

Not that he can really try to compare. After all, the only one in this room that had ever truly been SOLDIER was Zack. 

The uniform on his back has never felt cheaper.

It was a thought that penetrated the gloom in Zack's head, though he didn't speak it out loud. He wasn't sure that Cloud would appreciate such sentiment, not at the moment. He could damn near see the struggle radiating from his every pore. The Mako poisoning that had rendered him incapacitated for so long a period should have killed him outright, or left him with little to tell about it. Certainly not able to formulate sentences as clearly and concisely as he had.

He felt like he failed him so hard, he could barely find the words to say from the depths of his being, even as the natural part of Zack wanted to overstimulate his senses with a slew of sentences [some of which would undoubtedly not be relevant!]. He was only happy that what efforts he COULD give had granted him the opportunity to reach a point of recovery.

Zack kept a steady pace, not dogged, giving Cloud a chance to match his stride however he could. It helped, sometimes, for a physical motion to match the metaphorical rotation of the thoughts. Better yet to imagine it as a distraction, to burn off that brutal energy that would instead be cast to the torturous strain of thinking.

He chuckled at the question, the normalcy of it, the painstaking way it was deposited into the cosmos as though they had been shopping at market and happened to run into an old friend. Like it hadn't involved a lifetime of pain and sacrifice that kept on charging them for their actions.

Perhaps they would do well by each other to allow that short delve into the realms of commonality: for the time being, anyway. One didn’t move forward by continually looking back.

"Now and again I pop in. Can't stay for long." He'd see once they reached their destination, an old shed really, nothing permanent. Sad really, a Soldier like him living in such squalor. It was a small price to pay for his freedom [as inaccurate a concept as that was for him].

"How's Tifa?" His eyes brightened with mischief. "You still gettin on well?"

Cloud can feel his cheeks warm when Zack touches on old gossip. Granted, he volunteered that vulnerability on his own. Zack has always had a knack for earning trust and weaseling out personal secrets that otherwise would not have seen the light of day. With a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, Cloud averts his gaze and chooses instead to follow the lines of corrugated rooftops and lean-tos that box them down the path. 

“It’s…Complicated,” he answers eventually, folding his arms over his chest. His eyes widen only briefly when he notices Zack’s pace slow with intent. 

They’re here.

The dwelling itself is rather unassuming: the same sort of shabby construction of spare parts and abandoned materials that is so characteristic of the shanty towns clustered beneath the plates. Clearly neither of them are men of means, but still…

Cloud maintains a respectful distance nearby as Zack approaches the front door. It’ll be easier to talk once they have some semblance of privacy, even if that means little more than four walls thinner than a paper bag.

 “I only got to Midgar a few days ago.” The timelines don’t add up. Not that he has any solid basis for what’s real and what’s not. Staring at the back of Zack’s uniform, Cloud feels almost tempted to reach out and check whether or not he’s really even there. “She’s got bigger problems than charity work for random mercs like me that happened to blow into town.”

Nibelheim. They were all there. Everything else is static fuzz, like attempting to see through murky water.

“...we stopped him, right?”

Don't, Cloud.

Stay back.

Unspoken words, though Zack implored the universe to hear him, to turn Cloud aside and put him back on the track that carried him that far. It had been an oversight that he found himself in that situation in the first place, some weakness within Zack that refused to let go of the past. Some selfish part of him that thought: NO, this is my home too!

Stupid. It was a stupid way of thinking because it - his decisions - affected other people, not only himself. It was never only his feelings under scrutiny.

He should have---

He COULD have---

The thoughts running through his mind had no end. Zack was trained to think on the fly, but in that moment, he found his feet glued solid to the ground. Maybe because in that moment, he'd finally found a trace of the past he could interact with, could reflect and witness evidence that all the sacrifices and pain had been WORTH it.

He'd been so lost, so angry for so long.

The dark intent of anger could spread rapidly through a body, snuffing out what light remained until only empty shells were left, cruel, terrible beings with one purpose in mind: to reclaim what had been so wrongfully stolen from them in whatever way possible. It was a paradigm contamination, putting the heart in its most vulnerable state.

That... nothingness began to corrupt the mind of the individual, no matter how noble their intentions may be. The individual foolish enough to cling to that anger as a manner of defense, a shield against the world, may begin to gradually lose themselves until they had become like those they hunted - mindless... and heartless. 

A shattered pot can be put back together, but it will never be the same. Cracks will render its surface a different shape, pieces inevitably missing, impossible to add to the whole.

Had he reached that point? No, Zack didn’t think so. Because he doubted. Because there was hesitation when there didn’t have to be.

Cloud.

He couldn't leave him like that. He was HIS responsibility.

He turned back around, taking one step, two, one long stride to close the remaining gap between them.

He nodded. Confirmation, perhaps, of his identity, whatever idea he managed to dredge up from the depths of his shattered mind. Or perhaps encouragement to let whatever he withheld out in whatever way he could manage. He seemed to struggle momentarily with a decision, finally, offering a hand.

When he claps his hand against Zack’s curling his fingers around into a grip– Cloud marvels at how real Zack’s hand feels. A dream or hallucination should not have so much staying power. Steadying, Cloud tightens his hold briefly before releasing Zack’s hand. The clamoring in his skull dulls to a murmur with it, and Cloud breathes a sigh of relief as he lifts his gaze to meet Zack’s eyes once more.

Friendly, reassuring. Blue. He remembers that. And…something else. Not quite hopelessness. Eyes that are older than the face; weary and dogged. His memories are still a jumble and looking at Zack’s face for too long draws the headache back.

“Y…Yeah.” That’s his own voice. He sounds hoarse. Maybe a little dazed. Planet, he could stand to sound less like a kicked stray Zack picked up off the street. Cloud works the muscles of his neck gently with his fingers to mask his discomfort as he reinforces his earlier response with a nod.

“Let’s walk.”

Better than attracting more attention. Cloud casts a glance around, aware of the weight of the heavy blade sitting between his shoulders. Given that no blood was shed, the vultures have lost interest and shuffled away to attend their mundane affairs. People resume the continuous flow of footsteps passing through the Slum’s streets, taking their scoffs and mutters with them. 

So, Zack has been in Midgar long enough to secure his own place. 

Cloud bites back his immediate questions while they walk. They’ll have time to address most of them later, away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers. More time for him to sort out the mess in his own head, like how fucked his whole story really is. Pieced together from broken parts and wishful thinking. Truth burns bitter in the pit of his stomach.

But if Zack had really died out there on the bluffs, then wouldn’t he have remembered? And if he doesn’t remember, how could he let himself forget? He died, rings true, at complete odds with the reality in front of him.

Small talk has never been his forte, but it feels like he ought to at least try. This is not a reunion he had ever envisioned, much less thought possible. 

The relief at seeing him alive was quickly replaced by horror. He could see the effects of his ordeal take him by storm. There was nothing he could do for him, it was his new reality and likely had been for a long while.

Pain had been the only consistency in the recent span of Zack's life. Since the day he'd been forced to take Angeal down. He couldn't say that was the start of the downfall to his own lofty goals, or if the dramatics of it only made him feel as such. But it was most certainly a turning point in some degree.

Then Nibelheim, the escape, the lingering embers of hope...

The end. Or what should have been the end to his story.

Although so much happened between then and the now, the clarity of that day was as vivid as it had been in the moment. He'd never forget it, the way he felt, the way he'd responded to the threat, the way he unwound when the adrenaline pulled back to leave him staggering.

Many thought Soldier as monsters, but the bonds they forged with their own could never be understood by those outside their ranks.

He was somehow alive when he should be dead. What to do with that information?

He'd long gone through the stages of grief, long struggled the strain of enduring emotions. What was left couldn't be described. He didn't even have the anger he knew was due him. He thought that, maybe, the mystification of seeing the impossible play out before his very eyes should give way to deep animosity, but he no longer had it in him to express. Maybe a consistent fight for survival took the luxury of those emotions away. Anything deeper than a numb neutrality was dangerous.

He finally broke eye contact, allowing his gaze to drift, his eyes to close. "I'm sorry, Cloud. I feel like I failed you again. I shouldn't be here." Shouldn't be alive, maybe that was his implication. Shouldn't be in Midgar, that too could be true. And he shouldn't be. He should be tucked away somewhere out of sight, out of mind. But perhaps there was a part of him that couldn't let go of the past, that felt... it was his due to be a part of the world rather than artificially there.

“I don’t understand.” The words force their way past his clenched teeth, growled not with hostility but through mounting frustration and the constant buzz  in his ears that shows no signs of ebbing. 

A dream? A figment of his imagination? A nightmare? Cloud spins through the list of possibilities while pain throbs through his temples. He can’t make it make sense. Rationalizing the inconsistencies between reality and his own head feels like threading a needle with a chain. 

Why can’t he remember? These gaps in his memory filled with the sound of a voice he should know, a grin that he always found reassuring no matter how dire the circumstances. Which memories were real? Why didn’t any of it make sense? Images and voices on a burning film reel, blackened around the edges and blotting out faces. 

What was happening to him? 

His pupils constrict painfully into slits, preventing him from coming any closer. Cloud strains against an invisible force that even he cannot see.

Passersby are starting to stare and whisper, and all of them have given both men a wide berth. The constant chaos and clamor of the city has numbed most people to outbursts emotional or otherwise, but even the undercity’s most indurate inhabitants can smell blood in the water. 

“Those uniforms…Those guys are SOLDIERs, right? Heard a bunch of them went crazy a couple years back…”

“That guy havin’ some kind’ve an episode?”

“Hey, should we call somebody?”

Ignoring the rubbernecking gawkers and commenters, Cloud staggers to his feet, going so far as to shove a shabby man out of his way when he postures for an encounter. “Get the hell out of my way.”

The buzz of static rises to a dull roar that drowns out the rest of the city the closer he gets. One wobbly foot in front of the other, Cloud forces himself to keep going. He won’t let go. He can’t let this man go. If he does–

Cloud Strife, ex-SOLDIER. Fought his way to First Class so he could count himself amongst the heroes he had looked up to for so long, ditched the Company after a disastrous mission that ended with the complete destruction of his hometown. His story hadn’t included room for two, yet Cloud can’t wrench his eyes away. This man is important. He’s seen that face from a similar vantage point before, felt the same cold dread coiling in the pit of his stomach when he knew he was being left behind.  

“Wait, please! Who are you? I know you… I remember…Rrgh…” 

Focus. Please. Not now. Not when he was so close. 

"You're welcome, Mrs Hopkins, don't worry about it. Don't have much planned today." In one arm, Zack carried what appeared to be a pile of groceries, while the other supported a decrepit old woman, back locked in a perpetual bend forward.

"Now THAT I doubt. You must be struggling with a LINE of lady callers, eh? You're such a good boy."

Zack smiled, their pacing painfully slow, but he didn't mind it. Mrs Hopkins was near completely blind. Probably a good thing she didn't know the one consistently helping her out was viewed as anything BUT the good citizen she thought of him. Rather, a menace to their fair city - and hunted, at that.

ShinRa was chomping at the bit to finally get a hold of him. If they did, Zack had no small amount of ideas of what they would do to him. He wasn't willing to give them the pleasure. He'd escaped under impossible circumstances and yet, freedom was hardly how it felt.

Zack's world had always been topsy turvy, extending far beyond what he could recall. The memories of the past decade, or longer, overtook all the ideas of before when things were simpler [those days that he sorely took for granted, and painfully yearned for now]. The ground had yet to resettle into any sense of normalcy since he'd gained his 'freedom,' as loose a concept as it was for the hunted. How did one go from stagnation to color and sound all at once? It felt very much like his mind and body were caught in two different places. He was living a splintered reality.

"All right, Mrs Hopkins, we're here!"

"Very good. You can just set the groceries down the ground where you always do. Missy will be along presently."

"You got it." Zack hustled to put down the ladies goods, opening the door and rushing back to assist her the rest of the way forward.

"Thank you, young man."

He had told her his real name on one occasion, but she never seemed to recall it. Now.... well, whatever name he gave her, it was false. Best for everyone involved, though he didn't see any sense of danger in that circumstance.

"I'll see you around, Mrs Hopkins!"

It was a painful experience, those brief moments of pure bliss, where the world seemed finally righted. It was just...

So NORMAL. So innocent and carefree, like everything might be okay.

Zack sighed, tilting his head back.

There was a niggling sensation in the back of his head, he could feel the tiny hairs on his neck stand bolt upright. He'd long learned to follow his instincts. How else would he have survived so long? Eyes popped open, body tensed, and his gaze pierced through the layers of the world that existed in front of him to find what had alarmed him unconsciously.

He stared. 

It was rude to stare and yet, there was no internal voice that demanded he look away. Gone was the fresh-faced dreamer. There was more than simply the physical scars that marred him. 

Cloud?

He stared, because there was often things around him that reminded him of his old friend [they'd been through quite a lot together, though he doubted Cloud would remember any of it].

Damn if the man ahead didn't look like Cloud. 

There was nearly a momentary retraction back to the past, where Zack would screech and jump like some rabid spider monkey to latch onto his back and demand he join him for a drink or an adventure through the countrysides they connected over!

While most of its inhabitants aren't flush with gil, there's always money to be made in this city. Showing up with a hand out and as a burden to boot is not his idea of an impressionable homecoming.

Midgar feels the same as it ever does. 

Down, past the bar, he walks through the flea market and the clamor of people. A woman thrashes clothing in and out of murky water against a beaten washboard, cats sneak beneath flipped boxes and crates in search of morsels or rats, a burnt out neon sign abandoned on the side of a dilapidated storefront. Midgar is alive and well, rife with businesses and people going about their lives amidst the towering piles of broken steel and the rank smell of mako residue forming a yellowed film on every surface. He passes through without any particular sense of purpose.

The weight of a stare is hard to quantify. Qualifying one is easy enough; Cloud has had plenty of practice discerning all the different ways people can stare at you. Nice, naughty, nefarious, and all other possibilities in between. 

Cloud stops in his tracks, shoulders drawn tense, chin tipped downward as he filters through the layers of noise and conversation around him. The chiming of shopkeeper’s bells, footfalls of day laborers ferrying buckets and construction tools back and forth, children scattering rubber balls and tin cans as they scurry between the narrow alleyways between buildings and leap over the stray cats that bound alongside them. 

His senses catch nothing more than a hitch of breath, a lingering gaze– he could just keep on walking, ignoring them like so many other people swarming this city who have learned to close their eyes and ears and hearts to their surroundings. He doesn’t, this time.

Cloud looks over his shoulder.

When their eyes meet, the sound of his own blood rushing to his ears drowns out everything else. The ground feels distant beneath his feet. Cloud sways unsteadily as he whips around to face Zack fully.

“You’re…Nnngh…!” His voice falters at the same time a lancing pain shoots directly through his temples, dropping him to his knees with his hands clutching the sides of his head. Cloud curls in on himself, teeth gritted as blinding flashes of the past, memories he can barely recall, cut through his vision. 

We’re friends, right?

Passing images of swirling snow flurries as they climbed the mountain pass, the sweltering humidity inside the Junon transit tunnels, flames and smoke choking out his lungs, the taste of blood filling his mouth, the desperate seconds spent treading the influx of mako as his breath fogged the glass and his vision went blurry. 

“You’re dead,” Cloud gasps, planting the heels of both palms into the ground as he teeters forward onto all fours. The weight of the Buster Sword on his back suddenly feels heavy enough to crush him. His gloved fingers dig ten deep runnels into the greasy dirt as the back of his neck breaks into a cold sweat. 

i said i'd make them! i hope you enjoy these, and as always: DO NOT ADD, EDIT OR CLAIM THIS LIST AS YOUR OWN!

[ WAKEN ]: the sender touches the receiver's shoulder to waken them from a nap or sleep.

[ STILL ]: the sender places their hands on the visibly angry/upset receiver to try and restrain them.

[ STAY ]: the sender, noticing the receiver attempting to escape a meeting or a conversation, quietly rests a hand on their shoulder and pulls them back into their seat.

[ REST ]: the sender places a gentle but firm hand on a weakened/sick/injured receiver's shoulder to push them back into their bed to rest more.

[ PUNCH ]: the sender places a hand on the receiver to draw their attention away from another focus, and once they've turned around, the sender swings a punch at them in the moment of confusion.

[ PRIDE ]: the sender, having heard or seen the receiver successfully achieve a remarkable feat, places a hand on their shoulder to express their wordless pride in them.

[ HUG ]: the sender places their hands on the receiver's shoulders to yank them into a hug.

[ COMFORT ]: the sender, noticing a visibly upset receiver, solemnly moves to their side, and places a hand on their shoulder in an effort to comfort them.

[ SURPRISE ]: the sender, noticing an otherwise occupied receiver, moves forward silently and suddenly grabs their shoulder to startle them.

[ STUN ]: the sender, having been apart from the receiver for some time, makes an unexpected return and greets the unaware receiver with a hand on their shoulder.

[ TIDY ]: the sender reaches forward and lightly sweeps something from the receiver's shoulder.

[ WORRY ]: the sender grabs the receiver by the shoulders to take a good look at them for any sign of harm or injury.

[ ARM ]: the sender rests a hand on the receiver's shoulder, their arm draped around them in order to do so.

[ FOCUS ]: the sender, noticing the receiver has become distracted during a conversation, places a hand on their shoulder to redirect and focus their attention.

[ GOTCHA ]: the sender, noticing the receiver has unknowingly walked into the path of a source of danger, grabs them by the shoulder and hoists them back to safety.

[ PRAISE ]: the sender, having heard that the receiver has achieved great success in a task or accomplishment, gives them a proud pat and squeeze of the shoulder to convey their congratulations.

[ STEADY ]: the sender rests a hand on the shaken and panicked receiver's shoulder to steady and ground them.

[ CAUGHT ]: the sender plants a hand on the receiver's shoulder to stop them from fleeing a potential arrest or accusation.

[ DELIVER ]: the sender, about to deliver some bad news to the receiver, gently places a hand on the receiver's shoulder to stop them from running away from the bad news.

[ SHIELD ]: the sender catches hold of the receiver's shoulder and draws them back and away from a threat, pulling them behind them for their safety.

[ SOOTHE ]: the sender places their hands on the receiver's shoulders and begins to give them a massage.

[ LEVER ]: the sender, wanting to sit next to the receiver, places a hand on their shoulder to ease themselves to the space beside them.

It was misery of his own making. And Genesis… knew it. 

For off the well-worn path was the unknown. Brandish his rapier now, rain the fire of heavens on this sanctified place, he would make an enemy. But step up and off it… was there anything there? Would he fall? Genesis felt Cloud’s gaze bore hotly against his wing feathers rippling, the malice, the visceral primal reaction being exactly what the redhead had originally sought to elicit; dig his heels into the dirt, force the hand-- a self-fulfilling prophecy. Testing, testing, proving that he was right all along, was it any surprise then that Genesis had nothing left?

“Did they change their minds for you?” Genesis replied simply, tone impossibly neutral, as though he bore no interest in what he had said at all. Then, an admission, something wafting from a dark and rotting core. 

“I’m good at killing, Cloud. I hunt.. It meant something, once.” Finally, he looked, to where the darkness lay, to the unknown, directly at that mako blue like Icarus might have to the sun. Surely, he would burn. Surely, he would fall, would die, would become nothing--“I wanted to protect them; both of them. All of them. Angeal never wanted to hurt anyone. Sephiroth was forced to. And Fair-- he..” Genesis shook his head, teeth clenching together bitterly. “... he’s always picking-- picked up my slack, the pieces.”And Fair paid for it with his life. It was a sick joke. 

Finally, as though spitting out a bitter vile, he added, his entire posture deflating along with his sigh. “You have every right to hate me. So you should.” Forgiveness? No.

“...No, not for me. See, I was never a SOLDIER.” 

The scuffed wood beneath his boots creaks in protest as he walks a slow circle around the broken border of the garden. 

“Pretended to be.” 

Where Genesis continues to fill the air with his grievances with the universe at large, Cloud holds his silence and watches, assesses. He has had this discussion with himself more times than he cares to count. Tired old fears, blended with the potent bitterness of self-loathing. Genesis settles on the word hate, and Cloud shakes his head. 

"Been there, done that. Not taking advice from the likes of you." He folds his arms over his chest, then faces Genesis with a soft snort. "Don't you get it? We're what's left of them. You wanna go and crawl back under whatever rock you came from and give up? Fine. Don't lump me in with you." 

He dips his hand into his pants pocket, then flicks a small, black square of cardstock in Genesis's direction. 

"My business card. Do whatever it is you need to do, then maybe we'll actually have something to talk about. Otherwise, do me a favor and run off anyone who tries to come up to this place in a hardhat or a suit."

With Shinra no longer around to run things and the WRO more preoccupied with completing new development or researching fuel alternatives, Midgar's ruins were ripe for the taking. Salvage operations were common enough after Meteor fall, but this was a more concerted effort to formally secure land and access to whatever other Company secrets might still remain unearthed.

The world could melt away into something he knew. Steel on steel, the sparks, the heat-- but just as the microtensions in his countenance formed, just as his boot shifted just so, where the threat of a bite seemed all but inevitable in a breath more, it vanished. The sharpness dulled as a glint from the dappled light above, a reminder if not a soft admonishment from behind him. 

Genesis. 

He could practically hear the low baritone scold him. And, like a frustrated animal, Genesis  threw his head to the side, stalking through the flora-- but as irritable as he was, he dared not desecrate this final resting place. Curse him as he may but never defile. 

“I know.. I know.. Don’t go picking fights…” He groaned under his breath to the shrine behind him. Then, through gritted teeth that swallowed back more than a snarl, Genesis spoke louder. “You know, I did have big aspirations. Find an old friend’s beloved sword, put it to rest at any cost…” The tension now in his body posture had all but evaporated as he gave an exasperated shrug. With it, his wing collapsed down to a resting state as though all the bravado had been just to stretch. 

“But then someone went along, taking away my very purpose. Maybe you should take some responsibility.” Genesis offered half a smile, but it faded quickly. Maybe, while on the surface, a jest was more honest than intended. 

What in the ever living hells was Genesis supposed to do now? Wander? Fight? Make enemies? Nothing seemed to quite have a point. 

Annoyed with himself, Cloud finally slots his swords back into the harness on his back. His quick-draw is reliable enough, and despite Genesis’s attempts to antagonize, killing intent is a missing factor in his tone and bearing. 

“If you’re expecting some sort of apology from me, don’t wait up.” He flicks a glance back at the gleaming Buster Sword, then, holding eye contact, tips his head towards the retired blade as if to say, I’m not the one looking for forgiveness.

Officially, Cloud Strife is not in the business of taking in strays. 

Never mind the sort that could incinerate an entire town in the blink of an eye. His job is getting things from Point A to Point B. Simple.

Cloud sighs, shifting his weight from one foot to the next as he reaches up with one hand to rub against the back of his neck. Maybe he can help, in a manner of speaking. Life coaching doesn’t exactly share a great deal of overlap with delivery work, but sometimes a little push in the right direction makes all the difference.

“...World doesn’t need anymore heroes or monsters. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a place in it. If you have to live for someone else, why not honor them by making that loss worth something?”

They gave their lives.

Cloud puffs out a breath of frustration and frowns as if he isn’t sure where he’s going with this whole spiel. “People don’t say SOLDIER and mean it the way they used to. Maybe you can change their minds. Make it mean something again.”

He throws up his hands.

Genesis keeps going… And going, and Cloud finally snaps, “What is your–?!”

…’Problem,’ he might have finished, were he not interrupted by the immense, black wing cutting across the sunlit church aisle like an ominous shadow. Problems. Plural. 

Both his swords are already in his hands by the time he fully processes what even happened. The flood of adrenaline has him wild-eyed and corded with an instinct to fight by the mere sight of the wing alone. He is more affected than he cares to admit, and even if he doesn’t, Genesis has seen him react like an animal cornered. 

“Planning to do something about it or what?” Cloud clearly isn’t a big fan of the performance thus far, and Genesis obviously didn’t care how many buttons he pushed as long as whatever came out of his mouth made him feel slightly better about his losses. Cloud watches as the feathers ripple under the faint breeze that escapes through the broken cracks in the wall. His sympathy diminished severely as soon as that happened. 

Cloud scowls, unwilling to look away while he attempts to defuse the constant blare of danger in his brain. The wing isn’t necessarily an indication that Genesis is a problem. Unless he insists on making himself one. “You’re way too late for that.”