Chapter Text
Fuhito got exactly what he deserved. He always hated that labcoat rat.
Oh, sure, sometimes he wore a turtleneck. Even caught the kook in light armour once. As for him? Three missing fingers, a little shock, and a blown-out kneecap is a damn sight better than dead. Boss lost even less, which is better — he'd take a bullet for that girl. He has, he might still. He's taken a few too many hits to the head today to remember the exact words; something like: 'I promise to destroy everything painful for you.' No, not that. That's the spirit, but not that.
He's gone through life with that guiding principle, any case. He's fought, he's been shot, he's strangled the life out of company gunmen with fire and brimstone flying around him. He nearly kicked those clowns' asses in Costa del Sol until Meat Man over there came in swinging. He showed up for them, this time, but they only showed up for him. If he's responsible for the chain up to the Doc's decapitation, he's not gonna complain. That's a reward from the Planet for doing his best.
"We understood there to be a significant downturn in AVALANCHE membership in recent years. How do you account for your numbers during your siege of Shinra Tower?" They showed up. Every time one quit, another two would show. Not perfect like that; they'd stay stable more often, then get some extra every... half the time? A third, a quarter? He wasn't keeping track. That's Fuhito's job, and Fuhito's dead. Point is it's a simple answer.
'Course, he hates these assholes, so he's not telling them shit. "We hand out a lot of leaflets. They're good — you ever seen them? Intellectual shit, we get some real scholars." The blonde with the oversized ponytail lazily tips his chair over sideways, and he goes fumbling to the ground. He rights himself; shrugs it off. They keep asking him questions he's not gonna answer. He knows he's gonna live — he bets they can't even rough him up much. His boss has their boss in her pocket. They'll be paying in blood if he loses a tooth. He's not sure about the knee, since that's already shot, but... eh. Turk With the Glasses tries not to roll his eyes; rolls with it, goes back to the questions.
Knock on the door, is that for him? He gonna get a written apology and some get well soon snacks? Little box of chocolates? Nah, just another one sticking his head in: "Tseng wants you for another nudist colony." Blondie rolls her eyes proudly, like she's above it; sighs like a teen girl who's gotta take the trash out down the path. "Nah, you'll like this one: they're cannibals with rocket launchers. I'll swap out." She does like that one, high fives the new one on her way out. New One has a note on his back, reads 'Call me Teegie, I like it a lot.' He does, and gets a shin-kick for the trouble. Jolts right up his leg into the knee. Worth it.
Trying to ignore how uncomfortable his ass is, cuffed on the hard floor, he wonders: who's Mary supposed to be, anyway?
The Life and Times of Zack Fair
(Mostly) Shinra Tower
[ ν ] – εγλ 0002
Pouring, cloudy, sunny, cloudy, then foggy; actively repeat
June 17th, 18th, 19th, 20th, 21st, 22nd, 23rd, 24th, 25th, 26th, 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th, a brief interlude outside time, and 31st
Flow of cars and commerce around Sector Zero obstructed by debris, and will be for weeks
All around the clock
The first thing Cloud does after sighting Sephiroth nèe Second Sephiroth is scream like a banshee and try to kill him. This is resolved fairly quick, but it's disorienting for everyone involved.
"No, man, I'm telling you: people only think that because he's like that all the time. His poker face isn't even good. I bet you think 'wow, things must be really tough if even Big Turk Tseng's freaked out' like, eight times a day." He's not helping with Cloud. Cloud's a big boy, and Aerith's a softer touch. Okay, Zack's a big softie, sure, but the guy'll be fine! He'll see him later.
He doesn't really buy that, though. "Bad poker face doesn't mean much coming from one of you guys. Looking through those is — what, a third of your job?"
"Sure, butcha still notice the difference, right? Not just me? So it's all even in the end." He snaps like he remembered something. "And shit." Oh, yeah, he was doing that.
Reno's a pretty cool guy, all in all. They got off to a bad start — or, 'start'; everything gets wiggly around... you know... — but he's fun! They end up bonding over partner stories whenever they get paired up on something. Rude's a lot less happy-go-lucky than Aerith, but he's funny in his own way. Zack thought they might have had a kissy-kissy thing going on too, but Rude found a girl last Christmas, so unless they're mixing and matching it's gotta be more of a... bro thing? Bromance? Bro-bond? There's a word for that...
Honestly, with the way things are going, that's gonna be happening a lot more. Hippie free love stuff, and kissing all your friends. A lot of people straight-up forget they're dating, then find out again later — and it's more of an 'Oh, neat!' happy surprise than a big scare. Or, well, sometimes there's hammers and rocks involved, but... Everybody's thinking a lotta stuff that doesn't make much sense, and everybody else is shrugging it off, is the point. He'd be worried about stuff like societal collapse if Aerith wasn't on the job. His Sweetheart Ultra-Mega-Turbo-Kissable Flower Girl Extraordinaire can, and will, do anything she puts her mind to. He's the luckiest SOLDIER ever. Ever-ever-ever.
Mwah!
Mwah! He circles back to earlier. "Was it really that bad? Scary? I don't — I mean, I'm less spy-y, and you guys are all —"
"Man, shut up." Aw. "I didn't wanna talk about it, then I didn't wanna talk about it, and I still — take a guess."
"He gets it." Reno looks at him funny. "I, sorry — still get tripped up on that. Especially with Aerith there! It's like: who am I talking to?" He did it with himself, for a while, but it didn't scratch the same itch; he wasn't doing it with himself anymore, you know? He always says 'You know?', too, now, too.
"I do not want to hear about you and your chick's weird magic shtick. Don't say shit about that rhyming or I'll shit myself; make it outright uncomfortable." Will he, though? "I'll do it, man." Lot of commitment for spite. Oh. Turk, right; he definitely will. Ew.
"I'm just saying — hey! Not about that!" Reno's leaning forward with his eyes super wide, all dare-you-to-dare-me. Please don't! He's sorry! "Just a quick thing about the first thing, and then I'll drop it."
Reno looks tired. "...Eh. Yeah, yeah, fine." He does respect the commitment, though. If you love the bit enough, it can never go into the ground — it can only go on, and on, and on. Him and her'll be doing the nicknames thing for the next... something-million years. He forgets, alright? He's a forgetful SOLDIER. Zack Fair: The Forgetful SOLDIER. If they make a movie out of him... or statue...
"It's sad, isn't it? You're a cool guy. You should be honest with yourself." Reno fidgets around a little. Taps his foot. There's a soft ding.
"Shit, finally." There goes the heart-to-heart. It was worth a shot. They were taking a risk on the good elevator anyway; if they walked, they'd've talked half as much. Super survivable if it fell, so it was fine, but... could have lasted a minute longer. He'd like to do personal good as well as efficient job-good. Wonder why it's slower, if it's not broken. Damaged motor? Do they use motors? He should learn how elevators work.
They walk maybe fifteen, seventeen feet over to the little room Reeve (and Cait! That cool little guy!) are holed up in. All the executive apartments were suuuuper blown up, and the guy loves living and sleeping and work, so he's on a hammock between big crates in a half-used supply room. Probably. Zack doesn't know if he found a hammock, so it might be more of a bedroll situation; he hates those things. He'd take ground over some bedrolls; he doesn't mind the bugs. Gets a little sad if he rolls over and squishes them, but that's life!
They were talking about Reeve, earlier: he's a real normal guy. There's, hmm, maybe a dozen normal guys in Midgar anymore? Zack's fully aware he doesn't count, and most of his friends (and co-workers) don't either — SOLDIERs didn't even beforehand; Aerith is half un-human. 'Non-human' sounds like an animal, but 'inhuman' sounds like an insult. Alt-human? They weren't human to begin with... alternative-to-human? Maybe just 'half-human'. He'd go back and re-structure the whole thoughtline to fit that, but he's already forgotten what exactly the phrasing he thought was. No, don't think about it.
Oh, Reeve: Reno seems like he likes Cait, or well enough. Zack's pretty sure the guy was an orphan, so that makes sense. If your life sucked, and you suddenly met a magical little talking cat-guy who you could hang out and go on adventures with, wouldn't you be all for it? That's more or less the plot of half the books ever written. He hasn't read enough books to say that for a fac, but he's read a distinctly non-zero amount of books; some of them were more or less that, like he said. Thought. Said.
O-ver-think-ing it♪
Yeah, he is. Sue him! ...No, don't sue him! He needs his paycheck or he'll starve! He's only a frail little SOLDIER — frail very buff little strong SOLDIER, and starving... How's the office?
Annoying! Did you know we trademarked the term 'Lifestream'?
Nope. Recently, or before?
Before, so nobody could print it. That's not how it's supposed to work, but Shinra were the ones enforcing it. We also don't have an established legal process for dissolving a claim, patent, all that. Pretty sure the idea was: 'If we don't want someone to have it, we can take it, and there's no reason for us to ever get rid of anything.' — so today's all about creating a release process. Veeery slow.
He's very happy he's not up there. Down there? Is it the same floor, actually? It might be; he's not sure. He wonders if they're going to turn some of the now-floorless floors into the same floor as the floor below them. Some floors already have two (or more!) floors' worth of headspace, or floorspace, or floors. Not anymore, though; maybe in the future. They open the door! "Yo, we're here to —"
"Who's a pretty kitty! Pretty, pretty little guy...!" Huh.
"Och, stop it laddie, yer like ta make me swelter te death!" It's those two, alright. "Me noggin's goin' too red!" He feels sort of... voyeuristic. They're doing a little dance, palm to palm, with massive beaming grins.
"You're such a perfect, pretty, pretty boy, Cait! Who's a beautiful little angel?" Spinning, spinning around. "You are! You are! Haha! Mwwwah!" Right onto his forehead, and that makes for a — can he blush? He's a robot, right? Isn't he? Can they blush? If you make the... some kind of... like a heating pipe system. The fur looks real enough, why not? ...Is that real fur? Off of what?
"Ach, yer too much a flatterer, Reeve! Ahm ooonly a humble lal cat, y'knoo? ...Lil? Lal! Lal bonnie thing!" Huh. Hmm. Hmmmmmmmmm...
He looks over at Reno: that guy's swallowed a lemon. He's not saying anything — not shouting obscenities — but he's definitely uncomfortable. Zack isn't uncomfortable exactly, he just shouldn't be here. "Uh... President... Reeve? Hello?" Nothing. Not a blink out of place.
"No, no, you're definitely humble, but not only! You're the prettiest kitty who ever did live, aren't you?"
"Och... well, mayhaps, it might be."
"Man, fuck this, he's not even listening." He's listening to something. Lots of little hehehe and hohoho sounds. The latter is too stuffy; the first one's too evil. Maybe that's Hojo bias — it's in the middle, mood-wise, but heoheoheo isn't right at all and sounds real dumb. "I'll get Tseng to call him later." Oh, yeah.
Reeve slips into the accent, stops three words in — frowns, shakes his head. Then Cait starts shaking his head, and they're both smiling again — the rest of it starts back up in short order. "...Why not do that now?"
Reno points over there, at the now throwing-into-air-and-catching unfolding. "You really think that's gonna work?" Probably not... "No chance. Give him like, twenty minutes, maybe he'll get tired. Weird he's doing that all by himself, right?"
"Is he?"
They shuffle back to the elevator, which is now on a totally different floor, and might be busy a while. Reno huffs and starts walking to the nearest stairwell. "Pretty sure that thing's remote control."
He's not convinced. "People do roleplay all the time. Kunsel is always talking about his tabletop thing — no clue how he juggles that with the SOLDIER stuff." He goes to shudder to make a point, but he's doing it already by the time he tries to start. "Paperwork..." Aerith is so much better than him at that. Maybe she could take over his department? Maybe Aerith should be in charge? The Gainsborough Electric Power Company; big smiling face, or some nice flowers, as a logo. That'd be a beautiful world.
"Be more like writing; roleplay needs two. Right?" He stops in his tracks — Zack barely avoids smacking full-bodily into him. "Huh. Maybe his other him never bailed."
...? Oh! "Oh, that's a good idea!" But, hang on: "That might be really dangerous!" But, also hang on: "I don't know how to balance that against how happy he clearly is!" And, even hangier on: "Also it might not be true!" Then, for a final hang on: "I gotta think it over!"
"Yeah, shut up. Keep walking and let's sneak some Big Burger in before anybody notices we're off-schedule." Bold words from the guy who stopped walking in the first place. He does, though; they walk.
"Never had a big burger from Big Burger!" For some reason, Zack senses a ghostly force in the room; the temperature cools; his innocuous Big Burger comment has summoned malevolent forces.
Suddenly, Zack's under attack! A Reverse Zack-Attack, given he'd be attacking if it were a Normal Zack-Attack: Reno charges up some unknowable likely-green beam move that'll surely give him a direct-contact neoplasm — palms-up splaid jazz hands, intense eyes, this is the big one — and fires out the invocation kill-phrase...! "Kiiiilllll yourrrr-seeeeeelf." He tiny-shakes his head, still bug-eyed, in a Huh? Huh? Yeah? Huh? motion, then turns straight around, no beam in sight.
Guy turns straight around and saunters, waving his hands up and down; real Flip-Off Champion work. He's got them alternating, so at any point one of them is above his shoulder flipping Zack off the normal way, and the other is turned around pushed slightly further than straight-down behind him with an inverted flip-off. Real smooth buttery wrist-joint-elbow action; inspirational. Total Flipper; Flipper of Eternity; Flipmaster Supreme, totally embodying flippers.
Zack resolves to learn to draw, so he can draw Reno as a cute seal with flippers — no fingers, no opportunity to flip-off — so he can capture, honestly and accurately, the guy's essence while neutering him and stopping the onslau-barrage of infinite flippage. He'll give him little red stripes like those surfer tattoos to match his hair, and a cute seal-fit pair of glasses-goggles. Seal-o, model employee of the Sea-ra corporation, who run... Underwater Midgar. He'll flipper forever just the same, but he won't flip Zack — Zack'll be unflipped, unbothered, unfli... fluh, uh, flipp... uh... you're laughing at him, aren't you?
Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe.
Buh, forget it. Forget it! Forget all about it...
No, it'd be cute, c'mon. I think drawing would suit you — you've got an inventive little mind, SOLIDER Boy.
That one's just his job — really? Well, yeah, he can try it. Maybe not now; not now, but later. Make it a later kind of thing — what if he called you Flower Saleswoman Girl?
...That's common? Flower Girl? Flowers? Right? Zack?
Buh, buh, uh, but that's, the — that's more of a, isn't it more — you make flowers grow, so it's... Oh, now that it's all over, do you remember that movie I was telling you about? It had, like, the guy with the sword, and...
They pass a limping Mike in the hallway — or, uh, sorry, Rod — and that guy flips him off too. He wishes SOLDIER had solidarity like the Turks do. They kind of do! It's just not so organised. Guess there's more SOLDIERs than Turks anyway, they probably have a mailing list. Where was he? Oh, and the sword guy does this kick-ass backflip...
Those boys get their tetanus shots, all right.
She's not sure they were ever children. Most boys their age aren't really — especially if they go out to fight — but the cynicism here is overwhelming. She's surprised they're largely sane and intact; no missing limbs, no thrashing mania. Maladjusted, certainly; who isn't? She sees too much of herself in them: chewed up by the machine, in over her head, twisted beyond recognition. She was the one on the other side of the glass. She shouldn't be relating to the victims. She wanted to... did she ever want to cure cancer? She's blocked out too much of those years. She tells herself comforting stories — good intentions, gradual escalation. She left, didn't she? Turned down the gil? The worst of it started as Hojo began to go sideways.
Then, she thrashes around some nights to the sound of unclear muffled crying, and begins to doubt that line of thinking. The spark must have been there. In a basement, in a corner, in the back of a closet: that mad terrorist — and he is, in the purest sense — must have been up to... she wonders. Is her memory failing her? Is she inventing new ones from paranoia and scratch? Just over half a dozen Turks, all visibly agitated, funnel out of Security Hall. Why they feel the need to group so incredibly up for it is beyond her — until she remembers Mr. Valentine. Then she remembers how far neutered they've sent Hojo; not reasonable, per se, but she agrees (obviously) that paranoid is better than worse.
"I don't want to."
She's aware of that. She doesn't either, but it's only practical, and the digital mind suite is too shiny to pass up further development. "It was a part of your contract. He's useful."
"He is spineless, inferior, and pathetic." Pathetic is too much, if only barely. A beaten dog is something to pity, not scorn; hardly dog's fault it's subject to cruelty. Now, if it happened to itself be one of the cruelest, most dangerous hacks on the face of Gaia...
"That would be why he's useful." That, and if the methods or execution are or turn horrible for the subject, no one will mind if Hollander takes the brunt. "How much busywork do you want us to kowtow you into?"
She hears the ill passion bleed back in past the petulance, overtaking it; overtaking him. "...You'd have me revive him for intellectual and authoritorial emasculation?" Hah! That would be wonderful, yes. "Why didn't you say so‽ I'll have him reasonably emulated within the week; it will be no challenge for my overwhelming digital mind! Kekekekeke!" He's taken to pronouncing laughter, as opposed to laughing. A side effect of the digitisation? They've not standardised a term for it, and what little they have in writing was done in a sudden rush mid-Big One. They are beginning to standardise 'The Big One', if only by default. No other name has stuck, and she's sick of swapping them about.
She does wonder, however much it's outside her purview... "Good. You wouldn't mind telling me what half the Administrative Research department was doing crammed into your audience chamber?"
"Oh, it was about Shinra's little rich-boy, Whatshisname. Nothing interesting. I suppose I'll do that too; works as a test bed, if nothing else... verily, yes." She checks out, at that last bit. He's only going to start spouting canned phrases. She thinks this digital personality emulation isn't as robust as he's claiming; even in his madder years, she's confident he was never this much a caricature.
There must have been some reason for it. She's read enough of his accursed notes to know he was splicing all sorts of junk into himself — J-Cells, for instance. She hates his notes more than she hates herself. She'll never mellow on them. She thinks about five things, and this is unfortunately one of them. "I believe that's all, assuming you follow through. Any further comment?"
He speaks again, apropos of nothing outside his addled, binary mind. "Hmm... do you suppose I should start telling that whelp's acolytes about his shampoo again?" ...What? "It was a decent way to pass the time; I doubt they'll make any fuss about him being a completely different man. It made him very uncomfortable! I only had a moratorium placed on physical torture, yes? Blades and mutation?"
... "..." ... "..." ... "..." ... "..."
"Is that a yes I hear? A perfect, indulgent yes, to all of my humble mortal requests? I am only a man, you know, and not verily at all a Digital God for a new age."
"...Yes. You can do that. You should publicise it, and let everyone know what you're doing. ...More... more reactions that way. Larger sample size." It's poor form to put your subordinates in a position where they're afraid for their lives. That she understands and respects this is why she's a thousand times better a boss than Hojo could ever be. This is very basic stuff; for children, for idiots. She should not engineer any situations in which her underling has the fear of horrible death put into him by her increasingly rabid boy.
She fishes another pill out of her inner-coat pocket. It's been four hours, and her back is starting to sting again. She needs to sleep in a real bed tonight, for the sake of all good and joyful. All that ducking — scrambling behind impromptu cover, scuffing her knees on the ground — she's not built for that sort of thing. She'll be feeling it all month, and shouldn't strictly speaking be self-testing new painkillers. Playing somewhat fast-and-loose with experimental medication is, however, one of the least dangerous things anyone in her department has done all year. She tunes out whatever he's saying; she'll take another in four hours from now. All's right in the world.
If she'd set it off — if Genesis hadn't shown, if they'd needed the reactor gone — she would have sent Zackary back up running with that bomb rammed past her teeth. She wanted it, even: to atone, to wipe capital-letters Shinra Science off the map. No more Hollander, no more Hojo, no more her. She'd have died before they had a name for it; before it got used for anything more than prototypes. Her boy would understand, but could she forgive herself for doing that to him? All she's already put him through. She was ready. She didn't have to be; perhaps it would be a waste, and those two would have stopped her — her head taken clean off, no sweat broken. All's right in the world.
The older Ms. Gainsborough does, as suggested, come through the building to offer a shoulder. A protective woman, who (rightfully) eyes Gillian suspiciously, even now. She couldn't make it to that dinner — too busy with... no, no, let's not go back to the mega-creatures; push that memory back with the rest — but did send a card, small present, and written promise to never, ever capture or dissect the younger Ms. Gainsborough, swearing on her life. If they'd done similar to Angeal, she'd... be too overdose-dead to glare any daggers, or join up with AVALANCHE, et cetera. No, back in the box with that, as well. Come on, now
It's not particularly useful. Aerith was more spit-balling to try and cheer her out of overwhelm, she thinks, than coming up with anything practical. She expects the Tsviets to be emancipated and travelling the continent for food and adventure within the week; she has nothing to offer them bar a thin layer of red tape. Elmyra makes to follow her girl, rather than sit around socialising, once introductions have been made. "And if something nearly kills you again? You have a terrible track record, young lady." They swap information, as the woman does seem quite witty and familiarly exhausted, then don't see each other at all for the rest of what turns into Take Your Mother to Work Day.
She spends too long in the bathroom, face dipped in the running water from the sink, nearly sleeping. She'd like some more sleep. She doesn't mention the cigarettes to herself, in those peaceful moments, but it'll start book-ending her every other thought again soon enough. Technically it is right now; maybe she's lying to herself about avoidance. Maybe she can never avoid it, even in the best of times.
Her last act of the day, after her new wards have tucked up — or pretended to; she hasn't quite discovered if they sleep or can sleep yet, and she's hardly going to enforce bedtimes bar medical necessity — is powering through her bone-exhaustion to comfort a scared little girl. A twenty-to-thirty-something year old little girl. Old teens versus young women; Rayleigh is pitching another fit for reasons she will never understand, presumably about the contents of a dream.
"I, I, I was beautiful! I saaw it... I was, I was like old tree trunks and livers...! Bawaaaaaaa!" The snot is overwhelming. She will wash her coat the normal amount, and if it isn't clean, it'll go in the fire. She burns too much of her gear; wonders if it shouldn't be disposable to begin with. Again, these noises are enunciated like words. There must be something in the taps in this department. Well, it is all disposable, any case. Anything is, with a big enough fire. "I gbuuaaawaaa.... and theere were these W-wutai.... nninnjas..... and they cut me to pieces! It was so lovely, and I can't get my veins out, Director Hewley! They're still inside!"
"Rayleigh, we've talked about this." Too much for her liking. The imagery of pulling them out like roots disturbs her. The girl is disturbed, as are most of Gillian's subordinates, but she is particularly distressed in it. "If you butcher yourself to pieces, you'll never be able to find something you're happy with."
She gets indignant, now: "I did! I did, Professor, but you won't let me!" She did, that's true. Spittle flies all over Gillian's shoes. However...
"I won't let you, because it has an estimated survival percentage of one. By your estimate. By mine, it's much closer to nil." She puts a soothing hand on the girl's shoulder. She shoves the other over her mouth, to stop the next wail before it kills her. She can only take so much child-rearing in a day. "I cannot believe that life as you are is so intolerable that you refuse to entertain continuing on. You're a talented woman, Rayleigh. You always calm down, you'll do it again. Deep breaths."
She sniffles, shudders, then seems to settle. "...Sorry. I'm — would you — I would settle for Diabolic, too, but would you call me Heretic? I don't know if they'll let me change it on my ID, but..." She doesn't know why they wouldn't. Frankly, she thinks Rayleigh has a vendetta against record keeping in general. Why the girl wants so badly to be some terrible monstrosity is beyond her. She feels as if she is already, and let her tell you, it's no fun at all.
"Is that a first name, last name, or neither?"
"First. A title, but to replace my first." She goes shy, and admits: "I don't remember my real first anyway, not since the — so I'm not throwing away anything." Her eyes begin to soften up. "You... really believe I'll find something? Develop? Stumble upon?"
For all the instability, she does. "You developed a treatment to turn a man into a chocobo and back. We know one half of that works; you only need to be patient with yourself." How to survive the total reconstitution of one's body...? At worst, she might go the Hojo route: wires are only analogous to veins. She might benefit from the Hojo route: mechanical mind might mean no cravings. She had one, she kept it to one. She wants another, fingers twitching towards empty pockets. Ah, there's the book-end again. Rayleigh — ahem, Heretic — leaves her with a brief, adjacent-to-professional hug, and she shortly falls asleep exhausted in her cheap metal chair. Her back despises her for it in the morning. Empty promises, always.
"We'll have another stage ready in a few days; we'll contact you then. It would be nice to have you at full capacity, in the case of another attack, SOLDIER."
Second Tsurugi is one of the prettiest things he's ever seen. He doesn't need a bike — not yet, anyway — he's been fine on public transit. He was worried about the staring, but they're all in their own little worlds out there. He's on better terms with Science than he's ever been, or ever should be: that's strange. They're anti-social, quick to violence; he's not worried, so he's at home. With this stuff in his veins, it's nothing worse than Nibelheim. "Thanks. Thank you." He gives it the full treatment. He's in awe of the craftsmanship; it's nowhere near done yet.
Second is a shinier First with more money behind it: more moving parts, more little flip-outs; tools, accessories, materia slots. It cost way too much money. Apparently, he's earned it, so... gift chocobo in the mouth and all that.
Elsewhere, the erstwhile SPSF are in earnest, er... um... forget it — they're being trained in yet more yet-new tactics. Primarily: ignore the holes in your brains, and don't be like AVALANCHE; if somebody shoots in a stand-off, shoot back. Conversationality is one thing; this is a bit far-pale, no? Of course, you can't really turn that off, so a lot of Shinra Realcops get their lungs punctured and the like. It's great for the hyper-kill-self nervous episodes, very de-escalatory — it's no good for the bona fide spree-menaces. Sometimes you need to take the shot before things get better; the pepperballs only do so much. You can build up an immunity if you shoot yourself in the face with spare pepperballs all day every day for a month, or so they say.
Reno crushes at bowling. He's Shinra's King of Bowling. They scrap the Burger IOU Scheme (BIOUS) and make a dedicated Turk Burger Fund instead, like pooling for office coffee. No one else bothers contributing, and no one else pulls from it either; those two put a little in every paycheck until the Shinra Corporation dissolves into dust. How many years does that take? Oh, a few. A few. Something like that. He never apologises for getting mad at Zack for the big Big Burger burger thing, even though it was clearly unintentional, and it's Reno's bit in the first place.
(TBF)
At the first do-it-for-the-PR public outing of the newly revived Sephiroth, flanked by his three only friends and a deathly uncomfortable blonde boy, the fear of (a) horrible fate is put back into the lot of them. Fan clubs are, unsurprisingly, another victim of the total loonification of humanity. They handle it for all of five minutes. The fans, assorted and intermingling, call Cloud 'nubile', and hold up paintings of Zack with massive abs. Before they can get around to Honour and LOVELESS, they make the mistake of mildly bothering Sephiroth. Angeal screams bloody kill-murder at the crowd — for almost an hour, and butchers his throat with no breaks in the slightest — until they all disperse. He gets dragged off thrashing when he still refuses to quit; they have to sedate him; he apologises to his mother afterwards, for making her worry. Otherwise, he's not sorry.
Why'd Cloud go, anyway? "Exposure therapy. Aerith thinks it'll work." Is it? "...Didn't try to kill him, so maybe." Great talk, buddy, good luck with that.
Speaking of Flowers, she's still getting on peachy with the Turks. Elena thinks all the gun-jumping to violence she's been doing is great and respectable, and Tseng... needs a friend. He really, really does. He's got them! Just...!
"I must not have thought he was dead, at the time. That came later. It was an assumption. Why make that assumption? Why assume something so significant? No — I'd thought he was buried as Shinra Tower was collapsing."
That's a little ambiguous. "You thought he died in the Big One? Or you thought he died, and you thought it while you were in the Big One?"
"...The latter. Then, later, the assumption of the former. We sent them across each continent — no results. If I had kept a second filing cabinet... If I had kept any off-site backups..." Buh, he's beating himself up again. He's... he is really good at his job. It's only... nobody's really good at their job. Out of everybody who could be doing it, he's the only one who could really do it. He keeps trying to resign, but nobody else can do it. (Or the case of the Two Vs, refuse to point-blank.) "I need to resign immediately." He doesn't even say it in a panic anymore; there's no determination, no steeling of the eyes. It's like a comfort phrase: 'Everything's going to be okay.' "I need to resign. Reno can do it."
Pfft. "No he can't." He's good at his job, but his job isn't Director. Director's hard.
"Legend. Legend is incredibly competent. Legend owes me intensely for reasons I largely comprehend." Weird phrasing, but that's forgivable. She doesn't know the guy that well, so maybe, but she's not gonna hold her breath. There's going to be some reason Legend can't or won't budge on this, and it'll all go back to normal right away. The end-of-the-day is none of them want Tseng to resign! So, even if they could do it, or wanted to do it, they'd conspire to make some excuse.
He cups his head and starts to slump over onto his desk. He'll be alright. She gives him a little pat on the shoulder.
Elsewhere, after an initial review of the 17th's combat and associated tendencies, the number-one most efficient and cost effective measure seems to be tripwire bombs. The amount of employees, and amount of attackers, meant that most engagements consisted of one or both parties bursting through a door or doors. Prolonged combat was mostly a non-factor; this trickles down to wider practices. As everyone gets, or stays, less reasonable, the best way to disarm a situation is to stun all parties involved as soon as possible.
Vincent Valentine — one of the aforementioned dozen Shinra competents, so very much worth remembering by name — comes back again with the mystery lady he conscripted some subordinates to excavate. It's ambiguous where on the company totem he lies, but it's in the top percentile by a wide berth. She's half crystal and doesn't want to be there; they are, in the latter, a match made. Kunsel doesn't bother gawking — there's stranger out there: Derrick comes by his ward for a routine check-up, and writes him a little Get Kwehll Soon note. He only cries for ten minutes. Derrick is the model that he's basing his entire public-facing ethos on: eat it all on the face, don't flinch, roll with it. Try to make something out of.
One of the many freaks from Science comes skipping in — yes, real skipping — with her labcoat in shreds and what looks like chitinous plates on her chest. Or... no, tree bark. She's singing, and skipping, real skipping, and humming, and rummaging around in all the drawers; discarding what she doesn't want onto the floor, all rolling about. "Go-ing to tell Pro-fess-or Hew-ley I fi-gured it-out!♪★" He doesn't quite catch what it was she wanted, but she leaves the mess on the floor as she goes, and of course a half-dried trail of blood. He texts Reeve to raise the medical staff's salary by as much as he can manage. The buzzing glow of the screen makes his headache flare back up. Concussions are Devils' work.
Accounting finally come skulking around other parts of the tower to ask for help with the blood. They didn't just eviscerate the one or two, as it turns out: they liquefied a whole strike team. Nine well armed, decently trained terrorists walked into the beating home of Shinra Bureaucracy and left through the drainage system, and in mop buckets. Should've taken Cloud at his word, but then it sounded like a stress-fiction, didn't it? Big... misunderstanding. Kunsel pinches his nose in the familiar way and, from his hopefully-deathbed, call-in-requisitions them some assorted heavy duty chemicals. He's not sending a cleaning crew in there; he doesn't trust them.
He handles this because the containment of Accounting is a matter-paramount of, and for, Public Safety.
The day before they set off for Costa del Sol, Angeal realises he doesn't know what 'Scooby Doo' is or does or means. Then, he's hit with a strong sensation that there's a specific way he should have worded that, and that his failure to do so is going to bring down some kind of cosmic karma on his head. He doesn't know if he's convinced, so he thinks he should ask someone: he asks the floating mouse cursor selection pointer 3D selection pointer floating over his head and selecting him 3D selection pointer that selects him pointed 3D cursor elction poiner 3D 3D pointer floating pointer. He asks. He asks the. He's the. The.
The, uh. The... the uh. The.
When he comes to his senses, his mom — who he forgives for everything she's ever done, especially given she's never done anything bad in her life — and a very unguarded, shivery Genesis are standing over him, prodding him with a stick. He's not sure which of them had the stick, because they both nearly crush him in a dual-pronged hug as soon as they verify he can still speak full sentences. She puts him on pills that don't seem to do anything, but he takes them dutifully with meals for a month.
In a few years, he'll mention this off-handedly, having gotten over both the fear and denial of it, as a story about the strange things the brain does. He'll tell it at a pizza place that Zack and Aerith have been near-singlehandedly keeping both in business and thriving, tucked away at a corner stall's too-short table. He'll get a few friendly, not-quite-worried chuckles out of most of that table, but Cloud will drop his fork in a mix of awe and horror and whisper: "You see it too...?" It starts to scare him again, but he'll forget all about it at some point in the proceeding eight million years. Nothing lasts forever, you see.
Back there and then, Gen suggests — not cancelling, of course — but simply postponing the trip to some undetermined later date. Angeal tells him that if he tries to do anything even remotely like that, he'll strangle him. Gen spends the rest of the day looking like he's sucking a lemon. Seph asks why, but nobody tells him.
They buy him a Tonberry Tonic.
The conceit is that the food colouring causes it to look like a tonberry. The conceit is also that it contains a ton of berries. The Professor did not deign to teach him the difference between ton and tonne; neither are right, as it's non-literal to begin. Angeal tells him he's put down towels for them to lay on. Genesis grumbles about preferring a chair. He looks.
There isn't. "It isn't there.", he says.
They both swivel around, look one way, then another. They look back at each other, to him, to the beach. Angeal says: "...The recliners would've blown away too...?" Genesis punches him in the top of the head; his arms go up to protect; the attacking fist is now a palm flattened on a nose-bridge. As they prepare to leap off after their rapidly-fleeing beach towels, he fidgets with his fingers and toes.
As they leap off after their rapidly-fleeing beach towels, he stays put. He didn't want to lay down on the beach in the first place. He's not sure what he wants; that is the problem. A problem. Some sort of problem. He looks over to the west, and spots a woman talking to a man, slapping his shoulder. That man is a Turk. That man looks over at him, as the woman buries her face laughing(?) in his shoulder, and gives him a small nod. He does not feel the man is following him. If his... friends, are to be believed, this is a popular location. He doesn't think to nod back; the Turk has turned away.
He thinks: who is Sephiroth supposed to be, anyway? Is he supposed to be him? Is he supposed to be himself? Who is himself? Is that different from him? Him being the him who he should or might be supposed to be and might be. Is he? He looks down, side to side, down, forward, then down. He takes another sip of the beach cocktail. It feels dry in his mouth — a dry liquid; seems strange — but it tastes lovely. Berries must taste lovely, then. He's having a lovely day.
He'd like to keep being this, if he can.
They give it a week. Weiss is in tumultuous ideological agony: he should be burning the wretched place to the ground. Nero leans into him, smiling, at the table. The restaurant is self-explanatorily named Big Burger. They order the burger; it's big. He feels inane. He feels neutered. He takes a deep bite through the top of the bun — it's too big for his mouth. It's a big burger. He kills none of the patrons or waitstaff.
Nero is a weakness. If they wanted, they could string him up in an elaborate electro-torture device and have Weiss do whatever they wanted. (Until he inevitably becomes strong enough to smash them all to pulp in vengeance.) Hojo would have, and would have eagerly. They don't seem to want anything. Nothing tangible. They want candy and peace on earth. They want to talk about empty air for the entire day and pretend it was meaningful work. They, this Shinra, are an aberration in the world: he cannot discern their what no matter how he tries.
He's wrested himself from the latching of that Hewley woman. Scientists are the utmost untrustworthy; he is old enough to fight, as the SOLDIER said. He has no need of inoculation, candy, or any such thing — he is not a child; he is the perfect killer. It is insulting. Nero... has been less affronted. The freedom has mellowed him greatly; he seems content to wander from nearby place to place, as long as Weiss is not far behind.
...He'll keep eating burgers, for his brother. The rest can wait. The world isn't going anywhere; he can commit himself back to violence any time. Any time, now...
Genuinely nothing interesting or relevant happens on the twenty-fifth. The most I can give is that Hojo, questioned on the simplicity of Second Sephiroth, said: "I might have called him Safer Sephiroth, given he would be less likely to die and betray my needs — then I thought, if he were to die, it would still be towards the service of my glorious needs, thus it didn't matter how safe he was. Whom." He may not have said this; I might be making it up. It was a quiet day. I don't know what to tell you.
Zack gets kicked out of his office one fateful afternoon, in the middle of minding his own business and pretending to do paperwork, by the cruel shadowy demon who's been doing most of his paperwork. Of course, it's that demon's paperwork, not his; he's been doing Kunsel's paperwork. Really, he's a saint, if you really think about it; Kunsel's just mean.
"Hey, you know how you were talking about a rat printer?"
"...????????" Kuns tenses-blinks like he stood on a toy marimba, mouth gaped. Is... he confused? Is he confused?
"Like, for the ones in the vents." Did he misremember that? It sounds silly, but Science does stuff like that all the time. Don't they? No, yeah, they definitely do.
"Zack, I thought that. I didn't say it — I only mentioned it to the Turks three days ago. Can you read my mind? Did whatever you and Aerith — what am I...? — get out. Get out of my office." Zack's the on-paper director, so it's on-paper his office. He shouldn't be getting booted out of his cool office, and he probably can't read anybody's mind bar Aerith. He'd have to check; he doesn't know how. Hey, he's winning anyway, right? No more pretending not to do; now he's not-doing on orders: salute-worthy.
He's not really mean, if you think about it. He only just got out of medical.
(Author's note: I, Robert E. Kunsel, writing to preserve this important piece of world and family history in the year of our Fat Chocobo [ ν ] – εγλ Eight Million and Two, must clarify that my cruel ancestor Jebediah Kunsel was in fact a rapacious cruel man and very cruel, frequently to innocent SOLDIER bystanders. This is a well accepted fact in the academic literature.)
Zack.
(Author's note: It's also well accepted that one Z. Fair, World's Great SOLDIER, is a powerhouse of love and will, and has many statues constructed showing off his killer abs and winning smile.)
His name isn't Jebediah. Really.
(Author's note: I, Robert E. Kunsel, solemnly swear that my ancestor's cruel name was absolutely Jebediah. This I swear on my authority intent and kind heart.)
Is that all he is to you? Your friend, a vehicle for a funny name? ...Do you not know his first name?
Prove it isn't Jebediah.
Zack.
Prove it! You know there was a guy we had called Jakobsonne? Spelled like that? That's way further weird.
Zaaaack...
Don't tell me you're in league with him, Honey-Bumpkin! No, hang on, that's terrible. Forget that one. Sweetums, again, or something — you're doing the repeat-Zack's-name thing, like Shadow Master Kunsel. Is dog all Zack is to you? Hmm?
Sigh. Siiiiigh. Siiiiiiiiiiigh. Authorial, bee tee double-yew.
Too much time around Turks. Flower girls need flower words, not calculated letters. You're killing me here! ...I know that, it's funny.
You didn't know petrichor, though.
White-lying to save face is humanity's greatest surviving tradition. I could never lie to you, Bubblegum.
Bubblegum is cute, but at the same time — too Manic Pixie. It's on the nose.
We're all manic around here, though, and you're more or less pixie!
So it double doesn't double bear mentioning!
Mention, schmention. What are we gonna do all day now?
Well, if you wanna know, I've been scoping out this pizza place...
Another day, another billion-or-so gil. The Turks have a blow up fight with Hojo because the recently revived — or, arguably, 'revived' — Robo Rufus seems to be having some minor issues. Namely: pain receptors set to always on one-hundred-percent. Secondly: pain receptors at all. Isn't the lack of all that a major benefit of robo-humanism?
At an unspecified later dater, in flippant what-if retrospect, there's limited argument to be made otherwise. Pain receptors are how you tell something is wrong; that's useless if you have diagnostic subroutines, of course. The fact is that Hojo — after some 'Can Titan make a rock he can't lift?'-type finagling — discovered he can make fake people, or similar, feel significantly more violated than real-or-'real' people ever could.
He agrees to shut off the recently 'revived' — or, arguably, revived — Robo Rufus, and to rip those sensors out, and maybe work on some rubber or silicone some-such-something resembling human flesh. He agrees, not because Tseng's violent scrapping of Security Hall genuinely intimidates him, but because he's obligated to answer to these rubes by contract. He's going to try his hardest to breech that contract, but he needs to bide his time and amass a new Robo Army. Some kind of hyper-creature, perhaps...
He'll lose track of that goal; he'll get too caught up in spawning new digital minds and turning their digital pain receptors into digi-jelly. He'll do bad things forever; he's digi-plated. They won't get the faux-skin for Rufus, because it looks terrifying, and there's really only so far the robo-bodies can go. They work well enough — it's a life after life, after all, unless you argue it's more of a forgery. Not much to complain about, if not. When Robo Hollander Emm Kay One gets pushed, barely-functional, into the Board's Big Meeting on the 29th, he'll still have the pain receptors. He won't have any shins to kick for ages, but it's the threat that counts.
They're not doing anything with the Roboguard anyway. Strip them for parts, and they'll never surpass the might of Hojo — too stripped to fight, too stripped by far. Inferior! Inferior and crude! Pathetic! Couldn't beat any Sephiroth in a fight, ever, regardless! Irregardless! Whom could disagree?
It's obnoxiously simple. "I didn't want to accept it; now I don't have to. My rain check is forever — or, at least, for a long time. We'll all be old men, or maybe it will be forever."
What's so hard about that? Zack, obviously, disagrees. Everyone disagrees. They're all wrong. He's right. "But... it's not all 'back to normal'. He's not Sephiroth, he's a different guy." Zack frowns. "He doesn't even have the old him's memories..."
He doesn't bother thinking much. He's right. "He's Sephiroth, he's my friend, and that's the end of the discussion. This is like solipsism, it's useless. We have better things to talk about."
He knows Zack knows what solipsism is. He spends half of his time with Gen, Zack spends half of his time with Angeal. Zack spends one quarter of his time with Gen. "I... don't think that's like solipsism." He's not making this clear enough — it needs to be snappy, digestible. Leave no room for... for.
"I." Deep breath. "Do." Hand on Zack's shoulder. "Not." Lean in bug-eyed-contact. "Care."
"Th... well, that's, you..." He blinks a dozen times in quick succession. "Yeah, alright, Angeal. We can drop it."
He's lying, is the problem. He doesn't want to drop it; he's right. He wants everyone to agree with him, because he's correct. He's being an opportunist. Opportunity strikes when Tseng, who's still failing to shift the Directorship elsewhere, walks past with his haunches sky-high and his hands all clawed and tense. Angeal doesn't care, currently, because it's much more important to take every opportunity to prove how right he is about the Sephiroth Issue. "Question, Tseng: if someone were cloned, or otherwise revived, and they had some prior memories or a similar-enough personality, are they the same person? Settle a —"
This was, apparently, a bad move: Tseng flips around with fire pouring out of his nose and ears and spews "He is Rufus! He'll be the President one day like he was meant to be! If you say another word, Vice President Hewley, sir, I'll kill you!" The gleam fades out of his eyes, and you can almost hear his jaw unlock from the full tooth-grind position. "...That is to say..." Gaia, he looks sad. "Please forget I was here. Please, sir." Then he slinks off and away into the corridors; out into the early morning haze.
He's reciprocally sad for half a second, then shrugs it off, given he's too busy being right. Zack stands there gawking — very Genesis word. He supposes, until recently, his 'ism' was mostly honour. Now it's this, whatever this is; different. "There you have it: I'm right — big surprise."
"...It's... but, the..."
"I don't give a shit."
"...Angeal, you had a seizure. That's scary. Scarier than the usual brain-scary stuff. I'm — we're worried about you, all of us. Some of this is..." Interesting theory.
"No I didn't." The itch at the back of his brain says: wouldn't he be in the hospital, or dead? He should say that out loud too, to make a better argument.
Zack's jaw drops at mach eight and he makes a long string of both-hands-cupping-air and frantic waving gestures that basically mean 'See, this is exactly what I'm talking about.' "Whuh!" is all he manages to actually say in the moment.
"Wouldn't I be in the hospital, or dead? Sounds like a hard sell, Puppy."
Zack will come around, eventually. They all will. He's not just grieving, or in denial; he's right. You can't beat that. Two floors up, six hours hours later, one Glenn Lodbrok tells Sephiroth "You make me sick."
There's some confused blinking, followed by stilted response. "...Okay." Glenn nods and walks away, satisfied. It's not so bad around here.
Ms. Hewley tells the guy "I liked you much better when you were dead."
He isn't sure if it's really the same guy. New Hojo is only mostly like Old Hojo, even if they're both Hojo — but it's not like New Hojo is Other Hojo, like Cait Reeve might be Other Reeve, unless he's Reeve Reeve, or maybe he's his own original thing. That would at least be a different same guy, which is nearly the same guy, but supposedly New (Robo) Hollander is made up of old e-mail and voice recordings. Is that enough to make a whole guy, or just to pretend to be that guy? Whoever this guy is — if he even counts as a guy — bites out a "Ghhk!" of offence. It sounds crunchy, and sort of wobbly, in the same way New Hojo does. No chords; generation. He's not gonna bring up the Sephiroth thing again.
They talk about all sorts. Too much; some of it goes over his head. They go over who to contract for the repairs: should it be all in house, do we need specialists? Why not give somebody else the job, to encourage non-Shinra companies and competition; money where our mouth is? Are we using the same concrete? What did we learn from the last reconstruction? He doesn't know nearly enough about it to help, and — unlike some people — he doesn't find butting in to argue for the sake of it fun. He also doesn't have a weird taunt-vendetta against Cid Highwind, so there's no impetus — which, fittingly, is a Genesis word.
He zones out a bit, picking leftovers out of a little square tray-box-thing. Goes in the oven, comes out of the oven; you eat out of it. When he tunes back in, someone's saying something to Kunsel about a biography in a half-insulting way. He'd read that, though! He'd read his Cool Friend Kunsel's Awesome Autobiography. He wonders, then asks, if Kuns has a name for it planned. Coming up with titles is one of the best things in life — that's where the nicknames evolved out of. He darts his eyes around for a minute, all hesitant. "Kunselroman"
"Oh, that's good. I like it." If Aerith does, he does — and it's Kunsel, so he did already, already. He likes it by default twice over! There's muttering in the corner, but he zones out again and goes back to the leftovers. He's getting oil all over his fingers, and all over his bit of the big table, but he'll clean it up after. He needs a nice meal right now, and he'll eat it like a caveman until they take his caveman-eating from his... cave hands. Non-cave hands. He's tired! Long week!
Must have been low on salt or something. He felt terrible this morning, and he barely realised until right now, post-meal. Mostly post-meal. Post-most-of-meal, mostly. No, he still feels terrible. Somebody he doesn't know from Science comes in and starts giving a report, which he tunes in for when she mentions something about all the rats. "...and I'll have to turn off the Rat Machine. I'm — really — I'm really thankful that —"
SLAM! Kunsel's helmet has fallen straight off his face — his fists shuddering above a now-cracked table — eyes bloodshot, nose dripping snot. "YOU! IT WAS YOU‽" Kunsel has literally never done this before. The entire room not-quite-gapes as one of the world's last bastions of composure crumbles in front of them. He doesn't say anything else. Then he says, calmly, because he's Kunsel: "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!!!"
...Alright, not calmly. Uh oh. Zack lurches forward to catch his pushed-to-the-brink buddy, and it doesn't even slow him down! Kuns thrashes around over the table towards a scared Dr. Whatshername until Tseng and Reno get his legs, and Angeal pins his head down with (another) thud. Uh, actually, kinda more a thunk this time. Kunsel has weirdly good hair for being in a helmet literally twenty-four-seven, or — he thinks it's twenty-four-seven? He still makes it another two feet across the table, digging drag-marks into the steel with his strong SOLDIER fingernails, until Gen finally puts him at sword-point.
Dr. Whoandwhy isn't taking it sitting down, and yells back: "Like Hell! I only barely just got beautiful! You'll have to take my cold dead hands from my cold... uh..." She starts eye-flicker muttering at Angeal's (very patient) mom, something along the lines of "There's some limited — it's more that it travels like damp through a wall. It seeps, for lack of a better..."
"WE SPENT —" Cough cough hack; his voice shatters to tatters, snot splatters. "We-e spent... soooo much money...!" He gasps like a dying fish. Kunsel likes eating fish, so maybe he's method acting to put himself in their shoes, so he can become a vegetarian? Sorry. Sorry. She doesn't mind, he knows, but it's serious. "Reeeeeeeveeee." Like a zombie. Actual necromancer stuff. "The budget. How muuuch did we blow on this — on the refittings, aaand the filters, and theeeee power-washiiiinguuuuh...!"
Dr. Whatshername and Ms. Hewley are whispering to each other at the end of the table. There's a very scolding-but-concerned motherly tinge to it, which makes sense if your son's an uber-soldier. SOLDIER. You know, you know; you know these things. Ms. Hewley rolls with it, is the point. He hears... "...didn't think it was a, well, they would just fall to the bottom and get collected by the garbage people. No? I had to test the serum on something — I'd die! You told me that, and so thankful I listened... I just..." Kuns is straight up sobbing. He feels like an ass, but he's not letting go. He goes for a head pat to soothe but it just re-starts-up the thrashing.
President Tuesti answers that question: "...Two-point-three million gil. It's..." He's got this really resigned look in his face. "It's not a poor investment. The modernisation efforts will mean less lab escapes, better security, better air conditioning..."
Little Cait — who Zack's a big fan of, for the record: that guy rocks, whatever he is — chimes in, ever-helpful: "Aye, an ye cannæ ferget t'chemicals an' sooch. Y'dinnæ wan' half'a tha buildin' tæ go on lockdæn jus' fer some ninny playin' hokey wit' cleanin', or Science Stouff." He's... coming to realise that accent is clearly put-on; not natural at all, kind of wonky-inconsistent — just something Reeve (or Other Reeve stroke Cait Reeve) thinks is cute. It's stronger today, and the AE sound is phlegmier, even though he definitely doesn't have phlegm. It is: it's cute: it's a cute set-up they slash he's got going on here. He wants to ask about it but, you know, when? How? Not now.
"Fuck the air conditioning, Reeve!" The soothing tones of faux-accents are not helping Kuns. He starts wriggling again, but the bloodlust is out of him. "Fu-u-u-uck it! We're all fucking useless, Reeve!" There's more careful, motherly tones, as Ms. Hewley ushers a still-sorta-smiling and small-ly waving Dr. Whozawhatsit away and out of kill-range.
"Hey, man, it's fine. It's gonna be — we're rich, you know?" Aerith gives him a thumbs up, and climbs up next to him for the assist. Kuns is her friend too, you know!
"You've got all the time in the world to do things the right way. This is... think of it like doing a chore in advance! They could've used the upgrades eventually, right?" President — uh, should he be saying Reeve, in an official context? Middle of the business room? Maybe? Sure, okay — Reeve nods hesitantly. He sort of believes it, and the Cait lines help, but... The rest of the room murmurs half-hearted affirmatives. He's pretty sure the Turks have been trying to find this stuff too, if he remembers his maybe-psychic slapfight a day or few ago. They probably feel silly.
"I'm in a room with the wrong twelve people!" He doesn't know what that means. "I'm not even one of the twelve people!" That seems bad, sure, but twelve who? Twelve what? Huh? "I'm in Hell!" That's just unreasonable. They... uh, really shouldn't have let the guy with a concussion out of the med-wing. Not that he's one to talk. He really, really, really isn't.
Zack starts to look queasy. His brain catches up to Aerith's observation, and he starts to feel queasy. It's all too loud, and — apart for the bits where some of them want to kill each other — everybody more or less agrees, but they're still messing around. He wonders if this is how him and her make people feel — he knows the Turks do this too, but they're always like that, as far as he can figure. She cocks her head off to the side in a go on, get kind of motion, warm eyes beaming into his. He'll take that advice; he pretends he's off to the bathroom, nobody really minds; Reeve waves him off — busy trading hand-cupped-to-ear whispers with Cait again, and they're both giggling like schoolgirls. He doesn't trip over anything on the way out of the room, but could have if he wanted to. Ms. Hewley's resting her head on Angeal's shoulder, who's stroking her hair and smiling. He's always smiling, lately.
He's not sure where to go. Fresh air? Hmm... guess he'll go up and keep going. He'll find a good spot eventually...
The clock strikes midnight on the 29th as he's going, and a new day starts kicking. Zack sits out on the Executive Helipad taking in the night air. Reeve has an open doors policy when he's in, so it's even more lax when he's not. Nobody's gonna steal anything — do you wanna get into a prank war? Bucket of oil, or milk, or something. Something. He's holding a half-empty disposable plastic cup from the Executive Water Cooler. It's basically a normal water cooler with some better livery and a special logo. He doesn't think it does anything cool or unique, but then maybe you need the right clearance to activate Mecha-Mode.
He's thirsty. He's dry. He slurps down the rest of the water, and lets the cup fly out of his hands in the wind. It's not great to do that, 'cause it's bad for the Planet, but he figures he's earned a little littering by now. They're supposed to be getting biodegradable cups in soon anyway, last he heard. Supposed to get them last year, first he heard. Something about supply chain issues and the spontaneous formation of a nudist colony in one of the factories. He thinks he can still hear them half-yelling, but he's probably wrong; he's too far away, even for SOLDIER ears.
...Eugh. This is his life now, isn't it? Supply chains, logistics, manufacturing, pay-perr-worrk.
He's been thinking about his little spat with Angeal. He loves that guy, he doesn't want to — you know, be judgemental or whatever, but... right? Is he right? He's starting to think he isn't. He probably already thought that, but it seemed like the right thing to do, to stick a pointer finger up: hey, what's up with this? What's going on? Isn't that strange? Yeah, but it's all strange. Planet's strange; where does he get off? Angeal's probably right about all of it.
In fact, at this rate Sir Angeal Hewley Esq. will go on to be the most influential philosopher of the next eight million years. Zack's already been ideologically captured. He really has, huh? It's nice — it can be nice. If everything just... goes well, and you believe it. He's already a Candyland Optimist, this is just — a couple steps further. He never thought he'd be the grounded one, you know? Probably helps a little having little old me.
Hey! Don't creep into the same line! That's just poor form, Aeirie. Not Aeirry? No, I think I did that one — hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! That's gonna get real confusing; what if he wants to emphasise something, and it just reads like interjection? Or the other way around? It isn't confusing now? It's manage-able. Managable. Mangled, maybe. Mmmmmm....... Running out of Ms? He'll find some. You will, Snuckums, you will. ...Kind of like a teddy bear, that one. It's cute — like, gross-cute, but cute. This is cute too, isn't it? This? The same line thing? ...Didn't he do 'Snuckums', earlier, or...?
We're like one big happy soul-ily. It's the same kind of sweet as doing it in the first place. In the first place was kinda for utility too, in case of — you know. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yep. Yyyyep. Yep. Is he being weird? Angeal's being weird. Everybody's being weird, and they'll be weird forever. Like you said. Living in Weirdland... You were always a weirdo, so you'll fit right in. Maybe don't start believing in fairydust, but... When in Rome? Where's Rome supposed to be, anyway? Yeesh, talk about formula breaking — kill the wind-up, why don't you. You're on a mission!
You wanna get back to it?
The — like, philosophising? Brooding? Uh, yeah, kind of. See you, Aer.
Still be here!
Yeah, he knows. Huh. What was — yeah, the world's gonna be awesome. He looks out more clearly at the city, instead of staring into space: it's bright. Middle of the night, and it's lit up all over. It's always been that way; it feels special. This is a real special place, and it's less miserable than ever. He's not miserable either — he's on top of the world. He might be. There's probably taller mountains, but that's speculative, or maybe they've blown up and collapsed while nobody was looking. He could shorten it to Ae, or even A, even.
Reality is something that always comes back. You can't really block it out. You could, maybe, but you'd probably die. A better world forever — a forever-world that's better. There's an alarm clock going off in the morning to take you out of the dream. He imagines that thing, not even digital; with the two jingly bells on the top corners, brass, or whatever they're made of. He holds it in his hands — in his mind's eye, but in his hands — spins it around, looks at it all over. He lifts it in front of his face, taps his finger on the side as it ticks.
He throws it clean off the tower, and hopes it doesn't hit anyone on the head.
...Don't you ever get bored of the pizza?
No way. You can always change the toppings around!
It's a lot, is all.
Then make something new! Zack and that kid from Rhodore did that —
I don't mean for me. ...Kid?
I'm old, Cloud! I'm an old woman! I'm musty... my old bones... ohhh........? Oh! No, no, I'm fine! C'mon, I'm stagnating? All over a little pizza?
A lot of pizza. I just don't get why only that.
Why ever anything?
...
Alright, alright — it's symbolic. It was the big thing right after, and I guess that stuck with me. Makes me think about...
The most stressful day of my life?
That's just cheap. I'm pouting, now. Pouting! Was it really?
Don't pout. It was. Maybe Nibelheim, but that took longer. It's the compression.
I'm pouting! I'll pout! See, look what you've done.
Please don't pout. ...Avoiding another Calamity?
It coulda been reeeeeal bad, Cloud. Reeeeeeeeeeal bad. It wasn't — we're fine. They're fine, too. I think.
...You think?
I mean, probably, right? I'd ask Gaia, but that's our Gaia, not... They're fine, they're fine.
Here's hoping.
Here's hoping! I was thinking about mushrooms, now thatcha mention it. There's these little blue ones that...
On the last day of the month — "It's the first day of July. June has thirty."
Cloud keeps his head ducked down. If he straightens up, he'll break their sightline... not that there's a sightline anyway, but... "See, I know that, but it's one of those..." His SOLDIER escort, a Second who's been kind to him, snaps his fingers and hums. "It feels right. I know you know what I mean."
Echoing out from the pilot's cabin — not that it's really a cabin. The front of the helicopter — one of the more grizzled Turks disagrees. He's got a twinkle in his eyes, but, uh, that's not uncommon anymore. "Sure, I get that." For all the petty fights, the world's got an, uh... ethos of acceptance? Lot of shrugging. "It's just not true is all."
They trade back and forth. If the seats were different, Cloud could lean his head back into recessed cushions, but it stays hunched. On the other side across, there's a little drool flowing down the lip of his 'other escorts'. Zack asked him to — he'd do a lot for Zack, he's happy to — look after these two, be friendly; make them feel at home. They got to keep the 'Raven' outfits 'cause it 'looks cool' — really it just sets them apart. They're not SOLDIERs anymore. It does look cool...
"Pretty lucky to've grown up here." Huh? Oh, that's to him. No more inter-departmental.
"I... don't know about that." Lonely, cold, and mean — gossipy. Nibelheim is... "Nothing else out there." He gets a weird brow for that. "Uh, it's a saying —"
"I know the saying; it's beautiful. You don't see that?" They're coming up on the mountains now. Goulde leans over leftward and opens the side door. Cloud's not used to side doors; he's been in the more people-carrier-y ones with the door on the back. "Look at that. I feel alive, out here. Been dying to come back since the Reactor Mission."
The... "You mean Jenova?" He shivers. It might be the wind; it's good an excuse as any.
"Yeah, but nobody calls it that. What's a Jenova, anyway?" He waves his hand around for effect all lazily. "For all it matters: there was a Reactor, and we went on a Mission to level it." Cloud'd... like to wave it away. It's too personal — sometimes he gets, there's these little flashes — it's green. Too much green. He tries to count down from ten when he gets those, or up to a hundred. Jenova was something, alright. "It's beautiful out here. Just need to —" He sniffles and coughs. "— get used to the air up here."
Well, "It's not as bad in the town. We're high up." It's a shabby town, it's mean, it's insular. He did grow up here; he didn't enjoy it much. It's his home. "There's some good spots on the trails — they're high, but you don't get blasted. Shape of the rocks and stuff."
The Ravens don't care or notice the open door. He can hear grumbling from the pilot's... area... but they're nearly there, now. He's half expecting a dragon to slap them out of the sky, but the wildlife's been calmer lately. Teef says the wolves act more like show-dogs, long as you're not trying to skin them. "Well, wouldn't it be Reactor and Mansion Mission? Arr-Emm-Emm?"
Goulde smiles, twitchy. "Don't think we're supposed to draw attention to that one. We're not evil anymore, is the line, but it's still bad work to point out that-we-were." They really were. Kind of comical levels of evil, which is why they got comically levelled — then everything nearly got levelled with Meteor. He doesn't like pretending he remembers all that stuff. Well, he does, but...
As they set down by a nearby road, nearby the town, he nearly bites his tongue clean off when somebody tackles him fresh out of the doorway. "Cloud!" He figures Zangan must've taught her that, or else she's surpassed him and started free-styling. He catches himself on the folded-out door with his back before she can brain him and turn him into a Raven. "I've...!" She pulls back, flustered, but unapologetic. "I've been waiting. To see you again." She smiles bright: "I missed you, you hick."
What — "You're a hick! You're more of a hick than me! I've been in the city!" She busts up laughing and he can't find it within him to mind. Years back, he would've gone home with wet eyes, with finger-point laughter at him. This is different, sure — he'd like to think he's tougher too. Maybe 'tougher than a preteen' is a low bar, but... "...How's your dad?"
She goes pfft. "You don't even like my dad. I kind of don't like my dad. I mean — I like him, but he's — right?"
"He's still your dad. Suck if he was doing bad." He resists the urge to imitate the weird Shinra rhyming tendency and do bad-dad-dad-dad-bad stuff for slightly too long.
She tugs him along by the sleeve. "He's fine. He's good, actually: there's a little woodworking shop open right now, travelling merchant stuff. It's been nice — more visitors, less scary wildlife." The Ravens are shambling behind them; Second and Turk are staying to keep the helicopter safe. He hears bits of them chatting about both usually working in duos, how it's weird to not, and then they're out of earshot. "Plus, if he says anything to you, you can suplex him." She stops, turns, and jabs a finger into his chest. One smooth dolphin motion. "You'd better not, though, 'cause then I'll have to kick your ass."
He thinks: hmm, she could be talking like she's a little older, couldn't she? Everybody's a little older. He'd like to be a little younger, but he'd also like to continue being a SOLDIER, so... maybe it evens out? Maybe right now is the best age to be? Maybe she's like that too. "I'm not gonna suplex your dad, Teef. Even if he does say something mean."
He sees mom before he hears her; she's waving, beaming, almost jumping up and down. She's got this big thick dress thing on he's never seen before — it looks like a bag, but a warm bag. Maybe somebody made it for her? That'd be nice. He only realises he's jerking forward full tilt when Teef goes "Woah!" and the hand on his sleeve jolts him back like a seatbelt. He looks back, flush, but she just puts both hands up all mea culpa and whispers "Go on. Don't keep her waiting." She probably doesn't whisper it, but the wind is loud. Three seconds later or so, he's bawling into his mom's bag-covered chest. The Ravens get pulled to the inn by the curious townsfolk, and later they'll show back up covered in ornaments and trinkets. Nibelheim's a lot more accepting than it used to be — just like everywhere else.
He gets out a lot of snotty, dribbly nothings that sound mostly like waaauau ububabaaaa and she pats his head. He calms down. "It's wonderful to see you again." In another life, he knows, he never did; not really. He's calmed down; they waddle back home; nobody bothers them; the door drafts closed behind. He sits at the kitchen table, mom hands him a knife, and he starts peeling potatoes. On the shelf in the corner is a jar full of his baby teeth, tucked away under two boxes and a basket, two of which are empty. One has the potatoes in it. It was real scary for a while there, wasn't it? But, in the end, after everything was said and done...
...It all turned out alright, more or less, didn't it?
"Would you like some onion in this?"