Chapter Text
The coat is itchy.
They pull the rock out of her screaming and throw it in the ocean in a panic. It's not that Science lady that cracks it — it's the other one, and her 'Uncle Vincent'. More of a broederbond, she thinks, but she's yet to bother to ask. It'll wash up on some shore in twenty years and Zirconiade will level half a continent, cause a tsunami, or maybe it'll be fine. She'd like the thing dead for nearly killing her; this way, one of the many Turks says — too many, always climbing out of the woodwork, but then AVALANCHE was the same; who's she to judge? — she nearly killed it, so they're both even. She glares. Her dad glares too, which does a lot more to scare all the Turks off. She could get used to that. She doesn't recognise the photographs of her mother; she wishes she could.
They spend months together. It's nice. Dad abandons his job entirely — apparently, had already, and he'd been keeping tabs on her all that time — to do cute woodworking projects with her in an upscale apartment and buy her more coats; too many coats. She returns half of them, which he doesn't protest; he knows he's over-done it. He's too eager, it's aggressive, but she's the same way. Now she knows where she got the go-getter in her from. She hasn't had something quite like this to live for in... ever, as far as she remembers. Obviously, before Kalm, she did, but — it's nice. She wants to keep living for her. For dad.
For Shears. He's fine. He's a lot more arrested than she is, because she has nepotism on her side — she has nepotism, so she asks pretty please, and he gets a majorly reduced sentence. He's away for a year and change; he probably should've gotten the death penalty. They hand-wave some extenuating circumstances — a phrase that makes one of dad's work friends twitchy, for some reason — and say he was probably under mind control like the Ravens. The two surviving Ravens, she's told, are re-integrating into society. She has no idea how they're planning that; those things are basically brain-dead.
Not for Fu. Fuhito is so dead it's barely even comprehensible. She has no idea where he's even buried; they might have thrown him in an incinerator. She still doesn't know if he meant it — any of it. He might have. She hopes he did, some of it. She hopes he was lying about some of it. He believed in... murder, and scalpels. He was eight million times more dedicated to the cause than anyone else alive. He would've set Midgar on fire and bludgeoned every orphan down with his fists if it meant a half-percent increase in Gaia's health. He was a bug-eyed psycho, just like Shears always said, who evidently kidnapped her and turned her into a death trooper for his own ends. She wants to say 'Like Hell I'll miss that bastard.' No, she'll miss him like Hell.
It was all going away anyway. They had no money — they had half of Shinra Jr.'s bank accounts, from half-remembering the codes — but the guy himself was too dead to help. She thinks he only helped in the first place to make his usurper shtick easier. She thinks. Who can say? Might have been more of a green-thumb, with some foresight. It was all going away because they couldn't run an op to save their lives. After they botched the Sister Ray grab, the writing was on the wall. They botched it almost first thing. She only kept chugging because she didn't know anything else. If she'd been able to trust any of the funny feelings she got, maybe she'd have gotten somewhere better faster. It's better now, at least.
It's sad, being so conflicted on what she still semi-considers her family — it's inevitable; nothing to be done. Her good memories of AVALANCHE have been tainted since the other memories of AVALANCHE started invading her. She didn't trust those, either; wasn't just the nice things that stuck out. She remembers thinking Zirconiade had given her brain damage, crawled up into her cortices, and started popping vessels. That was a bad, bad night. In the morning, dreading a proper diagnosis, she instead found everyone else in the same boat. After that, she thought it was a new weapon from Shinra — some kind of LRAD, or... something. Nobody could agree on anything, and half the shit they threw out was imaginary farce. Total gibberish. That's...
...That's what was throwing her off about Shinra. The denial is one thing — it's all the non sequitur; she thought they were lying, they're not. They're all like this. She's come to realise she's like this. All the inconsistency, the over-eager messaging, Cloudcuckoolander projects... Whatever really happened late in 0000 — it's not classified, just nobody can put it into words that make sense to her — it turned them all genuinely delusional. It turned her genuinely delusional; she's gonzo, now. They think the world is going to be intensifying levels of butterscotch and candy for the rest of time, and they'll all live, dance, and be merry for roughly the same length. She'd like that. She'd like that a lot.
...Later, laying in bed for the something-thousandth night, she'll wonder: where is Cloudcuckooland supposed to be, anyway?
...
The rest of time is very long, you know.
The Eternal Life-and-Times of Zack Fair
Isle of Elpis
[ ν ] – εγλ 8000002
Eternal Summertime for foreseeable forever
(The-date-that-will-soon-be-known-as) Third Umbral Moon, 32nd Sun, Waning Crescent, Umbral Sun
No cars anywhere-where
Just into the afternoon
"Obnoxious, pathetic, and unseemly."
"Come on!" No matter what, he can never get this guy to give him a break. It's cruelty! It's cruelty...
"Puppy, it's another lion. You've made a thousand of them."
The pollen is flying up his nose; it's a little colder than he'd like, sure — it's a nice wind, and pollen beats arterial. One of those nice pink leaves bashes into his thick skull from the east. He doesn't think it came from the east; it must have done some loops and spins, which themselves'll've been nice. Living in Niceland, right? You never give him a break either! Cut a something-other-than-SOLDIER some slack, Cetty... That's horrible, and we've definitely done it already. We've done everything! What's wrong with some retreading? "Have you considered how awesome lions are?" Really, Zack. You wouldn't want me calling you Humanny, right? What else is Puppy? Oh. Hmm............
There's a sigh, but no heart in disapproval: Zack sees the smile, the fondness. Fondant... have we had fondant? Duh. Be weird if we hadn't. You remember we got married, honeysuckle? Aw, no, don't put 'suckle' in it — no suckle. Moratorium on suckle? A thousand percent. Uh, right: Angeal's not mad is where he's going or went. "Only every second time you've shown up with one." He points at Zack's Cool Concept (pending) lazily: "You were getting somewhere for a while, but this is a real return to form. No wings, no horns, nothing." And it is Angeal, is the best part. It's all of them, just like it's Sephiroth, or maybe more straightforward than that.
"He's off the wagon." Scoffy scoffy scoff. "Hmph, I rescind: if he were dosing somehow, he might be more inspired. I shouldn't insult hallucinogens so." Jerk. He got fancier over the years. How many years is that? Loads — don't think too hard about that. Eh, maybe for the best, yeah.
"You like it, though, right Seph?" He bets he does. Zack bets he does, he means — Zack means.
There's an impassive hmm, and hmm, then a hmm, and a hmm. More scoffing in the background. Always. Every time. Every ways-time. Time-every-time-time-ever-ways. Ways. Ways! Angeal seems curious what the guy'll say, at least. Classic Angeal... What the guy's'll'd've'd sa(y)/(id) is: "I like lions."
Gen's all constipated. He's having palpitations, or he's got a tapeworm, or something. "Yes, but how does this lion compare to the infinite glut of prior lions? Why is it of more value than its reject ancestors?" Reject is harsh words for his cool work. Why can't it be coolject? You definitely know why it can't be 'coolject'. Not a real word? Not even a little!
"...I like lions."
For some reason, that's not enough. "Eugh." Picky, picky.
Classic Angeal wonders: "Have you ever voted against one of Zack's lions?" He wonders that too, come to think.
"The one with the gills, wings, and giant glowing horn, if I recall." Genesis has a perfect catalogue of everybody else's failures. Of course, he's perfect, so he doesn't bother for himself. "I do recall." Smug...
Seph renders down judgement: "It wasn't a lion anymore." Why can't it be coolgement?
Zack's got a coolter-argument! "So why not play to the classics? Even Gen likes the classics." Here's his Classic Lion. Coolassic, uh, Clion. Cloolion. Clon. Done? Maybe in a minute. He's got some steam left in him.
Gen, history's least tortured SOLDIER, asks Coolassic Angeal: "Will he ever stop?" He's pretty tortured. Scale of one to ten — eight? I think we're done with the eights, now. Done done? Aren't we? Maybe in a minute.
Completely Normal, Averagely Cool Angeal waves his hand side to side, overbalancing boat. "If he explodes, maybe. Even chance."
He's not that unoriginal. "Lions — c'mon, wouldn't a shark be worse? Everybody does sharks."
"A shark would be equally trite. You are trite. I'm losing my patience with you." That's the thing: is it classic, or is it trite? He might like one, but he hates the other. Not gonna win any favours, Flower Boy. I am? I can get the wicker basket, if it's my turn today. Shh. Always with the shh...
Sensible Seph soints out the sobvious: "You say that every day." He's right!
"He's right." Between Seph, Zack, and now Angeal, it's three-out-of-four for right, here. "For as long as I can remember, today's been the day you're gonna lose it, Gen."
Gen makes another face of horrible, horrible, horrible, worse-than-horrible gut pain, and says absolutely nothing at length. Length of zero. Lengthular lengthlessness. Guh, alright, he's out of steam; that's his minute. What're you up to?
Well, there's this strange man stealing a fish...
...He takes a whole bite out of it, too. "I still don't believe you. You're gonna get in trouble, Kuns."
Kool and kollected; Kool Kuns replies: "I work here. It's my job. You're going to get in trouble, because this isn't your job." He picks the gills open on the right side. "You're a moderator. I work here. Simple —" Snaps a bitty bit off for her. "— as can be." He's holding it out.
You see, though, "The thing about moderators is we get to set the terms. You're not allowed to be mean to me. In fact!" She snatches that bitty bit, and isn't above stick-spearing it over the little fire. They taste good! Sue her! "You're only allowed to talk to me in complements. Too weak, and I'll moderate all over you." He can see his lips twitching. Smells good, too... "Too flattering, and you'll have to deal with Zack."
Pfftt. He pfftts! Honest-to-Betsy pfftts! She's not even going to bother wondering who Betsy is — that's rude! "Aerith, I don't think you've ever met that guy." Bold! "Name me one time in the last — and I cannot stress this enough — eight million years of your sugar-candy little psycho-marriage that he has ever been jealous." ...Uhm. Uhm. Uhm...
"He..." Damn, she's got nothing.
"I could be kissing you on the lips right now and he'd bounce over happy you were spending time with a friend." P...point. "Then he'd get all happy you're friends with his friends, and good friends with his friends, and that's friends squared. Happy squared: that's his... him." Point. Yes, point, fine. "Have you ever been jealous? Kind of seems like you two're gravity or entropy."
She, uh, not like that. "Not like that. Once, maybe, but it was —" Not Zack, but nearly Zack, but there was no Zack, so... "— weird. I was pining, and he was dead, but Cloud was him. Kind of." She squishes the now-seared little morsel onto her tongue. It's like eating a little slice of happiness. "Aw. No, no, that one's really good. Is that staying? Does it have a name?"
"It's a little passive, but it seems good for certain seaweeds." He jabs the knife back into the pond; misses this time. His robe is soaked from standing a few feet deep in water. The mask stays on at all times — pretty smooth transition, that: helmet to mask. They're too well-treated to rot, but they still look kind of wooden. They might not be wood; she forgets, they're more of an extension. She thinks about it. "They never give them a name this early. It's guppy-adjacent, so... something like that."
The circle of life is a beautiful thing. From Gaia onwards into the future, she's embraced life and death. She'll be damned if she picks the latter any time soon, but that's 'cause she's lucky enough to have the choice; she's still got stuff to do. They've got it all figured out: her and Zack, twin backflips — as many flips as possible on the way down, from as high a spot as possible. She's never even done backflips. It made him smile, so she'll start practising one day.
Juuuust not yet. Not quite.
Oh, Funnybun — because we did Honeybun yesterday, and you're my funny guy, to preempt — did they hear about the thing? The what? That one's no good. He's done worse, but that's a no. You've done pretty bad, yeah. The... what is it... with all the chains? Oh! He'll ask: "You guys hear about the thing with all the chains going weird?"
Seph thinks he remembers, 'cause he makes the 'I think I remember this' face, but obviously doesn't. "The prison?" Blinks into the straight-ahead for a sec, then: "It may not have been a prison."
What was it... ah, this is the best bit: "Yeah, I don't know, I think it was called Fan-del-own-mil-lum. Went weird, she said." He's the masterwork proprietor of the Pettycorn Bit. It's such a good one. He smiles so wide every time he does it. Aerith does, too, so it's double bears repeating!
Gen turns his back and starts normal-walking away on the spot. He checks out, and he's gonna go read something. Anti-social! He calls out a little "Hey!" after him, which works, weirdly enough — Gen only comes back far enough to spit on Zack's robes, then flip right back around. 'Least he's in a good enough mood to retaliate...
Seph and Angeal give it a minute, then start walking after him. It's long-standing tradition to always walk after, just in case something's wrong, you know? Well, it's not powerful walking, but it's close enough; Gen always moves like that. Sometimes. Zack sits around, 'cause he's the one who made the maddening, so he's gonna take the time-out in the time-out corner. It's just a veeeeery big corner. He watches the plaza.
There's that big lumbering thing with the horns he swears is gonna kill him one day. There's lots of very calm, slow walking. There's that other weird bird with the massive schnoz, and that thing with the buck teeth he swears is also trying to kill him; infinite things; inthingate. He notices Reeve and one of the Caits off in the distance playing catch-ball. After a long enough time — which it really has been — everybody stopped wondering if there was one or two or however-many of them, and just decided to shrug it off. Elsewhere there's, what, a half-a-dozen-ish little guys with animal ears running around with some visitors? Zack doesn't work here either — he doesn't work anywhere. He sits around and enjoys himself; he figures he's earned it. He sits around with his silly wife and eats a lot of bread and baked stuff. Bread's baked too, so you can add that to the list.
He waves to everyone and everything that comes past. He looks up at the distant, floating islands, and wonders why they're even up there. Knights of the Round? Who knows?
Then the world really did end, eventually, but even that barely stuck. Matter of perspective. Here come more alarm clocks...
(Author's note: I, Robert E. Kunsel, fictitious historian, approve this message. This message paid for by the Total Ahistory Society. This message financed by the Angeal Hewley Living-Forever-Memorial Dissociative Fund. This message sponsored by the Shinra Electric Power Company. This message made with love. This message produced in a lab for optimal effect. This message taken hostage at a nearby post office. This message will self destruct shortly after you finish reading. No! Don't throw it into the small not-openable-from-the-inside fridge I'm hiding inside and can't open from! Aaaaaauuuugh! Auuuuuuaaaaaagh! Auuuaaauuhaagh!)
Shh.