Disclaimer

This story is an unofficial, non-commercial fanfiction work set in the world of Final Fantasy VII and its related titles. All copyrighted and trademarked material remains the property of its respective rights holders. This project is not affiliated with or endorsed by any of them.

No copyright infringement is intended. This work is shared freely and without profit.

It contains original interpretation and deliberate divergence from canon.

Editing assistance and current cover artwork provided by AI tools. Since this is a passion project, I am using AI for the visuals for now—but I would strongly prefer to feature human art. If an artist wants to claim the cover spot for portfolio visibility, I would love to collaborate.

Last update: 2026-04-15 11:52:08 EEST

The Promise

The light above us sways with the rhythm of flight, a small lantern pretending it isn’t attached to a machine that can outrun storms. The air smells faintly of oil and old fabric and something clean underneath it all, like soap on warm skin. Outside this room, metal groans and settles. Somewhere distant, an engine breathes.

Beside me, someone shifts on the bed, shoulder brushing mine. A quiet, steady presence. The kind that doesn’t need to speak to be felt.

On my lap sits a book.

Not fancy. Not sacred-looking. Just paper and ink and the dangerous idea that a life can be folded into pages without losing the parts that hurt.

I run my thumb along the edge, slow, like I’m checking a blade for nicks.

The world already knows a version of me.

Most people met me through a screen, through bright pixels and scripted camera angles. A girl in pink, a smile that never cracked, a story told in careful beats so it would fit inside a game and still sound like a legend. The version the Planet allowed. The version that was easier to carry.

But I’ve learned that “easy to carry” and “true” are not always friends.

If you played that story, you’ll recognize the landmarks. The plate overhead like a second sky. The slums that smelled like rust and rain. The flowers that shouldn’t have survived and did anyway. You’ll know the names people throw around like charms and curses.

And you’ll know the moment the tale insists I become a symbol.

This isn’t me trying to tear that story down.

It’s me sliding a hand between the panels and pulling out what the pixels couldn’t hold: the pauses, the messy thoughts, the small selfish wants that don’t look heroic from the outside. The parts of me that were human even when everyone wanted me to be a key, a prophecy, a sacrifice wrapped in ribbons.

A soft huff of laughter escapes me, surprising even myself. The woman beside me tilts her head, eyebrows lifting in a question.

“Nothing,” I whisper. “Just… remembering what they made me look like.”

Her hand finds mine. Warm. Real. No script cues. No dramatic zoom. Just the simple fact of contact.

It steadies me.

My name is Aeris. If your heart holds the name Aerith, you may use that too. We are talking about the same soul.

Before I was anybody’s “hero,” I was a girl from the slums who sold flowers and learned to smile like armor. A daughter. A survivor. A woman who could hear the Lifestream whispering beneath the city’s noise and still pretend she was fine.

I was afraid of dying.

But if I’m honest, I was more afraid of being used up. Turned into a lesson. Turned into a plot point people cried over and then moved past.

And I was afraid of wanting things anyway.

Ordinary things. A laugh I didn’t plan. Sore feet after a long walk. A future that didn’t feel like someone else had already written the last page.

And one other thing, too, dangerous in its simplicity: a spark. A connection that didn’t come with a mission statement attached.

If you’re here for clean answers and polished heroism, you might be disappointed.

This story has dirt under its nails. It has longing in places I tried to lock away. It has the taste of fear and the sharp, bright relief of defiance. It has moments where I did what the game says I did… and moments where I did it for reasons the game could never show you, because the camera wasn’t inside my head.

The Lifestream holds all memories, the bitter along with the sweet. Even the prettiest roses have thorns. Consider this your warning: I will not sand them down for comfort.

The woman beside me squeezes my hand once, like a signal. Like: go on.

I take a breath.

I open the book.

Dec 09

My Room

I wake up in my bed. It is an unusually warm day for December in Midgar, but I can’t shake the cold. This chill isn’t from the air. Outside, the sun—or what passes for it through the smog and the massive plates—is already warming the wood of the bedroom floor. It’s a specific kind of cold, the kind that doesn’t come from the weather, but from the Lifestream itself. I can feel the current of the world’s soul tugging at my edges, a low-frequency hum of expectancy that makes my teeth ache.

From downstairs comes the muffled, rhythmic sound of Elmyra in the kitchen. The house is filled with the familiar, earthy scent of damp soil and the sweet, lingering perfume of the lilies and gladiolus waiting in their baskets. Usually, this is a sanctuary—a place where the voices of the Planet are quieted by the comfort of home.

I sit on the edge of my bed. The pink ribbon waits on the nightstand like a tiny flag I haven’t decided to raise.

I know my Fate… sort of. Not a neat timeline, not dates circled in ink, but pressure changes. Feelings. Half-remembered scenes that come with the emotion intact and the details smeared, like rain on a poster. Today has that weight.

I hate that part of me can tell something is coming. I want to live. I want ordinary things: sore feet after a long walk, a laugh I didn’t plan, a future that doesn’t feel like a story somebody else already finished.

And… okay. Fine. I want the spark, too. Love, romance, whatever you call it. Something warm that doesn’t feel borrowed from the Planet.

I want to be wanted. Not as a key. Not as a promise. Just… as me.

But the Planet doesn’t hand out explanations. Just static. A tug. A warning shaped like cold.

So I do the one thing I can do: I get ready anyway.

The mirror is old, its edges silver-pocked, but it reflects the flower girl with haunting accuracy. As I pull my hair back and begin to weave the braid, my fingers tremble. I loop the strand tighter.

If Fate wants me, it can at least wait until my ribbon’s straight.

I tie the pink ribbon, securing my hair and my resolve.

I practice the smile, the one that reaches the eyes just enough to be convincing. A tilt of the head. A softening of the gaze. A curve of the lips that says “I’m fine” even when I’m not.

It is the smile people expect. It is the mask the world always sees.

If the day is already decided, my body didn’t get the memo.

I get up anyway.

The Kitchen

I head down the wooden stairs, each creak sounding like a gunshot in the quiet house. The smell of toasted bread and tea fills the air. Elmyra is there, her back to me as she moves around the small kitchen. She’s my mother in every way that matters.

But even with her, the wall exists. I can’t tell her that the world is about to tilt on its axis.

She turns as I reach the bottom step, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks at me with that keen, maternal instinct that always makes me wonder if she can see right through the mask.

“You’re up early, Aeris,” she says, her voice warm but tinged with concern. “I thought I heard you tossing and turning last night. Are you feeling alright? You look a little… pale.”

“I just had a nightmare, Mom,” I try to assure her.

It isn’t far from the truth. My Fate might as well be a nightmare of the worst kind. My life is becoming a dream I can’t wake up from. I feel like a mess, and I hope she accepts the excuse; it is not the first time I have used it.

Elmyra pauses, her hand lingering on the teapot. She studies me for a long moment, the steam rising between us like a thin veil. She knows about my nightmares—the echoes of a voice she can’t hear.

“A nightmare,” she repeats softly. She doesn’t push. She never does, not anymore. “Well, nightmares usually stay in the dark. Maybe some sunlight and the flowers will help wash it away.”

She sets a plate of simple toast and a small bowl of fruit on the table. “Eat something before you go. You’ll need your strength. I heard some talk at the market yesterday… people are on edge. Shinra’s been increasing patrols even down here in Sector 5.”

As I sit with my breakfast, the house is quiet, but the world outside is waking up. I can hear the distant, metallic groan of the Sector 5 plate above and the faint shouting of neighbors starting their day.

Later today, I will head toward Sector 8—the upper plate, where the businessmen might actually pay a decent price for a bit of nature. But the cold feeling is worsening. It’s like a compass needle inside my chest, pointing toward the evening. Fate won’t leave me alone. I hate it. I can’t just hide; if I refuse, things will be forced, and it might mean hurting innocent people. People like Elmyra, who are dear to me.

Elmyra looks at me, her expression softening. We have lived together long enough that I don’t need to explain the look in my eyes, and she doesn’t need to ask. She just steps in and gives me something to do, anchoring me before the storm hits.

“If you’re looking to help, I could use a few things,” she says, moving to a small chalkboard by the pantry. “I’m running low on tea leaves and some of that bitter root the herbalist sells. And…” She looks at a small, neatly tied bouquet of yellow flowers on the counter. “The children at the Leaf House were asking for something to brighten up their classroom. If you’re heading out to the market anyway, could you drop those off? Ms. Folia would appreciate it.”

She pauses, then adds gently, “It might do you some good to see the kids. They have a way of making the world feel less… heavy.”

She reaches out, briefly squeezing my hand. Her skin is warm, a stark contrast to the chill I feel inside. “Don’t stay out too late today, Aeris. If the air starts to feel… sour… just come home. Promise me?”

“I promise. And I will be back for lunch,” I say quietly.

I hope I can keep that promise.

Leaving the Sanctuary

The garden around the Gainsborough home is an anomaly in the slums—a pocket of green and color where everything beyond the fence is rusted brown and industrial gray.

Even the air is a little lighter here, though the metallic tang of Mako never truly leaves the tongue.

Nothing grows out there. The soil is dead—the reactors pulled the Lifestream out of it years ago, and nothing came back to fill the silence.

I look up. The plate hangs where the sky should be—a ceiling of steel and shadow stretching in every direction, close enough to feel like it’s pressing down.

I kneel beside the lilies. They shouldn’t be here. Nothing should, not without real sunlight, not in this soil. But they are—yellow and stubborn and completely uninterested in the rules of the city above.

They don’t know about Shinra or Fate or any of it. They just are. I envy them at times.

I take a short break here. The Lifestream is a constant noise, something hard to describe—one just has to feel it. If I try, it’s like a radio tuned between stations, filled with the muffled voices of those long gone and those yet to fall. For a moment, I just breathe. It helps, even if only a little.

As I walk down the path toward the Sector 5 center, that cold returns, not as a rope around my ribs but as a fingertip against my sleeve. A tug, a pause, then nothing. When it comes back, it always seems to angle me toward the plate and the station, as if the city itself has a preference.

I could call it fate. I could call it fear. Most days it feels like both, layered together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Either way, I know what it wants: the train to Sector 8, the right alley, the right moment. Not yet. Not while there are groceries to carry and a promise to keep.

The slums are bustling. People haggle over scrap, children chase each other through the dirt, and the faint vibration of Mako reactors fills the air with a constant, low-frequency hum. A few Shinra security officers stand near the station entrance, their helmets gleaming under the artificial light of the plate. They look bored, but their presence is a constant reminder of the mask I have to wear.

The walk to the center of the slums is a familiar one, but today every step is heavier. The Lifestream remains like that radio between stations—a white-noise static of overlapping voices, memories, and warnings. It’s hard to tell where the world’s grief ends and my own begins. Why me? The question echoes inside my mind, but the Lifestream offers no answer, only a ripple of resonance. I am a Cetra, the last of the Ancients. I hear the whispers of the Planet, the Lifestream in ways most people can’t hear.

But right now, even with that noise—or perhaps because of it—I am entirely alone.

The Leaf House

The Leaf House is a small oasis of noise and life. As I approach, the industrial hum of Mako pipes is momentarily drowned out by a chorus of high-pitched voices. Outside, older children play with a ball made of bundled rags, kicking it against a rusted, corrugated wall.

Sadness swells inside me. Fate. The future. Not just mine, but theirs too. The kids are lucky; the future is a weight they don’t have to carry yet. Today, that weight threatens to break me. Why must it be me? Is it because of what I am, or simply my heritage?

I step through the doorway. The scent of yellow lilies in my arms clashes with the smell of old paper, chalk dust, and the faint, ever-present odor of grease from the nearby workshops. The interior is a world away from the cold steel and Mako-choked air of the upper plate. Here, the walls are covered in colorful, smudged drawings of the sun, Chocobos, and strange trees that the children have only ever seen in picture books.

Ms. Folia is at the front of the room, her back to me as she writes on a cracked chalkboard. She turns as the door creaks, her tired eyes lighting up.

“Aeris! Just the person we needed,” she says, wiping chalk dust onto her apron. “The children were getting restless with the history lesson. I think a bit of nature study is exactly what the doctor ordered.”

A small group of children—Mugger, Oates, and several others—abandon their drawings and scramble toward me. They don’t see the Ancients’ burden or the mask. To them, I am simply the lady who brings the outside world into their cramped, shaded reality.

“Are those the ones that smell like lemon?” a young boy named Mugger asks, leaning in so close his nose almost touches a petal. He looks up at me with wide, curious eyes. “Ms. Folia says they grow in the dirt just like we do. Is that true? Do they have to hide from the Shinra men too?”

I look down at Mugger. His face is a map of the slums—grease smudges on his forehead and a scraped knee—but his eyes are filled with pure curiosity.

It’s the kind of gaze that makes the mask feel like a physical weight against my cheekbones. I must keep it in place. For them, I am not a Cetra or a martyr; I am the girl who brings the light.

“They don’t hide, Mugger,” I say, my voice soft and melodic—the perfect flower girl pitch. I crouch down to his eye level, the yellow lilies clutched gently. “The flowers are much braver than that. They grow right where everyone can see them, even in the dirt, because they want to share their color with the world.”

I pull a single, sturdy bloom from the bouquet and hand it to him. “They don’t even hide from the Shinra men. They try to bring a smile to everyone who sees them—even those who have forgotten how to smile.”

Mugger takes the flower as if it’s made of glass, his eyes wide. “Are they… are they like you, Aeris?”

The question catches me off guard. The Lifestream gives a low, resonant thrum in my ears—a vibration that feels like a bittersweet yes.

“In some ways, I suppose they are,” I reply, my smile holding firm even as my heart aches.

Ms. Folia approaches, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Aeris. Truly. It’s hard to teach them about a world they can’t see. These help make it real for them.”

She leads the children away to find water for the bouquet. For a brief moment, I stand alone in the center of the room. The cold feeling remains; if anything, the warmth of the children makes the coming shadows feel darker. I watch their small backs, their laughter echoing against the wood.

The weight of my knowledge returns. I am not just protecting myself; I am protecting this. This small, fragile pocket of humanity that doesn’t know the sky is falling.

The Market

I step back out into the bright, dusty air. The market is a short walk away. Vendors call out prices for “fresh” vegetables that look anything but, and the air is filled with the clinking of metal as scrap dealers sort through their morning hauls.

I have the errand for my mother, so I find the herbalist. The old man perches his spectacles on the tip of his nose as he weighs out dried leaves.

“Ah, the Gainsborough girl,” he grunts, though a flicker of recognition in his eyes might be called kindness in another world. “I have the tea and the bitter root. Just 50 Gil today, since your mother’s been a loyal customer.”

He slides the small brown paper packages across the rough wooden counter. As I reach for them, my fingers brush the wood and a sharp, sudden flash—a memory or a future—flickers in my mind.

The screech of metal on metal. The smell of burning Mako. A massive explosion lighting up the night sky.

The vision passes as quickly as it came, leaving me lightheaded. The herbalist frowns at me. “You alright? You look like you just saw a Ghost.”

In this moment, I hate the Lifestream. I hate Fate. I hate that I can’t just be a normal girl, running her errands.

“Just a memory from a nightmare,” I breathe, forcing the flower girl lilt back into my voice as the mask wobbles. “50 Gil,” I sing, letting the coin’s rhythm distract from the chill.

I pay him and turn away. The cold from the morning is no longer a shiver, but a compass pointing toward the station. It wants me to hurry.

But I am not ready yet. I want a little bit of a normal life first.

I push the urgency away and head back to the only home I know.

The walk back to the Gainsborough house feels lighter. By ignoring the pull toward the station, the cold recedes into a dull, frustrated thrum. I pass the same scrap heaps and the same tired people, but now I have a purpose of my own, not the grand fate of the Planet.

As I reach the garden gate, the scent of the lilies greets me like an old friend. The garden feels more vibrant than the rest of the world—proof of what the Lifestream can do when someone listens.

The Garden Special

I leave the packages for Elmyra on the porch and take my flower basket to the center of the flowerbed. I begin filling it with a variety: lilies, daisies, gerberas, foxtails.

I need choice for the theater crowds. Choice makes people feel like the world is wider than it is.

Then I feel it, a note in the Planet’s noise that doesn’t belong to Shinra or the Reactor hum. Not a command. Not even a warning. Just… a curious little ping that lands behind my heart and rings once.

I find the lily without thinking. Yellow, perfect, too bright for a place like this.

I kneel, the damp earth of the flowerbed pressing into my dress, my palms cupping the stem.

I don’t speak in words, because words are for people who can pretend the world is simple.

I reach down into that old, wordless place, the Cetra place, and I try something I’m not even sure is real. Not a spell. Not a beacon. More like breathing warmth onto glass and hoping a shape stays for a moment.

A tiny thread of intent slips into the flower, and immediately I feel how flimsy it is. It doesn’t settle so much as it shivers, like a candle flame in a draft.

If you go somewhere… let me hear one heartbeat of it. Just one.

The sensation is so faint I almost miss it. A quick spark in my palm, then the Lifestream swallows it back into static, as if reminding me that nothing I touch stays mine for long. Still, the lily feels… marked. Not loudly. Not safely. Just enough that, for a little while, I might catch an aftertaste of where it’s been.

I place it on top of the basket anyway, separate from the rest, as careful as if it might break from being looked at too hard.

Home for Lunch

Inside, the house is quiet and the table is set. Elmyra looks up as I enter, her eyes immediately darting to the basket and then to my face. She sees the dirt on my knees and the determined set of my jaw.

“You’re back,” she says, a note of relief in her voice. She gestures to the chair. “Sit. The soup is still hot.”

Lunch is a simple affair—vegetable broth with crusty bread. For a few minutes, the only sound is the clink of spoons against ceramic and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the clock.

It’s so normal. It’s so precious.

“You’re going to Sector 8 later, aren’t you?” Elmyra asks quietly, not looking up from her bowl. It isn’t a question of if, but when. She’s known me my whole life; she knows when the flowers start calling me away.

The vegetable broth is warm, but it can’t reach the center of that cold void in my chest. I watch the steam curl from the bowl, lost in the rhythm of the house.

This room, with its mismatched chairs and the smell of Elmyra’s tea, feels like a dream I am about to wake up from.

“There’s a play today,” I say. I force my voice to be steady and bright, finding that perfect flower girl pitch even as my throat tightens. “It’s always good for sales. The theater-goers like to feel romantic before the curtain rises.”

Elmyra nods, though her eyes remain fixed on me. “Just don’t get caught up in the crowds, Aeris. And keep an eye on the Shinra patrols. They’ve been… restless.”

She knows I am holding something back, but she’s learned over the years that some of my secrets are too heavy for her to carry.

I finish the last of the bread, feeling the weight of the special flower in my basket. It sits right on top, its petals shimmering with a light only I can see.

It is a tiny spark of rebellion against Fate. Yet this little lily feels like a destiny for me.

I glance at the clock; the hands have swept past midday, marking the steady march of a day that feels like any other, yet feels like no other at all. The trip topside is a familiar one. If I leave now, I’ll reach the upper plate by mid-afternoon—timed perfectly to arrive before the first bells of the theater district ring and the crowds begin to swell.

I stand up and smooth my dress. I grab my basket, the handle familiar and worn. As I walk toward the door, I pass the mirror one last time.

The mask is perfect. The smile is there.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I tell Elmyra, leaning over to give her a lingering squeeze on the shoulder.

“I’ll have the kettle on,” she promises.

I step out into the afternoon sun. The cold is no longer just a feeling; it’s a physical pull, like a hook in my navel drawing me toward the Sector 5 Station. I walk through the slums, past the junk heaps and the huddled corrugated shacks. The air is thick with the scent of Mako and dust, but as I approach the station, the atmosphere shifts.

Between Two Worlds

The walk from home to the station usually feels like a neighborhood stroll, but today, the air at the station entrance is thick with ozone and sweat. Shinra has tripled the guards.

I see them before they see me: Security Officers in dull blue-gray armor, helmets obscuring their faces, rifles slung with casual menace over their shoulders. They set up a temporary checkpoint at the turnstiles. People are pulled aside, their ID cards checked against a handheld terminal that chirps with cold, digital indifference.

My heart does that familiar, frantic dance.

Do they know? No, they couldn’t. To them, I should be invisible. Just another girl from the slums with a basket of flowers.

“Next!” a guard barks.

I step forward. The mask is tight, the smile practiced and disarming. I hold out my pass—the legal tether to a city that wants to cage me.

The guard looks at the pass, then at me. His visor reflects my face back—braided hair, green eyes, the pink ribbon. He lingers a second too long. I can feel the Lifestream humming a warning, a sharp prickle at the base of my neck.

“Flowers?” he asks, his voice muffled by the helmet.

“Just some color for the folks topside, sir,” I say, voice as light as a breeze. “Would you like one? It might brighten up the shift.”

He grunts, waving me through with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Just move along. Don’t block the way.”

I slip through the turnstile, the metal cold against my hip. I am in, but the feeling of being watched doesn’t fade. It never really does.

The train is a rusted, rattling beast, its interior lit by flickering fluorescent tubes that make everyone look like ghosts. I find a seat by the window and pull my basket close to my lap.

As the train begins its ascent, the world outside the glass starts to change.

First, there are the slums. From this height, they look like a wound in the earth—a chaotic jumble of corrugated metal, scrap heaps, and the dim, flickering orange of cook-fires. There are the massive support pillars—the legs of the city—rising up like the trunks of iron trees.

Then the train enters the dark. For a few minutes, we travel through the guts of Midgar. Massive Mako pipes glow a sickly green, pulsing in the walls. The sound is deafening—the screech of metal on metal as the train climbs the steep incline toward the plate.

In the reflection of the window, I see the other passengers. A tired salaryman clutching his briefcase, a young couple whispering to each other, a mother holding her child. They are all so close, yet miles apart.

They see a girl with flowers; I see the threads of fate tightening around all of them.

And then, the light changes.

The darkness of the under-city breaks, and suddenly, I am bathed in the artificial glow of Sector 8. My eyes sting, trying to catch up. Rusted brown is replaced by polished chrome. The smell of grease and damp earth is sucked away by the train’s ventilation, replaced by the scent of filtered air and expensive chemicals.

The doors hiss open at the Sector 8 station. The air here is colder, sharper. People move faster, their shoes clicking sharply on pristine tiles. They don’t look at each other; they look at their watches and their phones.

I step out onto the platform. The cold compass in my chest isn’t just pointing; it is vibrating. I am here. I walk toward the exit, emerging onto the street.

Sector 8 hits me in the ribs every time, too big and too bright to take in all at once. The buildings are massive, draped in neon signs that cast long, colorful shadows across the pavement. Distant music from a theater provides a soundtrack to the city’s frantic pulse.

I find my way to Loveless Avenue. The street is lined with brick buildings that try to look old and dignified—a fake history for a city built on a metal plate.

The afternoon sun begins to dip, but up here, the transition to night is masked by the hum of massive electric signs. The neon glows in shades of electric blue and violent violet, reflecting off the polished pavement.

I find my usual spot—a sturdy lamp post near the fountain, not far from the theater entrance. The air is filled with the scent of expensive tobacco, ozone, and the faint, citrusy perfume of upper-class women.

I set the basket down. The special lily sits right on top. Its glow is subtle enough that most would miss it, but for me, it feels like a warm heartbeat in a city of cold machines.

“Flowers! Beautiful flowers, freshly picked!” I call out, the mask settling firmly into place. My voice is melodic, cutting through the mechanical thrum of the city.

The Topside Tax

A young couple stops. He is dressed in a crisp Shinra middle-management suit, his hair slicked back with too much gel. She wears a dress that likely costs more than a slum house, her eyes scanning the street with a bored, detached expression.

“Oh, look, Gerald,” the woman says, pointing a gloved finger toward my basket. “Real ones. They aren’t the synthetic ones from the boutique.”

The man sighs, reaching for his wallet. “How much for a bunch? Make it quick, the curtain is in twenty minutes.”

He doesn’t even look at me. He looks at the basket as if it’s a vending machine. I know the type well enough; to men like him, girls like me are just part of the scenery, a touch of slum authenticity for their evening.

The neon of Loveless Avenue glints off the polished pavement, turning the world into a blur of artificial colors. I adjust my basket, making sure the lily is tucked slightly toward the back, shielded from the greedy or careless eyes of people like Gerald.

I take in the woman’s expensive dress, then the man’s impatient expression. The mask is perfect.

“For a gentleman with such fine taste,” I say, my voice dripping with sweetness—and a hint of a topside tax. “These lilies are 500 Gil. They’re the only real ones you’ll find on this block today. Very rare.”

Gerald scoffs, but the woman is already reaching for the flowers. “500? That’s highway robbery for something that’s going to wilt in three days,” he grumbles. But under the sharp glare of his partner, he sighs and pulls out his wallet, slapping five 100-Gil notes into my hand.

“Keep the change,” he mutters, though there wasn’t any.

I hand them a bunch of standard white lilies—the ones that are pretty but don’t hold the spark.

“Thank you! Have a wonderful show,” I chirp, giving them a little wave as they vanish into the crowd.

Men. Are they all like that?

As the time passes, I move through the flow of the upper-class crowd. I sell a daisy to a nervous boy waiting for a date and a foxtail to an older woman who actually takes a second to smell it. I play the part perfectly—the quaint girl from below, the bringer of color.

My purse gets heavier, but my heart stays heavy too.

Every time the theater doors open or a car screeches, I feel a jolt in my chest.

The business is a distraction, but it’s like trying to ignore a drum beating in a quiet room.

The Lifestream isn’t just whispering now; it’s humming.

The Gilded Leaf

The initial rush for the theater has died down. The streets are still busy, but the frantic energy has shifted into a low, evening simmer. My stomach gives a small, insistent growl, reminding me that the vegetable broth from lunch is long gone.

I look down the street. Tucked away between two towering steel buildings is a small, glass-fronted cafe. It looks out of place here—too small, too quiet—but it has a view of the main square.

I pick up the basket. There are still plenty of flowers left.

But I need to rest my feet and satisfy the girl behind the mask before the woman of Fate takes over.

The cafe is called The Gilded Leaf—an irony, considering the only real leaves in the room are the ones resting in my basket. It’s a clean, quiet space with soft jazz playing over the speakers—a refuge for those who want to feel important but aren’t ready for the high-end bistros closer to Shinra HQ.

The air here doesn’t smell like the slums. It doesn’t even smell like the streets outside. It smells of expensive roasted beans and the faint, chemical floral scent of automated cleaning systems.

There is a small, secluded table in the corner. I order a “Sector 8 Special”—a toasted sandwich with thinly sliced ham and melted cheese that tastes suspiciously perfect, along with a cup of herbal tea that costs three times what it should.

As I wait for the food, I tuck the basket under the table but keep my hand on the handle. The special lily is still there, its light hidden by the shadow of the table’s edge. When the sandwich arrives, I take a bite. It’s delicious in a way that feels artificial. The bread is too soft, the ham too pink. It’s the taste of a world that has mastered the appearance of life without the substance of it.

I chew slowly, savoring the warmth, trying to ground myself in the now.

This might be the last time. The thought isn’t a fear; it’s a quiet observation. If the future holds what I have felt—the escaping, the fighting, the journey across the world—the life of quiet meals and selling flowers is already over.

I look out the window. Neon signs for Loveless and Shinra Electric reflect in the glass, overlaying the world outside with a grid of light.

The Lifestream is still humming, but the cold has settled into a steady, watchful presence. It feels quieter when I’m where I’m expected to be, as if the Whispers, close enough to feel like a hand at the back of my neck, are hovering just out of sight, waiting to see if I’ll step off the path.

I look down at my hand. A smudge of dirt from my garden is still under my fingernail. I don’t wipe it away.

It’s a piece of home I can carry into Shinra’s polished world.

The phantom pressure of the fate still presses against my shoulders.

I don’t like the sensation. Not fear exactly, more like being held at arm’s length by something that thinks it knows what’s best for me.

I signal the waiter—a young man with a stiff collar and a practiced, distant smile—and order a small “Berry Tart.” It arrives looking like a work of art: a bright red glaze, a perfectly piped dollop of cream and a tiny dusting of gold leaf.

It’s sweet—almost too sweet—but it’s a distraction.

As I take a bite, a flash of an image strikes me. It’s not the fire of the reactor or the cold steel of the Shinra building.

It’s a Chocobo.

A bright, feathered yellow blur, a scent of hay and sunshine, and a cheerful kweh!

It’s so out of place in this sterile cafe that I almost laugh. The Lifestream is supposed to be full of the memories of the world and the warnings of the future, yet here it is, sending me a bird.

Is the Planet trying to tell me a joke? I wonder. Or is it just showing me something that has nothing to do with Midgar, as if to remind me there’s a world beyond this plate?

Whatever it is, the image lingers—a bright spot of yellow that matches the lily in the basket.

I finish the tart, pay the bill, and pick up my things.

The Chaos

The air outside has turned significantly colder. The sun is long gone, but the avenues are still brightly lit by the relentless neon glow.

I step back onto the sidewalk of Loveless Avenue. The street is busier than ever. The late-night crowd is out: people in suits, teenagers trying to look older than they are, and more Shinra patrols. The atmosphere is electric, but brittle—like glass that’s been tapped too many times.

“Flowers? Would you like a flower?” I call out.

The mask is back on, but it’s thinner now. The vibration in my chest is no longer a hum; it’s a rhythmic pounding that matches the beat of the city’s heart.

I can feel the countdown.

A group of rowdy businessmen, clearly having had a few too many drinks at a nearby bar, stumbles past. One reaches out toward my basket, his hand clumsy.

“Hey, girlie, how much for the yellow one?” he slurs, fingers inching toward the special lily.

I pull the basket back with a sharpness that surprises me. My heart hammers.

“Not for sale,” I say, my voice dropping the flower girl lilt for a second. “That one is… spoken for.”

He grumbles about “uppity slum girls” and moves on, but the encounter leaves me shaken. I tuck that lily deeper under the edge of the basket’s rim, making sure it’s shielded.

It’s the only thread I don’t want to lose.

The crowds start to thin as the theaters close and people head for the late-night trains. I have sold enough to make a good profit, but I still have flowers left. I stand near the corner, the massive neon sign for LOVELESS buzzing above me.

I find myself looking at the clock on the wall of a nearby electronics shop.

The air around begins to change. It isn’t just the cold of the night anymore; it’s a thickening of the atmosphere, as if the air itself is becoming heavy, like breathing through wet cloth. I feel them—the Whispers. They aren’t fully visible yet, but they are like invisible hands plucking at my sleeves, cold fingers brushing against my hair, subtly trying to nudge my center of gravity toward the station.

The massive neon LOVELESS sign above buzzes with a low hum that vibrates in my teeth. But I stand my ground. I plant my feet on the cold, polished pavement and tighten my grip on the handle of my basket.

Not yet. I’ll go when I’m ready. Not because the wind tells me to.

The people around are oblivious. A group of theater staff are locking the main doors. A security drone drifts overhead, its red eye scanning the sidewalk. Everything feels too tight, like the city is holding its breath.

Then, it happens.

It isn’t a sound at first. It’s a shockwave through the plate. I feel it in my boots. The buildings groan.

Then comes the sound.

A low, muffled boom rolls across the city. It’s heavy, laden with the weight of thousands of tons of machinery being torn apart. Far in the distance, past the skyscrapers, a plume of sickly green Mako-fire blooms against the dark sky, reflecting off the steel like a bruise.

Reactor 1.

For a moment, everything seems to be still. The silence is absolute, heavy, and entirely wrong.

Then, that silence is vaporized. Whatever was holding, breaks.

It really is happening.

Inside the nearby shops, alarms begin to wail. The security drone above stops, its light turning a frantic, blinking crimson. The few people remaining on the street freeze, their faces illuminated by the distant, eerie green glow.

“What was that?” someone screams. “An explosion! At the reactor!”

The transition to the nightmare of the reactor bombing is instantaneous. One moment, Sector 8 is a playground for the wealthy; the next, it is a theater of panic.

All day I’ve been waiting for this. Now that it’s here, I don’t feel ready at all.

The Chocobo

The sirens are a physical assault, a high-pitched wail that cuts through the hum of neon. People are no longer theater-goers; they are a panicked herd. Some run toward the station, others huddle in doorways, staring north where the Mako-smoke rises up toward the darkness of the night.

I stand in the middle of it all, knuckles white as I grip my basket. The flower girl mask is fractured. I am not smiling anymore, though I try to keep my breathing steady.

A part of me wants to shout at them—to tell them it was necessary, or to tell them to run—but the words die in my throat.

Frustration washes over me as the Whispers begin to swarm.

Have I not done enough? I am here. I didn’t hide. Why do you need me in that specific shadow?

The Whispers don’t care about convenience. To them, I am a fixed point that must be aligned. They swirl around me, a localized vortex of cold, gray light. To the people running past, I look like a girl caught in a sudden, invisible gale—my dress fluttering, arms raised as if to ward off a swarm of bees they cannot perceive.

I stumble back, pushed by the weight of Fate’s insistence. I am being corralled, moved away from the main thoroughfare toward a quieter, shadowed corner near a brick wall. I take a deep breath, forcing my feet to move toward the spot they’ve chosen. Every step feels like walking through deep water.

And then, the cold in my chest snaps into a burning heat. It’s not the reactor. It’s a presence. It’s a disruption in the Lifestream so loud it drowns out the sirens. It smells of ozone, old memories, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of Mako.

I turn. Emerging from the smoke and shadows of the alleyway is a man who seems like a ghost from my past. He wears what looks like a SOLDIER uniform—though it’s worn, the scuffed purple-blue fabric telling its own story. On his back is a sword that looks too heavy for any man to carry, yet he moves with a lethal, feline grace. But it’s his eyes that stop my heart. They aren’t just blue; they glow with that haunting, iridescent Mako-light.

He looks confused, his hand reaching for his head as if fighting a ghost of his own. He sees me—a girl in a pink dress, standing in a swirl of invisible shadows, clutching flowers while the world burns.

The chaos of the street fades into a muffled roar, like listening to a storm from underwater.

There he is. The focal point. The one the Whispers have been steering me toward. And all I can think about is a bird.

I look at the spiky, defiant shocks of his blonde hair, illuminated by the neon glare, and a small, hysterical bubble of laughter almost escapes my lips.

Chocobo. The Lifestream’s “joke” from the cafe finally makes sense. It’s a strange, grounding thought—a flash of absurdity in a moment that feels otherwise suffocating. It helps me keep the mask from cracking completely.

But as I look closer, the amusement dies. He feels… fragmented. Through the Lifestream, his presence isn’t a steady stream; it’s a jagged, flickering flame. There is a wrongness to him, a dissonance in his soul that makes my skin prickle.

Beneath the Mako-stench there’s an echo of a ghost, someone I should have known, a memory that refuses to line up with the man in front of me.

I feel no spark of romance. No neat destiny like the stories promise. What I feel is stranger: wariness, curiosity, and a thread of compassion I can’t quite cut.

And duty, yes. The kind you can’t explain without sounding like a lunatic.

Still… I lift my chin and let the flower girl smile do its work.

If the day is trying to steer me, it can try harder. I’ll move on my own feet.

He stops a few feet away. Still half-lost in his own head, his Mako-eyes darting around as if searching for an invisible enemy. He looks at me, and for a second, the confusion in his gaze is so raw it almost makes me want to reach out.

Almost.

The Whispers are humming, a low-frequency vibration that says: Proceed. Act. Give him the flower.

I reach into my basket. I don’t take a standard daisy. I take the one I saved for this moment. The lily—the one I infused with a sliver of the Lifestream and myself.

If I am forced to give him a part of my life, I will do it on my own terms. I am turning this gift—which Fate and the Whispers are forcing me to give—into something of my own, without them knowing.

The contrast between the cosmic weight the Whispers place on this moment and the reality of standing in front of a confused, spiky-haired man is almost comical. I have lived with the dread of this destiny for so long, and yet, looking at him, he just looks like a bird out of water.

The Whispers are agitated. They swirl in a tight, frantic halo around me, their cold touch urging me to speak, to engage, to fulfill the “Legend of the Flower Girl.” They want the pitch. They want the connection.

I step forward, boots clicking softly on the pavement. Looking at this Chocobo of a man, I find it hard to maintain the gravity of the situation.

This is it? The warrior, the savior? He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

“Are you okay?” I ask, voice the perfect chime of the flower girl. I gesture toward the smoke. “That was quite an explosion.”

He looks at me, his brow furrowed, his hand dropping from his hilt but staying close to it. He’s staring at me as if I am a ghost.

“You should get out of here,” he finally grunts, his voice raspy and cold, though it lacks the conviction of a man who actually wants someone to leave.

I ignore the dismissal and hold out the lily. Its petals catch every bit of light on the street, glowing with a soft, warm amber that defies the sickly green of the reactor fire.

“Here,” I say, a faint, sad smile touching my lips—one that isn’t entirely part of the mask. “For you. A flower.”

As his gloved hand reaches out, hesitant and stiff, I feel the trace I left on the petals vibrate. The moment his fingers brush the stem, my little trace flares. For a second I get only impressions: Mako-bright and wrong, a tremor in him that doesn’t match his voice. Then it blurs.

For a second it feels like a thread. Not a rope, not something I can pull. Just a flicker that says: there you are.

“A flower,” I repeat, voice steady despite the chaos. “A symbol of… well, many things. In the language of flowers, yellow lilies can mean many things. New beginnings. Or a light in the dark.”

He looks down at the bloom. For a split second, the Mako-glow in his eyes seems to flicker. He looks like he’s trying to remember something being suppressed by a wall of static.

“I don’t… I don’t need a flower,” he grunts, his voice sounding more like a defense mechanism. He reaches into his belt and pulls out a single Gil coin, holding it out without quite looking at me. He drops the coin toward my hand more than into it. “For the flower.”

Even as he takes it, something threads back through the lily, thin as spider silk.

For a heartbeat, I feel him: the heavy thud of his pulse, the sharp, metallic taste of Mako, the way his hand is too tense to be casual. Then the sensation wavers, breaks into static, and slips away like it never happened.

“It’s a beautiful flower,” I say, the flower girl smile returning, though it feels like a thin veil over my curiosity. “Take good care of it. It’s sturdier than it looks.” I tilt my head. “Unlike some people, yeah?”

The Escape

The moment is shattered by heavy boots and the harsh barking of a megaphone.

“FREEZE! SHINRA SECURITY! DON’T MOVE!”

From the end of the alleyway, a squad of Shinra Security Officers appears, rifles leveled. Red lasers dance across the brick walls, settling on the man with the massive sword. They don’t seem to care about the flower girl.

The soldier’s posture changes instantly. Any hesitation vanishes from his frame, his stance dropping into the sudden, lethal stillness of a predator.

I watch him for one heartbeat longer—this man who carries himself like a weapon but looks at the world with the eyes of a lost child.

A pet. The thought makes me want to smirk, even with the sirens screaming. He certainly has the stubbornness of one.

But the flash of steel as he draws that impossibly large sword is my cue to leave.

I am glad that it is over.

The first crack of gunfire echoes through the street. I don’t scream. I have lived under the shadow of Shinra my entire life; I know exactly when to become invisible.

I slip backward into a familiar alleyway, the darkness swallowing my pink dress. To the Shinra officers, I am just a blur of movement. They have larger, spikier problems now.

As I navigate the labyrinth of brick and pipes, I can still feel it. The lily.

It’s a strange sensation. I’m running through damp alleys, breath burning, and for a few seconds my awareness keeps catching on that flower like a snagged thread.

Not his whole world. Not images. Just impressions, faint and uninvited: the sharp flare of Mako, a jolt of impact that rattles up my bones like a remembered bruise, and then only static.

I blink hard, and it’s gone.

Then it stutters. Thins. Collapses.

Good. Don’t make this easy to rely on.

I force my feet to keep moving.

And because I can’t help myself, even with my heart in my throat: Take care of the lily, okay? It’s better at pretending to be brave than I am.

Emerging a few blocks away, the chaos has changed. People are running in every direction. The tiles of Sector 8 are scuffed with soot.

I smooth my hair, adjust the ribbon, and pull my basket close. I keep moving, forcing myself not to look back.

I put on the face of a girl who is simply terrified and trying to get home, a role that, for once, isn’t much of a lie.

The station is a nightmare. Steel shutters are halfway down, and a line of Security Officers blocks the entrance.

“Station’s closed! Security sweep in progress!” a guard shouts.

I approach the station, eyes wide, looking small and harmless. I find a guard who looks younger than the others, his hands shaking slightly as he grips his rifle.

“Please, sir,” I say, voice trembling just enough. “I was just selling my flowers… then the explosion happened. I need to get back to my mother in Sector 5. Is there any way through?”

I push the sensation of the lily to the far corners of my mind.

It’s a strange hum, like a distant radio station, but I have a more immediate wall to climb.

The young guard’s eyes shift. He’s gripping his rifle so hard his knuckles are white. He looks like a boy who thought he’d just be patrolling a peaceful theater district, only to have a reactor blow up on his shift.

I hold up the basket. The colorful petals look absurdly peaceful against the backdrop of sirens and smoke.

I take a step closer, letting the scent of the flowers reach him, cutting through the acrid smell of burning Mako. I let the mask soften—not into the perky flower girl, but into someone who understands what it’s like to be afraid.

“It’s a long night, isn’t it?” I whisper, voice a calm anchor in the sea of sirens. “I’m sure there’s someone somewhere who’s worried about you right now. A girlfriend? Or maybe a very special someone waiting for you to come off shift?”

The guard blinks, his posture faltering just a fraction. He looks down at me, then at the basket. “I… yeah. My fiancé. She’s in Sector 7. She hates it when I’m on the late rotation.”

I reach into my basket and pull out two white lilies—the ones that signify purity and devotion. I hold them out, their petals pristine even in this grimy light.

“Take these for her,” I say with a gentle smile. “Tell her you were thinking of her even when things got loud. It might make the wait a little easier.”

He looks at the flowers, then at the entrance. For a long, heavy second, he just stands there. The rigid, drilled Shinra posture falters, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he stares at the bright white petals.

“I shouldn’t…” he starts, but his hand reaches out and takes the lilies. He tucks them into a pocket on his tactical vest. “The last train for the lower sectors is on Platform 3. They’re about to leave. If you hurry, I… I didn’t see you.”

He steps aside.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, a genuine flash of gratitude breaking through. “Stay safe.”

I move. Slip through the gap, feet flying over the polished tiles. I reach Platform 3 just as the automated chime for departure begins to ring—a digital sound mocking the chaos around.

I throw myself through the sliding doors of the last car. They hiss shut with a finality that makes my heart skip.

I almost missed it. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t made it.

The train is nearly empty. A few soot-covered laborers, an old man sleeping against the window, and the hollow silence of a city in shock. As the train pulls away, I feel the sickening drop in my stomach as we begin the steep descent from the “Heavens” of the plate back down to the “Hell” of the slums.

Outside the window, the neon lights of Sector 8 blur into streaks of violet and gold, giving way to the pulsing green of the Mako pipes.

Following the Lily

The train finally comes to a shuddering halt at the Sector 5 station. The doors hiss open, and the air that greets me is a thick, familiar soup of Mako, rust, and damp earth. It is home, but after the sterile air of the plate, it feels suffocatingly small.

A few Shinra soldiers are here, looking tired and confused, likely having received only frantic, partial reports about the Reactor 1 bombing and the chaos in Sector 8. They aren’t checking IDs; they’re too busy trying to radio their superiors.

I step onto the platform, my legs feeling like lead. Adrenaline fades, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. I have a long walk ahead of me through the silent, dark slums to reach the Gainsborough house.

The station clock shows it is well past one in the morning. It is not the first time I have taken the last train home, but with the explosion, Elmyra must be worried sick. The walk through Sector 5 is lonely. Low-wattage streetlamps hum with a dying yellow light, casting long, distorted shadows of rusted pipes and corrugated metal against the dirt.

The slums are used to noises. A muffled boom from several sectors away is just another industrial groan in a city that is constantly falling apart. Most people here are asleep, or pretending to be, but the silence is deceptive. It feels like the world is holding its breath.

As I walk, feet dragging slightly in the dust, I decide to check on the lily. I don’t have much energy, but I know it might be gone by morning. I let my consciousness slip out, reaching for the tiny beacon through the chaos of the Lifestream.

The air around me seems to change. It is no longer the ozone and filtered cold of Sector 8, but a familiar slum scent—different from Sector 5. It smells of roasted meat, cheap ale, and the sharp tang of sawdust. The lily is still moving, tucked safely inside a pocket, when I feel a sudden warmth.

Did the Chocobo find a roost?

There is a shift in the air—the presence of someone else. Not a soldier, but someone warm, whose energy feels grounded, resilient, and deeply worried.

I feel myself being pulled from the darkness of a pocket. The smells are more refined than outside. Beer. Coffee. Hint of vanilla. For a fleeting second, I sense his Mako-eyes through the proximity of the flower. And then, the transfer happens. The rough leather of the soldier’s glove is replaced by the soft, warm skin of a woman’s hand. These hands are used to work. As she takes the stem, the trace flares one last time. I feel her surprise, her tenderness, and a sudden, sharp spike of grief that isn’t mine. I feel her gaze on the yellow petals; for a moment, it feels like she is looking straight at me through the flower.

Did she see me? Feel me?

My mind fills with more questions than answers. My heart skips a beat at her touch and a blush rises to my cheeks.

This was not something I planned.

I feel myself being placed into a mug of water. The sensation of cool water rising up the stem is the last thing I feel before the magic flickers and dies. The thread snaps, and the golden trace dissolves into the night air.

The cool night air usually calms me, but the heat in my cheeks feels like a fire I can’t put out. That brief, electric spark was human and warm—utterly unexpected.

I was ready for the man and the sword from the dreams, but my heart didn’t skip for him. It skipped for her.

How? Why? My mind racing as I reach the porch. I don’t even know her name. I don’t know the color of her eyes. But her touch… it felt like home. He gets to stand in her presence while I’m here, miles away, walking toward a future I can’t quite see.

The Kitchen Talk

The garden gate creaks—a sound that usually brings me peace, but tonight it feels like an accusation. The house is dark, except for a single, low light glowing in the kitchen window.

I walk up the porch steps, basket almost empty. I leave the last flowers on the porch; they can be taken to the Leaf House tomorrow. I can smell the tea from here.

I push the door open. The familiar creak of the floorboards usually grounds me, but tonight, it feels like I am floating in a strange, new current.

Elmyra stands up so quickly her chair nearly topples. The light of the single lamp catches the deep lines of worry on her face. She rushes toward me, her hands outstretched, but she stops short when she sees me.

She was bracing for a girl traumatized by a bombing, covered in soot and shaking with fear. That much is written across her face. Instead, she sees me standing there, eyes bright with a confusing fire, and a deep blush staining my cheeks.

“Aeris?” she breathes, her voice trembling. She presses her cool palm to my forehead. “Oh, mercy, you’re burning up. Are you hurt? Did something happen in Sector 8? The radio said…” She looks me up and down, checking for wounds, but all she sees is the Gil coin clutched in my hand and the way I am biting my lip, lost in a thought that clearly isn’t about the explosion.

“You look… different,” Elmyra says, her tone shifting from pure panic to a mother’s keen suspicion. “Your heart is racing, I can see it in your neck. Aeris, talk to me. What happened up there? Who did you meet?”

The kettle on the stove begins to whistle—a sharp, piercing sound that cuts through the heavy atmosphere of the kitchen.

Inside my head is a mess. I didn’t think it was possible to be more messed up than I already was by Fate and the Lifestream. But there it is. The soldier is gone from my mind.

I don’t even know what I could tell Elmyra. She wouldn’t believe.

There is anxiety, and then rising panic inside. I sigh to myself. There is no way I can just brush this off. And, I think I don’t even want to. But this is so much. Maybe too much even for me.

And my mother, Elmyra, has always been protective in an old-world way. If I told her that I felt a woman’s touch, I don’t know what kind of fear it would put in her.

The whistle of the kettle dies down, leaving a silence in the kitchen that feels heavy with things unsaid. Elmyra moves with the mechanical grace of someone who has spent years perfecting the art of mothering through a crisis. She pours the tea—steaming, dark, and smelling of bitter herbs—and slides a mug toward me.

She sits across, her eyes never leaving my face. She sees the blush. She sees the way I am not looking at the Gil coin, but rather staring into the middle distance as if I am still feeling something she can’t see.

Elmyra looks at the Gil coin, and then back up to my flushed face. Her expression shifts, the motherly curiosity hardening into something brittle and frightened.

“Aeris,” she starts, her voice dropping into a tight whisper. “Was it… him? The one who gave you that coin?”

She has always seemed like a traditional woman. I know she watched me spend years waiting for him to return, even if my reasons had nothing to do with romance, I know how it must have looked to her. I know her history, too. In her eyes, a girl and a soldier probably only equal one tragic, familiar equation.

When I finally speak, I choose the safest words. “I think the Lifestream… brushed against me.” My voice drops, almost embarrassed. “And now I keep listening for it to come back.”

Elmyra’s hand freezes on her own mug. To her, messages from the Planet have always been the source of sorrow, the reason Shinra hunts me, and the cause of those nightmares. She has never heard me speak of the Lifestream with a tone of… want.

“A touch?” she asks softly, her hand tightening on the mug. “Aeris, you know I don’t hear it like you do. Usually, when the Planet reaches for you, you come home with a shadow over your eyes. But tonight…”

She leans forward, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers. Her skin is warm and solid, a reality that clashes with the ghost-light sensation I felt through the lily.

“You look like a girl who has seen a miracle, not a tragedy,” she whispers.

Inside, I am reeling. The logic of the fate I have seen always revolved around the man with the sword. He was the center of the story. He was the one I was meant to find. But the Lifestream just handed me a different thread entirely.

Is this my heart finally screaming loud enough to drown out the script the Planet has written for me?

The sting of someone else holding that girl’s hand is still there, simmering under the surface. I have never even seen her face, yet the memory of her warmth feels more real than the wood of the table beneath my fingers.

Elmyra sighs, seeing that I am not quite “there” yet. “Whatever it was, it has you quite shaken. Drink your tea. You need to sleep. Tomorrow, the whole city is going to be in an uproar. Shinra will be looking for someone to blame, and I don’t want you anywhere near the streets when they start their investigations.”

She stands up and walks around the table, pulling me into a firm, grounding hug. “I don’t need to understand the puzzle right now, Aeris. I’m just glad you’re home. But be careful… if the Planet is giving you feelings like this, it might be trying to lead you somewhere dangerous.”

“Mom. If dangerous means I can feel this again… I won’t think twice.” There is new certainty in my voice. And I can feel the blush getting stronger. I sigh quietly.

She looks at me, her eyes wide and suddenly very old. It is the look of a woman seeing a ghost. She hears my certainty, and all she sees is the same tragic path that took her husband, the same path she thought took the boy I waited for.

I stay there for a bit.

I have been thinking about Fate and death and all the bad things for so long. This is something totally new.

Elmyra watches me as I stand, her eyes wide. She takes a half-step back, her hand hovering near her chest.

She has spent years trying to keep me safe, to keep me grounded, but what I feel inside… might be leaking out.

“Aeris…” she starts, her voice trailing off. I can see it land. The flower girl she’s been protecting just grew thorns. She doesn’t have the who or the why—but the look on her face says she caught the will.

I leave her there in the kitchen, the steam from the tea still curling into the air, and climb the creaking wooden stairs to my room.

My Room

The door clicks shut, and the silence of the room envelops me. It’s a sanctuary of soft colors and the lingering scent of dried petals. I don’t turn on the light. The faint, artificial glow from the Midgar plate above filters through the window, casting long, steel-blue shadows across my bed.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, the same place I sat this morning when the world felt cold and the future felt like a funeral.

Everything has changed.

The fate I remember—the one where I walk a lonely path toward a white altar—suddenly feels like a book someone else tried to press into my hands. Like so many of those fairy tales I have read. I think about that girl. I don’t know her name, her face, or her story. All I have is the phantom sensation of her skin against mine, filtered through the life of a flower.

Jealousy. Small, human, and sharp. I think of the man I handed the lily to. He is there, in that bar, in her presence. He sees her. He hears her voice. He might even be the reason she was worried.

The Lifestream always whispered that he was my destiny. But my heart is telling me that he is just the bridge to her.

I lie back, head hitting the pillow, and stare at the ceiling.

I’ve spent so long afraid of the end. Tonight I find myself wishing for morning, not because the script says so, but because I want to find her.

I slide into the dreams of sleep.

Dec 10

A Fragmented Reality

The morning arrives with a harsh, metallic edge. I wake not to the sound of birds, but to the distant, distorted blare of Shinra public address systems echoing through the slums.

“Attention citizens. Following the cowardly terrorist attack on Mako Reactor 1, all travel between sectors is restricted. Report any suspicious activity to your nearest Security Officer immediately. Shinra is committed to your safety.”

Downstairs, the radio is a low hum of anxiety. A news anchor speaks in a clipped, frantic tone about Avalanche, the insurgents, and the miraculous survival of the residential areas.

My head is pounding.

I could have used more sleep. But no, of course Shinra has to start the morning with their announcement.

The memory of the touch still makes my heart flutter.

I don’t understand it. The ache from her touch won’t leave.

But why?

The Planet usually screams with sadness. The only future I’ve been shown… is the end.

So why give me this? Why show me the warmth of her hands? Is this just a trap? To make me move?

I shake my head. The blur of sleep is still in my eyes.

Yet fate stands in the way, blocking the ways with Shinra lockdowns and that watchful pressure.

Maybe it is different this time. Maybe I wasn’t meant to feel that.

The ache remains. The warmth too. I want to know more. About her. About… myself.

None of that has gone anywhere. But today requires the mask. For my mother. For the slums. For whatever’s watching.

I leave my hair unbraided, securing it only with the pink ribbon and the White Materia. I pull on a dress and head downstairs, my feet feeling heavier with every step.

As I stumble down the stairs, eyes heavy and mind tangled in the memory of last night, the good-girl mask feels like it’s made of lead.

I want something for myself—not for the Planet, not for my mother. I want to find a way to her. I want to know whose hands were soft enough to make me forget the blade for a heartbeat.

But the world outside feels too loud. The Planet itself is screaming, like pressure behind my eyes.

The kitchen is filled with the smell of scorched toast and the bitter, herbal scent of the tea Elmyra brews when she’s worried. She’s standing by the stove, her shoulders tight. She doesn’t turn when I enter.

“You’re up,” she says softly, her voice thin, shadows under her eyes. “I was going to let you sleep. There’s no point in going out today, Aeris. The station is crawling with Security Officers. They’re checking every basket, every bag. They’re looking for insurgents, but they’ll settle for harassing anyone who looks at them wrong.”

She sets a bowl of oatmeal and a fresh cup of tea in front of me. “Eat. You look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

The food tastes like nothing. I stir the oatmeal, watching the steam rise and vanish—just like my plans for the day. I am trapped. The Sector gate might as well be a mountain range.

“They can’t keep the sectors closed forever,” I mutter, the frustration leaking into my voice.

“They can do whatever they want while the reactor is still smoking,” Elmyra counters, finally looking at me. Her eyes are sharp, searching my face. “Why are you so restless? Usually, a lockdown is when you’re happiest to stay in the garden.”

I can’t tell her. I can’t say that a man is sitting in a bar right now, basking in a warmth I can only feel in my dreams, and it’s making me sick with wanting.

“I just… I have things to do, Mom. People are expecting flowers.” It’s a weak lie. She doesn’t answer right away.

“The flowers can wait,” she says firmly. “Today, we stay inside. We stay quiet. We wait for the dust to settle.”

She exhales—not a sigh—and only then continues.

“The reactor… They say it was Avalanche,” she mutters. “A ‘terrorist cell.’”

I guess that explains some of it. Avalanche. I heard they hate Shinra. They hate them pumping the Lifestream with their reactors and turning it into Mako. Into profit.

Her mouth twists. “Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Shinra needed a reason. Now they have one.”

She points at the ceiling, at the plate. “More patrols. More searches. More excuses to shove their boots into our kitchens.”

I don’t know if it is them. But I know Shinra is going to profit from this anyway.

Elmyra turns to me.

“And I’m not letting them find you out there today. Not a chance. You stay home.”

Seventh Heaven

I push the bowl away, the tea gone cold. The house, usually my sanctuary, feels like a cage. Every time the Shinra announcer barks over the PA system, the bars feel a little thicker.

I try to hold onto the memory from last night. It wasn’t just warmth. There was a texture to it. The faint scent of coffee and vanilla. Wood maybe. The distant, overlapping hum of a crowded room. A pair of hands that knew how to throw a punch just as well as they knew how to pour a drink.

I try counting the places I know in the slums. The bars, the dens, the back-room joints. But no matter how many times I think through, my mind keeps drifting back to that one bar.

I’ve never been inside, but I’ve sold flowers in the Sector 7 slums. I’ve walked past those doors and heard the laughter spilling out into the rusted streets. It’s a rare thing down here—a place that actually feels safe, where the noise isn’t threatening and people can finally breathe.

And the faint traces of coffee and vanilla.

The drunkards and the workers say the name like it’s somewhere they’ve been trying to get back to.

Seventh Heaven.

And they talk about its bartender like a local legend. They say she’s the heart of the district, known for her skill, her kindness, and for keeping order in a rough district.

It can’t be anywhere else, can it?

The thought lands in my stomach like a dropped stone.

Did I really just fall for the owner of the most famous bar in the slums?

A flush of embarrassment hits me, completely unprompted by the Lifestream. Of all the people to feel a connection with, my heart had to pick her. Someone surrounded by people, universally adored, and existing entirely out of my reach.

Damn it. If I’m going to rebel against the Planet’s grand destiny, did I really have to pick the untouchable legend of Sector 7?

Tifa, if the rumors are correct.

The name suits a legend.

And Seventh Heaven. A place of refuge. A place where a woman with soft hands and a fierce heart keeps the world at bay.

I spend the morning pacing. The garden is no help today; the flowers are beautiful, but they are stationary, rooted in the dirt just like I am. I look up at the plate, tracing the massive support pillars with my eyes. Somewhere up there, and then down again, is the Seventh Heaven.

I can still feel the echo of that touch. It wasn’t just skin on skin; it was a resonance. The Lifestream has shown me a future it keeps insisting on. A hero. A sacrifice.

But that hero felt like a stray in our encounter. He was a fragment, a piece of a puzzle that doesn’t fit the picture I want to see. This girl, though… she feels like an answer I didn’t know to ask.

Why? Is this a glitch in the fate I was promised? Or is it the only part of my life that actually belongs to me?

The silence of the slums is a lie. The air is thick with the expectation of more violence, more fire, more fate. I want to go there, to meet her. I even know where I could try to go. The lockdown is a cage, but if I can’t act, I can at least dream.

“I’m going to head back up,” I tell Elmyra, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. “I’m just… so tired.”

“Sleep,” she says, her voice softening. “Maybe the dreams will be kinder than the news.”

The Sanctuary of Sleep

The bedroom door clicks shut, a temporary barrier against a world that wants to claim me. I don’t turn on the light. I crawl beneath the covers, still dressed, the fabric cool against my skin, yet my face still feels like it’s glowing with that unauthorized heat.

I close my eyes, and for a moment, I am just a girl in the dark.

My thoughts are a tangled mess. I’ve spent so many years bracing for a destiny involving a hero—a man who would be my protector, my friend, and eventually, the one who would mourn me. But that script feels like a stiff, uncomfortable costume now. The soldier with the Mako eyes is just a piece of the puzzle. It was her touch that woke the part inside me that isn’t a Cetra or a martyr.

What would it feel like? I’ve spent my whole life playing the flower girl, a symbol of purity and innocence. But I am a woman. A woman who knows exactly how little time she has left. These thoughts aren’t a sin. They’re a protest. A small, stubborn attempt to feel alive before the current takes me.

As I drift off, the trace left on the lily might be gone, but the echo of her presence stays. Warm, like a handprint on glass.

It isn’t a vision of the future. It’s a dream made of colors and sensations.

I am in a place that smells of malt and warmth. I can’t see her face—she is a shadow draped in velvet and the glint of something red—but I do feel her presence. She moves toward me, and the air between us hums. In this dream, I am not a flower in her hand. I am myself.

She reaches out. Her fingers don’t touch the stem; they graze the line of my jaw, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The touch is electric. For a moment, the future stops feeling inevitable. In the dream, I lean into her hand, and for the first time, the cold of Fate is completely gone. I feel a fierce, selfish desire to stay here—to hide in this bar, in this shadow, and let the world save itself.

But then, the warmth is swallowed by the shadow of a massive, white altar flickering in the background. Fate is a jealous spectator, always reminding me of the toll it takes on anyone who gets too close. A heavy, suffocating grief settles over the dream—the fear of anchoring myself to her, only to be torn away.

I can’t drag her down. But oh… just once… let me know what it feels like to be wanted.

Two Reflections

I wake up to the soft, rhythmic sound of a knife hitting a wooden cutting board downstairs. The sunlight—or the pale, filtered glow that passes for it—is higher in the window now.

The blush has settled into a lingering warmth in my limbs. I feel a bit more whole than I did this morning, even if the world is still shaking. The sadness remains, and the weight of death is a constant shadow, but it has a rival now: a reason to look for a loophole in the plans of the Planet.

The smell of vegetable stew and browning onions drifts up the stairs.

“Aeris?” Elmyra calls from the bottom of the steps. “Lunch’ll be ready in a minute.”

Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, the kind that doesn’t invite arguments.

“And wash up first,” she adds, like she can see the grime on me through the floorboards.

I head to our bathroom. It is built in a tiny space under the stairs, like an afterthought.

A basin set into a cabinet. A mirror with a hairline crack that turns my reflection into two versions of me that can’t agree. A shelf of things that have been used down to the stubborn last sliver: soap, shampoo, Elmyra’s skin cream that she swears she doesn’t need.

I hang my dress and twist the tap.

The tub takes its time filling. It always does. The pipes groan like they resent being asked to work, and the water comes out thin at first, still carrying the bite of the metal it traveled through. I sit on the little stool beside the tub and wait, arms wrapped loosely around myself, listening to the house settle around me.

My mind wanders back to the dreams I just woke up from. Back to the realization that hit me during breakfast.

Seventh Heaven. Tifa.

The name feels heavy and incredibly real in the quiet of the bathroom. Last night, she was just a phantom warmth in the Lifestream. Now, she has a location. A reputation. A face I haven’t seen but can almost sketch in my mind based on the way the slums talk about her.

I trace a finger over my own jawline—right where her phantom hand grazed me in the dream—and a shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the chill of the room.

How is it possible to miss someone I’ve never even met?

Steam finally begins to rise—thin, wavering ribbons that soften the edges of the mirror’s crack. My two reflections blur into one.

I dip my fingers in. Warm enough.

I step in slowly, letting the heat climb my shins, my knees, the ache in my calves unwinding one knot at a time. When I sink down fully, the warmth folds over me like a blanket that’s been waiting all day. For a moment I don’t move. I just breathe, letting the grime loosen on its own, letting the water do the first bit of work.

The house is quiet except for the steady trickle from the tap. It’s the kind of quiet that feels earned.

Only when my shoulders have stopped holding themselves so tightly do I reach for the washcloth. The soap is a thin, stubborn crescent, but it still lathers if I’m patient. I work it between my palms until the bubbles rise, faintly floral from whatever Elmyra mixed into it last time she was feeling sentimental.

I start with my arms, slow strokes, rinsing away the dust of the day. The warmth makes everything feel a little more possible.

I let myself sink a little deeper, water lapping at my collarbones. The warmth loosens something in me, and my mind drifts the way it sometimes does when I’m quiet enough to listen.

Last night’s echo returns—soft, like fingertips brushing the edge of my thoughts. A presence threaded through the Lifestream, faint as a half-remembered dream. A woman’s warmth, not a face, not a name, just the impression of hands cupping mine. Comforting. Familiar in a way that makes no sense and every kind of sense.

For a moment I let myself lean into it, the way you lean into a breeze that knows your shape.

Then—

“Aeris! Stew’s ready!”

Elmyra’s voice is loud enough to be heard through the walls. The Lifestream’s whisper scatters like startled birds.

A sharp, involuntary spike of annoyance hits me. I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands clenching in the water.

No, wait. Come back.

I don’t want stew. I want to stay right here in the echo of her hands.

But I blink, the steam around me thinning as reality reasserts itself. The cracked mirror shows me one reflection again—just me, damp hair clinging to my cheeks, caught between two worlds and pulled firmly back into the one that smells like vegetables and overboiled broth.

I let out a breath that starts as an irritated huff, but softens into a fond sigh. The kind that belongs to this house.

“Coming,” I call back, though I know she can’t hear me over the pipes.

It’s easy to stay still here. The water holds the heat the way the dream held her presence—close, unhurried, like something that isn’t in a rush to leave me. I spread my fingers beneath the surface and think about hands. Not mine. Ones I’ve only felt through the Lifestream’s static: strong, warm the way people are warm when they’ve worked hard and don’t know how to stop. I don’t know if that’s memory or imagination. With the Planet whispering through everything, the line gets thin.

I let myself have it for just another second.

Then I stand up.

The air in the bathroom is cooler than I expected, and it lands on my skin all at once—that specific, honest cold that follows warmth and doesn’t apologize for itself. The steam is already thinning. The mirror’s crack has come back. Two reflections again.

Right. There it is.

I know what I know. Not in dates and certainties, but in the way the Lifestream goes quiet in certain directions, the way some futures feel solid underfoot and others feel like walking on ice you can already hear cracking. I’ve been trying not to press on it. But standing here, dripping, with the dream fading faster than I’d like—I can feel the shape of it anyway.

The warmth was real. The cold is also real. Both things at once, the same as always.

I towel my hair dry, smoothing it down like I can tame the day by taming myself, and put the dress back on before heading to the kitchen.

I smooth my hair. Tie the ribbon and the White Materia back in. I look in the mirror, and for the first time, a martyr isn’t the only thing looking back. I see a girl keeping a secret from the Planet itself.

The jealousy hits like a sharp, physical ache. The Chocobo-head and the girl are together inside a bar while I am stuck here. For the first time in my life, the old fate almost feels simple. Cold, but certain. Now there’s a very human, very messy variable. Dying for the world is almost easy compared to the agonizing uncertainty of wanting someone I’m not supposed to have.

The Grid of Lies

The kitchen is warm, and steam from the pot fogs the windows into a thin, milky veil. Elmyra is serving the stew, her movements precise and practiced.

I sit at the table. The vegetable stew is steaming, but I find myself staring at the spoon rather than eating.

I know that rushing into Sector 7 right now is a suicide mission—Shinra is twitchy, and the gates are likely bolted shut.

After a moment, I pick up my spoon. The warmth of the stew doesn’t reach the cold spot in my chest.

Elmyra watches across the table. She sees the way I hold the spoon too tightly, the tension in my shoulders. She doesn’t know the shape of it, not really, but I can tell she knows I’m listening for something again.

“The radio says they’ve caught some of the insurgents near the Sector 1 tunnels,” Elmyra says, breaking the silence. She uses that careful, practical tone she always adopts when she thinks my head is in the clouds, trying to ground me. “They’re tightening the net. It’s going to be quiet here for a while.”

Quiet. The word feels like a prison sentence.

I know how Midgar works. Information travels through the pipes and the alleys faster than the Shinra news can suppress it. There is that bar in Sector 7 called the Seventh Heaven, and if that soldier is there, someone in Sector 5 knows something. The underground is a web.

But for now, I am just a girl in a pink dress in a guarded sector. I have to be the good flower girl. I have to wait for the world to move.

Inside my head, it isn’t quiet. Anxiety hums under everything.

He’s there. He’s probably sitting at her bar right now. Does he even appreciate the lily? And her… does she look at him with those warm eyes I imagined?

I hate this. I hate being told who matters. I’m the last of the Cetra sitting here eating carrots. I hate being stuck here, spoon in hand, while my heart paces the streets without me.

I know that the lockdown won’t last forever. Shinra needs the workers to move; they need the economy of the plate to hum. In a day, maybe two, the gates will crack open.

“Let’s see what they’re saying,” I murmur, mostly to myself, and turn the TV on.

The small, cathode-ray tube flickers to life with a static-heavy hum, the screen bathed in a jittery, unnatural blue light. It’s a relic of a different era, but in the Sector 5 slums it’s one of the few windows into what the world above the plate wants everyone to believe.

I’m not expecting much. Just bombing coverage, Shinra-approved grief, the same words in a different order. But if it buys me a few minutes outside my own head… I’ll take it.

I sink into the worn cushions of the sofa, the empty flower basket resting on the floor near my feet. On the screen, the image of President Shinra appears—his face cold, aristocratic, and framed by the gleaming steel of Shinra HQ.

“…a senseless act of violence against the very energy that sustains our lives. These insurgents, known as Avalanche, care nothing for the citizens of Midgar. They seek only to plunge us into the dark age of the past…”

The news cuts to shaky, grainy footage of the Sector 1 reactor. Even through the poor reception, I can see the sickly green Mako-fire licking at the underside of the plate. It looks like a festering wound.

I find myself scoffing at the screen. They talk about darkness while they suck the very soul out of the Planet to power their neon signs and theater lights. I know the truth: the fire they’re mourning is life-energy they set on fire for profit.

But then, the camera pans to a group of citizens being evacuated. For a split second, my heart hammers against my ribs. I scan the background, looking for a glimpse of a spiky blonde head.

Nothing. Just gray smoke and blue-gray armor.

The TV doesn’t provide the distraction I had hoped for. It only reinforces the walls around me.

I think about her. The Seventh Heaven, so the Sector 7 slums. The closest I could get would be Sector 6. Wall Market. Sector 6 is a wound where the city never finished healing. It’s rubble and junk between 5 and 6, and there’s no gate. Wall Market is the only way out, but it’s a den of thieves and Shinra-funded vice. With the gate to Sector 7 locked, going there now would just mean wasting Gil. And I can’t shake the feeling that if I force it, something will push back.

The smart slum-girl inside knows that when the Planet and the Corporation are both in a foul mood, the best thing to do is stay small. Stay invisible.

Fine. You win for today, Fate. I’m stuck. Locked in a room with a mother who’s worried sick and a TV that lies to me every ten seconds.

But I still feel it. That touch… it’s like a secret song I’m humming to myself. You can lock the gates, and you can swarm me with your gray shadows, but you can’t take back the way my heart skipped. I don’t know who she is, but I know she’s real. And if I have to wait through a thousand Shinra announcements just to see her face… then I’ll wait.

I felt that she was there, waiting in that bar in the slums. So I guess she will not be in any security footage they might show on TV. And even if she was, would I recognize her? And I don’t want to think about the Chocobo-head right now.

The click of the TV dial is the most satisfying thing I have done all day. The screen shrinks into a tiny white dot before vanishing, taking President Shinra’s smug face and the images of burning Mako with it.

The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s mine.

Evening Shadows

I step out onto the porch. The air in the garden is different from the rest of the slums. It’s cooler here, filtered through the leaves and tempered by the moisture of the soil. I walk to the center of the flowerbed—the place where I kneeled yesterday to gather flowers—and sit down on the rough wooden bench.

Beyond the gate, the slums are quiet—a forced, unnatural silence. I can hear a Shinra patrol at the end of the road, their boots drumming against the street. They are the physical manifestation of the lockdown.

The yellow lilies are swaying slightly in a breeze that doesn’t exist anywhere else. I close my eyes and breathe in. The scent is thick, sweet, and grounding.

Let them be happy.

The Whispers feel close again. Like hands on the back of my neck.

They see me here, sitting in my garden, playing the role of the waiting maiden. They think they’ve won because I’m tucked away behind a lockdown.

They don’t know that I’m not just waiting. They can’t see the fire in my cheeks or the way my heart thumps when I remember that touch. To them, I’m just an actor standing on a mark. If they knew I was thinking about her, would they try to tear that memory out of me?

But even as I dwell on the warmth of the bar, the other side of my fate strikes.

It’s a flash. Sudden. Brutal.

Cold steel. Between my ribs.

Iron on my tongue. The garden gone wrong. Then black.

I gasp, my hand flying to my chest. I know this vision. I’ve known it for years. The Cetra in me has always known how to be still with it. To accept the shape of things.

But there’s another part now. Louder than it was yesterday.

No. Not yet.

I want to see if her eyes are as kind as her hands felt. How can the Planet ask me to give up everything when I’ve only just found something I actually want to keep?

I look at my hands. They’re steady, but I can feel the pulse in my fingertips. I am trapped between a death I have seen a thousand times and a warmth I have never even met.

The smart slum-girl knows that for now, the garden is the only place I can be. I have to let the lockdown play out. I have to let the blond and the sword play their part in the dark.

The light above the plate begins to shift into that bruised purple-orange that signals the end of the day. The sirens have quieted, replaced by the low, distant rumble of the city’s machinery.

Elmyra comes to the door, watching from the shadow of the house. She doesn’t call me in. She never does when I’m in the garden like this.

The evening air in the slums is cooler now, carrying the metallic scent and the faint, sweet aroma of the lilies. The quiet of Fate is unsettling—like the eye of a storm. Usually, the Whispers or the Planet have something to say, a direction to nudge me to, but tonight, they are as silent as the scrap heaps.

Only that feeling remains. That stubborn, human spark that refuses to be dampened by the shadow of the blade or the weight of my fate.

A Safe Harbor

As I approach the porch, I look at Elmyra. She is waiting there, a shawl pulled tight over her shoulders. She isn’t looking at the news or the garden; she’s looking at me. She’s been waiting.

The yellow light from the kitchen window spills out onto the porch, catching the glint of the Gil coin I am again holding.

“You’ve been out there a long time, Aeris,” she says, her voice soft but laden with that keen, motherly intuition. “The flowers don’t usually keep you that quiet unless they’re telling you something you don’t want to hear.”

Inside, the house is a sanctuary of mismatched furniture and warm memories. I sit at the table, the same place where I have eaten thousands of meals, yet tonight, everything feels shifted a few inches to the left.

Elmyra sets a fresh pot of tea on the table. She doesn’t push. She just waits for me to find the words.

The words are not easy to come by though.

How do I even start? “Mom, I think the fate you’ve spent fifteen years trying to protect me from is being derailed by a girl I’ve never seen?” She’d think I’ve finally cracked. But it’s more than a crush. It’s like… a choice. For the first time, I have a choice that isn’t about saving the world or running from Shinra.

And the Chocobo… he’s out there. He’s the key. If I want to find her, I have to find him. It’s the most frustrating irony the Lifestream has ever played on me.

“I was thinking about someone I don’t know,” I say finally, voice low. “Which is… ridiculous.”

I glance toward the window, toward the plate. “The city feels like it’s waiting for something. And I…” My fingers tighten around the mug. “I don’t want to just be something that happens to the world. I don’t want to just… drift.”

Elmyra watches over the rim of her tea mug. “You’ve always been a bit of a rebel, Aeris. Even when you were little. But this… this feels different. You aren’t just looking for an exit. You’re looking for a person, aren’t you?”

She reaches out and touches the Gil coin on the table. “Is it for him? The one who gave you this?”

The yellow light of the kitchen lamp casts long, soft shadows against the walls as I sit there, the truth finally bubbling up past the flower girl mask. I see the confusion in Elmyra’s eyes—the way she’s trying to map my blush to someone—and I realize I can’t let her believe that. Not this time.

“It’s not him, Mom,” I say, my voice dropping into a low and steady tone. I look down at the tea, watching the steam curl.

She doesn’t know. She probably thinks I mean someone like Zack.

I shake my head slightly, dispelling the thought. “I mean, yes, there were customers. Even a soldier. But he isn’t… he’s not the reason.”

I take a deep breath, the confession feeling like a weight leaving my chest even as it brings a new kind of heat to my cheeks. “It’s a girl. I… I felt something. Someone I haven’t even met properly, but I can’t get her out of my head.”

Elmyra goes very still. I can see the gears turning. I brace myself, my own thoughts suddenly spinning in frantic circles about what a woman of her generation is going to say to that.

Is it the idea of me wanting a girl that has frozen her?

We look at the world so differently; she grew up in a generation that kept its feelings quiet, and her worldview was forged by losing a husband to a never-ending war. I imagine that to a woman like her, love isn’t a spark—it is a heavy, solemn thing tied to duty and loss.

“A girl?” she repeats.

For a split second, I tense against the rigid expectations of her era, waiting for the inevitable disconnect. But there’s no judgment in her voice, just a profound, blinking surprise. She looks at me—really looks at me—and perhaps she sees the same look her husband once gave her, or perhaps she just sees the woman I have become while she was busy trying to keep me a child.

“I never felt this with Zack,” I add quietly, almost to myself. “He was… he was a window. A friend. But this? This is like a light shining in the blackness, showing me the way I never knew existed.”

I let the words hang there, and the absolute honesty of them stings.

Zack was easy to like. He made me feel normal and not alone. He was a window to the world, and I waited for his letters like they were sunlight.

But I was always drawn to the softer edges of things. Not only with the flowers. I just never had a reason to name it until that touch.

The woman in my dreams makes my soul vibrate. She makes me feel powerful. She makes me want to reach into the Planet and tell the Elders to stop talking over me.

If the story says I loved Zack the same way, then the story is a liar. I was a child then. I have grown now, and I know the difference between a spark and a sunlight.

Elmyra exhales, a long, slow sound that seems to deflate the tension in the room.

“Well,” she says, her voice regaining its practical, motherly clip. “If she’s not a soldier, that’s already a point in her favor. And if she’s made you this stubborn, she must be something special.”

She stands up and heads for the stove, pulling the heavy iron pot back over the heat. “You’ve barely touched your stew. A girl can’t find her destiny—or whoever this mystery person is—on an empty stomach. Sit. Eat. We’ll worry about the lockdown when the sun comes up.”

As the smell of the savory stew fills the room again, I finally feel my stomach growl. The adrenaline and the longing have finally made room for basic survival. I pick up my spoon, the Gil coin still resting on the table like a silent, metal witness to my secret.

The secret, or at least part of it, is out. I feel… lighter isn’t quite the right word. More like something that was pressing from the inside has been given a little room.

I head upstairs. The bowl is empty, the day is done, and tomorrow is closer than it’s ever been.

I sit on the edge of the bed in the dark and let myself wonder. Not about the blade or the Whispers or what the Planet wants from me. Just… what will happen when I see her. If I see her.

Will she see me?

I fall asleep thinking about her. Thinking about the touch.

Dec 11

The Late Morning

The rest of the night passes in a blur of heavy, dreamless sleep. My body is exhausted, but my mind is a coiled spring. I sleep longer than I had planned to, waking up to a room that feels too quiet.

Guess I really needed the rest to face what’s coming.

I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The old, familiar weight is still there pressing down on my chest—the quiet, absolute certainty that I have a fate, and that fate ends with a blade.

But… I have something else now, too. A thread I want to follow. I have to believe the warmth in that dream was real, or I’ll just turn back into a story that happens to me.

I sit at the vanity, the brush hovering near my hair. Usually, the look in the mirror shows the Ancient, the girl burdened by the voices of the dead. But today, the blush from last night hasn’t fully faded. I look at my own lips and wonder what I’m hoping for.

I’m a mess. A total, beautiful mess. The Planet is screaming about reactors and fire, and here I am, wondering if she likes girls with ribbons in their hair. It feels like a sin against my fate, and yet it’s the only thing that makes me want to get out of bed.

I have to be smart. Sector 7 is a fortress right now. If I force my way in, Shinra will catch me, or the Whispers will shove me back onto the path.

The idea makes me huff a laugh. A flower girl getting dragged through the street by nothing at all.

So I wait. For the right moment. For the one I was sent that strange, feathered warning about. For the door to open.

Downstairs, the kitchen is a sanctuary of tea and anxiety. Elmyra watches me over her mug, her eyes sharp. She knows I have been touched by something through the Lifestream, but she does not know it was a bartender’s hand that had set my soul on fire.

I sit, wrap my fingers around the spoon, and make myself take the first bite. The air in the kitchen feels charged. I am not just a flower girl anymore; I am a woman with a desire entirely my own—one the Planet never wrote into my fate.

“You’re eating more today,” Elmyra notes. Her eyebrows climb, but her eyes stay on my spoon.

“I have a lot to do, Mom,” I simply reply, voice hitting that practiced, cheerful note. “The flowers don’t care about lockdowns. They still need water.”

We eat the rest of the breakfast in relative silence. It takes effort to swallow the food when my stomach is tied in knots, but I manage to clear the bowl.

When I finally slide the chair back and stand, Elmyra’s mouth tightens. “If you’re going out, can you grab a few things for me too?”

“Of course,” I nod, already reaching for my basket.

“Just… be careful, Aeris. The air feels heavy today. Like the plate is leaning a little lower than usual.”

The knowledge of what’s coming…

My heart is trying to draw a new trail over the old one. Reactor 1 was only the beginning. The next strike is close.

The Nervous Market

I walk through the dusty roads with my basket. Elmyra needed some industrial-grade grease for the front gate and a specific blend of medicinal herbs that only the old man near the station sells.

But inside my head, there’s a storm.

I almost wish it was just the Lifestream and the cruel fate on my mind. What I have now is so much worse to get through.

He’s in her orbit. Right now. Maybe she’s pouring him a drink. Maybe she’s laughing at his hair. Every time I think about it, my stomach twists. It’s a new kind of survival: wanting a woman I haven’t even met. I’m the last Cetra, and I’m being outplayed by a man who doesn’t even know how to smile.

Fate says I die. Destiny says I live. It’s a tug-of-war where I’m the rope, and the fibers are starting to fray. I haven’t even seen her face, yet I’m already terrified of losing her. Is this what love is? A pre-emptive mourning for someone you haven’t even found?

I have to believe. If I don’t believe I can change the ending, then I’m just walking toward a blade with my eyes closed. And I want them open. I want to see her.

The market is bustling with a nervous, frantic energy. It’s that particular slum atmosphere where everyone is trying to buy enough supplies to last a week while simultaneously looking over their shoulders for the next Shinra patrol.

And the market is a cacophony of rumors. As I stop by the item shop to pick up the grease, the shopkeeper slides the heavy tin across the wood. To the Shinra guards, I’m just a girl with a basket, but the older merchants in Sector 5 remember the Gainsborough name and the sweat that helped build the plate above us. That history seems to buy something quieter than suspicion. He leans over the counter, his voice a dusty whisper.

“They say Shinra’s found the hideout,” he says, nodding toward the upper plate. “Found ’em in Sector 7. A bunch of ’em, hiding in a bar. They’re sending the big guns in tonight. People keep saying something’s going down near Reactor 5.”

Sector 7. The bar.

I go very still. They’re talking about her home. The jealousy I felt last night is replaced by a sharp, cold spike of fear.

If Shinra is moving in, she’s in danger. But I can’t change what I’ve already seen. The stray will be there. He’s going to fall.

I barely keep my flower girl mask on for the merchant, but manage to thank him before I continue toward the station.

The air near the station is thicker than in the rest of the slums—a choking mix of smoke, the ozone of the rails, and the sharp, medicinal tang of dried roots. I push through the crowd, basket feeling heavier with every step, until I reach the small, weathered stall of the herbalist.

The herbalist is a fixture of Sector 5, the same old man with his spectacles always riding low on his nose. Usually he’s slow and careful, weighing dried leaves as if the world can wait.

Today it can’t.

As I approach, he isn’t tending his display. He’s frantically packing glass jars into padded crates.

“Ah, the flower girl,” he grunts, not looking up. “You’re late. I was about to shutter the windows. Only a fool keeps a shop open when the Turks are conducting inquiries.”

The Turks. Shinra’s elite group in suits.

“Elmyra needs the bitter-root blend,” I say, voice steady despite the way something tightens at the back of my throat when he mentions the Turks. “And some dried mugwort for the tea.”

He pauses, finally looking at me. He squints, his nose wrinkling as if he could smell the change in me. “You look… feverish, girl. But it’s not a Mako-cough. It’s the eyes. They’re too bright.”

He reaches under the counter and pulls out a small, pre-wrapped bundle. “Here. The bitter-root.”

Then he snatches a jar from a crate and shakes dried leaves into a paper twist. “Mugwort,” he mutters, sealing it with a thumb. “For the tea.”

“It’ll keep your mother’s nerves steady, which is more than I can say for the rest of this sector.”

I slide the Gil across the counter. “Thanks. Really.”

He doesn’t smile. He just tucks it away and keeps packing.

“I saw the Suit watching the road to your house this morning, Aeris. The one with the long hair and the eyes like cold steel.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping so low it’s nearly lost in the hiss of a departing train. “That’s all I know. But when things get loud, men like him don’t waste time. They’re saying Sector 7 is already being cordoned off.”

He shoves the herbs into my basket, his hand trembling slightly.

“The Seventh Heaven,” he whispers. “I heard a traveler from the Wall Market talking. He said the bar girl there—the one with the red boots—is gathering the neighborhood kids. Trying to get them to safety before the explosion. It’s the kind of tragedy people don’t crawl back from, girl. Don’t get caught in the middle of it.”

Red boots. Neighborhood kids. She’s… she’s a protector. Of course she is. The touch I felt wasn’t just soft; it was strong. It was the touch of someone who holds things together when they fall apart. And while she’s saving children, I’m here buying mugwort and waiting for her friend to fall through a roof.

He’s close to her. He’s the one she’s trusting to stand beside her while the world burns. Not me. Not yet.

As I pay the herbalist, I can feel it—that specific, pressurized silence that follows a predator. I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. Tseng is somewhere in the sea of gray coats and rusted metal, his eyes fixed on the back of my head. He’s letting me have these errands for now, a cat watching a mouse play in the garden before the storm breaks.

“Thank you,” I say, my mask clicking back into place with a brittle perfection. “Stay safe tonight.”

“Safe?” he scoffs, pulling the wooden shutter down with a bang. “There’s no such thing as safe in Midgar, Aeris. There’s only not yet caught.”

The Pieces Fall

I had a late breakfast, but my stomach reminds me that I am still a human. So I find a small, open-air food stall near the station square. It’s little more than a corrugated metal roof over a few battered stools, smelling of scorched oil and cheap soy-pork. I order a small bowl of noodles—simple, salty, and grounding—and take a seat at the end of the bench.

A group of scrap prospectors—men who spend their days digging through the rubble of Sector 6—are sitting nearby, leaning in close over their tin mugs of ale.

“I’m telling you, it’s going down tonight,” one says, his voice a low gravel. “I tried to haul a cart of copper wire through the Sector 6 gate this morning. Shinra grunts turned me back. Said the whole transit line to 7 is locked tight.”

“Locked?” another scoffs, slamming his mug down. “Half my sorting crew lives in 7. How are they supposed to clock in?”

“They ain’t,” the first man mutters darkly. “My cousin works the checkpoint. He says the Turks were sniffing around that bar down there—what’s it called? The one with the warm lights?”

“The Seventh Heaven? Feels like a home?” another asks.

My heart does a sharp, painful jolt. I keep my eyes on my noodles, but my ears lean in before I do. Yesterday it was just a rumor. Today it feels like a breadcrumb.

One of the scrap prospectors leans in toward his buddies, lowering his voice like he’s sharing something valuable.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he says. “He says there’s a new guy there. Big sword, Mako eyes. Looks like he crawled out of a Shinra lab. Somebody swears the Turks are watching him, waiting for an excuse. If he so much as twitches… boom. They’ll pin the whole thing on them and then scrub the sector clean.”

I pause with a noodle halfway to my mouth.

“Scrubbing the sector.” They say it like they’re just sweeping up trash.

My grip tightens on my chopsticks until the cheap wood groans.

The pieces are falling into place too fast. Reactor 5 seems to be the target tonight. He is going to be there.

My stomach twists at the cost.

Do these men have any idea who is in that bar? Do they know how her hands feel?

She is left holding the neighborhood together while Shinra prepares to erase it.

I want to scream at them. I want to run to the gate and pound on the steel until it opens. But I can’t.

As I finish the simple lunch, something bites at me again—sharper now, tempered with a protective fury.

I think of that stray with the huge sword. He’s a magnet for disaster, bringing Shinra’s eyes right to her doorstep, yet I know he’s not the one pulling the strings. He’s just caught in the current, same as the rest of us.

I look up through the gaps in the rusted metal roofing, toward the heavy, suffocating weight of the plate.

He’s going to fall. And I’m going to be the one to guide him back. Because I need him to lead me to her. I want her to look at me with those eyes. Not like that… I hope.

I only know her the way the slums know anyone important: in rumors and half-lit stories. A name. A silhouette. The legendary bartender of Seventh Heaven, the one who stands between the children and the world.

Nothing in those stories should be enough to do this to me, and yet it does. I don’t hate it, not even a little. It’s just… odd, this ache over a girl I’ve never met. Odder still that my heart is already reaching for her, for someone who might not like me at all.

Still. I want to protect her. I want to see her smile. I want to make her laugh and watch her blush.

A woman passes with a child on her hip, heading for the station gates. The child waves at me. I wave back.

Is living really this complex? Like floating in the sea of unknowns? Where every dark spot is a possible danger? Yet the dark isn’t winning anymore.

I head for the old, rusty vending machine Shinra bolted to the station wall.

I hate this. I hate feeding them more Gil, hate buying back what they stole in the first place. But I have to be ready, and there aren’t many choices down here.

One Potion, I tell myself as I make the selection and feed the slot. The machine clanks and whirs like it’s chewing on the coins. After a moment it spits the vial out.

A small glass vial filled with glowing green liquid. Medicine, they’d call it. But to me it feels like the Planet’s kindness, measured out and monetized. Sold back to us like mercy. They’d put a price tag on sunlight… and down here, they already have.

I swallow the bitterness.

I’d rather heal with my hands, with herbs, with anything that hasn’t been through Shinra’s grinders. But this is what he’ll understand. The soldier might not know what to do with salves and crushed leaves, not in the dark, not half-conscious. He’ll know what a Potion is.

I tuck it into my basket beneath Elmyra’s supplies.

For the Chocobo. Just enough to keep you on your feet. I might not have time to let you mend properly.

I have a destiny to meet.

The Barrier

I leave the station behind, navigating the narrow, debris-choked trails that lead out to the desolate edge of the sector. Out here, the neon glow of the stalls dies, replaced by towering heaps of rusted scaffolding and the hollow, groaning shells of abandoned machinery. Locals avoid this path. They call it haunted, spooked by the shadows that stretch too long and the metal that shrieks in the wind.

Usually, I love this isolation. The church has always been my sanctuary, a quiet island in a sea of scrap.

Today, though, the quiet isn’t a comforting blanket; it’s a cage. Every crunch of gravel under my boots feels too loud, amplifying the ticking clock in my head. My sanctuary is just an empty room, waiting for a disaster to strike it.

As I approach the last steps on the path to the church, I feel a sharp, familiar prickle at the back of my neck. It’s not the Whispers—not yet. It’s the feeling of being observed by something much more human, and much more dangerous. I glance toward a shadowed alcove between two leaning buildings. For a split second, there is the glint of sunlight on a polished shoe and the sharp, clean line of a dark suit.

The Turks.

I can feel his attention—steady and patient.

Tseng is close. He’s been my shadow for years, waiting for the moment I decide to stop running. Today, he’s likely keeping a close watch because of the Reactor bombing. Shinra is on high alert, and their Ancient is a prize they can’t afford to lose in the chaos.

I don’t turn my head. I don’t break my stride.

There’s no need to run. We know the rules of this game. If I play the oblivious slum girl, he plays the silent guardian. He might have even swept the courtyard for monsters to make sure I arrive safely. A gilded cage is still a cage, but right now, it’s keeping the lesser wolves at bay.

I keep walking, forcing my shoulders to relax. I am just a simple girl heading to her flowers.

The old wooden doors of the church loom ahead, but as I reach the gate, the air thickens. The Whispers aren’t just hovering today; they are a physical presence, a localized gray fog that makes the air feel heavy and cold.

They don’t want me inside.

Fate dictates that I am not supposed to be here when the bombing starts tonight. I have done my errands for Elmyra. Now, they want me tucked away at home, a safe distance from the events unfolding topside.

A Whisper drifts across my path, a tattered, eyeless shadow that sends a shiver through the soul.

You really are persistent, aren’t you? You and the Suits. Everyone wants to tell me where to stand and when to breathe. Tseng is watching from the shadows, and you’re guarding the door.

They are creatures of the Planet. The air around them feels wrong, as if the world has been wrapped in damp cloth—sound swallowed, breath shortened, even the dust hanging too still.

I might be able to reach them through the Lifestream—maybe even negotiate—but I’ve felt the price of pushing back. Memories get fuzzy. Visions smear at the edges.

The thought makes my throat tighten.

I don’t want to lose what little is left of who I am, and I can’t bear the idea of losing anything connected to Tifa—not when I haven’t even met her and my heart is already halfway hers.

I turn my back on the gray fog and the heavy wooden doors, the basket suddenly feeling like a lead weight on my arm.

You win for now. But only because I refuse to let you smudge her face in my mind. If the price of defiance is forgetting the way her name feels on my tongue, then I’ll wait.

The Chocobo has to survive without the Potion hidden for him. The flowers are waiting, even if they could have used a bit of encouragement. Tomorrow I will play my role, but on my own terms.

I walk past the shadowed alcove where Tseng is waiting, not giving him the satisfaction of a glance as I head back toward the winding paths of the residential district.

The Retreat

The walk back from the church is a journey through a city holding its breath. The sky above—the underside of the plates—is beginning to take on that bruised, artificial twilight. The massive floodlights of the upper world flicker on, casting a pale, sickly glow that does little to chase away the deep shadows of the slums.

My boots crunch on the dry, packed earth of the Sector 5 paths. Every few minutes, there is that familiar itch between my shoulder blades. Tseng isn’t making himself obvious, but he’s there. To anyone else, the slums are a labyrinth of junk and rusted iron; to a Turk, it’s a shooting gallery where every angle is known.

I shift the weight of the basket on my arm. The industrial-grade grease for the gate is heavy, a physical reminder of the normal life I’ve been trying to maintain. Beneath it, the Potion vial clinks softly against the grease tin.

I’m carrying a miracle in a bottle for a man I intend to use. I wonder if the Planet finds that funny. I’m playing the part of the good daughter for Elmyra, the valuable asset for Tseng, and the destined sacrifice for the Whispers. But none of them know about the girl in red boots. None of them know I’m counting the hours until the sky falls.

Is this love I feel? It hurts so much, and it hasn’t even begun.

The honesty of that lands somewhere unexpected.

It’s like a hot coal in my chest. I want to be the one standing behind that bar. I want to be the one she turns to when the world gets too loud.

Instead, I’m here, walking through the dirt, while he gets to breathe her air.

As I pass the checkpoint at the station, I see a group of Shinra Security Officers. They’re no longer just patrolling; they’re setting up barriers. The lockdown isn’t fully over; it’s just changing shape.

They’re preparing for the fallout of what I can feel coming tonight.

I give them a wide berth, head bowed, the pink ribbon a splash of color against the gray.

I finally reach the wooden fence of the Gainsborough house. The garden looks peaceful, the yellow lilies nodding in the evening breeze, unaware that their cousins at the church are about to be crushed by a falling soldier.

Elmyra is standing on the porch, her hands tucked into her apron. She doesn’t look angry—just weary. It’s a familiar expression—the quiet, heavy kind she wears when the world is pulling me somewhere her hands can’t reach.

“You’re back late,” she says as I reach the steps. Her eyes drop to the basket. “Did you get everything?”

“Everything, Mom,” I reply, stepping onto the porch. I let the flower girl smile spread across my face, but it feels even heavier today. “The grease, the bitter-root… and a little something extra for a rainy day.”

I follow her into the kitchen. The smell of stew is already beginning to fill the room—a warm, savory scent that tries to convince me that tonight will be just like any other.

I set the basket on the kitchen table. Elmyra begins to unpack the supplies, her movements practiced and calm. She doesn’t notice the Potion hidden at the bottom, or if she does, she chooses not to ask.

The steam from the pot rises, mingling with the dim, warm light of the kitchen. I stand beside Elmyra, chopping the carrots and leeks. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the knife against the wooden board is grounding, a small, domestic pulse in a world that feels like it’s about to hold its breath.

A Fragile Peace

Elmyra is quiet as she stirs the pot, but the tension in her shoulders is visible. Every time a distant truck rumbles or a stray cat shrieks in the alley, she flinches. The slums talk. She listens.

“The lamps are flickering more than usual,” she says, her voice low. She looks up at the bulb above the table—a pale, buzzing orb of artificial light. “They say Shinra’s diverting the lines to the security sectors. That’s why everything’s acting up. They’re bracing for something.”

I look at the bulb too. It’s a strange, bitter thing—this electricity. It keeps the slums from being swallowed by total darkness; it keeps the tea hot and the house warm.

But I know the price. I can hear the Lifestream crying out over the hum of the wires. It’s a convenience built on a tragedy.

I hate what they do to the Planet. I hate that every time I turn on a light, I steal a little breath from the Planet. But I also know that without it, Elmyra wouldn’t have this house. I wouldn’t have this kitchen. Midgar is a parasite that has made us love the symptoms of its disease.

And Tseng… he’s out there somewhere in the dark. My golden cage. He provides safety, yes. No monsters come to this garden. No thugs dare to knock on this door. But the safety he offers is just the security of a prize being kept for its owner. I’m grateful for the protection, but I loathe the price.

As I slide the chopped vegetables into the simmering broth, my mind drifts back to Sector 7.

What are you doing right now, Tifa?

The name feels like a secret melody. I imagine her behind the bar, her red boots clicking on the floorboards as she moves. Is she cleaning glasses? Is she looking at that ridiculous hair with that look of worry I felt through the lily?

The steam curls up and disappears before it reaches the ceiling.

I want to be the one she’s talking to. I want to be the reason she’s staying safe. Instead, I am here, miles away, while a man who looks like a bird gets to be in her presence.

“Aeris? You’re daydreaming again,” Elmyra says, her hand resting gently on my arm. “The stew is going to boil over.”

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “Just… thinking.”

I sit down to eat. The stew is rich and flavorful, but I eat mechanically. The vibration inside my chest is no longer just a hum; it’s a countdown. I can feel the Lifestream currents overhead, pressed thin by the plate becoming turbulent.

We eat in the quiet. The night is coming. The fall is coming.

What I Can’t Say

The steam from the empty bowls lingers in the air, a fading warmth that mirrors the heavy quiet between us. I watch Elmyra’s hands—rough, capable hands that have spent years shielding me from a world that wanted to tear me apart.

I know the story. I know she spent those long, agonizing months walking to the Sector 5 station, watching every train for a man who would never step off. It’s the reason I have a home; it’s the reason she found me.

“Mom?” I ask, voice barely louder than the hum of the bulb. “When he was away… at the war. How did you do it? How did you deal with the… the not knowing? And the longing?”

Elmyra pauses, her hands resting on the edge of the table. The mention of her husband always brings a specific kind of shadow to her eyes—not one of sharp pain anymore, but of a long-faded sunset.

“I didn’t deal with it, Aeris,” she says softly, her gaze drifting toward the darkened window. “I just lived through it. I made the bed every morning. I cooked meals I didn’t want to eat. And I went to that station because if I didn’t have a place to put my hope, I would have drowned in the silence.”

She looks back at me, her brow furrowing as she sees the intensity in my expression. “Why are you asking me this now? Is it because of the touch you felt? Are you already afraid of losing someone you’ve only just sensed?”

Yes. I’m terrified. I’m jealous of a soldier, I’m haunted by a blade, and I’m in love with a warmth in red boots. I know about the future, Mom. I can feel it in my bones. I know that soon this house will be full of people. I know a girl named Tifa will sit in this very kitchen.

Should I tell you? Should I warn you… or would that only make it hurt sooner?

I reach across the table, taking her hand. Her skin is papery and warm. And I feel a sudden, fierce need to protect her from the chaos I am about to bring into her life.

“Things are going to get very loud soon,” I say, voice holding a gravity that makes Elmyra sit up straighter. “Not just the reactors. Life… it’s going to move very fast. There might be people coming here. Friends. People who are hurting.”

I squeeze her hand. “When they come… especially the girl… please be kind to her. Even if I’m not here to ask it. She’s going to need someone like you.”

Elmyra’s eyes widen. She doesn’t ask how I know. She doesn’t question how I know anything—only the words themselves. “Aeris… what are you saying? ‘If you’re not here’?”

I give her a reassuring smile—the one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes but keeps the panic at bay. “I’m just saying… don’t wait at the station for me, okay? I’m going to be fine. I have a destiny to meet. And for the first time, I think I actually want to see where it leads.”

I say good night to Elmyra and head to my room.

The Play Begins

The door to the bedroom clicks shut, a seal on the life I’ve known for years. The air turns thick, as if the Whispers have woven a cocoon around the house. I can’t see them. They keep their distance, maybe out of respect for this last night of peace, but I feel them anyway, cold pressure against the walls.

They aren’t just watching; they’re locking me in. A wall of gray intent, making sure nothing, not a stray thought, not a Shinra patrol, and certainly not a girl from the slums, disrupts what’s supposed to happen. They’re the ushers in this dark theater, keeping me in my seat until the curtain rises.

Are you guarding me, or are you just making sure the Ancient doesn’t miss her cue? You feel like a shroud. I know you’re waiting for the fire to light up the sky so you can lead me to him.

But my mind isn’t on him. It’s on the bar. Tifa… I hope you’re there. I hope you’re cleaning the counter, looking at the door, and waiting for the lost Chocobo to come home. I hope he’s just a friend. I hope he’s just a hand you hired. If you look at him the way I want you to look at me… I don’t know if I can play my part tomorrow without the mask cracking.

I close my eyes, trying to find that dream’s echo again. I don’t know if she’s safe, but the Lifestream isn’t screaming—it’s just shivering, like a candle flame reflecting in her dark eyes. I reach for that warmth, a ghost-spark against my palm. Instead, there is only a dull, rhythmic thrumming. The heartbeat of a city about to bleed.

I don’t drift into a deep sleep; it’s more of a heavy, pressurized trance. Then, the world gives a violent stagger through the foundations.

BOOM.

It’s not just a sound; it’s a physical force that travels up through the bed and into the bones. The windowpane rattles so hard I think it might shatter. I sit up, gasping, as a brilliant, sickly emerald light floods the room.

Through the gap in the curtains, the sky is no longer dark. Reactor 5 has erupted. A pillar of Mako-fire is roaring upward, splashing against the steel belly of the plate. It looks like the Planet is trying to burn its way through the metal that’s choking it.

The Whispers outside go frantic. I can see their shadows flickering wildly against the glass—thousands of frayed, gray shapes swirling in a localized storm. The play has begun.

Are you okay, Tifa?

The name feels like a prayer. I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re in that bar, watching the sky and wondering where your swordsman has gone. Hold on. Just hold on a little longer. I’m coming to find you. I just have to get the man you sent away back to you.

The rest of the night is a blur of sirens and distant shouting. The slums are awake. I barely sleep at all.

Dec 12

The Morning Ritual

Gray morning light filters through the window, catching dust motes as they drift and spin. The smell of Reactor 5’s fire still clings to the slums, metallic and bitter, the kind that coats the back of my throat like I swallowed a coin.

I feel frayed. The late-night explosion, the sirens, the hours of restless, hungry looping in my head. My eyes are tired. My body moves like it has sand in the joints. But when I stand in front of the mirror, the smart slum girl steps in and takes the wheel.

I have a role to play.

And if I’m going to use the Chocobo-head to reach my own heart’s destination, I need to look like the storybook flower girl. The mask has to sit right. The ribbon has to be straight. The world needs to see what it expects, while I count exits and carry secrets under my skirt.

I take my time with my hair, fingers moving with practiced ease as I braid thick chestnut strands into the shape the world recognizes. I secure the braid, the White Materia, and my resolve with the pink ribbon. It feels like a trademark. It feels like a leash.

I choose the cleanest dress I have, the fabric rustling as I pull it on. Soft, defiant pink against a drab gray morning. Then I check the hidden pocket inside the folds of my skirt.

The glass vial of Potion sits there perfectly.

Cold weight against my thigh. A Shinra-made miracle I never want to need. A secret beside my herbs and salves, the gentler remedies.

There. I look exactly like I’m supposed to. The Whispers should be purring.

I’m the picture-perfect maiden of the flowers, ready to find her hero in the wreckage.

They don’t need to know that under this dress, I’m carrying a miracle in a bottle and a heart already miles away in a Sector 7 bar. He’s probably already awake. Already thinking about getting back to her. She gets to be the reason he moves, and she doesn’t even know my name yet.

Downstairs, Elmyra sits by the radio, face drawn. She looks up as I enter the kitchen. Her gaze drops to my hands, then the doorway, as if expecting the basket. A subtle break from routine. She notices. She just doesn’t comment. She’s seen enough of my looks to know when my mind is already out the door.

“I’m going to check the flowers at the church,” I say, voice bright and rehearsed. “I want to make sure the roof holds up… and that the lilies are okay after the shock last night.”

She nods slowly. “Just… don’t be long, Aeris. The Turks will be twitchy today.”

I take a simple sandwich from the counter, thick bread with a smear of jam, and step out into cool, smoke-scented air.

I eat as I walk. The sweetness is almost rude against the slums’ acrid bite. The streets are quiet in that way that never means peace. Most people stay indoors, waiting to see how Shinra reacts to the loss of a second reactor.

As I approach the church, the vibration inside me shifts into a rhythmic thrum. The air feels disrupted, like someone plucked a string and the whole sector keeps ringing. The Whispers are thick here. A localized pressure that makes my ears pop.

They aren’t blocking my path this time.

They’re waiting.

I hope he didn’t hit his head too hard. I need him conscious and walking.

I wonder… when he wakes up, does he call out for her? If he says her name, I might squeeze that Potion vial hard enough to shatter it.

No, Aeris. Stay calm.

He’s the bridge. She’s the goal. And I hate how cold that sounds in my head.

The Fallen Star

I reach the heavy double doors and take one last breath. I smooth the front of my dress and check the ribbon one more time.

Then I push.

The hinges shriek into the silence.

I walk inside. The hole in the roof is magnificent, a jagged wound where the pale Midgar steel sky stares down. Dust still settles, shimmering in the beams of light.

And there, in the center of my beloved lilies, lies the soldier.

He’s sprawled out exactly where the script says he should be. His sword rests nearby, impossibly heavy against delicate yellow petals.

I don’t rush to him. I walk slowly, my boots echoing on the wood. I stop a few feet away and look down.

He’s breathing. Steady rise and fall.

He’s alive.

As I step closer, something bright catches my eye, half-buried in the soft earth near his hand. A sphere of materia glows with restless, amber heat. I crouch, fingers sinking into cool soil as I retrieve it. Warm in my palm, pulsing with simple, violent energy that feels wrong inside this quiet sanctuary.

So this is what he carries. Fire. Efficient. Loud.

I wonder if she ever feels this heat when he’s around, or if he keeps it all bottled up inside, the way he does with his words.

I slip the orb into the folds of my dress, not as a thief but for safekeeping. The cool silk hides the stolen warmth, and the church stays quiet a little longer.

Then I look at him again. Really look.

He’s messier than he was on Loveless Avenue. Soot smudges his cheek. There’s a fresh tear in his sleeve. Even unconscious, his brow furrows like he’s fighting behind his eyelids.

There you are again. My little Chocobo who fell from the sky.

On Loveless Avenue, you were a ghost. Here, you’re just a wreck.

I look at the ridiculous hair and the sharp line of the jaw.

I still don’t get it. What does she see in you? The strength? Or is she like me, seeing the lost child under the SOLDIER shine?

I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I’m not drawn to the steel in your hands. I’m interested in the woman you left behind in that bar.

I keep my hands clasped in front of me, the picture of a concerned, innocent maiden. Beneath the skirt’s folds, I feel the cold, smooth glass of the Potion vial.

You’re my only way to her. But I’m not the kind of person who leaves someone broken on the floor, whatever the reason.

The Whispers hover near the broken rafters, tattered forms drifting like lazy vultures. They watch for the scripted interaction. They expect surprise. Perkiness. Dialogue on rails.

They don’t need to know what I’m carrying.

I lean down slightly and scan his frame. His breathing stays steady. No blood pools in the lilies, a small mercy for the flowers. I have salves of my own, made from herbs and petals. Gentler, more natural. Not wasting the Lifestream.

If I give him the Potion now, the Whispers might notice.

Better to wait. Let his Mako-soaked body do the heavy lifting a little longer.

I keep the Potion for when things get aggressive.

The First Scene

He takes a sharp, hitching breath. His head lolls. His eyelids flicker.

He’s waking.

I smooth the front of my dress and pull the mask into place—tilt of the head, hands behind my back, the flower girl posture that makes people underestimate me.

His eyes snap open. For a moment they’re unfocused, vibrating with leftover nightmare static. He stares up at the jagged hole in the roof, then drags his gaze to me.

He blinks, confusion knitting his brow. Sunlight catches the gold in his hair, making him look even more like a lost Chocobo.

The Whispers swirl cold in the rafters. Their attention prickles across my skin.

He groans, reaching for his head. His eyes dart to the lilies beneath him, then back to me. Recognition hasn’t fully landed yet.

“You…” he rasps, voice scraped raw.

“Me,” I tease, bright and harmless. I lean forward just enough to invade his space. “Did you miss me that much? I’m flattered, but you didn’t have to crash through my roof just to say hello.”

I gesture up at the splintered rafters, then down at the crushed petals.

“And my poor flowers. Honestly, I expected a SOLDIER to be a little more graceful.”

He looks so confused it almost makes him cute.

Almost.

I wonder if he looks this lost when she talks to him. Is this what she likes?

I want to ask about her. But not yet. First I have to play the mysterious flower girl.

He pushes himself up on one elbow, wincing. His eyes sharpen, finally catching up to the moment.

“Loveless Avenue,” he mutters, the memory clicking into place. “You’re the flower girl.”

“I do have a name,” I tease, even though I haven’t given it. I pluck a crushed petal from his shoulder, tidying a mess he doesn’t realize he makes.

My fingers brush near his neck, and I inhale without meaning to.

Slums. Smoke. Mako.

And under it—faint, grounding—a trace of warmth that isn’t his.

My heart kicks, sharp and jealous.

He’s been near her.

“Well?” I step back, hands on my hips. “Are you planning to lie there all day, or are you going to apologize to the lilies? They’ve had a very rude morning.”

He gets to his feet, unsteady. His hand finds the sword’s hilt, knuckles whitening. His eyes flick toward the door.

“I need to go,” he says, the soldier mask sliding back over his face like a shutter.

Of course. Run.

I watch him rebuild that stoic facade while his boots are still dusted with yellow pollen. Cracking that shell might be a delightful challenge—he looks like a man who’s forgotten how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve a blade.

The Whispers hover above like a tattered gray chandelier. They want the bond. They want the beats. They want me to want him.

I want something else.

The Weight of the Materia

I take a slow step, circling him with my hands clasped behind my back, head tilted in that curious way that makes people underestimate me.

“So,” I say lightly, “you still haven’t explained how you managed to drop in. I didn’t think falling through ceilings was part of SOLDIER training. How exactly did you get here?”

He glances up at the hole as if seeing it for the first time.

“I fell,” he says.

“You fell,” I repeat, mock-serious. “From the plate? All that way? You must be made of something sturdy. Or maybe the flowers just decided to catch you.”

I lean in, bright and annoying on purpose.

“Since you’ve moved in and redecorated my roof, don’t you think you owe me a name? Or should I keep calling you my mysterious sky-diver?”

He stands like he’s braced for impact, like the floor might drop out from under him. All that tension packed into one person.

I tilt my head, let my curiosity show, and keep my questions sweet and safe. Not about her. Not yet.

Still, I can’t help watching for it, the moment her name finds his mouth. Until then…

I’ll take the blush.

He looks away, jaw tightening. He’s clearly not used to someone who isn’t intimidated by the giant slab of steel on his back. Then he exhales a short, annoyed breath—a tiny crack in the armor.

“Cloud,” he mutters.

“Cloud?” I echo, tasting the name. “Like the things in the sky? Fitting, considering where you came from.”

I smile, bright enough to disarm even the grumpiest slum-dweller. “I’m Aeris. And since you ruined my morning and my roof, the least you can do is help me out a bit. Fair’s fair.”

He dusts off his pauldrons, trying to look like a man who has no time for flowers or conversation. I’m not done with him yet.

I reach into the hidden folds of my dress, fingers finding the Materia he dropped—warm, simple, pulsing with fire.

I extend it toward him like a peace offering.

“Before I forget, you dropped this,” I say, keeping my voice light.

“Thanks,” he says, gruff.

His fingers brush mine.

It should be nothing. It still tells me things.

Calloused. Cool. Tense. Like he keeps his warmth locked behind the armor the way he keeps his words locked behind his teeth.

I don’t let the contact linger.

I already know he isn’t the warmth I’m looking for.

I shift my hand upward, fingers grazing the silk of the pink ribbon in my hair, checking for the familiar weight hidden inside.

“I’ve got one too,” I say, watching his eyes.

“You and everyone else,” he replies, dismissive. Predictable. Guarded. It makes me want to push harder.

“Not like mine,” I say softly. My thumb traces the White Materia through the ribbon. “It’s special. Doesn’t do anything at all.”

For a heartbeat, his Mako-blue eyes glaze over. He goes perfectly still. His breath hitches like something inside him misfired.

I don’t see whatever ghost haunts him. I only see a man fighting behind his own eyes. I wonder if he looks like this when Tifa speaks to him—always three seconds from short-circuiting.

“Maybe you just don’t know how to use it,” he finally manages, voice dragged up from deep water.

I let out a soft breath, half laugh, half sigh. “Maybe. But I don’t mind. Just having it is enough. It was a gift from my mother.”

The silence that follows is gentler.

I think of Ifalna—the real mother who gave me the nothing Materia—and Elmyra, who gave me the home I’m preparing to leave.

Funny. I tell him it’s useless, and yet it’s the heaviest thing I carry.

The materia on my ribbon suddenly feels like a lead sinker.

Does he have anything like that? Anything that isn’t a weapon or a mission?

I wonder if she gave him something to remember her by.

The Intrusion

The quiet shatters.

The heavy double doors of the church aren’t pushed open—they’re kicked open. The sound of metal clicking into place—Shinra rifles being raised—echoes through the sanctuary like a warning shot.

A man in a sharp suit steps into the light, red hair blazing like a flare against the dusty interior. He twirls an electro-mag rod with casual, cocky grace.

Reno.

He saunters in as if the church belongs to him, as if the lilies are just decor for his entrance. Behind him, Shinra guards fan out, rifles leveled. The peace of the sanctuary is officially over.

He scans the room—the hole in the roof, the crushed flowers, Cloud—and then his gaze lands on me with a lazy, practiced smirk.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, strolling forward like he’s arriving fashionably late to a party.

The shift in the room is immediate. Shinra. The cage coming back for me.

But Cloud stands there with his hand on that massive hilt, and I realize I have a shield—or at least a very capable distraction.

Reno’s eyes flick over Cloud’s gear. “And who’s this?”

“He’s my bodyguard,” I say before Cloud can speak, voice bright and airy. I step closer to him, tilting my head at Reno. “And he’s a SOLDIER. Pretty impressive, right?”

Reno’s eyebrows shoot up. “SOLDIER, huh?”

“Ex-SOLDIER,” Cloud mutters, flat as steel.

Reno studies the glow in Cloud’s eyes. “Whaddaya know, you’ve got the eyes, at least.”

I turn back to Cloud, the flower girl mask firmly in place. “You don’t mind, do you? Bodyguard work’s not too different from merc work, right?”

Cloud looks down at me, surprise flickering across his face.

Right. He hasn’t told me that yet.

Sloppy, Aeris. Too much thinking about her.

“I guessed!” I blurt, pointing at the enormous sword. “Kind of obvious, you know? Just… go with it, okay?”

Cloud sighs, long and annoyed. He glances at Reno, then back at me. “Fine. But it’ll cost you. A lot.”

“A lot,” I echo.

The temperature drops. The Whispers surge into frantic motion around me. They aren’t attacking—they’re waiting. Hovering. Hungry for the moment they think they know.

In their script, this is where I offer a date.

The idea makes my stomach twist.

No. Absolutely not.

Their cold, papery presence presses close. They want romance. They want reward. They want the story they’ve already written.

But I’m not giving him my heart. I’m giving him something he actually needs.

He must be hungry. He seems lost. And he’s a merc.

“One meal,” I blurt quickly.

The Whispers stutter. Their swirling slows for a heartbeat.

“A home-cooked dinner,” I add. “And I’ll guide you back to wherever you’re going. You won’t get far in the slums today without someone who knows the paths.”

Cloud doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have time.

Reno twirls his rod, scoffing. “Weird enough to be one of ’em. What class?”

“First,” Cloud says without hesitation.

Reno laughs, sharp and mocking. “If you’re gonna bullshit me, at least try to make it believable.”

Before the last word leaves Reno’s lips, Cloud moves.

The sword whistles through the air and slams into Reno’s guard. The impact rings like thunder through the church, and the fight erupts.

The sanctuary becomes a storm of clashing metal and barking gunfire. I step back, boots clicking on the wooden floor as I find a spot that feels safe—though in this building, safety is a relative term.

The Shinra guards raise their rifles, but Cloud becomes a whirlwind of leather and Mako-fueled strength. He keeps them away from me, like a good bodyguard should. The Whispers hover at the edges, satisfied. Their hero survives.

Of course.

I watch Cloud fight. He isn’t just a man with a sword. He’s a force, and the air seems to flinch around every swing. Reno is a red spark, darting in and out, his rod leaving crackling trails in the air.

Why is it always fighting?

Boys and their toys, and all that noise they call pride.

My mind slides, inevitably, to her.

Tifa fights too. I felt the strength in her hands through a flower.

Is she this loud? Or is she wind? Fast, precise, impossible to hold?

I bet she’s beautiful when she moves. Not like this. Not like a bull in a china shop.

Boots crush yellow petals. A genuine pang hits me—not for Cloud or Reno, but for the life I nurture here.

“Watch the flowers!” I shout, voice ringing through the sanctuary. It’s partly the script, but mostly the truth. “Don’t step on them!”

Cloud grunts in acknowledgment and shifts, drawing Reno away from the main bed of lilies.

He listens.

He plays his part.

On My Own Feet

The Whispers remain—gray static at the edge of my vision. They don’t interfere. They want this. They want the dramatic escape, the forged-in-fire bond between flower girl and SOLDIER. They want the story they’ve already written.

Reno laughs as he parries another blow. “Not bad, kid. Let’s see how you handle this!”

He slams his rod into the floor. A wave of electric current ripples through the wood. The church groans, and a chandelier above Cloud begins to sway dangerously.

Cloud glances at me, eyes suddenly sharp. “Move! Get to the back!”

I cast one last pained look at the flower bed. Yellow petals grind into dirt under black combat boots. It feels like a small death, my quiet life erased in real time.

I’m so sorry, my beauties. I promised to protect you, and I brought a storm right into your roots.

But I can’t stay. If I stay, Shinra wins. If I stay, the cage door locks forever.

I have to trust the seeds remain, even if the blooms are gone.

I stay low and slip toward the back of the church where the shadows deepen. From the corner of my eye, I watch Cloud. He’s a blur—the sword’s heavy whoosh cutting the air again and again. He holds them off, but he isn’t invincible.

And he’s still recovering from the fall.

Don’t you dare get yourself killed, Cloud.

You’re my work-Chocobo today, and I haven’t even gotten what I need out of you. But also… don’t actually die. That would be considerably worse than inconvenient.

A guard spots me and raises his rifle. My hand twitches toward the air—Lifestream energy ready to bloom into a ward—but I stop myself. I can’t let Shinra see what I can really do.

Not here. Not yet.

So I stumble back instead, playing helpless perfectly as a heavy thud echoes through the room. Cloud notices. He kicks a guard aside and looks up, scanning for an exit.

“Up there!” he shouts over the chaos.

I reach the narrow, rickety wooden stairs leading toward the attic. The wood groans under my weight, old and resentful. The Whispers are suddenly everywhere—gray, frayed forms swirling around the steps like a ghostly railing.

They’re so pushy today. Herding me like damp, cold ghosts. They want the chase. They want the drama. Fine. I’ll play along. But one day, I’m going to be the one holding the leash.

I climb to a high walkway, heart hammering. Below, Reno is shouting orders, and more troops flood the church. Sunlight from the broken roof pours in, blinding and sharp, casting long shadows across the precarious beams.

I reach a section where the wood has rotted through. A single narrow beam connects me to the other side. I stop, boots hovering over the drop. The floor below looks like a distant, chaotic map.

Cloud is right behind me, his breathing heavy, heat radiating off his Mako-infused body. “I’ll help you across,” he says, reaching out a gloved hand.

I grip the splintering support beam, knuckles white. Vertigo tugs at my stomach, telling me to crawl back to the safety. Looking down would be a mistake. I fix my eyes on the opposite beam—the stable one.

Don’t look down. Don’t look down. If I fall, I’m just a broken doll in a pink dress, and the Chocobo will have to scoop me up. I can’t be that girl today. I have to be the woman who makes it to Sector 7.

Cloud’s presence behind me is a heavy, warm anchor. I know he’s reaching out—SOLDIER instincts telling him I’m about to slip. Part of me wants to take that hand, to feel the strength of someone she trusts—but jealousy is a sharper spark than fear.

Would you reach for him, Tifa? Or would you just fly? I see you in my mind—the way you move in the bar, the way you probably leap across rooftops without even breathing hard. You’re strong. You’re brave. And if I want to stand beside you, I can’t be afraid of a little air.

I flash Cloud a bright, teasing smile—the mask firmly in place to hide the trembling in my knees.

“Don’t worry, Bodyguard! I’ve got this,” I chirp, even as my heart tries to punch its way out of my chest.

I don’t wait for his help. I picture red boots, steady eyes, and the strength of a woman who survives the slums every day. I find the slum-girl inside—the one who climbed rusted pipes long before a SOLDIER ever fell from the sky.

I leap.

For a second, I’m as light as a loose petal, the air rushing past my ears like the Planet’s caught breath. Take that, Whispers—I’m doing this on my own feet. The world is nothing but old cedar and shimmering light. My boots hit the opposite beam with a hollow thump. The wood groans, but it holds.

I wobble, arms windmilling—and a hand catches my elbow, steadying me instantly. Cloud. He jumped right after me, landing silent and effortless.

“Careful,” he mutters, low. He looks surprised—maybe even impressed—that I didn’t wait for him.

The Whispers swirl in a frantic blur, hissing their frustration that I didn’t play the damsel more convincingly. But because I made it across, the timeline is intact. They settle back into the shadows, their cold grip loosening just enough for me to breathe.

See? I’m still me. You didn’t get a single memory today. I’m still the girl who wants to see her smile. Now let’s get out of this birdcage before Reno finds a ladder.

The Iron Sky

I scramble through the last of the rafters and out onto the sloped roof of the church. The air up here is harsh and thin, tasting of soot and steel, but it’s open.

I bend over, catching my breath. The jump left my heart racing, but I keep my expression breezy. Cloud stands beside me like a statue of iron and leather, eyes scanning the horizon. He looks at me, then toward the maze of Sector 5 rooftops.

Look at him. Already miles away. Probably calculating the distance to Sector 7, or wondering if she is worried. It’s infuriating. I’m right here—I just saved his life, or helped—and I’m still just the girl with the flowers.

But he’s stuck with me now. He doesn’t know these rooftops. And the streets are crawling with Shinra. If he wants to get home, he has to go through me.

The wind snaps at my dress and stings my cheeks, tasting of metal and distant smoke. Below, the slums are a patchwork of rusted steel and pipes—a maze waiting to be solved.

“We’re not clear yet,” Cloud says. “Which way?”

The view is breathtaking, if you like looking at a shining iron bruise. It’s a vast, glittering lie told in neon, and I’m just a pink smudge on the edge of the script. I stand there for a moment, wind whipping my dress, feeling the strange silence the Whispers have created by sealing the church behind us.

“See that pillar?” I say, shielding my eyes. “There’s a station right beside it. That’s our way out—if we can reach it without Shinra spotting us.”

Cloud follows my gaze. The pillar rises like a titan’s leg, disappearing into smog and metal. The station at its base looks tiny from here.

He grunts, tracking a Shinra unit moving below. “We stay high. Streets are a no-go.”

I start across a narrow walkway of rusted grating. The Whispers drift nearby—translucent against the sky. They aren’t blocking me anymore; they’re a silent audience, making sure I walk the path they want.

Look at them… the Secret Police of Story. They’re letting us go because we’re heading exactly where they expect. They want me to lead this Chocobo home, cook him dinner, build that bond. They have no idea that every step toward that pillar is a step toward a bar in Sector 7. I’m playing their game—but I’m keeping the winnings.

The scaffolding groans under Cloud’s weight. He reaches out again—not because he thinks I’ll fall, but out of reflex. He’s taking the bodyguard title seriously, even if he does it with the charisma of a gargoyle.

The metal vibrates under my boots, a rhythmic cling-clang echoing between rooftops and the underside of the Plate. I lead the way with a lightness that belies the turmoil in my chest. I don’t look back. I know he’s there, his heavy boots making the rusted structure groan in protest.

I hop over a gap where a ventilation duct has been shoddily patched with scrap tin. He’s like a shadow made of steel and brooding silence. To satisfy the Whispers—and my own burning curiosity—I poke at the silence.

“So…” I say lightly as I balance along a narrow ledge. “What’s next for you?”

Cloud doesn’t even glance down at the drop. “Some bodyguard work.”

A small, knowing smile tugs at my lips. “Right.”

“After that,” he adds, eyes fixed on the horizon where the Sector 7 plate looms, “I’m heading back to the Sector 7 slums.”

I slow my pace just a fraction, the name of the sector hitting like a physical weight. Her sector.

“You… know how to get there?” I ask, tilting my head.

“Yeah,” he says. Short. Certain. Like the path is carved into him.

“Of course you do…” I mutter.

Of course you do. Because she’s there. Because that’s where the home you barely admit to having is. You say “Yeah” like it’s the simplest thing in the world to walk back to Seventh Heaven and have a drink poured by the most beautiful woman in the slums. You don’t even realize how lucky you are about your destination.

I’m the one who has to bargain with ghosts and dodge Shinra just to get a glimpse of her. And here you are, falling through roofs and acting like Sector 7 is just another errand. It’s almost enough to make me push you off this roof. Almost.

The Billboard Run

The path ahead twists into something more complicated. A massive billboard for Shinra Electric Power Company has partially collapsed, forming a steep, slanted ramp of neon tubing and steel.

“We’ll have to go over that,” I say, pointing toward the wreckage. “It’s the only way to reach the upper scaffolding without dropping into the street.”

Cloud eyes the slanted billboard. As the wind picks up, whistling through the gaps in the metal, his hand instinctively reaches out to steady me.

“Stay close,” he commands.

“Stay close.” He’s so good at the SOLDIER act. Does he say that to her when they’re out on a job? Or does she say it to him? I bet she’s the one who keeps him from drifting off into his own head. If I’m going to be his bodyguard-bodyguard today, I might as well see how he handles a little more teasing.

“You’re very bossy for a mercenary,” I tease as I step onto the slanted surface. Neon glass crunches under my boots. “Did you learn that at SOLDIER camp?”

Cloud’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer, but his grip on the railing becomes white-knuckled.

I reach the top of the collapsed billboard, wind gusting harder now that we’re exposed on the high ridge of the rooftops. Cloud pulls himself up behind me—efficient, silent, but with eyes sharp and suspicious. He’s been chewing on the scene back at the church.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” he says, voice low behind me. “Most people from the slums don’t spend their mornings running across rafters.”

“Most people in the slums don’t have the Turks for landlords,” I reply with a sharp, playful grin. “You learn a lot of shortcuts when you’re dodging the Suits’ visits. Besides, the flowers aren’t the only ones who know how to reach for the sun.”

I start across a row of narrow maintenance pipes bridging the gap to the residential block. Cloud pulls up alongside me.

“That guy from earlier,” he says, voice flat but intense. “He was one of Shinra’s Turks.”

I keep my eyes on my footing, though a small smile tugs at my lips. “Oh? You know him?”

“What’s a Turk want with you?” he presses.

“No idea…” I hop onto a wider platform and turn to face him with a shrug. “Don’t Turks scout for potential SOLDIERs and stuff?”

Cloud’s expression doesn’t soften. “They do more than scout. Turks get called in for… situations. With extreme prejudice.”

“Professional bad guys. Charming,” I say, letting a bit of my real weariness bleed through. I know exactly what they are—I’ve lived under their shadow since childhood.

“Back to my question,” Cloud says, stepping closer, his Mako eyes searching mine. “What’s he to you? Looked like you knew each other.”

He’s observant, I’ll give him that. He saw the way Reno didn’t shoot me on sight. He saw the familiarity. But how do I explain fifteen years of being a “prized specimen” without breaking the mask? How do I tell him that while he was being forged into a weapon, I was being catalogued like a rare bird?

I can’t. Not yet. The Whispers are hovering near that rusted water tank. They want me to be a mystery. And honestly? It’s more fun this way.

“Maybe he thought I could be the greatest SOLDIER yet!” I say, striking a playful pose and flexing an arm that has absolutely no muscles to flex.

Cloud stares for a beat, then huffs and turns away. “Forget it.”

“Hmm? You mad?” I tease, following him as he starts across the next span.

The rooftops ahead are older, more dilapidated. The wood is silvered with age and slick with morning mist. My lungs burn slightly—a reminder that while I have Cetra blood, I don’t have Mako-enhanced lungs.

Cloud clears a jagged gap between two buildings with the effortless grace of a cat. He lands silently and keeps moving. I pause, gauge the distance, tuck my skirt, and take a running start.

I land hard, teeth rattling, and catch myself against a rusted chimney.

“Wait! Give me a moment!” I call, leaning over with hands on my knees.

Cloud stops ten paces ahead, turning just enough to look back. He doesn’t move to help—he just waits, silhouette sharp against the gray Midgar sky.

“Don’t just… run off on your own…” I huff, brushing a stray lock behind my ear.

Cloud’s eyes flash with a hint of dry, metallic wit. “Those the words of a SOLDIER candidate?”

“So petty,” I shoot back, standing straight and smoothing my dress. My look is half-scowl, half-smirk.

Ugh, he’s actually using my own jokes against me. I suppose that’s progress for a rock. But watching him move… it’s effortless. I wonder if Tifa has to tell him to slow down, too. Or is she the one leading the way, leaving him in the dust? I like that image better—her running across these roofs like a flame, and him just trying to keep up.

I pull myself up the final rusted rung of the ladder leading to the high maintenance platform of the Sector 5 water tower. My lungs burn, but the view is worth it—not for beauty, but for clarity. From here, the world is a vertical hierarchy of metal, mist, and misery, dominated by the massive concrete barrier dividing the sectors.

Cloud is already there, hand resting on the railing. He doesn’t look winded. He stares at the wall, all hard angles and Mako eyes.

The Reveal

I walk up beside him, smoothing my dress and letting my breathing settle. The massive wall cuts through the horizon like a scar, dividing the world into what’s allowed and what isn’t.

“There it is,” I say softly. “The wall.”

The artificial light of the plate glints in my eyes. “You know, I thought about leaving once…”

I look away to the distance. “Just… going. No plan. No destination. Just away. I couldn’t.”

“What stopped you?” Cloud shifts his weight, eyes fixed on the concrete expanse.

“Too much,” I reply, a wistful smile touching my lips. “A whole world out there, bursting with life. Sometimes I think it’s more than I can handle.”

I pause. “Even now.”

I gesture toward the sprawling maze of the slums below, where smoke from cooking fires blends into a gray haze.

“People hate the steel sky. The slums. But I don’t. Because down there, people are trying so hard to survive. To love. To keep going. And that…” I let my voice fade away without finishing.

I mean every word, but you make me want to roll my eyes. You’re standing there like the stoic hero of a story you haven’t even read. The Whispers want me to be the poetic maiden. I’m just talking to a stuffed shirt who’s wasting Tifa’s worry.

Does she know you’re this boring when you’re not swinging a sword? Does she know you respond to deep thoughts with the emotional range of a rusted pipe?

I turn my back to the view, leaning against the railing so I can study his profile. He’s all sharp lines and stillness, like someone carved him out of resolve and forgot to add the part where people talk.

I’m trying to decide whether you’re a complication or just a door I have to walk through. Right now, you’re a very pretty, very silent wall of muscle.

“So, Mr. Bodyguard,” I say lightly, tilting my head. “You’ve been very vague about this Sector 7 destination. It’s a big place. Are you heading to a specific house? A specific… bar, maybe? I’ve heard the Seventh Heaven is the place to be.”

Cloud gives a short, sharp grunt. Not a word, just a sound from the back of his throat that’s remarkably close to a Chocobo’s frustrated kweh.

Kweh. Exactly. You’re just a big, golden-headed bird who hasn’t learned human yet.

“Just a place to stay,” he mutters. He adds, barely audible. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who won’t answer mine.”

I pretend I didn’t hear the rest of it. You’re rushing back to her, but you talk about it like you’re returning a library book. If I were the one she was waiting for, I’d be flying over these roofs, not grunting at the scenery.

I want to know if she gave you that look before you left—the one that says “please come back in one piece.” Did you even notice? Or did you just kweh at her and walk out the door?

“A place to stay?” I echo, circling him slowly. “That sounds lonely. Are you sure there’s only a place there? Not someone special?”

Cloud’s grip on the railing tightens, leather creaking. He looks out toward the wall again, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to see through concrete and into the heart of Sector 7.

He exhales—long, heavy—shoulders dropping a fraction. He’s not used to being interrogated by someone who isn’t intimidated by his ex-SOLDIER glare.

“It’s a bar,” he finally says. “The Seventh Heaven. I stay in a room nearby. It’s where the group meets.”

“A bar?” I laugh softly, stepping back into his line of sight. “How convenient for a mercenary. A place to drink, a place to sleep, and someone to keep an eye on you. Is your special someone the one who runs it?”

Cloud’s jaw sets. For a moment, the Mako in his eyes sparks with something defensive.

“Tifa runs it,” he says, voice steady. “She’s the one who… keeps things together. I just do the work.”

There it is. Tifa. She “keeps things together.” Of course she does. While you’re out swinging that slab of steel, she’s the one providing the heart. I wonder if she looks at the door every time it opens, hoping it’s you… and I wonder what her face will look like when she sees me instead.

He says “I just do the work.” He really is a stuffed shirt—the kind who’d reorganise his own feelings into a mission briefing just to avoid having them. Does he even know how lucky he is? He has a woman like Tifa waiting, and he talks about it like he’s describing a supply depot.

I step closer, invading that carefully maintained perimeter of SOLDIER stoicism. I can smell the faint scent of Mako and iron on him—but I’m searching for the faintest trace of Seventh Heaven—the scent of someone who keeps things together.

“Just work?” I repeat, voice dropping into a playful lilt with a sharp edge. I stop right in front of him, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Cloud. A woman doesn’t ‘keep things together’ for an employee. She does it for someone she cares about. Someone she’s… waiting for.”

I tilt my head, a stray lock brushing my shoulder. “So tell me—this Tifa. Is she as tough as you? Or is she the one who has to remind you to eat and sleep because you’re too busy being a professional?”

Cloud’s gaze shifts to the rusted floor. His gloved hand flexes on the railing, metal groaning.

“She’s… strong,” he mutters. He avoids the word girlfriend like it’s a tripwire. “She can handle herself.”

He pauses for a moment. “She makes this drink. Has the worst name. But it’s—” He stops. Jaw locks. “She’s a fighter.”

A fighter. Strong. Someone who holds the world on her shoulders while you play with your sword.

For a moment the word lands heavier than I expected. Strong. I’ve been carrying that image in my dreams, but hearing it said plainly like a fact, like something everyone just knows—it makes her feel suddenly very real. And very large.

But what I really want to know is whether you ever actually look at her, Cloud. Do you see the way the light hits her hair? Do you notice when she’s tired? Or are you so busy being a First Class rock that you’re blind to what’s right in front of you?

If she’s as special as they say, she deserves more than a kweh and a cold shoulder.

Taking His Measure

“A fighter, huh?” I step back, folding my arms as I look him up and down like I’m comparing him to the woman in my dreams. “Makes sense. You’d need someone who can keep up with you. But tell me… does she ever laugh? Does she ever get tired and wish you’d just… I don’t know, buy her a flower?”

Cloud looks up, Mako eyes flashing with genuine confusion. “A flower? Why would I—”

He stops. His jaw tightens.

The jaw says everything. He walked straight into my trap.

“See?” I chirp, pointing at him with a triumphant grin. “You really don’t have a clue. Honestly, it’s a miracle she hasn’t traded you in for a more talkative model. Maybe someone who knows how to say more than two words at a time.”

He doesn’t even know. He’s a legendary soldier who’s forgotten how to be a person. If she has the patience for him, she must be a saint. Or maybe… maybe she’s waiting for someone to show her she doesn’t have to be the strong one all the time. Someone who can tease her, make her blush, remind her the world isn’t just steel sky and Mako.

The Whispers swirl around the base of the water tower, agitated. They want me to flirt, to build the heroic bond. I’m happy to oblige—as long as they don’t realize every playful word is a probe into his life with her.

“Come on,” I say, turning toward the ladder. “You’ve given me plenty to think about. Let’s get you to my house. I promised you a dinner, and unlike some people, I actually keep my contracts.”

The descent from the water tower is a slow, careful dance. I lead Cloud through a series of attics—the precarious spaces between roofs and ground—avoiding the main streets where Shinra search teams swarm like ants.

Dropping down onto a heap of discarded tires, we land in a narrow side-alley. The Sector 5 station looms ahead, a hive of activity. Shinra Security Officers stand everywhere, rifles held across their chests. Cloud tenses, hand going straight to the sword. He looks ready to charge through the front gate just to reach the Sector 7 train.

“Don’t even think about it, Mr. Hero,” I whisper, gently pulling his arm back. “Unless you want to be the star of a Shinra firing squad. We take the back way—through the residential alleys. Longer, but I prefer my bodyguards alive.”

Cloud looks at the station, then at me. He lets out that familiar, frustrated kweh of a sigh. “Fine. Just make it quick.”

Always rushing back to his place. He doesn’t realize every minute he spends grumping at me is a minute I’m using to map out the heart of the woman he takes for granted. I have to keep him talking. I need to know if I’m fighting a childhood bond or just a professional partnership.

I lead him through winding back alleys, past piles of junk and avoiding the occasional monster. The Whispers drift in the shadows, watching. I put on a bright, curious expression for them—the look of a girl who’s so interested in her new friend’s life.

“So,” I say, skipping ahead and turning to walk backward so I can see his face. “A bar, a boss, and a friend named Tifa. You two seem close. Did you meet her when you moved to the slums, or is this… a longer story?”

Cloud keeps scanning the surroundings. “We’re from the same town. Up in the mountains.”

“Same town?” I tilt my head, widening eyes in mock-surprise. “Oh, how romantic! Childhood friends! So she’s known you since you were just a little boy with a wooden sword?”

Cloud’s jaw tightens. “Something like that. We didn’t see each other for years. Not until I came to Midgar.”

“And she just… took you in?” I ask softly. “Just like that? A friend from home shows up with a giant sword and a SOLDIER attitude, and she gives him a room and a job?”

“She’s a friend,” Cloud says, voice flat, like he’s trying to shut the door on the conversation. “That’s it.”

She’s a friend. He says it like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me. A childhood friend… the hardest kind of rival. There’s history there, layers of things unsaid. But he also said they didn’t see each other for years. That’s a gap. A gap I can use.

I wonder if she looks at him and sees the boy he was, or if she’s waiting for the man he’s supposed to be. If she’s keeping things together for everyone else, who keeps things together for her? Not this rock. He can’t even tell me her favorite color without sounding like he’s filing a mission report.

I turn back around, humming a little tune as I lead him toward the slums’ center.

The jealousy is still there—a sharp, cold prickle—but it’s tempered by a growing sense of mission.

Three nights of dreaming about a woman I haven’t met. Three nights of feeling her touch through the Lifestream. And I’m stuck with her friend. Life is a cruel playwright, isn’t it? But if I can persuade the Planet to give me visions, I can certainly persuade one bartender to give me a chance. If she has the patience for this Chocobo, maybe she’ll find me a breath of fresh air.

The Flower Girl’s World

The center of the Sector 5 slums is a hive of nervous energy. People cluster around the flickering screen, their faces washed in the harsh blue glow of Shinra propaganda.

On the screen, the reporter narrates the destruction of Reactor 5 until the broadcast cuts to Scarlet, Shinra’s Head of Weapons Development. She looks like upper-plate perfection poured into a suit, smiling like a knife. She talks about rescue efforts and terrorist cowards, but the background says what she won’t: scorched steel and smoke curling up behind her.

Then a grainy security clip plays. A group flees the scene—blurred shadows, but one has a massive gun for an arm. They must be Avalanche members making their escape. I scan the footage, searching for a flash of dark hair or red boots.

Nothing. Just gray smoke and blue-gray armor. I turn the screen off in my mind before my face gives anything away. She’s not up there. She’s down here, somewhere behind a wall I can’t cross yet. The distance feels physical, like pressure behind my ribs.

I glance at Cloud. He goes very still, jaw tightening. At the same moment, a cold spike runs through the Lifestream, brushing against my senses. He recognizes those faces—I can feel the reaction, even if I don’t know the story behind it.

There they are. Your friends. Are you searching for her in that blurry mess, Cloud? Looking for a silhouette that might be hers? I want to tell you to stop. She’s safe at the bar—she has to be. But you’re just standing there like a statue, letting Shinra call your people monsters while you play bodyguard for a girl who’s currently measuring your pulse.

We move past the crowd. The restaurant owner—a man who always smells like fried grease and desperation—calls out.

“Aeris! Perfect timing. Mind lending a hand?”

“I’d love to, but…” I give him a gentle wave and a practiced, apologetic smile.

I don’t look back. There’s a small sting in that—he’s a good man, and on any other day I might have stayed an hour. But my mind is already sectors away, and I’ve learned that when it gets like this, I’m not much use to anyone anyway. Besides… I won’t be the neighborhood girl forever. Better he gets used to managing without me.

I turn to Cloud once we’re a few steps clear. “I help out sometimes. It’s fun. Keeps me from getting too bored with the lilies.”

We don’t get far before a group of Leaf House orphans spot us. Their eyes go wide at the sight of the man with the giant sword. They trail behind us like ducklings, whispering and pointing. I lead them all the way to the Leaf House gates, making sure they’re safely inside.

“Aeris, will you bring us some flowers later?” the housemother asks.

“I promise,” I say. “The brightest ones in the garden.”

Once the gates click shut, it’s just me and the Chocobo-head again. The silence feels heavier. We’re walking toward the bridge that leads to my house. The air is sweeter here—damp earth finally winning over smog.

The sweetness of the garden path should feel like coming home. Today it just feels like a countdown.

“So,” I say, skipping over a puddle, trying to sound casual. “Since you’re an expert on work and bodyguarding… do you have a favorite flower?”

The sandy path crunches under my boots as the air cools, filtered through the junk that lines the way to my home. The smell of iron and soot fades, replaced by clear water and damp moss.

Cloud walks with his eyes fixed straight ahead, as if he’s navigating a minefield instead of a garden path.

“They’re all the same to me,” he says, voice flat as steel.

“You really want to say that to a florist?” I stop, hands on my hips, pink ribbon swaying.

“Better than lying,” he grunts.

“Okay,” I say, a mischievous sparkle in my eyes. I fall into step beside him. “Then what’d you do with the flower you bought from me?”

Cloud falters. Just a fraction—a tiny stumble that tells me more than his words ever could. “I, uh…”

“You gave it away?” I lean in, grin widening. I already know the answer. I want to hear him say it.

“I did,” he admits, jaw tightening.

“Ooh! To who? Tell me!” I chirp, practically vibrating with the memory of that faint, impossible touch I thought I felt—a whisper of warmth that could have been wishful thinking. I want the name. I want to hear it from him.

“Don’t recall,” Cloud mutters, staring at a rock like it’s suddenly fascinating.

“Hmmm?” I hum, letting the sound hang, thick with disbelief.

“What?” he snaps, voice pitched just a little too high—the sound of a Chocobo under pressure.

“Thought you didn’t like lying,” I say with a triumphant wink.

Don’t recall. Oh, Cloud. You really are a terrible liar. You remember exactly who you gave it to. I can’t feel her clearly—not like a song. Just a faint afterimage, like warmth left on a cup after someone sets it down. Enough to snag my thoughts.

You gave her a yellow lily, and you’re pretending it was nothing.

It makes my heart ache with a strange mix of joy and that biting jealousy tangled together. Joy, because she held something of mine. Jealousy, because you were the one who saw her face when she took it. Did she smile? Did she tuck it into a vase behind the bar? I’m going to find out. I’m going to make you tell me everything, one lie at a time.

The sandy path gives way to the lush green sanctuary of the garden. Here, the air doesn’t just feel cleaner—it feels alive, humming with the quiet song of the Planet that the rest of Midgar tries so hard to drown out.

An Impossible Oasis

We cross the wooden bridge, the bubbling stream beneath us sounding like soft laughter. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Cloud. He’s looking at the yellow lilies—siblings of the one he “doesn’t recall” giving away—and for the first time, his shoulders lose a little of that rigid tension.

“My house is just up this path,” I say lightly. “Mom should be home by now, so I’ll introduce you.”

The Whispers drift around the fence line like scraps of gray fog. They’re calm now, almost purring. To them, this is the classic “hero meets the mother” beat. They see romance. I see an opportunity to keep my source of information exactly where I want him.

I push the gate open. The familiar creak welcomes me home.

“There you go,” I say, nodding at the wooden house tucked up against the flowers. “That’s my house.”

Cloud stops. He takes in the waterfall, the flowers, the impossible green tucked into the rust of Midgar.

“It’s amazing,” he breathes.

It is amazing, isn’t it, Cloud? A world away from metal and bars. I wonder if Tifa would like it here. I can see her sitting by the stream, cooling her feet after a long shift. She’d appreciate the peace more than you ever could. But for now, you’re the one standing in my garden—and you’re the one I have to feed.

I lead him up the porch steps and push the door open. The interior smells of cedar, old books, and whatever Elmyra has simmering on the stove. Warm. Domestic. A shield against the world.

“Hey baby,” Elmyra calls from the kitchen, knife chopping rhythmically. “Been up to no good? Rude came by—”

She turns. The sentence dies when she sees the giant blonde man filling the doorway. Her eyes—usually warm—turn to flint as they rake over his gear and the massive hilt of the sword.

“So, this is my mom, Elmyra,” I say quickly, stepping between them. “And this is Cloud. My bodyguard.”

Cloud shifts, suddenly looking smaller under her scrutiny. “Uh… hi.”

Elmyra doesn’t move. She looks at him, then at me, then back to him. “Take good care of her?” she asks, voice level but sharp.

“That’s my job,” Cloud says, slipping back into professional monotone. “Or… was.”

“Yep. Thanks,” I chime in, giving Elmyra a reassuring smile.

Rude was here. Of course he was. The Turks are moving their pieces, and here I am bringing a SOLDIER into the center of the board. Elmyra is worried—I can feel it radiating off her. But she’ll tolerate him for a meal. And that’s all the time I need.

The house is warm in a way the rooftops never are, like the air itself has finally stopped biting. Elmyra resumes chopping—thwack, thwack—the heartbeat of the home. She’s moving from pot to pot, adding things, tasting, fussing. The kitchen smells like she’s feeding a whole crowd, not just us.

Cloud stands awkwardly near the wooden table, looking like he’s trying to figure out how to exist in a space that isn’t a barracks or a battlefield. I lean against the doorframe, watching him with that same amused, analytical gaze.

“So, Cloud,” I say, breaking the silence. “You gonna head back to Sector 7?”

“Yeah.” His voice is flat. His eyes are already on the door, racing toward that bar and the woman waiting there.

“Then I’ll show you the way,” I say, pushing off the frame with a skip.

Cloud frowns. “Then why’d you have me bring you here? What if the Turks show up again?”

“It’d suck, but I’ve dealt with them before,” I say, waving a hand. I circle him, light on my feet. “Honestly, I’m more worried about you. What if you get lost, huh? You’d be too proud to admit it and just keep walking.”

Cloud’s jaw tightens. “Quit acting like you know me.”

Oh, I don’t need to know you to see the pride sticking out like those spikes in your hair. You’d walk halfway to Wutai before asking for directions. But more importantly… if you leave now, I lose my bridge. I need you to stay long enough for the lockdown to settle so I can make sure I’m the one who walks you into Seventh Heaven.

Mom Intervenes

“Hey, Mom?” I call toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna take Cloud over to Sector 7, okay?”

Elmyra stops chopping. She looks up, eyes flicking toward the dimming sky. “Okay… but why not wait until tomorrow?”

She wipes her hands. “With the reactor down, the city’s on lockdown. If you head out now, it’ll be dark when you get back. Better to rest here and go in the morning. You’ll have daylight to spare.”

“That’s true,” I say thoughtfully. I turn to Cloud. “She’s got a point. Shinra patrols are twitchy tonight. Moving after dark is a great way to get shot.”

“Hold on,” Cloud mutters, ready to protest—but I cut him off.

“Oh! And I still need to deliver flowers to the Leaf House,” I chirp. “Since we’ve got time before dinner… you should come with me.”

Cloud stares, incredulous. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“You want more?” I tease, stepping into his space. “Even though you’ve got a priceless reward coming?”

I glance at Elmyra, a mischievous smirk dancing on my lips. “Do you know what I promised him, Mom?”

Cloud’s ears turn pink. He looks at the floor, then the door, then sighs. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ll grab the baskets!” I sing, darting upstairs.

Cloud stays rooted to the spot like a misplaced statue. Elmyra watches him with a mother’s wary instinct.

At the landing, I hear her voice drift up. “That Aeris… she’s a handful, isn’t she?”

I pause, smiling.

A handful? Maybe. But I’m a handful with a plan. Cloud thinks he’s getting a meal; the Whispers think he’s getting a date. But the real reward is that I’m going to pry every last detail about Tifa out of him before we reach Sector 7. Her favorite drink. Her favorite song. Exactly how much patience she has for this Chocobo.

I find the baskets, take a breath, center myself. The flower girl mask feels heavier today—like the White Materia—but the thought of Tifa gives me strength. One more night. Just one more night of being the guide before I finally see the face from my dreams.

I skip down the stairs, two woven baskets swinging from my arms. The wood creaks familiarly, a domestic sound that anchors me. Cloud is still standing exactly where I left him, looking like a misplaced statue in the middle of my mother’s living room.

“Found ’em,” I chirp, offering one basket to him.

Cloud looks at it like it’s a bomb. His hand twitches toward his sword.

“You take this one,” I say, nudging it closer.

“I don’t think…” he starts.

“Take it,” I insist with a playful nod.

He finally reaches out, his hand engulfing the delicate handle. He holds it at arm’s length, his posture stiff and awkward. He looks terrified that he might accidentally crush the wicker.

“Right. Off we go!”

Elmyra’s eyes flick over us once. Dust on our clothes. The tightness around my mouth. The way Cloud is standing like he expects an ambush.

My stomach chooses that exact moment to betray me with a low grumble.

Elmyra raises an eyebrow. “You two haven’t eaten a thing, have you?”

She lifts the plate a fraction. “Sit. Both of you.”

Cloud hesitates.

Her gaze lands on him, calm and unblinking. “And you. Put the basket down. You’re not leaving my house on an empty stomach.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, then thinks better of it and mutters, “…Fine.”

I try for innocent. “It was kind of busy.”

“I can see that,” she says, steering us toward the table like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Eat first. Then you can go play heroes.”

I eat too fast at first, then force myself to slow down. Halfway through I stop entirely without meaning to, the familiar warmth creeping back into my cheeks. I find myself wondering if Tifa makes sandwiches. What she’d put in them. Whether she’d slide the plate across the bar without making a fuss about it, the way Elmyra does. I stare at my food long enough that Cloud glances over, and I quickly take another bite, hoping the blush passes before anyone notices.

Cloud finishes his sandwich with the same serious focus he uses on everything, and I have to bite back a smile.

I lead the way to the door, giving Elmyra a bright wave. She watches us with a guarded expression—but she doesn’t stop us again.

What She Likes

The garden shimmers in the afternoon sun, every petal catching the light like a tiny blessing. I lead Cloud to the main patch of yellow lilies and kneel in the soft dirt, the fabric of my dress whispering around me.

“Hm… which ones should we pick?” I ask, looking up at him as my fingers graze a vibrant petal.

Cloud stands over me, basket held awkwardly at his side like he’s afraid it might bite. He surveys the sea of yellow and green with utter bewilderment.

“Any of them,” he says.

“Aww, don’t be like that,” I tease, tilting my head. “I know you’ve got an eye for this sort of thing. After all, you picked out a real winner back on Loveless Avenue.”

I pluck a perfect yellow lily, holding it up so the dew glints in the light.

“That’s the one you bought from me,” I say, voice dropping into that I-know-your-secret tone.

Cloud blinks, his eyes shifting. “Huh. It is?”

“Nice try, mister. You can’t fool me,” I say with a triumphant wink. I tuck the lily into my basket and stand, brushing dirt from my knees. “We still need a few more for the kids. Which should we pick next? Something to match your personality? Something… prickly?”

I move through the garden, picking deep red hibiscus and trailing white jasmine. Cloud follows like a silent, oversized shadow, occasionally leaning down so I can drop a stem into his basket.

The Whispers circle the fence, almost invisible in the bright light. They’re quiet—watching, satisfied. I’m hitting all the beats they expect.

I tuck two velvety purple bellflowers into the corner of Cloud’s basket, snug against the handle. The contrast is almost comical with that sword on his back: destruction and fragility in the same space.

With the baskets full and fragrant, I lead the way out. The moment the gate clicks shut, Cloud picks up the pace. His strides lengthen, boots kicking up dust. He’s practically sprinting toward the slum center, the basket swinging like a weapon he doesn’t know how to wield.

“No need to hurry,” I call, skipping to keep up with his tactical retreat. “We’re not under a gun. The lilies won’t explode if they’re five minutes late.”

Cloud doesn’t slow. He keeps his eyes fixed on the path. “I’m not cut out for this crap,” he mutters.

“Sure you are,” I chirp, bumping his arm lightly. “When you’re done, you’ll be drowning in job offers. ‘Cloud: First-Class Bodyguard and Part-Time Florist.’ Has a nice ring to it.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-sigh, half-growl.

Look at him. He can face down a Turk without blinking, but give him a basket of flowers and a deadline for some orphans, and he starts looking for the nearest exit. It’s so easy to push your buttons, Cloud. But I need to push the right ones if I’m going to find out about her.

As the shacks of the residential area come into view, I shift the focus.

“So,” I say, voice slipping into mock professionalism. “If I were to put together a bouquet for your friend Tifa… what should I go with? Favorite color? Or is she more of a black-and-leather girl like you?”

Cloud actually slows, brow furrowing as he tries to process the question.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, the words coming out slow. “She likes… simple things. Red, I guess. She wears a lot of red.”

Red. Like the fire of Seventh Heaven. Like the boots I’ve heard about. Red suits her—passion, strength, someone who stands her ground while the world falls apart. I bet she looks stunning in red. Not like me… I’m all soft pinks and ribbons. I wonder if she’d think I’m too bright for her.

I glance at the lilies in my basket.

They’re so… managed. I wonder if she’d even like me. Cloud said they grew up on a mountain. She’s probably used to flowers that fight to survive in the cold. Flowers that don’t need a girl with a watering can to tell them it’s okay to bloom.

“Red, huh?” I say aloud, tapping my chin. “Classic. Strong. Bold. Like a certain mercenary I know. Roses? Something exotic?”

Cloud grunts. “She’s not really a flower person. She’s busy. She runs the place.”

The Leaf House appears—a bright splash of color against the rusted slums. Even from outside, I hear the steady reassurance of a teacher’s voice and the occasional scuff of a chair—sounds of a normal childhood trying to exist in an abnormal world.

The Hand-Off

Cloud stops dead at the gate. He looks at the building like it’s a Shinra facility full of invisible lasers. His grip on the basket tightens.

“I’ll wait out here,” he says abruptly, thrusting the basket toward me with both hands. He’s already scanning for escape routes. He looks like a man who has just been told he’s successfully cleared a minefield and is eager to be anywhere else.

“Oh, okay,” I say, taking it. I give him a knowing, slightly pitying look. “But I might be a while. Why not explore? I promise I won’t run away.”

“I’ll be around,” he mutters, already retreating, hand drifting to the sword like it’s a comfort blanket.

Poor Chocobo. He can handle a Turk, but a room full of children is his breaking point. Honestly, it’s a relief to let him off the leash for a bit. The flower girl act is a lot of work when I’m trying to solve the mystery of a woman in a bar.

I push the door open. The smell of old paper, crayons, and floor wax greets me—peaceful, familiar. Ms. Folia is mid-lesson, but a dozen pairs of eyes drift toward me.

“Aeris!” they whisper-shout, faces lighting up.

“Shh,” I say, finger to my lips, lifting the baskets. “I brought the colors.”

I spend the next half-hour moving quietly through the room, handing out the flowers I and the bodyguard picked. I give a yellow lily to a quiet girl in the back, and the deep red hibiscus to a boy who looks like he needs a bit of courage. They can do the decorations on their own schedule, I don’t need to worry about that.

Red. It really is a strong color. Even in this dim room, it catches the light. I look at the hibiscus and think of her. Is she safe? Is she watching the news, wondering where her “friend” is? If I could send her one of these through the Lifestream, I would. Just to tell her he’s safe… and that I’m coming.

As the kids return to their drawings—most of them now trying to sketch the giant with the sword they saw outside—I take a moment to help Ms. Folia.

Through the window, I see Cloud leaning against a rusted pipe, looking like a brooding statue.

The Leaf House is a sanctuary of soft wood and old glue, but even here, the world feels thin. I help Ms. Folia arrange flowers into mismatched jars, but my fingers are clumsy.

My mind is miles away—across the Sector 6 wall.

A Confession in the Classroom

Ms. Folia watches as I try to wedge a lily into a jar that’s already overflowing. She gently takes the flower from my hand, her eyes kind but perceptive behind her glasses.

“Aeris? You’re a thousand miles away today,” she says softly. “Is it the news about the reactor? Or is it your new friend waiting outside?”

“Oh—sorry,” I say, forcing a bright, sheepish smile. “Just… a lot on my mind. Say, Ms. Folia, you know everything that happens in the slums. Ever heard of a place called the Seventh Heaven? Or a woman named Tifa who runs it?”

Ms. Folia taps her chin, thoughtful. “The Seventh Heaven… that’s over in Sector 7, isn’t it? I’ve heard merchants mention it. They say the owner is a saint—always looking out for the neighborhood. Much like you do here.” She gives me a small smile. “But it’s a long way for rumors to travel. Why do you ask? Do you have friends over there?”

A saint. Of course she is. Everyone loves her, even people who’ve never met her. It makes my chest feel tight—half warmth, half jealousy. I don’t need strangers talking about me. I just… want to know if she’s ever wondered about the girl with the flowers.

I pause, a single yellow lily held between my fingers. Ms. Folia and I aren’t so different in age, and enough afternoons sorting books and stacking toys among the same children have worn the formality thin. She talks about the kids almost constantly—who’s reading ahead, who cried at lunch, who finally learned the steps to whatever dance she’s been trying to teach them. She doesn’t ask about the Lifestream or handle me like something that might break.

There’s something about her I’ve never been able to place, something that makes the mask feel unnecessary without her ever asking me to take it off. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I don’t need to. The mask just… doesn’t work on her, not because she sees through it, but because she’s never really looking at it. She’s always looking at the children. Telling her the truth feels like opening a window in a stuffy room.

“The mercenary outside… Cloud,” I begin, voice softening. “He’s from there. She’s his friend—the one who keeps him grounded while he’s out playing soldier. But it’s more than that, Folia.”

I look down at the lily, thumb tracing the curve of a petal.

“I’ve been dreaming about her. For three nights now. I haven’t even met her, but I can feel her—her strength, her worry, even the way she touches things. It’s like the Lifestream is trying to introduce us before we even say hello.”

Or maybe I just hear too much and understand too little of what I hear. Maybe the half of me that reaches into the Lifestream is also the half that makes things up.

I look up, a self-deprecating smile tugging at my lips, though my eyes stay serious.

“It sounds like I’ve finally spent too much time talking to the lilies, doesn’t it? But I feel this… pull. Like she’s the destination I’ve been looking for. I’m a little jealous of him, honestly. He gets to see her every day and treats it like it’s just work. If I were in his boots…”

Ms. Folia places a steady hand on my shoulder. “The Planet works in strange ways, Aeris. If you’re feeling a connection that strong, there’s a reason for it. Just be careful. Sector 7 is a different world than our little garden.”

She didn’t call me crazy. That’s something. A saint, she said. I wonder if Tifa feels it too. Does she wake in the middle of the night in that bar, wondering why the air suddenly smells like flowers? I hope so. I hope I’m not the only one caught in this current.

Through the window, Cloud is no longer leaning against the pipe. He’s vanished.

Probably off doing mercenary things. Charging someone five Gil to find a lost cat. Scaring a merchant half to death by helping them move crates. He acts like he hates the slums, but he can’t help himself. The basket. The orphans. None of that was part of any deal. He just… did it. There’s something familiar in that I can’t quite place. Something underneath the rock.

I hope he’s enjoying his little break. He has no idea how much more teasing I have planned for the walk back.

The Breaking News

The peaceful atmosphere of the classroom shatters when the front door slams open. Oates stumbles in, pale and breathless, eyes wide with fear. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost—or something worse.

“Ms. Folia! Aeris!” he gasps, clutching the doorframe.

I drop the lilies and rush to him. “Oates? What happened?”

“It’s… it’s the others,” he pants. “Two of the kids are missing. We were out by the hideout and… that creepy guy showed up. Everyone else ran, but they didn’t make it back. They’re still out there!”

His voice cracks. He looks at me like I’m the only adult who can fix this.

Creepy guy. The Whispers must be behind this somehow. I need to find them. But I can’t go alone—not if monsters are involved.

Then heavy boots thud on the porch. Cloud fills the doorway, taking one look at Oates and my expression and reaching for his hilt. He’s holding a small bag—whatever he found out there during his moment of freedom, it wasn’t a stakeout. Just good timing, accidental and convenient. Right now I’m not complaining. The kids come first, and having that sword around saves me the trouble of finding him.

“What happened?” he asks, voice slicing through the panic.

“You could say that,” I reply, stepping forward. “Sounds like someone spooked the kids.”

Oates nods frantically. “Yeah—two of ’em disappeared. They ran after this creepy guy in weird black clothes showed up.”

“A Turk?” Cloud’s grip tightens. I can see the gears turning.

I shake my head before Oates can answer. My skin prickles the way it does when something is alive but not right. Turks are sharp edges and cologne and confidence. This is… hollow.

“That’s what I thought,” I say, eyes on Oates. “But no. Tell him what you saw.”

“It’s this guy who’s always stumbling around in a dirty robe full of holes,” Oates explains, gesturing vaguely to his own arm. “Oh, and he had some kind of number tattooed on his arm. They say he’s sick or something.”

Cloud’s posture tightens, a subtle shift that carries more weight than anything he says. A cold, jagged tension ripples off him, brushing against my senses. Whatever’s in his head… it’s not calm.

“I know someone like that,” he mutters. “I’ll come with.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” I say, nodding. “Let’s check it out.”

“C’mon!” Oates shouts, already running.

A Kingdom of Junk

The walk to the hideout takes us through the Sector 5 outskirts. Cloud stays close, eyes scanning every shadow. He’s silent—mind clearly somewhere far away.

Somewhere with ghosts in black robes, if I had to guess.

That number comment hit a nerve. He knows that man—or someone like him. Is this another secret he keeps from Tifa? Does she know about the tattoos and the robes? I want to ask, but right now he’d just kweh at me and shut down. First the kids. Then the questions.

We reach the narrow gap between buildings—the secret entrance to the children’s sanctuary. Oates hesitates.

“I know this place is off-limits to grown-ups,” he says, his voice small. “But if we want to rescue them…”

I give him my most rebellious smile. “We gotta break the rules.”

“Fine by me,” Cloud grunts.

The hideout is a marvel of slum ingenuity, a kingdom built from scrap and imagination. A slide the kids swear is an airplane wing. Ladders to “battlements.” Wooden swords stacked like real weapons.

Two boys standing guard drop their planks in relief.

“Oates!” “You’re back!”

Oates puffs out his chest, gesturing toward us with a thumb. “Aeris came to help.”

“Yeah, leave it to us,” I say with my best big-sister smile. “We’ll take care of it.”

“But there are monsters!” one boy says, pointing toward a dark gap in the fence. “Big ones! And that creepy guy!”

“Don’t worry,” I say, leaning in conspiratorially. “I brought a super-strong friend.”

Cloud steps forward, sunlight catching the steel on his back. “I used to be a SOLDIER,” he says flatly, unimpressed by the junk-fortress around him. “Where’s the guy?”

“I dunno,” Oates mutters, looking around nervously. “He disappeared and we can’t find him. Just… vanished.”

“Right now, let’s focus on the kids,” I say. I can’t have Cloud spiraling into a headache over robed men.

Before we head out, a flash of fluff catches my eye. A boy in a full Moogle suit stands by a stack of crates, pom-pom bobbing. He’s holding a sign for “Moogle Emporium.”

“Hold on a second, Cloud.” I say, stopping at the tiny shop. “I’ve got some Moogle Medals I’ve been saving. Let’s see what he’s got.”

Cloud stares at the boy. Then at me. Then at the boy again.

He looks like he’s trying to calculate if this is a psychological warfare tactic by Shinra. “Are you serious? We’re in the middle of a rescue mission.”

“Come on, you can rest your scowl for a minute,” I tease, trading medals for a decorative mortar and pestle. “Supporting the local economy! Right, Moggie?”

“Kupo!” the boy squeaks, delighted.

Cloud lets out a long-suffering sigh, like a man realizing the universe has started picking on him personally.

Look at that face. No room for whimsy. I wonder if Tifa ever tried to get him to wear ears at the bar. Probably not. She’s too busy being strong while he’s being stoic. I’ll keep this Moogle Medal as a souvenir of the time I made a First-Class SOLDIER wait for a kid in a fuzzy suit.

We crouch through the small, rusted gate that leads out of the hideout and into the treacherous maze the kids call Scrap Boulevard. The air here is colder, shadows feel like they’re stretching longer than they should.

Almost immediately, the ground begins to rustle. A group of Hedgehog Pies—spiky, agitated little balls of fluff and attitude—erupt from the dirt, their quills vibrating.

“I’ll handle this,” Cloud says, stepping in front of me.

I step back, hands relaxed, hiding the flicker of light itching at my fingertips. I’m the flower girl today. I have a bodyguard.

Cloud moves like a blur. The sword whistles through the air, swatting the creatures like they’re nothing more than annoying flies. He doesn’t waste a single movement. It’s efficient, brutal, and—I hate to admit it—very impressive.

He’s good. Fast. Strong. But he fights with so much anger. Every swing is a strike against a world he doesn’t understand. I wonder if he fights like this when he’s with her. Does she see the warrior, or the man who’s too stubborn to admit he’s tired? I’ll let him play hero. His ego is as sharp as that blade, and as long as he’s focused on the monsters, he’s not asking me questions I’m not ready to answer.

The junk-choked path tightens around us, the rusted walls of discarded machinery closing in on us like the teeth of some giant, metallic beast. The air is stagnant, smelling of old oil and the cold, damp scent of the monsters lurking in the shadows.

I keep looking for any sign of a small shoe print or a scrap of fabric. Cloud walks with a hand near his hilt, his gaze sweeping the shadows with a professional intensity that feels a bit like overkill for a few rodents.

“Where do you think they went?” I ask, my voice echoing slightly against a rusted hull.

Cloud doesn’t look back. “Who knows. They’re kids. Nothing to do but look all over.”

“I just hope we find them in time,” I say, worry tightening in my chest.

“Look all over.” Brilliant tactical advice, Cloud. I bet Tifa handles the planning while you hit things. I can see her now—calm, focused, tracing their steps while you growl at the junk. I wonder if she’s ever had to find you when you wander off into your own head.

Another squeak and a rustle. More Hedgehog Pies burst from a pile of tires. I simply step behind a large piece of sheet metal.

Cloud doesn’t miss a beat. He pivots, the Buster Sword carving a silver arc through the air. He’s like a dancer made of iron—every strike is precise, every parry effortless. He’s clearly bored, his movements showing the ex-SOLDIER arrogance that usually grates on me, but right now, I’m happy to let his ego do the work.

As we cross the bridge of rusted girders, I spot them. On a small island of scrap surrounded by a stagnant pool, two small figures are huddled behind a mound of junk.

“There they are!” I cry, pointing.

Cloud’s eyes narrow. “And they’re not alone.”

The Rescue

A cluster of Wererats and Hedgehog Pies swarm the path to the scrap island. Cloud cuts through them with a single sweeping strike, sparks scattering into the gray sky. He’s faster now—focused, silent, deadly.

Then the real threat appears.

A Smogger drifts into the clearing, bloated metal tick feeding on the air. It coughs a sickly green bile, the kind of breath that makes the Planet want to gag.

“Stay back,” Cloud orders, voice dropping into that low, dangerous combat register.

A Smogger. Nasty. Poison mist, silence, and a bad habit of exploding. I hang back and watch Cloud work. And if you get silenced… I’ll enjoy the irony for half a second before I heal you. I promise.

Cloud lunges. The Smogger retaliates with a burst of gas, but he rolls through it, leather slick with mist. He slams the flat of his blade against the chassis, trying to disrupt the core.

The machine begins to glow red—the telltale sign of self-destruct.

“Cloud! It’s going to—”

The explosion cuts me off.

Cloud takes the blast head-on, shielding his face with his pauldrons as the shockwave ripples through the junkyard.

When the smoke clears, the kids peek out from behind their scrap pile—soot-covered, wide-eyed. Cloud stands in the center of the debris, breathing hard, sword still raised, the lingering smoke of the Smogger clinging to his hair and clothes. He looks like a man who just walked through a furnace, yet his hand doesn’t tremble.

The Whispers drift above, their papery forms translucent in the smog. Satisfied. The hero has done his part.

“We’ll be right there!” I call to the kids.

I take a step toward the ledge, but the rusted wooden beams beneath my boots give a sickening groan, splintering under the weight of the previous explosion. They vibrate with a violent shudder, and a few jagged pieces of metal tumble into the stagnant water below.

“Careful,” Cloud mutters, scanning the bridge.

“Watch out! The ground’s really shaky!” the girl cries.

“It’s ’cause of the reactor!” the boy adds. “You can’t trust your feet anymore!”

Cloud doesn’t hesitate. He steps past me, eyes calculating the distance.

“I’ll go.”

In one fluid motion, he launches himself across the gap. He lands with a heavy thud that should have collapsed the island—but his balance is perfect. He doesn’t even pause.

“C’mon,” he says, voice low and commanding.

He scoops up both children—one under each arm—as if they were nothing more than sacks of flour. They let out a startled, high-pitched scream as he launches back into the air, clearing the gap and landing safely on the stable ground beside me. He lowers them to the dirt with surprising gentleness.

“Thank you,” the boy breathes, staring up at him like he’s a god.

“That was cool…” the girl whispers.

I can’t help it—a soft giggle escapes. Watching this stuffed shirt play rugged savior is almost too much.

“Okay,” I say, smoothing my dress. “Let’s head back.”

Look at him. The golden-maned lion protecting the cubs. He’s so good at being the hero when there’s a sword involved or a ledge to jump. Is this what she sees? That silent, sturdy strength that appears right when the ground starts shaking?

It’s irritatingly attractive, in a very First-Class way. But it’s also new information. He doesn’t just do the work—he cares, even if he’d rather eat his own sword than admit it. If she’s the heart that keeps things together, he’s the armor that keeps the world from breaking them. I’m starting to see why she hasn’t traded him in for a more talkative model.

We lead the children back toward the hideout. Cloud walks a few paces behind, soot streaking his face like war paint. He’s quiet, but the tension he carried earlier has eased—his steps a little lighter, his shoulders not quite so tight. Whatever he’s feeling, it settles over him like a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“You know, Cloud,” I tease, walking backward for a moment to catch his eye. “You should add Professional Human Lift to your resume. I bet people in Sector 7 would pay for that. Does Tifa ever have you move furniture at the bar, or are you only for emergencies?”

Cloud’s jaw tightens. I swear I see a hint of color in his cheeks—or maybe it’s just leftover heat from the explosion.

“I’m a mercenary,” he grunts. “Not a mover.”

“Mhm. A mercenary who pulls kids off scrap heaps and rescues flower girls,” I tease, turning back around with a skip. “You’re a regular saint, aren’t you?”

He’s so easy to fluster. If Tifa really is the saint Ms. Folia says she is, maybe these two are a matched set—neighborhood guardians disguised as a bartender and a mercenary. It makes me feel like an outsider, but I’m a Cetra. I can handle a little exclusion if it means I get to see her face when I finally walk through those doors.

The walk back feels lighter with two chattering children in tow—even if Cloud looks like he’d rather fight ten more Smoggers than answer another question.

After the second Smogger went up in a harmless puff of smoke—Cloud severing its fuel lines before it could hiss—the kids have decided he’s not just a scary man with a sword.

He’s a legend.

“That was so cool!” the boy shouts, breathless. “Is that a Buster Sword? My friend said there’s a SOLDIER with one that can cut a truck in half!”

Cloud makes a noise from the back of his throat, noncommittal as ever. The boy takes it as “yes,” because of course he does.

“How did you get so strong!?” the girl asks, staring at the massive sword.

I grin and lean in like I’m sharing a secret, watching Cloud’s shoulders go rigid.

“Well, you see… Cloud here used to be a SOLDIER.”

“He was!?” the boy gasps, coming to a dead halt for a second before sprinting to catch up.

“Did you fight in the war?” the girl asks, her voice full of that innocent, terrifying curiosity children have. “Did you win?”

Cloud looks like he wants to disappear into his vest. He stares straight ahead, jaw working as if he’s trying to find a mercenary-approved way to say please stop talking to me.

“I… it’s complicated,” he mutters.

“He’s very modest,” I say, patting the air. “A real hero of the people. Right, Cloud?”

He shoots me a look that could freeze a reactor—but there’s no real heat in it. Just a man completely out of his depth with a ten-year-old’s admiration.

Shadows of the Heart

The kids keep badgering Cloud about sword techniques and the monsters he’s fought. I fall back a few paces, watching the afternoon light catch the soot on his pauldrons.

He’s so awkward it’s almost painful. If he’s this bad with a couple of kids who think he’s a god, how is he with her? Does Tifa have to do all the talking? Or is he different when it’s just the two of them—less like a stuffed shirt and more like the boy from the mountains?

I wonder if she sees what I see. The way he tries to be cold but can’t help protecting anything smaller than him. She must. She’s the one who kept his drink cold and his room ready. I hope she’s safe in that bar right now, soaking in the quiet before the evening rush. I can almost feel her worry… a low-frequency hum in the Lifestream, calling him home.

We approach the final turn toward the hideout. The robed man is nowhere to be seen. The icy, stagnant chill that usually follows him has faded, but the Whispers linger in the high corners of the junk, watching with their silent, eyeless intensity.

You’re out there somewhere, aren’t you? I think, my hand grazing the pink ribbon in my hair. The man with the number. The Whispers want us to find you, but they’re not helping. Not yet.

The path grows quiet. The adrenaline fades into the long shadows of late afternoon. The kids run ahead, silhouettes against the rusted landscape, oblivious to the shift in the air.

Then Cloud stops.

Not a tactical halt—it’s a complete stillness. His eyes glaze with that telltale Mako flicker. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost… or a memory he’s trying to hold onto with both hands.

“Tifa…” he murmurs, so soft it almost dissolves into the wind.

“Tifa?” I repeat, the name hitting me like a spark. I circle around him, boots crunching on gravel until I’m in his line of sight. “What’s wrong?”

Cloud blinks. Focus returns, but the haunted look stays. He shifts his weight, hand tightening on the strap of his harness.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.” Right. You say her name like it’s a prayer you forgot you knew, and then you hide behind that stone face. A pang of jealousy twists in my chest—not because you want her, but because you have memories of her I’m still trying to reach in my dreams. I have to know. I have to see how high this wall is.

I tilt my head, letting a lock of hair fall over my shoulder, putting on my most innocent, probing expression.

“So… is Tifa, like… your girlfriend?”

Cloud recoils slightly, as if I’d poked him with a hot iron. “No.”

Just that. One word. And something in my chest loosens so suddenly it almost hurts.

I keep the smile small and enigmatic on the outside. Inside I’m somewhere between laughing and crying and I couldn’t explain why to anyone who asked. It doesn’t mean anything certain. He could be careful about her for a dozen reasons. But I never even considered the simplest one—I just assumed someone like her must already have someone. The legends always do. Everyone does.

The door isn’t locked.

“But she’s someone special,” I press. I remember him saying they were childhood friends, but I need to know the shape of the space she occupies in his mind.

“It’s not like that,” he says, struggling. “More like… I don’t know how to explain…”

“I see,” I say, giving him a small, enigmatic smile.

He doesn’t know how to explain. Of course not. He’s a rock, and rocks don’t have words for anchors. One heartbeat of relief. Then the doubt arrives, quiet and inevitable. If she isn’t his… that only moves the question. Not whether she’s available. Whether she’d ever look at me at all.

One of the Crew

We step back into the hideout, and the atmosphere has transformed from terror to triumph. The kids swarm us, their voices a chaotic chorus of gratitude.

“Thank you,” Oates says, stepping forward with a solemnity that would be funny if he weren’t so earnest.

“From now on, if you run into trouble, promise me you’ll find an adult, okay?” I say, bending down to meet his eyes.

“Okay, I will,” he promises. Then he digs into his pocket and pulls out a handmade necklace—braided string and bits of colorful scrap metal.

“And here,” he says, holding it up. “Since you’re so cool.”

Cloud—to my absolute delight—doesn’t pull away. He stands there, towering and awkward, while Oates loops the charm around his neck. It looks ridiculous against his SOLDIER gear—a tiny scrap of childhood whimsy resting on a man built for war.

“You’re both grown-ups,” Oates declares, “but you’re also one of us now. You can come play whenever you want. That’s the key to the hideout.”

Cloud stares down at the charm, bewildered… and his mouth twitches, just barely, like he’s fighting off a smile he doesn’t want anyone to see.

Look at you. A First-Class SOLDIER, now an honorary member of a slum gang. I bet Tifa would laugh herself breathless if she saw this. It makes you look human, Cloud. Like someone who belongs here. Maybe that’s the trick—maybe you just needed a key to a place that doesn’t require a sword.

Then the air changes.

Not outside. Inside—somewhere behind my ribs where the Lifestream usually runs quiet. It goes wrong in a way I don’t have words for. Not dark exactly. More like… a gap. A place where something should be flowing and isn’t. I’ve felt death before, felt the Planet grieving. This is different. This is something that should have returned to the Lifestream and didn’t. Something held together by the wrong hands.

The kids feel it a second later—that instinctive animal awareness that something is off. They scramble behind me without knowing why.

A robed figure stumbles through the gate.

His movements are wrong—jerky, like puppet with tangled strings. The kids scramble behind me, clutching my dress. The Lifestream around this man is not flowing; it’s stagnant, a dark pool of something that shouldn’t exist.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper, though my heart is pounding. “It’ll be okay.”

Cloud’s hand is a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of the Buster Sword, but he doesn’t draw it. He’s frozen, his Mako-eyes wide and vibrating with a sudden, sharp static.

Then, with a dry, papery sound, the figure simply collapses into the dirt.

I rush forward, hands hovering over the tattered black cloth. The sensation is sickening—like a void where a soul should be.

Cloud follows, shadow looming over me.

“Hm. Not him,” Cloud mutters, voice distant. “But looks pretty damn similar.”

“Huh?” I tilt my head, spotting the tattoo on the man’s arm as the sleeve shifts. “There’s the number… but why 2?”

“Who knows. Come to think—”

Before he can finish, the man’s hand shoots out, skeletal fingers locking around Cloud’s wrist.

The world tilts.

Cloud’s face contorts—eyes glazing over, breath catching—as if he’s being dragged into a vision I can’t see. He rips his arm away, stumbling back, reaching for his sword with trembling fingers.

The figure says nothing. He simply drags himself upright and wanders away into the slums like a ghost.

A Hero’s Distraction

Cloud is messed up. He’s staring at the spot where the man stood, his sword arm trembling just a fraction.

The warmth is returning to the kids fort. The kids are still looking at each other, but no more frozen in fear.

I feel a surge of genuine worry. But I also know him. The best way to pull a Chocobo out of a hole is to give him something else to focus on.

“Cloud? Hey. Come back,” I say, stepping into his line of sight.

“Sephiroth.” He says it like he’s testing whether it’s still true.

“You know the name?” he asks, voice low and haunted.

“Sephiroth, the war hero?” I reply, brow furrowing.

Sephiroth. A name from Shinra broadcasts and school lessons. I know the official story the way everyone does—war hero, Wutai, five years gone. But the way Cloud says it… that’s not how you say a name from a history lesson. Why does he look like he’s seen a ghost wearing silver hair and a cape? Is this the special someone he’s really worried about?

Is this the real reason he’s so avoidant about Tifa? Because he’s got a legendary war hero living rent-free in his head? Honestly, Cloud, if you’re choosing a caped legend over a saint in a bar, we need to work on your priorities.

“I know he died in an accident five years ago,” I continue, trying to keep voice steady. “They said so on the news.”

“News says one thing,” Cloud mutters, finally sheathing his sword. “What I feel is different.”

“Oh… right,” I say, letting out a small, playful sigh to break the gloom. I give him a quick wink—though my heart isn’t fully in it. “A war hero, huh? No wonder you’re so hard to impress. I guess a girl with a bar has some pretty big boots to fill if she’s competing with a legend in a cape.”

I turn on my heel, the pink ribbon in hair swaying as I start moving toward the exit.

“C’mon. Let’s go. My mom’s cooking is the only legend I want to deal with today.”

The Reporter’s Ambush

The sky is dimming fast now, the Plate’s underside shifting from warm orange to the cold, artificial blue of the streetlamps. It’s later than I meant it to be. Mom is probably already stirring the pot, wondering why her daughter and her mercenary shadow haven’t come home.

But the slums feel different tonight. Buzzing. Restless. Full of whispers.

And the Angel of the Slums… that rumor keeps circling my head like a moth that refuses to die.

We barely make it past the community center when a man in a rumpled suit and fedora steps out from behind a crate, waving a notebook like it’s a weapon.

“Excuse me! A moment of your time?” he calls, flashing a badge that looks like it survived a dog attack. “Damon, Daily Buzz. Humble seeker of truth, working for the benefit of all Midgar!”

I cross my arms, unimpressed. “Ugh, that rag? The one always printing rumors about the slums? You’re the reason people think we all have three heads down here.”

Damon winces but soldiers on with his persistent, annoying energy. “Now, now, I’m trying to change that! I’m looking for a story that’ll put the slums on the map. I’m looking for the Angel of the Slums. The mysterious bandit hitting Shinra warehouses.”

I stop.

A woman who steals from Shinra and gives to the poor. A woman who protects the weak when no one else will. A saint, if you believe the right mouths.

And my mind, traitor that it is, supplies red boots and a steady gaze.

Angel. Slums. Seventh Heaven.

The pieces arrange themselves without my permission, and the picture they make is larger than I was ready for. A reporter from the plate is chasing her legend. What chance does a girl with a flower basket have against someone like that?

“Everyone knows her,” I say, voice softening into something protective before I can stop it. “Whatever she takes, she gives back. She’s not a bandit. She’s… hero.”

Damon’s pencil goes wild. “To some, a hero. To the law, a criminal. My mission is to unmask the villain! But the locals won’t talk. I was hoping you two, with your flower girl charm and your… sword guy, could help me.”

Cloud looks between us. “Got any leads?”

“Leads?” Damon laughs, bitter. “I’ve spent three days trying to find one. Every time I approach someone, they suddenly remember an urgent appointment with a brick wall. But you, people trust. And him…” He flicks a glance at Cloud’s back. “They’re too intimidated to lie.”

Cloud shifts the Buster Sword like it weighs nothing. “Fine. I’ll see what I can find.”

My stomach flips.

Because if the Angel is Tifa… I need to know.

Damon beams like he’s already writing the headline.

But he’s wrong about one thing. I’m not helping him unmask a villain. I’m looking for an ally. And if this turns out to be Tifa, or someone close enough to her to matter, I’ll make sure the Daily Buzz goes home with a story about a lost cat and nothing else.

I glance at Cloud. He’s already scanning the crowd, searching for the easiest place to pry. So focused. So literal.

I wonder if he even suspects it could be her, or if he’s so used to her behind a bar that he can’t imagine her in a mask.

The Knowing Look

“You’re very helpful today, Cloud,” I tease, nudging him. “First saving orphans, now playing investigative journalist. Is this part of the mercenary package, or are you just avoiding my mother?”

Cloud’s jaw tightens. “The faster we find a lead, the faster we’re done.”

“Mhm. Spoken like a true romantic,” I tease.

The community center glows with flickering barrel fires and low murmurs—a place where secrets are traded like currency. The embers reflect off Cloud’s pauldrons, making him look even more like a misplaced piece of Shinra hardware.

We find Mireille sitting near the edge of the circle, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames. She doesn’t just look at people; she looks through them.

“Good to see you again, Mireille,” I say, stepping into the warmth of the fire.

“And you,” she replies, though her gaze lingers on me. There’s a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes—the kind that makes me want to adjust my ribbon. She’s not looking at the mask. She’s looking at what’s underneath it.

She sees it. She knows I’m not just out for a stroll. I’m hunting for a heart. I’m looking for Tifa. Is it that obvious? Have I traded my innocence for this burning curiosity about a woman I’ve only met in dreams?

“I heard you found yourself a funny new friend,” Mireille says, finally glancing at Cloud.

“Cloud, meet Mireille,” I say. “She knows everything about the slums. Mireille, meet Cloud. Former SOLDIER. Super strong.”

Mireille hums. “Useful enough.” Her eyes narrow playfully. “The kids have been talking about you. Defender of the hideout. And now the Hero of the Leaf House is helping the Daily Buzz hunt the Angel of the Slums.”

Cloud stiffens. “I am?”

“I’m a lover of whispered words,” she says with a shrug. “Not that it’s a secret, considering how chatty that Shinra mutt’s been.”

“Not doing it for the reporter,” Cloud grunts, his voice dropping. “Doing it for myself. Call it curiosity.”

Curiosity? Since when does the mercenary have curiosity that isn’t tied to a bounty? Did the Chocobo-head catch a cold, or is he actually wondering about the legend too? Maybe he suspects it’s her. Maybe he’s afraid the Angel is the woman he left behind in that bar.

Mireille cackles. “Or maybe you’ve fallen under the Angel’s spell like so many others. Anyway—I have information. But I’ll need a moment.”

She disappears into the shadows.

“Well, you heard her,” I say. “Back to the suit we go.”

We walk back toward Damon, who is currently pacing a small circle near a stack of crates, his fedora pulled low over his eyes. The Whispers are thinner here, drifting like gray smoke near the rooftops, but their presence still makes the back of my neck prickle.

Angel of the Slums. Saint of Sector 7. Tifa.

The names swirl in my mind like petals in a storm.

If she really is the one stealing from the rich to feed the poor, she’s even more of a legend than the rumors suggested.

“Cloud,” I say softly. “If the Angel is someone you know… would you tell the reporter? Or protect her secret?”

Cloud looks at the ground. He doesn’t answer.

Which is an answer.

The blue glow of the streetlamps is starting to feel more like a spotlight as the darkness settles over the Sector 5 community center. Damon is practically vibrating with anxiety, his pen hovering over his notepad as if he’s ready to capture the secret of the century.

“So? Any news?” Damon asks, his pen shaking. “Did the locals spill? Did the flower girl charm work?”

“Have you tried talking to Mireille?” I ask sweetly. “She said she had information.”

Damon’s jaw drops. “The Mireille? I chased her for days, begging for info, but she wouldn’t give up a single scrap! So how’d you get the old bird to talk?”

Before I can answer, Mireille’s voice drifts from the shadows as she walks back into the flickering light.

“The old bird had a change of heart, that’s all,” she says, her eyes fixed on Damon with a look that’s half-pity, half-amusement.

“Quickly, before you have another!” Damon cries. “Tell us—what do you know about the Angel? Has she struck again?”

My heart skips.

Please don’t say Sector 7. Please don’t say her.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Mireille says. “But I do know where her hideout is.”

“Her base of operations?” Damon’s pen scratches furiously against the paper. “Now that’s a scoop! Where?!”

“Deep in the scrap—at Lookout Point,” Mireille reveals. “Hardly anyone goes out there these days. It’s the perfect place for a criminal to hole up.”

Lookout Point. A relief. Just an old ridge overlooking the industrial sector. Not a bar. Not her. But if Tifa is the Angel… why choose a place so far from home? Or maybe the Angel is just a ghost she uses to keep the kids fed.

The Fiend in the Dark

“Lookout Point—I’ll check it out right now!” Damon declares, already turning to flee.

Mireille raises a hand, her expression darkening. “Before you go, I should warn you about a rumor. A terrible fiend has claimed the Angel’s hideout as its lair. Quite large. Lots of teeth. Always hungry. I wouldn’t go anywhere near it.”

Damon freezes. The brave journalist mask shatters instantly, replaced by the face of a man who suddenly remembers he has a very safe desk job. “Er… well… a good reporter never takes foolish risks. Plan first, then act. That’s the motto of every respectable journalist!”

Mireille’s gaze slides to Cloud, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “If it’s a plan you’re looking for, I’d say you have one right here.”

Damon turns to Cloud, eyes pleading. “My good mercenary… if I might impose upon you again, it would be lovely if you investigated Lookout Point for me.”

Cloud doesn’t blink. “Two thousand Gil.”

“Two—!? Fine! Fine! Just make sure it’s safe!”

As we leave the community center, the air grows colder. The industrial hum of the slums becomes a low, rhythmic throb. The Plate above is a vast, dark ceiling dotted with artificial stars.

“Two thousand Gil,” I tease. “You’re expensive. Tifa must have a very healthy security budget if she can afford you.”

Cloud grunts, scanning the shadows. “Standard rate for a monster hunt. Besides, I need the credits if I’m going to make it back to Sector 7.”

Always back to Sector 7. Always back to her. I look at the ridiculous necklace Oates gave him, swinging against his chest, and I can’t help but wonder. If a terrible fiend really is out there, Tifa wouldn’t let it stay near her hideout. Unless she’s not the Angel. Or unless she’s in trouble.

The Whispers hover in the rafters, thin gray static against the dark. The Planet feels like it’s holding its breath. I just hope that Lookout Point gives me a better lead than a Daily Buzz reporter.

As we approach Lookout Point, a few Gorgers lunge from the shadows—but Cloud dispatches them in two swings. I watch silently, hands folded behind my back, all smiles and ribbons.

The final climb is steep—a graveyard of rusted beams and jagged pipes. The blue industrial lights fade, leaving only the cold glow of the Plate.

The Whispers are thicker here, swirling gray static that feels like cold cobwebs against my skin. They are waiting, their eyeless gazes fixed on the ridge.

The Metallic Nightmare

We reach the summit—and Mireille’s fiend is no beast.

It’s a Chromogger.

A mechanical scavenger that’s eaten its siblings to grow a shell of rusted spite. It grinds its teeth of steel, hissing like a cornered beast. It’s a nightmare of metal and toxic fumes.

Cloud doesn’t hesitate. He draws the Buster Sword with a metallic rasp that echoes off the scrap heaps and charges. He’s a blur of leather and steel, but the Chromogger is built like a fortress. His strikes spark uselessly off its armor.

I lean against a rusted girder, hands at my sides, empty and harmless.

My staff is safely tucked away in the Lifestream; I don’t need the Turks or this Chocobo-head seeing what I can really do.

Look at you go, Mr. SOLDIER. Swinging that slab of steel like it’s a feather. But even you’re hitting a wall now. The First Class ego is taking a bruising. I’ll let you sweat for a minute—it’s good for your character.

But I can’t let you get flattened. Tifa would never forgive me if I brought her back a broken Chocobo. And honestly? I want to get to dinner before Mom decides to feed the soup to the neighborhood cats.

The Chromogger swings a wrecking-ball claw, slamming Cloud in the ribs and sending him skidding across the dirt. Its tubes pulse with sickly green pressure—preparing a toxic discharge that will coat the entire ridge.

Cloud struggles to rise.

Time for a “natural accident.”

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, feeling the warm thrum of the Lifestream beneath the rusted floorboards. I don’t move. I don’t lift a hand.

I just whisper to the air.

A sudden, violent gust of wind whips across the ridge. To anyone watching, it’s just another sharp slum-draft. But this gust has teeth. It shears through the Chromogger’s main tube like a knife through silk.

The machine shrieks as its own toxic gas floods inward, short-circuiting its core.

“Cloud, look!” I call, bright and surprised. “It’s breaking!”

Cloud doesn’t question the luck. He lunges, driving the Buster Sword deep into the exposed core. The Chromogger groans, shudders, and collapses into a smoking heap.

Silence follows—heavy with scorched oil and ozone.

Cloud stands over the wreckage, chest heaving. He looks at the severed tube, brow furrowed.

“The wind…” he mutters.

“Lucky, wasn’t it?” I say, breezing toward him with a smile. “Even the Planet doesn’t like mechanical monsters.”

He’s suspicious. I can see it in the way he studies the clean cut. But he’s too Chocobo to admit a flower girl might be more than she seems. Let him wonder. As long as he doesn’t see the staff, I’m just a lucky girl with good timing.

The metallic tang of the defeated machine lingers in the air, the flickering light from the Plate above reflects off the old desk, casting long, distorted shadows against the scrap walls. It’s a lonely place—a sanctuary built out of necessity rather than comfort.

Cloud approaches with professional caution, his boots crunching on gravel. He doesn’t touch the bedding, but his gaze lingers on the supplies—simple bandages, canned food, a worn map.

“The Guardian Angel of the Slums will collect your offering on behalf of the poor,” he reads, his voice carrying a trace of intrigue.

“This must be one of her calling cards!” I say, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at the handwritten note.

I study the handwriting—neat, deliberate, weary. I close my eyes, searching for the thread from my dreams. The warmth. The scent of malt. The fire of someone who keeps things together.

It’s not here. This place feels tired. Resolute. Kind, but not the kind I’m looking for. Tifa isn’t hiding in the scrap heaps of Sector 5. She’s exactly where Cloud said—in a bar, being the heart of her own world. This Angel is someone else. Someone who’s been here a long, long time.

“I don’t see anything else,” Cloud says. “Let’s head back.”

I nod. “Right. Damon’s probably hiding behind a crate waiting for us.”

The Collector’s Card

The walk back down from Lookout Point is faster. The monsters have retreated into the deeper shadows, perhaps spooked by the mechanical scream of the Chromogger’s end. Cloud leads the way, his pace steady, his SOLDIER silence settling back over him now that the danger is gone.

So she’s not the Angel. Part of me is relieved—it means she’s safe in Sector 7, not risking her life against mechanical fiends in the dark. But another part of me is… disappointed. I wanted a reason to believe she was closer. I’m chasing a ghost through the Lifestream, and every time I think I’ve caught a thread, it leads me back to a bar I’ve never seen.

I look at Cloud’s back. He’s my only link. He knows her. He’s seen her smile. He’s probably had her cook him a meal a dozen times. And here I am, playing investigative reporter just to hear a rumor about her.

We find Damon exactly where we left him—huddled near the barrel fire, jumping at every shifting shadow.

“You’re back!” he cries, nearly dropping his notebook as we approach. “Tell me! Did you find it? Is she there? Is the Angel actually a three-headed dragon like the rumors say?”

“No dragon,” Cloud says, stopping in front of him. “Just a Chromogger. And this.”

He hands over the calling card. Damon’s eyes bulge.

“A calling card! Oh, this is gold! Pure gold! ’Guardian Angel… on behalf of the poor…’ My editor is going to love this!”

The flickering orange light dances across the calling card as Mireille takes it from his trembling hands. She adjusts her glasses, her eyes scanning the neat, determined script.

“Hmm… one of her famous warnings,” she murmurs. As she begins to read the fine print on the back, her voice grows solemn. “‘To those who feast while the slums starve: consider this your first and final notice. Your greed is a debt, and I am the collector.’”

Damon scribbles so fast his pencil snaps. “A collector! Perfect! This is the story of the year!”

Suddenly, a resident across the square shouts, cupping their hands around their mouth. “Hey! Did you hear? Another card turned up at the station! The Angel’s targeted Don Corneo this time!”

A ripple of whispers spreads through the crowd. Corneo isn’t someone you cross unless you have a death wish—or wings of steel.

“Corneo!?” Damon yelps, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “If she’s hitting the Don’s lackeys, this isn’t just a scoop—it’s a war! I’ve gotta go!”

He bolts—or tries to. Cloud’s gloved hand lands on his shoulder like a steel clamp. Damon freezes.

“The reward,” Cloud grunts.

“Right! Yes! The Gil!” Damon fumbles with his pouch, counting out two thousand Gil with shaking fingers and shoving them into Cloud’s hand. “There! Now let me through! History is happening!”

He vanishes into the dark.

Mireille watches him go, then turns to Cloud with a slow, respectful nod.

“Thank you, mercenary,” she says, a hint of a smile touching her lips. “Seems your reputation isn’t exaggerated. You kept the girl safe, and you cleared out a monster that’s been terrorizing the ridge for months. The slums won’t forget that.”

Cloud pockets the Gil, face unreadable. “It was a job.”

“Mhm. A job well done,” I say, stepping beside him. I look up at the cold Plate lights—the only stars we get. “We probably oughta call it a day.”

Cloud glances at me, tension finally easing from his shoulders. “Getting late, huh?”

“You’ve been working so hard, you lost track of time,” I tease, nudging him.

“Had to,” he mutters, glancing at the pouch. “The pay sucked.”

I laugh softly, the sound bright against the industrial hum. “’Cause they didn’t know if you were worth it yet. But now they do. You’re the Hero of the Leaf House and the Vanquisher of the Lookout. Your stock is rising, Mr. SOLDIER.”

He says the pay sucked, but I saw the way he looked at the kids when they gave him that scrap-metal necklace. He doesn’t do it for the Gil—not really. He does it because he doesn’t know how to be anything else but a shield. Just like her.

Tifa might not be the Angel on this side of the wall, but she’s out there. And the way Cloud fights… it makes me think he’s trying to be someone she can be proud of. I’m tired, my boots are dusty, and my heart is still a little green with jealousy—but I’m happy. I’m walking home with the only bridge I have to the legend.

“C’mon,” I say, turning toward the path home. “Let’s go. I can practically smell the stew from here.”

We walk in silence for a while, the air growing sweeter as we leave the metal and smog behind. The garden is waiting, and beyond it, a warm kitchen and a mother who is probably preparing a speech about “appropriate bodyguard hours.”

The Silent Professional

The walk home should be the easy part. My feet have other opinions. They’ve been moving since dawn—church, rooftops, slums, orphans, junkyard, lookout—and the familiar path home feels longer than it has any right to tonight.

My mind drifts away from the rusted pipes of Sector 5 and toward a kitchen I’ve never seen. I can almost smell it—something savory, hearty, the kind of meal that makes you forget the world is made of metal. I wonder if Tifa wears an apron, or if she just pushes up her sleeves and gets to work. I’m so tired my feet feel like lead, and all I want is to sit at her bar and hear her ask, “How was your day?”

But of course, the Turks never respect a girl’s need for a nap.

The blue moonlight hits polished shoes first. Then the sharp line of a suit. Rude stands in the middle of the path, leaning against a rusted fence like he’s been there all night. He adjusts his sunglasses—ridiculous, considering the sun set an hour ago—and watches us approach.

“Hello, Aeris,” he says, voice a low rumble.

“What do you want?” I sigh, not even trying to hide my annoyance. “I’m really not in the mood for another recruitment speech.”

Rude’s gaze shifts to Cloud, taking in the blonde hair, the heavy boots, the massive sword. “Haven’t seen him before.”

“He’s my bodyguard,” I snap, though I can’t help glancing at Cloud to see if his ears turn red.

Rude pushes off the fence, his expression sharpening as he catches the glow in Cloud’s eyes. “Wait a minute… those eyes. You the one who beat up Reno?”

Cloud steps forward, hand resting casually on his hilt. “And what if I am?”

“Need to cross my T’s, dot my I’s,” Rude grunts. “That’s all.”

He moves toward a wide, sandy patch near the bridge, clearly marking the space. Cloud follows like he’s caught the scent of a challenge.

“Cloud, leave him be,” I plead, grabbing his arm. “Rude’s not a bad person. He just… works for the wrong people.”

Rude pauses, glancing back at me. “I don’t enjoy this. You understand that.”

He drops into a fighting stance, his gloved fists raised. I let out a long, weary sigh and step back.

“Nothing personal,” Rude adds, almost gently.

“You Turks are all the same,” Cloud snaps, his eyes flashing. “Then let’s find out.”

Rude adjusts his glasses. “You’re one to talk.”

Boys. Honestly. One look at each other and they start measuring egos. I just want my soup! But look at them… Cloud is lightning, all jagged edges and speed. Rude is a mountain. Solid. Unmoving. If Cloud gets hurt before we reach Sector 7, I’m going to be very, very cross.

The fight explodes into dust and motion. Every time I try to intervene, they bark “Stay back!” in perfect unison. It’s almost comical.

“Can’t you leave us alone?” I shout over the clash of steel and fist.

“No,” Rude grunts, dodging a massive swing. “Gotta get payback for my partner.”

I watch them go at it and feel nothing more complicated than tired. Rude isn’t a bad person. Cloud isn’t either, mostly. And yet here we are, two capable people turning each other into furniture while I stand here wanting soup.

Cloud lands a heavy blow that sends Rude staggering. There’s a sharp crack, and a piece of dark glass flies into the dirt. Rude’s glasses shatter.

“Okay,” I say, crossing my arms. “Had enough yet?”

Rude doesn’t even look at me. He reaches into his suit, pulls out a fresh pair of identical sunglasses, and slides them on.

“No,” he says calmly. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Just stop it!” I cry as they clash again.

“Can’t,” Rude replies through gritted teeth. “It’s my job.”

“Then think about changing careers!” Cloud growls.

Cloud is fast—but Rude is a technician. He catches Cloud off balance, grabs his legs, and to my absolute horror, swings the First-Class SOLDIER like a sack of grain before hurling him into a pile of scrap.

The Call from the Partner

Finally, Rude drops to one knee, breathing hard. Dust settles.

“Please,” I say, voice soft but firm. “Just leave us alone.”

Rude rises, brushing dirt from his pristine suit. “You know I can’t.”

Then a high-pitched chirp cuts through the tension. Rude pulls out his PHS. Cloud stands ready, sword drawn, but Rude just raises a finger.

“Hey there, partner,” Reno’s voice crackles loudly enough for me to hear. “I am sure you’re having the time of your life, but we’re needed on standby. Sector 7. Get your ass back here.”

My heart drops.

Sector 7.

Rude stands up straight, his professional mask sliding back into place. “Understood.”

“Got somewhere else to be?” I ask, my voice trembling just a fraction.

“…Apparently so,” Rude replies.

A Shinra helicopter descends from the dark sky above, the roar of the rotors drowning out the stream. Rude grabs the ladder as it drops.

“Go home and stay there,” he orders, looking down at me.

I look up at him, smiling defiantly. “You know I can’t do that.”

The helicopter lifts away, Rude’s silhouette swallowed by cloud and steel.

Sector 7. A job. A cold chill that has nothing to do with the night air washes over me. Is it the bar? Is it Tifa? The Whispers are agitated now, swirling around like a storm of gray shadows. They know something is coming. We have to get to her. We have to.

And we will. Just not like this—half-dead on our feet, no food since that sandwich at Mom’s, walking into monster territory in the dark. That’s not getting to her. That’s not getting anywhere.

I take a breath. Tomorrow.

Cloud sheathes his sword, his face soot-stained and thoughtful. He looks at the sky where the helicopter vanished, then at me.

“Sector 7. We should move.”

“Not yet,” I say, pointing toward the house. “We need to eat. You need rest. If the Turks are moving, we’ll need you at your best.” I wink. “Besides… Mom already made the stew.”

The Weight of the Secret

The garden at night is a different world. The harsh neon of the upper plate is filtered through the rusted gaps above, casting a silver-blue sheen over the yellow lilies. The stream’s bubbling sounds louder now that the city’s clamor has died down, and the air is thick with the scent of damp moss and floral sugar.

I don’t go straight inside. The garden can have a minute, and so can the soup.

I don’t wait for Cloud to catch his breath. I skip across the grass, the hem of my dress darkening with dew, and kneel beside the lilies. They glow—or maybe it’s just the way the Lifestream in my blood responds to them.

“So… you coming?” I call back without looking.

When his boots stop behind me, I don’t turn. I whisper to the petals, fingers tracing the delicate veins of the leaves.

“You talking to the…” Cloud starts, skepticism creeping into his voice.

I press a finger to my lips. I nod to the flowers as if they’ve just shared something scandalous. “Yeah. It was that kind of day.”

I close my eyes. For a moment, I stop pretending. The Planet isn’t noise—it’s a heartbeat. Tonight, it’s fast. Anxious. It knows the Turks are moving toward Sector 7. It knows what’s coming for me.

“Let’s go,” I say, standing and brushing dirt from my knees. “Shouldn’t keep Mom waiting.”

“Hey… what’d they say?” Cloud finally asks.

I pause, surprised. The Chocobo is actually curious.

“Good work today, guys,” I grin.

His face falls—and I laugh. “Kidding. They didn’t say a word. But you know…” I trail off, glancing at the dark sky. “Never mind. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“…Probably not,” he admits. Then, quieter: “Tell me anyway.”

I look at him, and for a moment, the playful mask slips. The news from Rude is like a cold stone in my stomach.

Sector 7. The name tastes like warm malt and copper on the back of my throat. My pulse does a nervous little dance, a high-frequency hum that tells me I’m finally moving toward the heat.

The threads of the future are tightening. The flowers are warning me—the path is narrowing. I see my own end in the ripples of the stream. Every time I close my eyes. And yet here I am, dreaming of a woman I’ve never met, wondering if it’s fair to pull her into my orbit when I’m already falling.

Maybe I should give up. Let the Turks take me. Let the script play out without dragging anyone else down. It’s the easiest way to keep her safe.

“Maybe I should just quit,” I say softly. “It’s what I do best, apparently.”

“That’s not what I saw today,” Cloud says, his voice grounding me back to the garden.

I flash him a bright, forced smile. “Today was different. I had motivation. That’s why I’ve been working my butt off!”

“…What kind of motivation?” he asks.

I laugh, skipping past the question and toward the porch.

I can’t tell him it’s special because it might be one of the last days I get to feel normal. I can’t tell him it’s special because I finally found a lead on Tifa.

I’ve been playing him all day. The teasing, the smiles, the questions. Maybe he thinks I’m curious about his life. And I’ve let him think that, because it keeps him walking beside me.

He doesn’t deserve that. But I don’t know how to get to her without him.

“Okay! Time to go!”

I pause at the door. Cloud is still by the lilies, shoulders hunched, staring down at them. I swear I hear him mutter, “Learn to talk to her.”

“Did the flowers say anything?” I call, leaning against the doorframe.

He looks up, caught. “Uh… ‘Good work today, guys’?”

“That’s the spirit!”

A Mother’s Worry

The heavy wooden door clicks shut, sealing out the night and the unsettling presence of the Whispers. Inside, the house is a sanctuary of warm amber light and the rich, mouth-watering scent of Elmyra’s stew. It’s a domesticity so thick it almost feels heavy.

Elmyra doesn’t wait for us to remove our boots. She stands by the stove, ladle in hand, eyes sharp with worry.

“Where have you two been?” she demands, voice sharp with the kind of fear only a mother can conjure. “I’ve been worried sick! With the lockdown and the Turks, you should’ve been back hours ago!”

“Sorry,” I say, offering a sheepish smile as I unlace my boots. “We got a little sidetracked. Turns out there was a need for a mercenary.”

Elmyra’s eyes flicker to Cloud—noting the soot on his gear and the ridiculous scrap-metal necklace Oates gave him—before softening just a fraction. “Dinner’s ready, in case you’re wondering.”

“Ah, great!” I chirp, trying to lift the mood. This was the “priceless reward” I promised him, after all. A seat at a real table with a dinner that didn’t come out of a Shinra vending machine.

“But first,” Elmyra says, tone shifting, “I want you to make up the guest room, Aeris.”

“Gotcha!” I pat Cloud’s arm. “Take a load off, okay? You’ve earned it.”

I head upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under my feet. In the hallway, the air is quieter, but I can still hear the low rumble of voices from the kitchen.

She’s talking to him. I can’t hear the words from up here, but I know that tone—low, careful, the one she uses when she’s trying to protect me without sounding like she is. Probably warning him off. Maybe telling him a SOLDIER and a girl like me are trouble together.

I step into the guest room, shaking out the fresh linens. The scent of lavender fills the small space.

Elmyra knows enough to worry. About the dreams. The fire. Tifa. And I wonder if she’s afraid that finding her means finding whatever fate is waiting for me too.

I smooth the blankets over the bed, my mind drifting back to the Angel’s card.

Is she safe right now? Does she have someone to cook for her, or is she the one always taking care of everyone else?

I feel this pull in my chest, a thread of the Lifestream dragging me toward the Seventh Heaven.

It’s a heavy weight, knowing what I know… knowing that my time is a flickering candle.

Is it selfish to want to see her face, hold her in my arms, before the wind blows it out?

When I return downstairs, the atmosphere in the kitchen has changed. It’s thicker, colder. Cloud is sitting at the table, but he isn’t looking at the food. He looks… wrong. His eyes are fixed on a knot in the wood of the table, his jaw set in a hard line.

“Good. Now,” Elmyra says, her voice perfectly level as she sets the bowls down. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving! Right, Cloud?” I ask, sliding into my seat.

Cloud just nods once, a stiff, mechanical movement.

The meal proceeds in a strange, rhythmic silence. I try to fill the gaps with light chatter—about the orphans, Moggie’s medals, even the absurd reporter—but it’s like trying to start a fire with wet wood. Elmyra watches him with a hawk-like intensity, and Cloud… Cloud just eats.

Whatever Mom said to him, it struck something deep. Earlier he was all motion and instinct, leaping after those kids without a second thought. Now he’s closed off, eyes unfocused, weight shifted like he’s bracing to step back rather than forward.

It doesn’t matter.

Tomorrow, we go to Sector 7. Tomorrow, I find the girl in the red boots. If the flowers are right, the final step is coming, and I’m not spending it hiding in this kitchen.

The End of the Day

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, counting down a night that feels far too short. Cloud finishes his bowl, movements efficient, distant.

The amber light of the kitchen feels dimmer now, the warmth of the stew replaced by the cool draft that always creeps in after dark. Outside, the Whispers linger in the garden—a silent, shimmering static. Stationary. Watchful. For the first time today, almost peaceful.

They like this part. The hero resting before the journey. The heroine playing her role in the quiet house.

I’m playing their game for now—only because it leads exactly where I want to go. I’m learning how to move the pieces so they don’t even notice.

Cloud pushes his chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor. He looks at me, then at Elmyra, expression shuttered like a shopfront during lockdown. Whatever my mother said to him while I was upstairs has settled deep in his bones, turning him back into the unreachable mercenary I met at the church.

“I’m turning in,” he says, his voice a low, rough rasp.

I don’t push. I don’t ask about his talk with Mom. I don’t pry about Tifa. Not yet. The Chocobo needs rest.

“Good night, Cloud,” I say, leaning against the counter with a soft, knowing smile. “Sleep well. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. Don’t let the bedbugs—or the mechanical monsters—bite.”

He gives a sharp, awkward nod—the closest thing to a “good night” I’m likely to get—and heads for the stairs. I watch the soot on his pauldron vanish into shadow. He’s going to run. Tonight, probably. Before dawn. He has that look—the one that says the decision is already made and the rest is just waiting for the house to go quiet.

Let him think he’s being clever.

The Whispers think this is a tragedy in the making. They think I’m a lamb. They have no idea how much I’m looking forward to meeting the legend who keeps the heart of the slums beating.

The amber glow of the kitchen lamps seems to flicker with the weight of the silence Cloud left behind. I find myself staring into the bottom of my empty stew bowl, the ceramic patterns blurring as my mind drifts. It’s a strange, hollow feeling—like the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving only a cold, vibrating anxiety in its place.

It feels like the world is ending. Or maybe just the version of the world where I get to stay here, safe in this garden, being just a flower girl.

I stand up, my chair giving a lonely creak against the floor, and carry the bowls to the sink. Elmyra is already there, hands in warm, soapy water. She doesn’t look up, but the way she’s scrubbing a plate tells me she’s just as restless as I am.

“He’s a quiet one,” she says softly, the steam from the sink rising like a veil. “But his head is full of noise. I can see it in those Mako eyes.”

I pick up a drying cloth and wait for her to pass me a dish. “He’s been through a lot, Mom. More than he even remembers, I think.”

She pauses, then glances at me. “And you? Still thinking about her?”

The question lands like a spark. I look down at the bowl in my hands, tracing the rim.

“Always,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s not just a dream anymore, Mom. It’s like… a pull. Like my heart’s metal and she’s the strongest magnet in Midgar… and I feel like I’m running out of time.”

Elmyra sighs, a heavy, maternal sound that carries years of secrets. “Be careful, Aeris. Dreams are one thing. The reality … and a woman like that… it’s a different kind of fire.”

A different kind of fire. She’s right. Tifa is the fire that keeps the bar warm, the fire that keeps people standing. And I’m just a girl trying to catch a glow before the shadows take me. I know what the Whispers want. I know the path ends in a place with white pillars and cold water. But if I can just see her once—if I can feel her hand in mine—maybe the end won’t feel so much like a world ending, and more like a story beginning.

We finish the dishes in a companionable, heavy silence. I give Elmyra a long hug—tighter than usual.

She smells like dish soap and the faint ghost of the garden, the same as she always has. Her arms hold on just a beat longer than normal, like she knows something too, even if she’d never say it out loud.

I don’t let myself cry. I don’t let myself memorize her on purpose—that would make it real in a way I can’t afford tonight.

But I do, anyway.

“Goodnight, Mom,” I say into her shoulder.

She presses her cheek to my hair. “Goodnight, my girl.”

I go upstairs.

I don’t sleep right away.

I sit on the edge of my bed in the dark, the only light coming from the faint, sickly green glow of the Mako reactors reflecting off the underside of the Plate. My room smells of dried flowers and old wood, but my mind is already out there, on the road to Sector 6.

I can hear the house settling. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a countdown. In the next room, I can’t hear Cloud. I don’t know if he is awake or already gone into his own head. I wonder if he dreams of her. Probably. She’s been there since he was a boy. Some things just… stay.

The shadows in the room stretch long and thin, cast by the dying embers of the world outside. The house is silent, but it’s a heavy, expectant silence—the kind that precedes a storm. I move with practiced, quiet efficiency, fingers tracing the hidden seams of the pink dress.

I won’t need the basket for where I am going. A basket is for a girl who intends to come home by dinner; hidden pockets are for a woman who is ready for a journey. I tuck my life savings—a heavy, reassuring weight of Gil—into the secret linings of the dress. It’s enough to start over, or at least to make sure a certain bartender doesn’t have to worry about the tab for a long time. I wonder how many flowers I have sold to make this into reality.

I untie the pink ribbon, feeling the weight of the White Materia as it rests briefly in my palm. It’s cold, smooth, and silent, holding a future I can’t quite grasp yet. I set it on the nightstand, a pale moon in the dark, ready to be snatched up the moment the clock strikes four.

I leave my braids intact. They’ll be messy by morning, frayed at the edges like my nerves, but I don’t have the luxury of time today. What little time I have, I intend to spend resting.

Sleep now. I need the strength for the walk through the Sector 6 ruins. Cloud thinks he’s being clever, slipping away into the night to protect me. He’s going to wander those scrap heaps like a confused Chocobo, too proud to admit he doesn’t know the shortcut through the collapsed tunnel. Let him have his head start. The Whispers won’t let him get too far without me, anyway. They need their flower girl on stage for the next act.

The sleep is shallow, more of a trance than a rest.

And as promised, she’s there.

It isn’t a clear vision, but a sensory assault. I feel the heat of a crowded bar, the vibration of a jukebox through the floorboards, and that scent again—malt, leather, and something sweet, like vanilla. I see her hands, wrapped in leather, wiping down a counter with a rhythmic, soothing motion. She’s worried. I can feel her heart fluttering like a caged bird every time the door to the Seventh Heaven opens.

She’s waiting for a blonde mercenary.

But she’s also waiting for something else.

Dec 13

Setting the Trap

I snap awake before the alarm in my head can even go off. The air in the room is icy. I don’t see them, but I can feel the Whispers—a frantic, dry rustling near the ceiling. They are agitated. Cloud has moved. He has likely reached the garden gate.

I move like a ghost. I snatch the White Materia and the pink ribbon, tying it back with fingers that only tremble slightly. I check my pockets quickly, making sure everything is in place. I move quietly, one hand grazing the wall for balance.

I pass Elmyra’s door. Her breathing is steady, but I know she’s a light sleeper. I hold my breath, moving on instinct, each step placed with the practiced quiet of someone who has snuck out before.

I snatch my boots from the floor as I slip out the door, the familiar creak of the hinges muffled by a well-placed piece of cloth I left there earlier. Outside, on the porch, I finally let out a breath as I put my boots on. The garden is shrouded in a thick, gray mist. The yellow lilies are closed, sleeping through the revolution.

I stand there for exactly one second longer than I should. This is it. I am leaving the only home I have known, in the dark, for a woman I have never seen. My heart knows what my feet are doing even if my head is still catching up.

Then I move. The backstairs. The shortcut. The Whispers already drifting ahead like gray smoke.

The early morning air is biting, a damp chill that clings to the rusted walls of the Sector 5 slums. I pause for just a moment in the cold air, trying to catch the tail end of that scent—malt and vanilla—before it dissolves into the smell of Midgar’s ever-present smog. I wish the dream could have lasted just a few minutes longer; I was so close to seeing the color of her eyes.

But duty calls, and by duty, I mean making sure a certain blonde mercenary doesn’t wander halfway to the Wall Market before realizing he’s going the wrong way.

I slip through a gap in the corrugated fencing that leads behind the community center. Cloud is likely sticking to the main roads through the slums. He is heading toward the Expressway that connects Sectors 5 and 6. It’s the obvious choice for someone with a giant sword and a lot of pride, but it’s also a winding, debris-cluttered mess.

I move through a narrow alleyway where the pipes groan. I climb a ladder made of rebar, drop down onto a slanted roof, and skip across a series of shipping containers. The Whispers are here, too, drifting like tatters of a gray veil in the mist. They seem amused, or at least curious, fluttering ahead to show me exactly where the Chocobo has stumbled.

He really thinks he’s being subtle. I can see the scuff marks from his boots on the sand from here. He’s moving fast, but he’s taking the long curves. Typical. If he’d just asked, I could have told him about the tunnel under the collapsed girder. But no, he has to be the lone wolf. Well, this wolf is about to get a surprise.

I reach the junction where the shortcut merges back into the main path before the tunnel toward Sector 6. It’s a perfect spot—a rusted archway overgrown with a few resilient weeds that somehow thrive in the dark. I check my braids; they’re a bit frayed, but they’ll do. I smooth down my dress, ensuring my life savings aren’t shifting too noticeably in the hidden pockets.

I lean against the cold metal, crossing my ankles and putting on my most casual, “I’ve-been-here-for-hours” face.

In the distance, I hear it: the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots. He’s coming. He sounds tired, or maybe just frustrated with the maze.

I wonder what Tifa would think of this. Would she find it funny, or would she be just as annoyed with him as I am? I can almost hear her voice in my head. He’s a handful, isn’t he? Yeah, Tifa. He really is. But he’s our handful.

The morning fog hangs low over the Expressway, clinging to the jagged ruins like a shroud. The blue Mako glow of Cloud’s eyes is the only thing piercing through the gloom until he rounds the final bend and finds me leaning against a rusted support beam, looking as if I’ve been part of the landscape for hours.

“Well, look who it is,” I say, voice light and echoing through the hollow passage. I tilt my head, letting a smirk play on my lips. “Talk about a convenient coincidence.”

Cloud stops dead. His grip on the Buster Sword’s hilt tightens, and for a second, he looks like he’s seen a ghost—which, in a way, he has.

“What’re you doing here?” he demands, the words coming out low.

I guess I just interrupted that heroic solo mission he had planned.

“Waiting,” I reply simply, pushing off the beam and smoothing my dress.

“Why?” It sounds almost like a kweh coming from him.

I step into his personal space, watching the way he instinctively shifts his weight. I have to play the part; I have to keep the Whispers lulled and the Chocobo-head guessing. But inside, my heart is already racing toward the Sector 7 gate.

“Because I’m not sick of you yet,” I chirp, giving him a playful wink that I know makes his teeth itch.

Cloud lets out a long, heavy sigh, the rigid line of his shoulders dropping an inch. He looks at the dirt path ahead, then back at me, jaw setting into something that looks a lot like resignation.

“Lead on, then,” he grunts.

“With pleasure.”

I don’t give him a second to change his mind or try to turn back. I spin on my heel and head straight for the connecting tunnel. The air inside is cooler, smelling of stagnant water and old grease, but it’s the fastest way through the ruins.

Look at him. He’s fuming back there, stomping his boots and probably wondering how a flower girl is three steps ahead of a SOLDIER. If he only knew. He thinks I’m here because I’m not sick of him. And while that’s mostly true, the real reason is waiting on the other side of that wall.

I can still feel the dream on my skin. The scent of malt… the heat of the bar… Tifa. Every step I take toward Sector 6 feels like a countdown. The Whispers are trailing us, their gray forms drifting through the overhead pipes like smoke. For once, we seem to want the same thing. That’s rare enough that I’m not going to question it.

“Keep up, Cloud!” I call back over my shoulder. “Unless you’ve decided you’d rather spend the morning fighting more Hedgehog Pies as they wake up.”

“I’m right here,” he mutters, his heavy footfalls echoing behind me.

The path through Sector 6 is a jagged landscape of twisted rebar and concrete, but here, for a brief moment, the oppressive metal sky of Midgar is broken. The early morning light filters down through the massive gap where the Plate should be, illuminating the dust motes in the air.

Cloud stops for a heartbeat, his head tilted back. “You can see the sky,” he says, his voice losing some of its habitual edge.

“They’re still working on the new plate,” I reply, shielding my eyes as I look up at the skeletal construction hanging miles above. “I don’t like this part of Midgar. It feels… unfinished. Back when they were still building the city, there was an accident. The plate fell.”

I look at a particularly large slab of concrete overgrown with weeds. “People had only just started moving in, so there weren’t a lot living there at the time, but… it’s still a graveyard of what could have been.”

A graveyard. The Planet remembers every piece of metal that falls, every life cut short. Standing here, I can feel it grieving the past and… something else. Something in the direction of Sector 7 that I can’t name. Just a wrongness, like a held breath.

I have to get there before it exhales.

The Veil of Wall Market

As we crest a small hill of debris, the horizon shifts. Below us, tucked into the underside of the Sector 6 plate, is a riot of mismatched neon lights and the distant, chaotic hum of a city that never sleeps.

“And that’s…” Cloud begins, his brow furrowed.

“The underside of Sector 6. Wall Market,” I say, leaning against a rusted guardrail. “A real special place. But… I’m sure you already knew that, right?”

“I didn’t tell you?” Cloud says, looking genuinely confused. “I enlisted pretty much right after I left home. Dunno much about this place, or any of the slums.”

I can’t help but let out a little puff of laughter. “So, the big SOLDIER really is lost in his own backyard. Well, it took a lot of people to build Midgar, Cloud. And they all needed to blow off steam. So some traders built an entertainment district. Inns, shops, bars—the works.”

I gesture toward the glowing sprawl. “Business was booming, money was flowing… which attracted the attention of some guys who didn’t exactly care for the law. And instead of trying to solve the problem, the government decided to just wall it in. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Walled off,” Cloud mutters. “Like they’re ashamed of it.”

“Yeah,” I agree, the smile fading slightly. “For the folks in charge, there’s no better way to deal with it. They hide the mess and pretend it isn’t there.”

I see the way Cloud’s eyes linger on the neon.

For a second, I wonder if he’s thinking about the bar. About her. I know that pull—the way a person can feel like a compass point, orienting everything else around them. I don’t say anything. Some things don’t need saying.

“Wanna see what’s behind it?” I ask, my voice dropping into a playful challenge.

“Not really,” he grunts.

“That’s good—’cause I know a better way to get to Sector 7,” I say, grabbing his gloved hand and pulling him away from the main road. I lead him toward a dark, narrow tunnel hidden behind a collapsed support pillar. “One that—tragically—doesn’t go through Wall Market. It’s just through this tunnel here. At least it was, back when I was a kid.”

I look into the dark mouth of the tunnel. The Whispers are circling the entrance, their gray forms flickering like faulty light bulbs.

Wall Market is a distraction. A flashy, noisy veil that hides the truth. I don’t want entertainment. I want the reality of Sector 7. I want to see the Seventh Heaven with my own eyes. If this tunnel still holds, we’ll be there by the time the sun is high. I just hope the legend is ready for visitors.

The “shortcut” through the collapsed expressway turns out to be more of an obstacle course than a stroll. The morning air is thick with the smell of rusted iron and stagnant Mako, but having a SOLDIER as a traveling companion certainly makes the “traffic” manageable.

Scrap Metal and Swordplay

A group of Gorgers lunges from beneath a rusted van, their snarling muzzles dripping with foul-smelling slime. Cloud doesn’t even break his stride. In a flash of steel and a heavy thud of the Buster Sword, it’s over. He flicks the blade clean with a sharp movement, his eyes already scanning the next pile of debris.

“Nice work, Mr. Bodyguard,” I say, skipping over a puddle of oil. “You make it look so easy. I wonder if you’re this efficient when you’re helping Tifa at the bar. Does she have to remind you not to use the sword on the rowdy customers?”

Cloud grunts, sheathing the blade. “Most of them know better than to start trouble when I’m around.”

I bet they do. He’s like a territorial wolf. But I can see the way he looks at the horizon—he’s not just fighting monsters; he’s fighting the clock. Every minute we spend in these ruins is a minute he’s away from her. I feel that pull too, though. It’s like a string tied to my heart, tugging me toward Sector 7.

We reach the first of the massive industrial cranes. They’re hulking, rusted things, their mechanical arms frozen in mid-reach. I have to guide Cloud through the control panels, showing him how to swing the platforms so we can cross the gaps in the expressway.

It doesn’t go smoothly at first. I point left, he pulls right. The platform swings wide, grinding against the frame with a shriek of metal that probably wakes up every monster in a hundred meters. Cloud shoots me a look. I wave my hand—try again, other way. He adjusts. The platform swings back, overshoots. Another grinding shriek.

Someone in the ruins answers it with a howl.

“Faster,” Cloud says, his eyes already ahead.

I point more precisely this time, less flower girl and more general. He reads it, adjusts the lever with deliberate care. The platform locks into place with a satisfying clunk. We cross quickly, without words.

“Look at that one!” I chirp, pointing at a smaller robotic grabber as it whirs to life under Cloud’s command. “It’s actually kind of cute, don’t you think? Like a giant, metallic puppy trying to find its toy.”

I’m feeling pretty good about our teamwork. I turn to him, holding up my palm with a bright smile. “Teamwork! High-five?”

Cloud looks at my hand as if it’s a strange, unidentified species of monster. He doesn’t move. After a few seconds of awkward silence, I just pat the air and turn around. “Okay, maybe next time.”

The howl from earlier finds its source. Three Gorgers, drawn by the crane noise, come loping through the debris field. Cloud is already moving before I can point.

I step back and let him work. Short, efficient. No wasted movement. By the time I’ve counted to five, it’s done.

I follow. The second crane is closer, but the platform mechanism is stiffer—rust has done its work. Cloud figures out the controls faster this time though, reading the resistance and adjusting without needing my pointing. Two careful movements instead of five fumbling ones. The platform locks into place.

Once we land on the far side, I try again.

“See? We’re a natural pair! High-five?”

He just lets out a long, weary sigh and keeps walking.

He is so stubborn! It’s just a high-five, Cloud. It won’t break your tough guy image. I bet Tifa gets him to do it. Or maybe she just gives him that look and he melts. I have to get him to crack before we reach the Sector 7 gate.

The path to the third crane isn’t as direct. I take a turn that looks right and isn’t—the rubble has shifted since I was last here as a kid, whole sections collapsed into shapes I don’t recognize. I backtrack without comment, pretending I meant to look that way.

Cloud says nothing. He’s already watching the shadows.

Wise. A swarm of Zemzelett bursts from a collapsed overpass—six, maybe seven, circling fast. Cloud draws and moves. I press into a gap between two rusted containers and watch him work, my stomach growling loud enough that I worry it’ll attract more.

I forgot to eat before leaving. The stew from last night feels like another lifetime.

While I wait, my mind drifts where it always does. Tifa. I wonder if she’s awake yet. If she knows something is coming. I don’t know what I’ll say when I see her. I’ve been rehearsing it for two days and every version sounds wrong.

Cloud finishes. He looks at me.

“Wrong turn,” I admit, stepping out.

“I know,” he says. Just that. Then he points ahead.

The third crane is the worst of them. The gap is wider, the platform older, and when Cloud finally swings it into position it sways with a groan that doesn’t inspire confidence. I look at it. I look at Cloud.

He holds out a hand without being asked.

I take it. We time the leap together—one breath, then across. The platform dips under our combined weight, steadies, and we scramble to solid ground on the other side.

The exit is still a walk away, the path winding through the last stretch of debris. But the worst of it is behind us. I can feel it—the air changing slightly, the oppressive weight of the Expressway thinning.

I stop, blocking his path, and raise my hand one last time.

Cloud looks at my hand. He looks at me. He looks back at the crane. Finally, he lets out a grumble that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed kweh. He raises his gloved hand—slowly, tentatively—and gives my palm a quick, slightly-too-hard slap. It’s the most awkward thing I’ve ever seen, but it counts.

“There,” I say, beaming. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Cloud pulls his hand back quickly, stuffing it into his pocket. “Let’s just keep moving.”

The Uninvited Guests

Just as we’re about to reach the clearing of the park, a rusted heavy-duty door catches my eye. It looked out of place, slightly ajar, leading into a sheltered alcove beneath the expressway’s skeletal frame.

We step inside, the air smelling of stale smoke and old grease. In the center of the cramped room, a small circle of stones holds a pile of glowing embers.

“Anybody around?” I call out, my voice echoing against the metallic walls. Silence is my only answer. I look back at Cloud, who is already kneeling by the fire. “Guess it’s just us.”

Cloud reaches out a gloved hand, hovering it over the charcoal. “It’s still warm.”

“Should we relight it?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe with a playful tilt of my head. “Have our own campfire? We could roast some… well, whatever you have in those pockets.”

Cloud stands up, his expression shifting back into that mission-first rigidity. “I need to get back. Besides—”

“Lookie here, boys! Caught us some burglars!”

The door swings open fully, and three of the most disheveled men I’ve ever seen stumble in. Leading the pack is a man in a vest who looks like he hasn’t seen a shower since the plate was built.

“Comin’ into our homes and stealing our shit—don’ crimes!” the one called Burke adds, trying to look intimidating while tripping over a piece of scrap.

“I’d say we’re owed compensatory damages!” Beck declares, puffing out his chest.

“Yeah! Complementary… uh, composite… Uh, I don’t get it,” Butch mutters, scratching his head.

I watch as Beck turns on his own man, his face turning a shade of frustrated red. “How stupid can you be? It’s crazy simple! Compensatory damages is like, uh… It’s like… compensation… For damages!”

“Oh yeah!” Burke pipes up, nodding vigorously. “That’s what you get when you… no, when somebody else! Uh…”

I shift my weight, crossing my arms over my chest. The morning sun is rising, Sector 7 is calling, and I am currently being held hostage by a vocabulary lesson gone wrong.

I’ve dealt with Shinra executives, Turks, and ancient planetary whispers, and now I have to listen to “Beck’s Badasses” debate the finer points of legal terminology?

I look at Cloud.

He looks like he’s contemplating whether it’s faster to fight them or just let them confuse themselves into a coma. I can almost feel the pull of Sector 7 getting stronger. Every second Beck spends looking for a dictionary is a second I’m not seeing that bar… or her. I think it’s time to end the show.

“Is this the part where you try to rob us?” I interrupt, my voice dripping with forced cheerfulness. “Because if it is, you might want to look at the giant sword my friend is carrying. It’s very… compensatory.”

Cloud doesn’t say a word. He just takes a single step forward, the light from the campfire reflecting off the Buster Sword’s cold edge.

Beck looks at the sword. Then he looks at Cloud’s Mako eyes. Then he looks back at his boys.

I step forward, waving my hand like I’m trying to clear the air of their bad logic. If I can get us out of here without Cloud turning this campfire into a crime scene, we might actually make it to Sector 7 before lunch.

“Now, listen,” I say, putting on my most reasonable flower girl voice. “We’re just passing through. How about we call it even? You keep your fire, we keep our Gil, and we all pretend this conversation never happened. That sounds like a fair ‘compensation,’ doesn’t it?”

Beck sneers, adjusting his vest. “Fair? Sugar, ‘fair’ left the slums when the plates went up. Boys, I think they’re trying to cheat us out of our legal rights!”

Burke and Butch growl—or at least they try to—but it sounds more like they’re clearing their throats. Cloud doesn’t even wait for the punchline. He lets out a sharp, impatient breath and steps past me.

“My turn,” he grunts.

The morning light filters through the rusted cracks of the Expressway, but it’s the sparks from Cloud’s boots that truly light up the alcove. The battle starts not with a roar, but with the weary sigh of a man who just wants to get to the next sector.

Beck lunges first, swinging a lead pipe with more enthusiasm than aim. Cloud doesn’t even draw the Buster Sword; he simply sidesteps with the grace of a dancer, letting the momentum carry Beck headfirst into a rusted support beam. A loud CLANG echoes through the tunnel, and Beck begins a slow, wobbling spin that eventually deposits him face-first into a pile of empty cans.

“One,” I count, leaning against a crate with an amused grin.

Burke tries to be tactical, attempting to flank Cloud from the left. He leaps over a low wall, aiming a kick at Cloud’s head. Without looking, Cloud catches the heel of Burke’s boot, gives it a sharp, effortless twist, and sends the man into a spectacular, uncontrolled backflip. Burke flails in mid-air before landing with a dull thud atop a stack of wooden pallets, which collapse under him like a house of cards.

“Two!”

Butch, seeing his comrades dismantled with such surgical indifference, freezes in his tracks. He looks at Cloud—who is now calmly adjusting one of his gloves—and then at the massive sword still sheathed on Cloud’s back. As Cloud takes a single, purposeful step forward, Butch’s knees seem to turn to jelly. He tries to retreat, but his own feet betray him, tangling together in a frantic knot. He goes down before Cloud even reaches him, sliding across the dusty floor and coming to a stop at my boots.

“And three. A new record!” I chirp, clapping my hands softly.

“Oh, the agony!” Beck groans from the cans, splaying his limbs out and squeezing his eyes shut. “I think my compensatory… organs… are ruptured! I’m fading, boys! Tell my editor I died for the truth!”

“I can’t feel my composite damages!” Burke whines from the broken pallets, perfectly still but talking a mile a minute. “Is this the end? Is there a light? I think the light is just the campfire…”

“Shut up, Burke,” Butch mutters, also “dead” on the ground. “You’re ruining the funeral vibe. Hey, Beck, do we still get paid if we’re deceased? Or is that, like, an insurance thing?”

I can’t help but giggle, leaning over to look Butch in the eye. “You guys are terrible at this. You know we can see your chests moving, right? You’re not very good at being ghosts.”

“I’m not breathing!” Beck insists, his eyes still clamped shut, though his voice is quite loud. “This is just… residual air escaping the corpse! A very long, very loud escape!”

Cloud shakes his head, already heading for the door. “Let’s go. They’re not worth the effort.”

As we walk out, I glance back over my shoulder. The three bandits have decided that being dead is too much work and have transitioned into a very low-effort crawl. They are trying to sneak toward the back exit while still lying flat on their bellies, dragging themselves through the dirt.

“Shhh! They’ll hear us being dead!” Beck whispers harshly, loud enough to be heard in the next sector.

“You’re the one talking, boss!” Butch whispers back.

I look at the three of them scattered across the campfire alcove like dropped laundry, and I can’t help it. I laugh. A real one, not the flower girl version.

I look at Cloud’s rigid back and wonder if he ever finds things like this funny. Probably not. He’s too busy being a SOLDIER. I think about Tifa again—would she have just laughed them out of the bar, or would she have given them a stern lecture on their life choices? Probably both. She seems like the type who has a soft spot for fools, as long as they aren’t dangerous ones.

The Playground Gate

The debris field thins gradually, the rusted walls giving way to something more open. No clear boundary, just the air changing—less metal, more dirt. The distant sound of the city bleeding back in.

We emerge into the light of Sector 6’s outskirts. The playground is somewhere ahead. And beyond that, the gate to Sector 7.

My stomach growls again. Cloud pretends not to hear it.

Soon the rusted metal of the gate looms over us, a massive, unyielding barrier between the scrap heaps of Sector 6 and the life I’ve been chasing in my dreams.

“Alright, there it is,” I say, gesturing to the heavy steel doors. “The gate to Sector 7.”

“Looks shut,” Cloud observes, tilting his head back to gauge the height. “How do we open it?”

“More importantly,” I say, turning my back on the gate and the terrifying potential behind it, “how about we take a break? Sound good?”

“No,” Cloud says instantly, his patience clearly wearing thin. “I don’t have time for—”

I know you don’t. But I do. The mask is cracking at the edges and the Planet is vibrating with something I’m trying not to hear. She is right there. Just on the other side of that gate. And I am terrified.

Smile, Aeris. Smile. Find something else to concentrate on, even if it’s just a rusted piece of childhood.

“Up there looks nice,” I say, pointing toward the colorful, peeling paint of the playground structure. “C’mon!”

I scramble up the ladder of the slide—it’s shaped vaguely like a Moogle, though time and rust have made it look a bit more like a goblin. Cloud hesitates at the bottom, looking torn between dragging me to the gate and resigning himself to my whims.

“You know, a long time ago, I used to sell flowers here,” I call down, sitting at the top and swinging my legs.

Finally, he sighs and starts climbing. He sits a few feet away, keeping that cool guy distance, but… I scooch over until our shoulders are almost brushing. I don’t know why. Maybe I just need to feel that he’s real. That I’m not alone in this.

The morning sun is bright, washing out the shadows of the ruins, but up here, it feels like we’re suspended in time.

“So, Cloud…” I start, looking at his profile. “You were a SOLDIER, First Class right?”

“Yeah,” he replies. The sound is automatic, rehearsed. It could have been a Chocobo’s kweh for all the depth it held.

“Weird,” I murmur, the word slipping out before my filter can catch it. I kick my heels against the slide, suddenly acutely aware of the contrast between the rigid man beside me and the ghost I’m remembering.

“Really?” He turns his head, the rehearsed coolness cracking just enough to show genuine puzzlement. “What’s weird about it?”

“Nothing.” I drop my gaze to my hands resting in my lap, tracing the line of my knuckles. “Just that… you were the same rank.”

“Huh?” His brow furrows, a sudden, defensive edge creeping into his voice. “As who?”

I guess… I guess I can tell the truth. Or at least, the part of the truth that matters right now.

“He was the first person who just saw… me. Just me,” I say softly.

There is a quiet around us that feels heavy, charged with memory. The sun is shining, bright and relentless—just like he was.

In that way, Cloud and Zack are like different worlds. One is a storm, the other was the dawn. And yet that sword on his back carries something I keep almost recognising—like a word in a language I used to know. It doesn’t make sense. He is a shattered boy and a magnet for trouble and I should be keeping my distance. And yet, when he’s between me and the world, I don’t flinch.

“What’s his name?” Cloud asks. “I probably know him.”

I take a breath, letting the name settle on the wind. “He was Zack.”

The reaction is immediate. Cloud flinches, his hand going to his temple as if struck by a physical blow. He squeezes his eyes shut, his breath hitching in a painful gasp. It’s like he’s breaking up—a static glitch in a video feed.

“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning in.

The spasm passes as quickly as it came. He lowers his hand, blinking rapidly. I stare at him, really stare at him, and for a second, the overlay of the past and present blurs.

“Wow…” I whisper. “Your eyes.”

“Oh,” Cloud mutters, misunderstanding my look. He touches his face self-consciously. “It’s ’cause of the Mako. All SOLDIERs have ’em.”

“Yeah… I know,” I say, a sad smile touching my lips.

I know better than anyone, Cloud. I know the glow, but I also know the shadow behind it.

“Sorry, I’m bumming you out,” I say, shaking off the ghost. “We should go.”

I’m not ready. I’m really, really not ready. My nerves are tickling under my skin like electricity. My heart wants to beat right out of my chest. But I have my money. Maybe a drink… or three… at the Seventh Heaven will help me talk to her. Even a legend has to serve customers, right?

I slide off the Moogle, landing lightly in the dirt. Cloud just jumps down, landing with a heavy thud.

“Gotta look forward, not back,” I declare, forcing the energy back into my voice.

The Moogle slide is a bust for conversation. I move to the yellow plastic Chocobo. It’s faded and cracked, its painted beak chipped away by years of acid rain, but it looks… fitting. I watch Cloud pacing around the place. For a second, I see him nudge a swing set with his boot, as if checking its structural integrity—or maybe tempted to sit.

He finally walks over to me, his shadow falling across the yellow plastic.

“Here,” I say, patting the hollow space beneath the Chocobo structure. “This won’t take long.”

I drop to my knees and crawl into the crawlspace under the slide. It smells of damp earth and rust, a scent that screams secret hideout. Cloud stands outside, arms crossed, looking distinctly unimpressed by my choice of infrastructure.

“Ready!” I call out, popping my head back out from the shadows. “Wanna get to Sector 7 in style? This is the passageway. It digs right under the wall.”

I crawl back out, brushing the dirt from my knees. I stand there for a moment, looking at the dark hole.

That hole leads to the other side. To the Seventh Heaven. To her. A part of me—the part that listens to Elmyra and fears the Whispers—wants to turn around. I want to run back to the safety of the flowers and the stream. But the other part? The part of me that’s vibrating with this insane, terrifying need to see if the legend is real? That part is already halfway through the tunnel.

I turn to Cloud. We both speak at the exact same time.

“So…”

I stop, biting my lip to hide a smile. I gesture toward the Chocobo. “Go ahead.”

Cloud looks at the tunnel, then back at me. He doesn’t move. His brow furrows with that protective big brother look I’m starting to know too well.

“You gonna be okay getting home?” he asks.

“And if I said I wasn’t?” I challenge, tilting my head.

“I’ll go with you,” he answers without a beat of hesitation.

“Thought you needed to get back?” I tease, though my chest feels tight.

You really try to be the hero, don’t you? But I’m not saying goodbye, Cloud. Not yet. You’re not shaking me off that easily. I have a date with a bartender, and you’re my ticket in.

I open my mouth to tell him I’m coming with him—to invite myself along to his homecoming—when the ground beneath us shudders.

A loud, grinding screech echoes through the park, drowning out the distant hum of the highway. It’s the sound of metal screaming against metal, massive gears turning like it was the first time in years and not just a few days of lockdown.

We both freeze.

Slowly, agonizingly, the massive steel gate to Sector 7 begins to part. Dust and rust rain down from the hinges, creating a cloud of orange haze.

The Angel in Violet

It takes forever. The massive gears groan, a sound like the earth itself is complaining.

I count my own heartbeats without meaning to.

The heavy steel doors part just enough to let the morning light from the other side spill through.

But it isn’t a patrol squad or a monster that comes through.

It’s a Chocobo carriage—sleek, expensive, and moving fast.

I feel it before I see it. That pull—the Lifestream shifting, warmth blooming in my chest like something held at a distance has suddenly gotten close. My feet are moving before my mind catches up. I don’t know why. I just run.

The carriage turns toward Wall Market. That’s when Cloud sees her.

“Tifa!?” The name tears out of him. He launches off the pavement and within seconds he’s past me, eating up the distance with SOLDIER legs.

But I was already close. Close enough.

The back of the carriage is open. Dark hair, the color of midnight. A dress of deep violet silk shimmering in the morning sun. Eyes like rubies, even from here. She’s looking at Cloud, not at me—she doesn’t know I exist yet.

Four nights. Three days. And now she’s real, and every word I’ve been saving up feels suddenly, completely wrong. The rumors. The dreams. The visions. None of it prepared me for the simple fact of her.

Every dream I had was wrong. Not because it was inaccurate. Because no dream has weight like this.

“Cloud!” Her voice—rich, terrified, relieved. “You are alive!”

“What’s going on?” Cloud demands, running alongside the wheels.

Tifa presses a gloved finger to her lips, glancing nervously at the driver. “I’ll explain everything later.”

That’s the last I hear. The Chocobos pick up speed, their talons sparking against the road. I push my legs to move faster, my lungs burning, but the distance just keeps growing.

Oh, Planet. The rumors called her an Angel, but angels are soft. She looks like a diamond—bright, hard, and absolutely breathtaking. And here I am, panting and covered in dust, chasing her carriage like a stray dog. Like a wildflower growing in the shadow of a skyscraper.

The dust is settling on the road, but the air is still vibrating. I’m staring down the way toward Wall Market.

Then, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Cloud turns—not toward the carriage and Wall Market, but toward the massive, slowly closing gate of Sector 7.

The Hero’s Mistake

He takes a step toward home. Toward safety. Toward a world where he doesn’t have to chase a carriage into the vice capital of the slums.

“Oh no you don’t,” I snap, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around. “You’re going after her.”

Cloud looks down at me, his expression frustratingly calm. “She’s a big girl. She can handle the likes of him. And worse.”

Him? Who is “him”? The driver? Corneo? Does he mean she can handle men in general?

I look at his face.

He believes it. He trusts her strength so implicitly that he’s willing to let her ride off into a den of vipers alone. It tells me two things: First, he respects her more than he worries about her. And second… maybe he isn’t as desperately in love as I thought. If he were, he’d be tearing that carriage apart with his bare hands right now.

Fine. If the hero won’t save the legend, then the flower girl will.

“Uh-uh. You don’t know Corneo,” I say, my voice rising with urgency. “It doesn’t matter how strong or smart you think you are. He’ll find a way to turn it against you.”

Cloud shifts his weight, looking back at the closing gate. He’s wavering.

“And where’s she going to meet him?” I press, stepping into his line of sight so he has to look at me. “A mansion filled with his goons. She’s walking into a trap, Cloud. And she’s doing it in a dress that screams distraction.”

He still hesitates. His eyes move between me and the closing gate, and back again. But I don’t have time for logic. I have a legend to catch.

“Come on,” I plead, grabbing his wrist with both hands. “Aren’t you worried what might happen in there? You have to help her!”

The massive metal gears of the Sector 7 gate groan one last time, slamming shut with a finality that shakes the ground. The path home is gone.

“Come on!” I shout, pulling him with all my weight toward the neon glow on the horizon.

I let go. I don’t wait for his answer. I turn and run.

My boots slap against the paved road, kicking up dust. I’m not an athlete like them; I don’t have Mako in my veins or martial arts training. But I have adrenaline, and I have fear. Real, cold fear for a woman I’ve never spoken to.

I guess… I might be more worried about her than Cloud is. He sees a fighter; I see a sacrifice. I saw the look on her face in that carriage—determined, yes, but also resigned. She’s doing something dangerous for the sake of others. It’s exactly what I would do.

Behind me, I hear the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots catching up.

Cloud runs past me, slowing his pace just enough to match mine. He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw is set. He’s following.

Good boy. You finally figured out which way the plot is going. We’re going to Wall Market, Cloud. And we’re going to crash whatever party Don Corneo is throwing. I just hope I’m not too late to introduce myself before the fighting starts.

The neon lights of Wall Market buzz with a frantic, dirty energy, but I barely notice the crowds or the music. My eyes are locked on a familiar Chocobo carriage parked near the entrance. The yellow bird is panting, its feathers dusted with the same grit that’s coating my throat.

The Cowboy and the Chocobo

We approach the carriage, where a stablehand is aggressively scrubbing a wheel, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hey, there! Where you headed?” he barks without looking up.

I have a guess—a sinking, heavy feeling in my gut—but I need to hear it. “You gave a ride to a woman earlier. Do you have any idea where she went?”

The stablehand stops scrubbing and glares at us. “No, and if you don’t need a ride, then get the hell outta here. Can’t you see I’m trying to work?”

Cloud steps forward, his shadow falling over the man. “Can’t say I can, no.”

“What’d you say to me, you little—” the man starts, raising his brush like a weapon.

Suddenly, the Chocobo screeches, kicking out its leg. A calm, drawling voice cuts through the tension before the stablehand can make a mistake he’ll regret.

“What’s all the ruckus out here?”

The double doors of the nearby stable fly open, and a man in a cowboy hat saunters out. He has the confident swagger of a man who owns half the street and knows the secrets of the other half. I know him from the rumors, Chocobo Sam.

“Hmm…” Sam looks us up and down, his eyes lingering on Cloud’s sword. “I don’t know you. What’s your story?”

He looks… arrogant. But underneath the hat brim, his eyes are sharp. I have to play this right.

“We’re looking for a girl who took one of your carriages,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Can you help us find her?”

Sam reaches up and strokes the Chocobo’s beak, calming the bird instantly. “Depends. What’d you want with this girl of yours?”

What do I want? Oh, Planet. A hug? A kiss? A conversation that lasts until sunrise? I want to know if she smells like vanilla and gunpowder. I want to know if her hands are rough from fighting or soft from washing glasses. I want everything.

But before I can invent a plausible lie, Cloud opens his mouth. “Guess. We want to save—”

Oh no, Chocobo-head. Not the hero speech.

“Save her from a life without this handsome guy!” I blurt out, grabbing Cloud’s arm and squeezing it hard.

Sam raises an eyebrow.

Okay, that sounded lame. Even the Chocobo looks unimpressed.

“So that’s how it is, huh?” Sam chuckles, leaning against the carriage. “Well, I got a lotta customers. Hard to keep track of ’em all. This girl, what’s she look like?”

Cloud frowns, thinking hard. “Well… Um… she’s a great fighter.”

You saw a goddess in a violet dress, hair like midnight silk, eyes that could probably stop a Smogger in its tracks, and you go with “great fighter”? Men are hopeless.

“I’m not sure that helps,” I sigh, resisting the urge to facepalm.

Sam pauses, his hand freezing on the bird’s neck. “Wait a minute, you talking about Tifa?”

Of course he knows her. Of course. Even a terrible description is enough when the person is that remarkable.

“That’s her,” Cloud confirms.

“Oho, looks like someone’s got a bit of a crush!” Sam laughs, looking at Cloud.

A crush. You’re looking at the wrong person, Cowboy.

“Hate to break it to you, kid,” Sam continues, his voice dropping an octave, “but it’ll be a long time before she steps outside again.”

There it is. The cold creeping in.

“What do you mean?” Cloud demands, stepping closer.

“She’s a looker,” Sam says, and the way he says it makes my skin crawl. “Corneo’s running another audition, and Tifa was chosen.”

“An audition for what?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“For the honor of becoming the next Mrs. Corneo,” Sam says with a smug little twist of his mouth. “She’s everything he likes, bundled up in one sweet package. I’ve been scouting girls for him long enough to know his tastes better than my own. And with those tastes? I can promise you this much—she won’t be walking out of that mansion anytime soon… if she walks out at all.”

The disgust rises in my throat like bile.

Sweet package. Tifa isn’t a package. She’s a person. She’s a legend. And she’s trapped in a mansion with a man who sees her as nothing more than a trophy.

“And where can we find this Don Corneo?” Cloud growls, his hand twitching toward his sword.

“What’re you asking for?” Sam asks, tilting his hat back. “Thinking of raising holy hell or something?”

Something like it.

I don’t wait for Cloud to answer. I’ve heard enough. I turn on my heel and start walking toward the far end of the market, where the mansion looms over the neon lights like a fat spider in a web.

“Hey!” Cloud calls out, scrambling to catch up.

I don’t stop. I have a date to crash.

The neon lights of a sign buzz overhead, a constant, headache-inducing hum. A hand-painted board simply reads “SOUTH,” adorned with strings of cheap fairy lights that blink out of sync. I walk through the archway without even looking at it, my eyes fixed on the path ahead, but the market has claws, and it likes to snag fresh meat.

The Welcome Committee

I know this place. I’ve sold flowers here more times than I care to count—the profits are good when people are spending freely and feeling generous. I know which stalls are safe, which alleys aren’t, which smiles are just business and which ones aren’t. Knowing it doesn’t make it better. It just makes it faster to move through.

“Welcome to Wall Market, the pleasure capital of Midgar that’s got everything for everybody!”

A barker in a loud, checkered suit steps right into our path, blocking the way with a greasy smile. I recoil instinctively, bumping into Cloud.

“Couple, huh?” The barker winks, looking back and forth between us. “S’all good! Play together, do your own thing—earn a little scratch on the side, even—whatever you’re into, we got you. Got a special onetime limited offer—”

Earn a little scratch on the side.

“No, thank you!” I snap, my voice sharper than usual. “Come on, Cloud—let’s go!”

I practically drag him past the man, gripping his arm tightly. I tell myself it’s to keep him from getting hustled, but the truth is, this place makes my skin crawl. It’s a den of wolves, and a lone girl—even a Cetra—is just prey here. I hate it. I hate the smell of cheap perfume covering up garbage, I hate the hungry looks from the shadows.

Be brave, Aeris. Tifa is here somewhere. If she can survive this place, so can you. Even if my hands are trembling and something in the back of my mind is whispering that this is a very bad idea, I have to keep walking. For her.

We weave through the crowds. I find myself following a stray cat—a scruffy white thing with a notched ear—winding through the alleyways. It feels right, like a tiny thread of the Planet guiding me through the filth.

And then, we see it.

Don Corneo’s Mansion.

It sits on top of a hill, likely made out of junk, like a festering boil. It looks like a cheap copy of the architecture from Wutai—red lacquer and curved roofs—but it lacks any of the grace or history. It’s not even a bad joke; it’s just horrible. Tacky, imposing, and reeking of new money and old corruption.

Cloud walks up to the heavy wooden gate and pushes it open without knocking. Inside the courtyard, three men are waiting.

One is a young man with silver hair and a bored expression—Leslie, if the rumors are true. The other two are generic thugs. They glance at Cloud once and lose interest immediately. Then they look at me, and don’t stop.

“Not so fast, buddy,” Leslie drawls, holding up a hand. “Back it up. Got no need for pretty boys here.”

“We’re looking for someone,” Cloud states flatly, not moving an inch.

“Lemme guess. First time in Wall Market.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “So people can’t just walk through the Don’s front door. Especially men.”

Cloud’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.” He doesn’t blink. “So?”

I feel the heat rising in my chest.

I am so close. She is right behind those walls. Why does everything have to be a game with these people?

“How ’bout me, then?” I ask, stepping out from behind Cloud. “Can I go inside?”

Leslie looks at me. His eyes aren’t leering, exactly, but they are assessing. “Maybe, but you’re gonna wish you didn’t.”

“Y’know Leslie,” one of the lackeys snickers, leaning on his spear. “She’s kinda cute. Homely, but cute.”

I am starting to feel like I am not even a human.

The spark inside me flares.

I just want to burn them already.

“Excuse you?” I say, my voice dropping dangerously low.

“Kinda cute is not gonna cut it,” Leslie says, his tone purely practical, like he’s discussing livestock grades.

“Come on, can’t you help us out?” I press, though my patience is fraying like an old rope.

“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” Leslie asks, and for a second, I think I hear a genuine warning in his tone.

“Aeris,” Cloud warns, sensing the shift in my mood.

“Seriously, Les,” the second lackey laughs, looking me up and down. “She’s not half bad. With a little work, I bet she’d clean up real nice.”

That does it.

The fear evaporates, replaced by a pure, white-hot fury.

Clean up nice? Like I’m a piece of trash? Is this how they talk about Tifa? Is this what she’s listening to right now?

I can feel the Lifestream beneath the pavement. It’s angry, too. I could do it. I could summon a pillar of fire right here and turn this tacky Wutai knock-off into a pile of ash. I am an inch away from burning the whole place down.

I turn to Cloud, my face perfectly calm, my smile sweet and terrifying.

“Cloud… requesting permission to kill.”

I can feel the glow in my eyes. Cloud looks at me, eyes dropping to my hands, then back up. Something in his expression goes very still.

“Denied.”

He grabs my arm—firmly this time—and drags me back toward the gate before I can turn the Don’s courtyard into a crater.

We stumble back out onto the street. I’m fuming, shaking off his grip, but I know he’s right. If we fight our way in, we might endanger Tifa.

“They wouldn’t let us in,” Cloud grunts, looking back at the mansion. “We need another way.”

“We need a disguise,” I correct him, smoothing my dress and taking a deep breath to cool the fire in my veins. “If Corneo wants a sweet package, then we need to give him one he can’t refuse.”

I study Cloud’s face, really study it, as the adrenaline from the encounter with the lackeys fades into cold calculation. The delicate curve of his jaw, the impossibly long eyelashes that frame those Mako-blue eyes, the slender build hidden under the bulk of his shoulder armor.

“Aeris. You sure about this?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably under my intense scrutiny.

Is he wondering what was about to happen?

“Already decided,” I say pleasantly. “You just haven’t caught up yet.”

Cloud looks at the gate, then at the thugs, then back at me. The resignation settles across his face like a man who has just realized the argument is already over.

A slow, mischievous grin spreads across my face. Oh, he has no idea.

The Red-Haired Hurricane

Before I can vocalize the terrifyingly brilliant plan forming in my head, a blur of motion screams past us and skids to a halt. It’s a man with hair so red and spiked it looks like he styled it with a wind tunnel and a bucket of paint.

“So that’s the way it is, hmm?” he declares, panting as if he’s been running laps around the market.

“Who…” I start, blinking.

“Tifa’s been invited into the Don’s estate…” he continues, ignoring us completely and staring tragically at the mansion.

“Huh?” I say, genuinely confused. Has he been following us? Or is he just part of the Wall Market ecosystem, like the stray cats and the neon signs?

“But!” He raises a finger to the sky. “To earn such a privilege, you must first win the approval of one of the Trio.”

He spins around to face us, eyes wide with frantic realization. “Right?”

“Meaning! I now know what I must do to save her!” He strikes a pose that I think is supposed to be heroic but looks more like he’s cramping. “Stay strong, Tifa! Help is on the way! Johnny’s comin’, baby!”

And with a screech of rubber soles on pavement, he sprints away toward the center of town.

We watch him disappear into the crowd. Silence hangs between us for a solid five seconds.

“Not the sharpest tool in the shed, is he?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“Nope,” Cloud agrees instantly.

Johnny. So that’s his name. He knows Tifa. He’s clearly obsessed with her. My stomach gives a tiny, possessive lurch, but then I squash it. No. That’s not a rival. That’s a fanboy. Tifa—the woman who runs a bar, fights Shinra, and looks like royalty in violet silk—would not be interested in a man whose primary personality trait is volume. He’s harmless. Annoying, but harmless.

“But he said something useful,” I muse, tapping my chin. “The Trio. To get an invite, we need a recommendation from one of the big bosses of Wall Market.”

I count them off on my fingers. “We already met Chocobo Sam. He didn’t seem too keen on helping us.”

The adrenaline that fueled my sprint from the Sector 5 slums finally evaporates, leaving behind a hollow, aching void in my stomach. I look at my fingers counting off the Trio, and they’re trembling. Not from fear, and not from the lingering rage at the mansion gate.

I am simply, utterly empty.

The Necessary Stop

“That leaves two others,” I say, but the words come out breathless. I stumble slightly, catching myself on a lamppost.

“Aeris?” Cloud stops, looking back. “We should check the Honeybee Inn next. If we hurry—”

“I need to eat,” I interrupt, the statement flat and non-negotiable.

Cloud blinks, clearly thrown off rhythm. “Eat? Now? We don’t have time. Tifa is—”

“Tifa is in a mansion, likely being pampered before an audition,” I snap, my voice cracking sharper than I intended. The mask slips—just for a second—revealing the exhausted girl beneath the ancient Cetra heritage. “I am not a First Class SOLDIER, Cloud. I haven’t eaten since the stew yesterday. I ran all morning on nothing but nerves. If I pass out in the middle of the street, how exactly does that help her?”

Cloud closes his mouth. He looks at my shaking knees, then at the pale cast of my skin.

“…Right,” he concedes, his shoulders dropping. “Lunch.”

We find a crowded open-air stall smelling of sizzling fat, heavy spices, and unwashed bodies. It’s not the refined dining of the Plate, but right now, the greasy skewers look like ambrosia. I order enough food for three people. Grilled chicken, seasoned vegetables, rice balls wrapped in seaweed.

We squeeze onto a sticky wooden bench. The Whispers drift around the stall, swirling through the cooking smoke. They seem content, settling into the role of silent chaperones for what looks like a date. Let them have their show. From the outside, it’s a boy and a girl sharing a meal in the big city.

But inside, I’m a mess.

I attack the food the moment it hits the table, dignity be damned. It’s fuel. It’s life.

Ugh… is this pain what they call love? My chest hurts, my stomach is in knots, and ten minutes ago I was ready to call down the wrath of the Planet on a couple of low-rent thugs just because they insulted a woman I’ve never even spoken to.

I almost burned it down, Cloud. I felt the heat in my fingertips. Just for her. That… could have been worse for her. If I start a war in Wall Market, Tifa gets caught in the crossfire. I have to control this. I have to be the flower girl, not the Sorceress.

Cloud eats with efficient, military precision, but his eyes are on me. He’s not looking at the food. He’s looking at the girl who asked for permission to kill.

“Back there,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to be lost in the market’s roar. “At the gate.”

I pause, a skewer halfway to my mouth. “Mhm?”

“You weren’t joking,” he states. It’s not a question. “You were ready to level the place.”

I set the skewer down, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin.

I could lie. I could giggle and say, oh, I was just teasing! But I’m too tired for the act.

“They treated me like an object,” I say, my voice steady but cold. “And if they look at me like that… imagine how they look at her. Imagine how they treat her.”

I clench my hand into a fist on the table. “I don’t like bullies, Cloud. And I really, really don’t like men who think women are just packages to be unwrapped.”

I reach out and tap the back of his gloved hand. The Whispers swirl excitedly.

“But you stopped me,” I whisper, my eyes locking onto his. “So, thank you. You’re a good bodyguard. You kept me from making a mess.”

Cloud pulls his hand back, looking flushed and uncomfortable. “Don’t mention it.”

I look at Cloud. He’s chewing stoically, watching the crowd. I study his face. The high cheekbones. The long eyelashes that catch the neon light. The pouty lips he thinks make him look tough but actually just make him look petulant.

He’s pretty. He’s really, really pretty. If you stripped off that armor, washed the soot off his face, and put him in something… violet? No, maybe indigo. He could pass.

And Corneo? He’s a pig. He won’t be looking at the jawline; he’ll be looking at the dress.

The food settles the shaking in my limbs. The world becomes a puzzle again instead of a wall.

“Okay,” I say, standing up and brushing crumbs from my dress. “Turns out I just needed feeding. Like a Chocobo.”

The Iron Fan

The exterior of Madam M’s Hand Massage Parlor is a stark contrast to the rest of the garbage heap. It’s polished wood, soft lanterns, and the scent of incense fighting a losing battle against the smell of the sewers.

As we reach the door, a familiar voice screeching from inside makes us pause.

“The hell is this bullshit? I ain’t payin’ that much!”

“Well, this ain’t a charity—so if you don’t have the Gil to pay, then get the hell out!” a woman’s sharp voice retorts.

The door flies open, and Johnny comes stumbling out backward, nearly colliding with Cloud’s face. He doesn’t even see us; he just scrambles to his feet and sprints off, muttering about “finding another way.”

I check the hidden pocket of my dress, feeling the reassuring weight of the Gil. Money. That shouldn’t be an issue.

We step inside. The transition is jarring. If Corneo’s mansion was a cheap, plastic imitation of Wutai architecture, this is the real deal. The tatami mats are pristine, the flower arrangements are precise, and the woman standing in the center of the room commands the space like an empress.

She wears an elegant kimono that looks like it costs more than the entirety of Sector 5. This is Madam M.

“Welcome, welcome,” she purrs, snapping her fan shut. “Just the two of you? Step right up.”

We approach the desk. The air is thick with lavender and something sharper—maybe ginger.

“Now then, what manner of massage do you desire?” she asks, her eyes scanning us with professional detachment.

“Say what?” I ask, genuinely curious. A massage actually sounds heavenly right now. My feet are killing me.

“This your first time in our establishment?” She sighs, flipping the fan open again. I simply nod.

“We are a hand-massage parlor.” She holds up her own hand, displaying perfectly manicured, dangerous-looking nails. “An excess of fatigue and tension can make even the simplest task a terrible strain. It is our pleasure to relieve our patrons of that tension. And what better way to seek relief than through the skilled ministrations of a professional?”

She leans forward, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “So now that we understand each other, what manner of massage do you desire?”

It sounds delightful. And she’s one of the Trio. Which means she has access to Corneo—and her own reasons to keep that access on her terms.

“We’re not customers,” Cloud states flatly, crossing his arms.

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees instantly.

“Then you are…?” Madam M asks coldly.

“Hoping you can help us get an invite to an audition with Don C—” I try to tell her, but I get cut short.

“Oh, for the love of—Say another word and I’ll shove this fan right down your throat!”

She lunges forward, pointing the closed fan right between Cloud’s eyes. She doesn’t look scared; she looks exhausted. Disappointed.

“This is the last thing I need,” she groans, pacing the room. “You’re young and stupid, and I suppose that means you think I’ll let you off easy.”

She circles us like a shark in a silk robe. “So, you want what? A favor? We’ll, here’s the thing… This is a massage parlor—a respectable establishment. But if you don’t require our services… Then tell me! Is there any reason I shouldn’t have you thrown out and your names circulated to every door in Wall Market as time-wasters?”

Money. The universal language of Wall Market. I prepare to speak, but her anger vanishes the moment her eyes land on Cloud’s face.

She reaches out, poking his cheek with the fan. “Hm. Name?”

Cloud flinches, actually looking unsettled. “…Cloud Strife.”

She grabs his jaw, tilting his head this way and that. “Hand.”

“Huh?” he asks. It’s that sound again—that confused little kweh buried in his throat. Does Cloud even know how much like a Chocobo he sounds at times?

“Give it to me!” Madam M demands.

Cloud reluctantly peels off his gauntlet and offers his hand. She takes it, her thumb digging into his palm, testing the muscle, the bone. The mood shifts from hostile to… appraisal.

“The strong, firm hands of a fighter… yet they possess a certain elegance and grace,” she murmurs. She drops his hand and steps back, a glimmer of interest in her eyes. “Okay, Cloud. Let’s see what you’re made of. After that… we’ll talk.”

She gestures to the menu on the wall. “So. Which course will it be?”

Cloud looks at the prices like she just asked him to buy the Sector 7. He opens his mouth, probably to ask for the cheap one, or to say we don’t have the money.

I don’t hesitate. I reach into the hidden pocket of my dress and pull out a crisp, neat stack of 100 and 500 Gil notes. I count them out with practiced ease—slap, slap, slap—onto the counter.

Cloud’s eyes widen. Madam M stops mid-fan-wave, blinking at the cash.

“The Luxury Course,” I announce, smoothing the pile. “We don’t do things by halves.”

Take the money, Madam. I didn’t sell flowers for years just to haggle when Tifa’s safety is on the line. Besides, look at him. He’s tense as a bowstring. Maybe this will… loosen him up. Or traumatize him. Either works.

M looks from the money to me, a newfound respect—or at least, interest—in her gaze. She sweeps the Gil into a drawer.

“So, the luxury one then. Make your way to the room in the back… and wait.”

Cloud hesitates, looking at the dark hallway like it’s the entrance to a lion’s den. He might actually prefer that.

“Cloud…” I urge gently, giving him a little push.

He goes.

“This exclusive treatment is reserved for our most well-to-do patrons…” Madam M says, her voice drifting back as she follows him, sliding the door shut behind her.

I sit on the waiting bench, swinging my legs. The incense burns quietly.

Then, it begins.

From the back room, a sound erupts. It starts as a low groan, then spikes into a sharp, strangled yelp.

“Nngh! Ahhh! GAH!”

It sounds… painful? Or maybe intensely relieving? Or maybe like he’s being disassembled and put back together?

“W-wait! Not there! AHHH!”

I stifle a giggle behind my hand. With a little imagination, the sounds coming from back there could be absolutely anything but a hand massage.

Hang in there, Bodyguard. If you can survive the fall from plate, you can survive a manicure. Though judging by that last scream, I think she might be bending his fingers backward.

I hear the sliding door click open. Madam M’s voice drifts out, smooth and satisfied, like a cat that just finished a bowl of cream.

“If that was to your liking, do come again.”

“Right,” Cloud grunts, his voice sounding a little strangled.

They emerge back into the main room. Cloud looks… dazed. His usually stiff posture is oddly loose, and his eyes are slightly out of focus. He walks past me like he’s floating.

“How was it?” I ask, standing up.

“Huh?” Here it is again. That vacant stare. Sometimes I wonder if he really is just a Chocobo trying to play mercenary.

“You okay?” I wave a hand in front of his face.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, leaning heavily against the wall as if gravity just changed direction.

“You’re acting weird, Cloud.” I ask him. He clearly is not his usual self.

“I am?” He asks with voice devoid of emotion. Even more void than his usual.

“Really weird.” I continue.

Madam M glides over to us, fanning herself. “Think you’ll make a habit of it?”

The question hangs in the air, met only by the soft swish-swish of her fan. Cloud is entirely lost for words.

I doubt it. Not with how mister mercenary handles his money. Unless you start accepting heroic deeds as currency.

“All right then,” Madam M says, snapping her fan shut with a decisive crack. “I think I’ve seen everything I need to see.”

The Proposition

The atmosphere shifts. The playful torture is over; now it’s business.

“So…” I start, straightening up.

“Tell me what you want and we’ll take it from there,” she says, leaning against the counter.

I take a deep breath. “You’re one of the Trio, right? I want to get into Corneo’s next audition.”

“And why in the world would you want to do that?” she asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

To save the woman I’ve been dreaming about for days. To stop your disgusting boss from laying a hand on her.

But I can’t say that.

I open my mouth to invent a lie, but she just hums, cutting me off.

“Hmmm… Okay.”

Just like that? Did she read my mind? Or does she just like the chaos I’m bringing to her doorstep?

“Really!?” I am surprised at how quickly she changes her mind.

“But,” she adds, pointing her fan at my chest, “you cannot go dressed like that.”

I look down at my pink dress.

What’s wrong with it?

“I could never send Corneo a candidate wearing such a plain-looking getup,” she continues, wrinkling her nose. “Doing so would call my position as one of the Trio into question.”

Finally. The opening I needed.

“So… what should I do about the outfit?”

“You just leave that to me,” she declares, a predatory gleam in her eye. “I’ll put you in a dress so fabulous, you’ll look like a million Gil. So long as you can afford it.”

“How much?” Cloud asks, finally recovering from his hand-induced coma.

“What I said. A million Gil.” Madam M calmly replies.

I choke a little on my own spit.

A million? I could buy a house on top of the plate for that.

“But don’t worry,” she waves a dismissive hand. “It’s obvious you can’t afford a dress with that kind of price tag. So listen. I have an idea.”

She leans in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s an underground colosseum in this town. Up for a fight, Cloud? Good, because I’m getting you into that arena.”

I suppress a groan.

Fighting. Again. Why is the answer to every problem in Midgar hit it with a sword?

“If you win the tournament, I’ll transform Aeris into a drop-dead gorgeous beauty,” she promises.

“There any prize money?” Cloud asks instantly. Mercenary to the bone.

“Yes—for the person who got you in,” she says with a smirk. “So? What do you say?”

Cloud looks at me, then at the entry form she’s holding out. “All right.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Madam M purrs. “You’ll need this.”

She hands him the parchment. It’s heavy, stamped with the mark of the Corneo Colosseum.

We step back out into the harsh midday sun of Wall Market. The noise hits us immediately.

“So,” I say, falling into step beside him. “You’re going to fight for my honor. Or at least, for my wardrobe.”

Cloud looks at the form. “It’s faster than earning a million Gil.”

“True,” I admit. “But Cloud… this dress is for me. What about you?”

He stops. “What about me?”

I stop too, turning to face him. The plan—the real plan—is still ticking away in my head. Madam M is dressing me. But we need two invites. And Tifa… Tifa is expecting a hero, not just a sidekick in a nice dress.

“Never mind,” I say with a grin. “Let’s win this fight first. Then we’ll worry about the rest.”

The Beehive

The midday sun is harsh, but the neon sign of the Honeybee Inn buzzes with a hypnotic, inviting hum. It’s a hive of yellow and black, promising sweetness in a city of rot.

I grab Cloud’s arm before he can march toward the Colosseum. “Wait. One last stop. Maybe we can avoid the fight.”

We stand before the entrance. It’s extravagant, even for Wall Market.

“This the place?” Cloud asks, looking at the buzzing bee logo with deep suspicion.

“Think so,” I reply, straightening my bow.

“Lemme handle this,” Cloud says, stepping in front of me like a shield. “You wait out here, okay?”

I blink at his back, completely thrown.

What is he thinking? Trying to walk in cool, act the tough guy, and demand an audience? And little does he know about my… preferences. He thinks this is a place for men. He has no idea.

“And why would I do that?” I scoff, stepping around him. “No. I’m coming with.”

“I’m not really sure that—” he starts, trying to block the door.

“Sure what?” I challenge. “That I can handle a few bees? Besides…” I lower my voice, leaning in. “You’re a man of many talents, Cloud, but talking isn’t one of them.”

I push past him and head through the heavy, dark red curtains.

The interior is a sensory assault. The air is thick with sweet perfume and pheromones. The lights are casting warm, honey-gold shadows over velvet couches.

There are so many people to look at. Men, women, and everything in between, all draped in silks and feathers. A dancer with impossibly long legs glides past us, catching my eye. She winks—a slow, deliberate flutter of lashes.

I feel a heat rise to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the temperature.

This place wasn’t built for someone like me. And yet…

Not now, Aeris. Concentrate. Tifa. The mission.

I bite my lip and look straight ahead at the reception desk.

“Good evening,” the receptionist purrs. He’s wearing a suit that manages to be stylish.

“Heya,” I say, flashing my best business smile.

“Welcome to the heart and soul of Wall Market—the Honeybee Inn,” he recites smoothly. “Is there a honeyboy or girl whose company you desire?”

I can feel Cloud stiffen beside me, his eyes darting around the room as if expecting an ambush.

“We’re here to see Andrea Rhodea,” Cloud states, his voice cutting through the soft music like a rusty saw.

“Ahh, the shining star of the Honeybee Inn,” the receptionist beams. “Now, are you the one who made the appointment, sir? Can I have your name?”

“Oh, we don’t have an appointment,” Cloud admits.

The receptionist’s smile doesn’t falter, but the warmth vanishes from his eyes. “I see… I am terribly sorry, sir. An appointment is required, and the earliest available slot is three years from now.”

I nearly choke on the perfumed air. “Three years!?”

“All we want is five minutes,” Cloud presses, leaning on the counter. “He can spare that.”

I am slightly angry at this point. Three years? We don’t have three hours. We are running out of options, and Tifa is in that mansion right now.

“I need his help for the Corneo audition,” I interject, slamming my hands lightly on the desk.

“Yes, well, regardless of the circumstances, you cannot meet him without an appointment,” the receptionist replies coolly.

“Is there really no other way?” I ask, letting a little desperation bleed into my voice.

The receptionist pauses, looking us over. “It is rare, but Mr. Rhodea does occasionally extend invitations to individuals who catch his eye.”

So, he wants a show. A performance. A spectacle.

“Otherwise, I’m sorry, but there really is nothing that can be done.”

“I guess that’s that then,” I sigh, deflating. “Ah well.”

The Teacher’s Secret

We step back out into the noise of the street. The rejection stings, but it also clarifies things.

“Guess the Colosseum is our only option for now,” I say, kicking a pebble. “Madam M keeps her word. If you win, I get the dress. I get in.”

But we need a second dress. We need Cloud to get in. And for that, we need Andrea Rhodea.

But in the dark alley behind the Honeybee Inn, I spot someone familiar.

I tell Cloud to wait by the vending machine. “Give me two minutes. Girl talk.”

He grunts, crossing his arms, but stays put.

I slip into the shadows of the alley. The woman turns, startled, a feathered fan clutching to her chest. She isn’t wearing the modest, sensible clothes of the Leaf House staff. She’s wearing a dazzling, sequined corset and a skirt made of midnight-blue feathers. Her makeup is heavy, dramatic, and beautiful.

“Ms. Folia?” I whisper.

Her eyes go wide beneath the false lashes. “Aeris!?”

She looks around frantically, pulling a silk wrap tighter around her shoulders. “You… you can’t be here. You can’t see me like this!”

“Relax,” I say, stepping closer with a warm smile. “Your secret is safe with me. The kids don’t need to know their teacher is the star of the Honeybee Inn.”

Folia slumps slightly, the tension leaving her frame. And that’s when it clicks. She works here. Which means she knows how Wall Market works. Which means she knows how the money moves. “It’s… it’s always been my dream. Since I was a little girl. To dance. To be on that stage.” She looks down at her heels. “I love teaching, I do. But when the music starts… I feel alive.”

“You look beautiful,” I say honestly. And she does. She looks like she owns the night.

But I don’t have time to admire the costume. I need an agent.

“Folia, I need a favor. A big one,” I say, my voice dropping to a serious whisper. “And I need you to trust me.”

“Anything, Aeris. You do so much for the House.”

I reach into the hidden pockets of my pink dress. I pull out everything. The notes from the flower sales, the coins I found scavenging, the emergency fund Elmyra doesn’t know about. It’s a heavy, thick wad of Gil. 50,000 Gil. Years of overcharging Shinra executives and saving every scrap.

I press it into her hands. Her eyes bulge.

“Aeris… this is… this is a fortune,” she stammers, looking at the money as if it might bite her.

“We’re heading to the Colosseum,” I explain quickly. “I know how it works down here. The dancers… you guys place bets for the high-rollers who don’t want to be seen at the ticket window. For the Topsiders.”

Folia nods slowly. “Yes. We act as proxies.”

“Be my proxy,” I command. “Take this. All of it.”

“And who am I betting on?” she asks, clutching the money to her chest. “One of Corneo’s champions?”

I shake my head, a fierce grin spreading across my face. “No. You’re betting on me.”

“You?” She looks at my dress, then back at the money. “Aeris, are you insane? You’re going to fight? With that much money on the line? If you lose, you lose everything!”

“If I lose,” I say, my voice turning steely, “then I’m probably dead. So I won’t have much use for money anyway, will I?”

Folia stares at me. Her jaw loosens a bit—a recognition, like she’s seen this look before and knows better than to argue with it.

“Okay,” she breathes, tucking the money into her bodice. “All on you. And the blond boy?”

“Him too. We’re a team.” I say confidently.

“I’ll place the bets as the rounds progress. The odds will be astronomical against a newcomer,” she whispers, her own excitement starting to bubble up. “If you win… you’ll break the bank.”

“That’s the plan.” I squeeze her hand. “Meet me right here after the matches. And Folia? Break a leg in there.”

She winks, the stage persona sliding back into place. “Knock ’em dead, Aeris.”

The Point of No Return

I walk back out to the street, feeling lighter. My pockets are empty, but my spirit is full. I have no safety net now. No retirement fund. It’s Tifa or bust.

Cloud is waiting exactly where I left him, staring at a can of soda like it offended him.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” I say, linking my arm through his. “Let’s go sign you up for a beatdown.”

The roar of the Colosseum reaches us before we even step through the doors. It isn’t just noise; it’s a primal, vibrating thrum of violence that shakes the dust from the ceiling pipes. Cloud walks up to the registration desk with the stride of a man who has done this a thousand times, slapping Madam M’s entry form onto the counter.

The staff member, a man with a headset and eyes that have seen too much blood, looks it over. “What’s this? You’re here to compete? You’re cutting it close. So—the two of you are a team?”

“Team? No, it’s just me—” Cloud starts, stepping forward to shield me.

I cut him short. I have a plan, and I have fifty thousand Gil riding on us, not just him. “Yes! The two of us are a team!” I declare, stepping up beside him and puffing out my chest.

Cloud looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. I know what he’s thinking—that he’s done all the fighting so far. He’s right. But today is different. “I need to get into that audition, but I won’t let anyone else fight my battles for me,” I say, poking a finger into his armored chest. “That includes you, mister.”

Cloud opens his mouth to argue—probably to cite safety regulations or SOLDIER protocols—but the staff member stamps the paper with a heavy thud.

“All right, team it is. Head to the waiting area down below.”

We follow the staff to a heavy industrial elevator. The metal grating rattles as we step inside, smelling of rust, oil, and something coppery that I really hope isn’t dried blood. The gate slams shut, and the floor drops out from under us.

“Down, down, down we go,” I murmur, my stomach doing a little flip. I clutch my hands together to stop the shaking. Cloud just stands there, staring at the passing strata of rock and metal.

“So, how deep does this thing go?” I ask, trying to fill the silence. “Hey, you’re not nervous, are you?”

“Nope,” he replies, cool as ice.

Well, I am.

My hands are shaking and I can’t make them stop.

Fifty thousand Gil on a flower girl with no weapon and no plan. Tifa in that mansion waiting. The crowd up there already screaming for blood. What exactly did I think was going to happen when I said “bet on me”?

I know what I can do. I know what I’m capable of. But knowing it and standing in a rattling cage descending into an arena are two very different things.

“Really?” I press, leaning forward to look at his face. “You’re even more quiet than usual.”

“Just trying to focus,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. “Like you should.”

“Fine…” I huff, leaning back against the rattling cage.

The elevator shudders to a halt. The doors groan open, and the noise is deafening. We step out into a hallway that vibrates with the stomping of thousands of feet above us.

“Hey, lovebirds! Over here!” a staff member shouts, waving us toward a holding room.

Lovebirds. Why does everyone keep calling us that? Is it the dress? Is it the way he looms over me like a brooding gargoyle? Or is it something about me—the way I orbit people, the way I pull them in without meaning to? The Lifestream flows through everything. Maybe it shows.

I think about what that word might feel like aimed at someone else. Someday. If she looks back.

The Warning

Before we can correct him, the massive doors slide open. The noise hits like a physical wall—thousands of feet stomping, a roar that doesn’t sound entirely human.

Two announcers in flashy suits stand in the center of the arena, screaming into microphones about blood and brutality. The words blur together until two cut through clearly: “Tonight’s grand prize is no less than one million Gil!” and the name of the event—the Corneo Cup. Of course it is. Everything in this district leads back to that pig.

What lands underneath the words is the crowd’s hunger. This isn’t a tournament. It’s a feeding frenzy.

“Until they vomit blood!” one of them screams.

I swallow hard. I look at Cloud. He’s watching with mild boredom.

“Wow,” I whisper, the reality settling in like a stone in my gut. “This place is really something.”

“You two—wait here until it’s time,” the staff member grunts, shoving us toward a side room.

Inside the waiting room, the vibe is grim—concrete walls, a few benches, and the smell of stale sweat. There is a familiar face inside, slumped on a bench. But his spiky red hair is drooping, and his face is a map of bruises.

“Oh… You again,” Johnny groans, holding an ice pack to his jaw.

“Ouch! What happened to your face?” I ask, wincing.

“I just needed a little scratch, you know? So I signed up for the preliminaries, and well…” He gestures vaguely to his entire broken existence. “I hope you guys realize what you’re getting into. I don’t wanna scare you but if you can make a run for it, you should.”

“Cloud and Aeris,” the loudspeaker crackles. “Your match will begin shortly. Please make your way to the gate.”

“We’re in way too deep to back out now,” I say, smoothing down my skirt to hide the tremor in my hands. Especially since I just bet my entire life savings on us.

“Never been more scared in my entire life,” Johnny admits.

Yeah. Me too, Johnny. Me too.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a suspicious-looking bottle filled with thick, green sludge. “It’s a gift from Don Corneo. Drink it, and they say you’ll be raring to go for hours. If I had, maybe things would’ve gone differently. It’s yours if you want.”

Cloud takes the bottle. He unscrews the cap, sniffs it once, and down the hatch it goes. He doesn’t even flinch.

“How is it?” I ask, watching him wipe his mouth.

“It’s thick…” he grunts, making a face.

“But you… like it so much you couldn’t possibly share, right?” I tease.

Cloud just shakes his head, rolling his shoulders as the stimulant hits his system. His eyes flare with a sudden, intense brightness. He’s ready.

Match One: The Beastmaster

Inside the waiting room, the vibe is grim—concrete walls, benches, and the smell of stale sweat. I look around; I am unarmed. To Cloud, I am just a flower girl. To the crowd, I am fresh meat. If I summon my staff now, the secret is out, and worse—the betting odds won’t swing in my favor.

I need a prop. My eyes land on a dusty, straw-bristled broom leaning against a bucket in the corner. Perfect. I grab it, holding it awkwardly like an oversized utensil.

“Come on! Hurry it up!” the Gatekeeper barks, unlatching the heavy iron lock. “Try not to get yourselves killed.”

We step out into the blinding light. The heat of the sand radiates through the soles of my boots.

The announcers waste no time. “A young couple—on their first date and their first tournament!” The crowd’s reaction is immediate and vicious. Booing, thrown cups, someone screaming about the broom.

Couple. Again. I file the irritation away for later.

“Gonna sweep for us, baby girl?”

Okay. Now I’m mad. Which helps, actually. Anger is easier to stand in than fear.

Gonna sweep for you? Oh, I’ll sweep your wallet clean once the odds skyrocket. Just you wait. But for now… play the part. Be the terrified little girl who shouldn’t be here.

It’s not entirely an act.

I shrink back, clutching the broom to my chest and widening my eyes. Cloud glances at me, then at the broom, and lets out a sigh so heavy it could crack the plate above us.

“Their opponent—a renowned master of beasts!” Kotch shrieks. “Will his pets make a meal of our challengers!?”

The opposing gate grinds open. A staff member bursts out, sprinting for his life, face pale with terror. “No, please!” he screams, stumbling face-first into the sand.

“Feast!” a deep voice commands.

Two massive hounds surge from the darkness. Just as they reach the fallen man, a sharp whistle cuts the air. They stop instantly, trotting back obediently to a hulking man covered in furs and scars.

“You brought animals?” I squeak, pitching my voice to sound trembling and naive.

“There’s no rule that says you gotta fight man-to-man,” the Beastmaster grins, showing yellow teeth.

The bell clangs.

The hounds launch. Cloud intercepts immediately—a blur of motion, his Buster Sword meeting the first hound mid-air with a sickening crunch. But the second hound bypasses him, locking its glowing red eyes on me.

I scream—and it’s not entirely performance. The thing is enormous up close, all muscle and teeth and hunger. I scramble backward, genuinely losing my footing in the sand, and fall hard. “Get away! Shoo!” I yell, waving the broom frantically. The dog snaps at the straw bristles, close enough that I feel the heat of its breath.

“Cloud!” I wail.

Cloud grunts, finishing off the first dog with a brutal downward thrust. He vaults across the arena.

Slash.

The second dog goes silent, collapsing into the sand.

Now it’s just the Beastmaster. I scramble to my feet, running in a chaotic circle. “I’m helping! I’m helping!” I shout, sprinting straight toward him. As he winds up a whip-strike, I “accidentally” lose my grip on the broom. It flies through the air and bonks him squarely on the forehead.

“What the—”

That second of confusion is all Cloud needs. He closes the distance, driving the pommel of his sword into the man’s gut, then follows up with a roundhouse kick that sends the Beastmaster flying into the wall. He doesn’t get up.

The stadium goes silent for a heartbeat.

“UNBELIEVABLE!” Kotch screams. “Against all odds! The broom was mightier than the beast!”

“It was pure luck!” Scotch argues. “She dropped her weapon! She fell down! But the bodyguard… my god, look at him!”

Cloud stands over the unconscious Beastmaster, breathing heavily. He looks back at me. I’m retrieving my broom from the sand, taking slightly longer than necessary to brush the grit from my dress.

Our eyes meet. I give him a small, innocent shrug.

“You okay?” he asks, sheathing his sword.

“That was terrifying!” I gasp, clutching the broom like a lifeline. “Did you see that dog? It tried to eat my broom!”

Cloud shakes his head, turning to walk toward the exit. “Stay close next time.”

“And the winners of our match are… Cloud and Aeris!” Kotch’s voice booms, though it sounds like he’s disappointed we didn’t die.

We walk back through the gate. My hands are gripping the broom handle so tight my knuckles are white. The trembling starts in my knees and works its way up. When that hound snapped its jaws inches from my face, I felt the cold breath of something I don’t want to name.

“You’ve got some time before your next match. Get some rest,” the staff member grunts as we pass him.

Inside the waiting room, the adrenaline fades, leaving behind a shaky exhaustion. I take a deep breath, forcing the corners of my mouth up.

“Well that’s one win down. Go team!” I cheer, though my voice is a little thin.

Cloud doesn’t smile. He’s staring at the floor, his brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

“The rules don’t make sense,” he mutters. “Beasts against humans? No regulations on weapons? It’s sloppy.”

“Yeah, true,” I admit, leaning back against the cold concrete wall. “But maybe it’ll be better in the next match?”

“Nah, wouldn’t bet on it,” Cloud says, closing his eyes and crossing his arms. “Better to expect the worst.”

Cloud drifts into that soldier’s half-nap—alert, but conserving every ounce of energy.

Expect the worst. Easy for you to say, Mr. First Class. You were built for this. Me? I’m a girl in a pink dress holding a broom, shaking in a concrete box under Wall Market.

I think about Tifa. If she were here, she wouldn’t be shaking. She’s a legend. A warrior. Then again—she’s also sitting in a dungeon right now. So maybe legends shake too, just quietly.

Hold on. I’m coming.

I hold the thought, not quite knowing why.

The door bangs open. Two medics drag the Beastmaster in and dump him on the opposite bench. “Well that was some bullshit,” he spits, glaring at me. “Tripped over a damn broom. Pure luck.”

I offer him a small, shaky wave. “Better luck next time?”

Good. He thinks it was luck. The cameras saw a clumsy girl. The odds for the next match must be tanking right now. Every last Gil on the dead weight, Folia. I trust you know that.

Match Two: The Grudge

“Cloud and Aeris,” the announcer’s voice cuts through the static. “Your match will begin shortly. Please make your way to the gate.”

Cloud’s eyes snap open, the blue Mako-glow flaring. He stands without a word.

I grab my broom. “Here we go again.”

The Gatekeeper unlocks the heavy iron door, giving us a look that says he’s already betting on our funerals. “That’s what they call beginner’s luck,” he sneers. “But the next match won’t be so easy. Ready to rock? Just remember: try not to die.”

“Solid advice,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the broomstick.

We step into the blinding arena lights. The crowd’s hostility is plain—they lost money on the “Dog vs. Broom” match, and they are not happy about it.

“The lucky couple!” Kotch bellows. “Fresh from their first date with death!”

“Unlucky for the rest of us!” someone screams from the stands. “You assholes cost me a fortune!”

Good. Let the hate flow right into my pocket.

“Their opponents—the most contemptible sons of bitches this side of Wall Market!” Kotch announces. “Beck’s Badasses!”

The opposing gate opens.

I blink. Really? How did they survive the preliminaries?

“Hey, it’s those guys,” I say flatly.

“Hey… It’s those guys!” Burke echoes, pointing a trembling finger at us.

“Well, hot damn!” Beck swaggers forward, adjusting his vest. “Been fixin’ to feed you two your just desserts! So open wide, ’cause we’re gonna serve up a heapin’ helpin’!”

“Hey, what do just desserts taste like?” Butch asks, scratching his head with the barrel of his gun.

“Like justice! Like payback!” Beck screams, his face turning a dangerous shade of red.

They seriously need to go back to school. Though I guess the Leaf House would be too good for them. I honestly feel bad for hitting them.

But then, the gate behind them doesn’t close. More men pour out—thugs in cheap suits with bats and knives. One, two… five more.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” I shout.

“The only rule here is that there are no rules!” Beck declares triumphantly. “If Corneo says it’s okay, then you gotta suck it up!”

The massive screen flickers to life—Don Corneo’s greasy face grinning down at us. A lazy thumbs up.

Of course.

“This is ridiculous!” I yell.

The bell rings. Eight men charge.

“Cloud!” I squeak, backing up.

“Stay back,” Cloud orders. He spins the Buster Sword, and the five hired thugs crash into him like a wave. He meets them head-on.

But there are too many. For a few seconds he’s completely surrounded, muscle and cheap steel pressing in from every angle. For a few seconds, there’s no one watching my back.

That’s when Beck moves.

He and his two lieutenants flank around the edge of the chaos, heading straight for me, and for one cold moment I understand exactly why they survived the preliminaries. They’re not stupid. They just pick their moments.

“Get the girl!” Beck shouts. “She’s defenseless!”

Defenseless. Right. Okay, Aeris. Time to act the part. Panic mode: Engage.

I scream—a high, terrified sound—and start running in a tight circle. “No! Don’t hurt me! Help!”

Beck lunges with his knife. I “trip” over a loose stone, dropping to one knee. The knife sails over my head.

Behind me, I already know where Butch is. The Lifestream doesn’t give me a map, but it gives me something—a presence, a weight in the air. The click of his gun raising just confirms it.

As I scramble to get up, I swing the broom wildly behind me without looking.

THWACK.

The handle connects solidly with Butch’s groin. He freezes, eyes crossing, and slowly tips over face-first into the sand.

“Oops! I’m sorry!” I yell, scrambling away.

Burke tries to grab me. I spin around, holding the broom out like a lance. “Stay back!” I thrust it forward, aiming for his chest, but he ducks… right into the path of Cloud, who has just finished mopping up the extra thugs.

Cloud doesn’t even look; he just backhands Burke with his gauntlet, sending him spinning into the wall.

Now it’s just Beck. He looks around at his fallen army, then at Cloud, who is cracking his knuckles. Finally, he looks at me, holding the broom like a weapon I actually know how to use.

“This… this is a miscarriage of justice!” Beck wails. “I demand a mistrial!”

“Hi-yah!” I shout, closing my eyes and swinging the broom downward with all my might.

I catch him right on the top of the head. The straw bristles explode in a cloud of dust. Beck crumbles to the ground, unconscious before he hits the sand.

I stand there, panting, surrounded by groaning men. I look at Cloud.

“I… I think I got him?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Cloud looks at the carnage, then at the broken broom in my hand. He gives a rare, tiny smirk. “You’re dangerous with that thing.”

“UN-BE-LIEVABLE!” Kotch roars. “They did it again!”

“I lost everything!” Kotch weeps.

And my savings just multiplied. Thank you, Beck. You were worth every second of annoyance.

The waiting room feels different this time. The smell of sweat is still there, but someone has placed a small vase of wildflowers on the battered wooden table. They are drooping slightly, out of place in this concrete box of violence.

“Real ones,” I murmur, touching a petal. “A rare gift.”

Wildflowers. Not mine—I’d know. Brought in from somewhere beyond the walls, probably. Only someone with reach and money could manage that in Wall Market.

My mind goes somewhere I don’t tell it to. Mountain flowers. Someone who survives without a watering can.

I pull my hand back. Not now.

“Next up: the big finale,” I say, turning to Cloud. He’s sharpening the Buster Sword with a whetstone, the rhythmic shing-shing sound filling the silence.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“I thought you’d be happier,” I tease, leaning against the table. “You love winning, don’t you?”

“Just thinking about what we might face next,” he replies, not looking up. His shoulders are tight. Something is working behind those eyes—I don’t know what exactly, but a SOLDIER who’s survived this long doesn’t get that look for nothing.

“But you know, we’ve made it this far,” I say, my voice softening. “I’m sure we can handle anything they throw at us.”

“Cloud and Aeris,” the loudspeaker crackles. “The final match will begin shortly. Please make your way to the gate.”

We stand up. As we pass the Gatekeeper, he gives us a thumbs up. “I’ve got a lotta money riding on you two. Win it for me!”

Match Three: The Grand Finale

We step out into the arena. The noise is deafening—a physical wall of sound that vibrates in my chest.

The crowd has changed. The hostility has turned into something else—feverish curiosity. They want to see if the lucky couple can do it one last time.

“Once more—the sweethearts who’ve surprised us with upset after upset!” Kotch announces. “The champions of Madam M—Cloud and Aeris!”

I wave my broken broom handle. The crowd actually cheers. They love an underdog story, especially one that makes them rich.

“And their opponents—Chocobo Sam’s champions… Cutty and Sweepy!”

The opposing gate grinds open. The ground shakes. Two massive, whirring shapes emerge—not men or beasts. Shinra heavy combat units. Their saw blades spin with a high-pitched whine that sets my teeth on edge.

“Robots!?” I shout.

“More like Shinra armor,” Cloud corrects, shifting into a combat stance.

“More like cheating!” I snap. Of course. Sam wants his champions to win, so he brings in military hardware against a guy with a sword and a girl with a stick. Fair play is dead in Wall Market.

I look at Cloud. He’s strong, but he’s tired. Two rounds of fighting, and now he has to cut through reinforced steel plating. He won’t make it alone. Not this time.

The helpless girl act has served its purpose.

The announcers are screaming something about the final match and the million Gil prize. The words blur. The bell rings.

The Cutter revs its engines and charges, saw blades screaming. Cloud intercepts, sparks flying as steel meets steel. He’s holding his own, but the Sweeper is flanking him, its machine guns spinning up.

I tighten my grip on the broom handle. “Hey! Over here, you pile of junk!”

The Sweeper rotates its turret toward me. I don’t run. I take a deep breath, feeling the Lifestream beneath the concrete and the hum of electricity in the air. I pull it toward me, quiet as breathing, and let it flow into the throw.

“Catch!”

I hurl the broom like a javelin. It sails through the air and connects with the Sweeper’s exposed joint.

CRACK!

The electricity comes with it—not visible until it’s already happening, blue and violet arcing across the chassis. The machine seizes up, shuddering violently, smoke pouring from its vents, and collapses into a heap of twitching metal.

The crowd gasps, then roars.

“What was that!?” Kotch screams. “Did she just take down a Sweeper with a… stick!?”

“Static electricity!” Scotch yells, trying to rationalize it. “A one-in-a-million shot right in the intake valve! Unbelievable!”

Cloud glances at the smoking wreckage, then at me. I give him a quick, innocent shrug. “Your turn, Bodyguard!”

Now it’s just Cloud and the Cutter. The Cutter revs its saw for a final charge, but Cloud is already moving differently—not reactive, not defensive. Hunting.

He draws the Buster Sword and charges straight at it. The first slash finds the joint where the saw arm connects. The second opens the chassis. The third goes through the core. Each strike precise, the Mako in his blood making him something beyond what a normal man could manage. The machine tries to compensate, tries to recalibrate—and runs out of time.

The Cutter splits apart in a shower of sparks and scrap metal.

Silence.

Then the arena erupts.

I don’t think. I just move. I close the distance between us in three steps and throw my arms around Cloud’s neck, laughing into his shoulder. He goes completely rigid—a man who has never been hugged in celebration—but I don’t care.

“We did it!” I shout over the roar. “We actually did it!”

The Dead Weight just broke the house.

Match Four: The Unwanted Encore

We walk back into the tunnel, chests heaving. It’s over. We won. I can practically feel the new dress in my hands. But waiting for us in the corridor isn’t a trophy; it’s Madam M, and she looks furious.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” she says, her fan tapping impatiently against her palm. “But… you still have one fight left.”

I stop dead. “What do you mean?”

“The crowd loved your show a little too much,” she explains, pacing. “People were placing hefty bets, much heftier than you can possibly imagine. Corneo’s going to milk this for as much as he can.”

Hefty bets. Yeah, I know. Folia must have dropped the hammer right before the finals—the odds on us would have been astronomical by then. My plan worked… too well. I broke the house, and now the house is locking the doors.

“Meaning what?” Cloud asks, wiping oil from his cheek.

“You face and defeat Corneo’s fighter of choice, and only then will you be declared winners,” Madam M explains.

“Hey! That wasn’t the deal!” I protest. This time, the anger is real. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I just electrocuted a robot with a broomstick.

“Don’t you think I know that!?” Madam M snaps, finally losing her cool composure. She spins around, screaming at the ceiling. “You greedy bastard! Scum-sucking piece of shit festering asshole!”

She heaves a sigh, smoothing her kimono. “But that’s the way it is. Corneo’s the one who makes the rules around here. But if you win this match, Corneo will have to accept your victory. And the crowd will make sure he does.”

“So this is the last one?” Cloud asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“I sure hope so,” M replies. She turns to me. “Go on, now. That prize money is going to pay for your dress.”

We trudge back to the gate. I really did not want to do more of this. Cloud looks like he needs a potion and a nap.

The Gatekeeper unlocks the door. He looks like a man who has just put everything he has on one last bet.

“Just… win it all, yeah? Show ’em what you got.”

“We will,” Cloud says, and walks through.

We step out into the light one last time.

The crowd noise is different. Not the angry bloodthirsty roar of the first round—adoration. They are chanting our names, stomping their feet in a rhythm that shakes dust from the rafters.

“And we shared your disappointment when we told you it was coming to an end,” Kotch bellows. “But nobody felt it more keenly than one Don Corneo—who has decided, out of the goodness of his heart, that a bonus match is in order!”

The crowd cheers. The spin is shameless. I almost admire it.

The eyes aren’t on me this time. They’re on Cloud. The screaming, the declarations of love, the marriage proposals from the front row.

They see Cloud. They love him. Good. That’s exactly what I needed.

“Their opponent—buried in the bowels of the colosseum, long imprisoned, set free tonight for your entertainment… Enter: the Hell House!”

The massive doors groan open, revealing… a cottage. A literal cottage with windows and a door.

“It’s just… a house,” I say.

“That’s no ordinary house,” Cloud warns.

The house roars. Jet engines extend from the foundation. Mechanical arms burst from the siding. The windows glow with demonic fire.

The crowd loses its mind.

The bell rings. The Hell House revs its engines and charges, launching a salvo of explosive chairs from its roof. Cloud rushes in, deflecting the furniture with swift, brutal strikes.

So, now they are throwing furniture.

Okay, now they are cheating.

I threw my broom at the Sweeper. I’m unarmed.

No. I’m not.

“No more playing,” I murmur.

I raise my hand. I don’t look for a prop. I reach for the Lifestream and my Guard Stick answers, solidifying in my grip like it was always there.

The Hell House charges, launching another salvo of chairs. Cloud deflects, I dodge, and we split—drawing its attention in two directions.

The House pivots toward me. Something changes inside it—a deep hum, and then frost begins forming on its exterior, spreading outward in crystalline patterns. The air drops several degrees.

Cold. It’s protecting itself with cold.

I look at the wooden siding. The frost-covered wood.

“Cloud, keep it busy!” I call.

I don’t hide it this time. The Lifestream comes when I call it, hot and certain. I let it build in my chest, then push it outward through the staff—not casting so much as releasing. The fire follows the arc of the swing.

The wooden siding catches instantly. The Hell House shudders, smoke billowing from its windows, the frost evaporating in a hiss of steam.

“That had to hurt!” Kotch screams. “Did she just find this house’s major design flaw!?”

The Hell House is nothing like the robots. It doesn’t charge in a straight line—it spins, unpredictable, its mechanical arms swinging wide arcs that force us to keep moving or get caught. Cloud is a whirlwind of steel beside me, finding gaps in the concrete cladding and hammering them open, but every time he makes progress the thing just rotates away and presents fresh armor.

Jet fuel sprays from somewhere in the chassis—I feel the heat before I see the flame, and I throw myself sideways as a gout of fire sweeps the sand where I was standing.

Then the front door opens.

Not to reveal anything. Just—opens. And pulls. The suction is immediate and startling, dragging loose sand and debris toward it like a hungry mouth.

“Move!” Cloud shouts, already bracing.

I dig my heels in and push back with the Lifestream—not a spell, just a wall of will between me and whatever that door wants.

The House shimmers. Something closes around it—I feel it before I see it, a hardness in the Lifestream where the machine used to be open. Then it rises.

“It’s flying!” Cloud shouts.

A salvaged chair skids across the sand toward me. I grab it, swing it at the nearest mechanical arm—it shatters uselessly. Right. Not a broom.

“Not for long,” I grit my teeth.

I can’t feel the machine through the Lifestream—it’s just metal and fuel and hate. But I can feel the air around it. The pressure the engines are pushing against, the currents they’re fighting to stay aloft.

I push more air at them. A lot more, with everything I have left.

“Get… DOWN!”

The engines sputter and die.

“They’re bringing that high-flying house back down to earth!” Kotch roars.

The house plummets, crashing into the sand with an earth-shattering BOOM. It’s stunned, its windows flickering.

“The crowd is going absolutely wild, and I don’t blame them!” Kotch yells. “Are we witnessing the final moments of the wicked Hell House!?”

Cloud sees the opening. He doesn’t hesitate. He leaps into the air, the Buster Sword glowing with blue fire. He comes down like a meteor, driving the blade straight through the roof and into the mechanical heart of the beast.

The Hell House shudders once, twice… and then explodes in a massive fireball of wood, concrete, and machinery.

Silence. Then, the crowd erupts.

“We did it!” I shout. The staff dissolves back into nothing as I raise my hands—there one moment, gone the next, like it was never there at all. The adrenaline is still buzzing in my fingertips—magic or fight-rush or both, it hardly matters.

“And the winners—” Kotch screeches, his voice finally giving out.

“And champions—” Scotch rasps.

“Cloud and Aeris!”

The crowd roars one last time, a deafening wave of approval following us as we step off the sand. Cloud sheathes his sword, his chest heaving. He looks less like a champion and more like a man who just wants twelve hours of sleep.

We walk through the cool corridor back to the waiting room. The staff has been busy; on the battered wooden table, a massive flower arrangement waits for us. I run my fingers over the petals—lilies, roses, and some neon synthetic blooms.

“Real and fake,” I murmur, smiling. “Just like Wall Market. But it looks nice.”

We survived. Now comes the best part. Collecting the winnings. And I have a dress to collect. I have a legend to meet. And I have a very stubborn bodyguard to shove into a corset.

The Gatekeeper approaches us with a grin that splits his face.

“There you are,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve been looking for you two. So Madam M wanted me to give you a message. She says you guys did pretty damn good, and that you should swing by her shop when you’re done here. Got it?”

“We got it,” Cloud replies.

“Oh, and uh…” He leans in, looking slightly stunned. “I put everything I had on you. Everything. My wife is going to either kiss me or kill me.”

I wink at him. “Happy to help. Spend it wisely.”

The Split

The ride up in the cargo elevator is just as soul-shaking as the ride down, rattling like a cage of bones. We stand in silence, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away to leave behind the aches and bruises of the fight.

As the grate slides open, we aren’t greeted by the Gatekeeper, but by a vision in yellow and black silk. One of the Honeybee Inn dancers—the one with the impossible legs—is waiting for us.

“Mr. Strife?” she asks, her voice like honey. “Mr. Rhodea saw your performance. He… adored it. He requests the pleasure of the Champion’s company immediately.”

Cloud blinks, clearly confused. “Me?”

“Yes. Just you.” She glances at me with a polite, dismissive smile. “The lady has her own appointment with Madam M, I presume?”

“That she does,” I chirp, hiding a victorious grin.

Perfect. I don’t even have to convince him.

We walk out through the cheering crowds, slipping away before the crowd can swarm us. We reach the front of the Honeybee Inn. The neon bees buzz aggressively in the daylight.

“Well,” I say, patting Cloud on the shoulder. “Looks like you have a date with destiny. Or at least, with a very enthusiastic dancer.”

“I don’t like this,” Cloud grumbles, looking at the velvet curtains.

“Just go,” I urge him. “If we’re both getting into that audition, we need his approval. And Andrea’s approval usually comes with a certain… aesthetic.”

Cloud stares at the buzzing neon sign, his jaw tightening as the reality of what the Honeybee Inn specializes in finally seems to click in his First-Class brain. He lets out a low, deeply resigned sound from the back of his throat—a perfect, miserable kweh.

“I’ll meet you…. well, you’ll know where,” I add, giving him a gentle push toward the door. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

He gives a single, stiff nod and steps through the velvet curtains, looking exactly like a man walking to his own execution.

Let the boys do their things. I have my own plans.

Good luck, Chocobo-head. You’re going to need it.

The Jackpot

I circle around to the dark alley behind the Honeybee Inn. The noises from the street almost vanish.

Folia is there, pacing back and forth, clutching a discreet leather satchel to her chest. She looks like she’s about to hyperventilate.

“Aeris…” she whispers, her eyes wide. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”

She opens the bag.

I stare.

It’s not coins. It’s stacks of crisp, new 10,000 Gil notes. The kind with the Shinra logo still shiny on the watermark.

1,000,000 Gil.

“The payout,” Folia stammers. “The odds were astronomical. And because it was a ‘Bonus Match’ decreed by the Don… the house had to cover the spread. Corneo must have cried blood signing off on this.”

I run my thumb over the notes. It feels surreal. This is blood money, extracted from the worst man in the slums, and now… it’s going to do some good.

I start counting, my hands moving fast.

“Here,” I say, handing a stack to Folia. “20,000 Gil. For you. Buy the shoes. Take a vacation. Do whatever you want.”

“Aeris, I can’t—” she protests.

“Take it.” I press another stack into her hand. “30,000 Gil. Can you get this to Elmyra for me? Tell her I sold… a really rare orchid. She’ll know what to do with it.”

Folia nods, tears welling up.

“And this,” I hand her a thick brick of cash. “100,000 Gil. For the Leaf House. New roof, books, food, maybe hire some extra help so you don’t have to work nights unless you want to.”

Folia sobs, hugging the money to her chest. “You’re an angel, Aeris. A real angel.”

“Go,” I smile, shooing her away. “Before someone sees us.”

The Last Gift

I still have a fortune in the bag.

I check to make sure the coast is clear, then I sneak back into the Honeybee Inn, slipping through a side entrance used by the staff. I find the reception desk. The receptionist looks up, surprised to see me without my bodyguard.

“Miss?”

I don’t say a word. I slap a stack of notes onto the marble counter. 100,000 Gil.

The receptionist’s eyes bulge.

“That blonde boy who just went in to see Andrea,” I say, leaning over the counter with a conspiratorial whisper. “I want the premium package. I want the works.”

“The… works?” he squeaks.

“I want Mr. Rhodea to use his absolute best materials. Silk, satin, whatever makes a person look like they were born to be looked at.”

The receptionist sweats, looking from the money to my serious face. “Crystal clear, Miss.”

“Good.” I slide the money toward him. “Make him shine.”

There. That leaves me with 750,000 Gil. More than enough for my own needs and… well, everything else. But that 100k? That’s an investment. If Cloud is going to face Corneo, he needs to stun the man. Literally.

I slip back out before Cloud can spot me, the satchel lighter than it was.

My feet remind me they’ve been moving since before the sun came up. My stomach agrees. But there’s one more stop before Madam M.

I stop at a general store—one of the few that sells actual supplies instead of vices.

I buy a sturdy wooden crate filled with the basics: canned stew, medical gauzes, water filters, and batteries.

I find a secluded spot and pry up the bottom lining of the crate. I take another thick stack of notes—100,000 Gil—and lay it flat against the wood, covering it back up with the cardboard liner. Nothing new in Wall Market; smuggling is the local pastime. But usually, it’s drugs or weapons being hidden, not salvation.

I pull out a marker and scrawl on the side: “Delivery to the Sector 5 Community Center.”

Then, I carry it to the “Angel’s Alcove,” a dead-end alleyway draped in shadows where the Guardian Angel of the Slums often picks up drops. I don’t see her—Mireille is too good to be seen—but I know she checks this spot.

I take a small strip of pink ribbon from my hair—just a frayed end—and tie a specific, intricate knot around the crate’s handle. It’s a signal. It’s me. It’s safe. It’s for them.

I step back, looking at the crate.

Corneo’s greed, turned into warm meals and medicine for the people he spits on. I wish I could see Mireille’s face when she finds the false bottom, but I can’t risk it. I have to trust. Trust the slums to take care of their own.

I pat the remaining bulge in my hidden pocket. 650,000 Gil. It’s still a fortune. More than enough to buy a house in Kalm, or a ticket on an airship to Wutai. More than enough to start a life… well, about anywhere.

But my life is here. For now.

I turn my back on the crate and the future, and head toward the parlor.

The Details

I step into the parlor, the cool air feeling like a blessing after the heat of the arena. Madam M is sitting on a velvet chaise, looking over a receipt that is undoubtedly for the prize money she just had to front.

She looks up, her expression caught between annoyance and appraisal.

I don’t waste time. I reach into my hidden pocket—which is becoming surprisingly versatile—and pull out a stack of notes. 50,000 Gil. I fan it out on the table next to her pipe.

Madam M stares at the money. Then she looks at me. Her eyes narrow, sharp as needles. She puts the pieces together instantly: the clumsy flower girl, the astronomical odds, the sudden display of power in the finals, and now, the cash to burn.

“You little viper,” she breathes, a slow, shark-like grin spreading across her face. “You cleaned him out. You actually broke the house.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I say with a sweet, innocent smile. “I’m just a girl who wants to look her best. The Colosseum prize covers the dress… this covers the details.”

“Details?” She picks up the stack, testing its weight. “Speak.”

“Two things,” I say, holding up fingers. “First. The sword.”

“The oversized letter opener your boy carries?”

“It’s important to him. But he can’t carry it into the audition. Don Corneo might… confiscate it.” I lean in closer. “I need assurance that if things go south—and they usually do—that sword ends up wherever we end up. Even if we get flushed out like garbage.”

Madam M taps her pipe against the ashtray. “Flushed out… You’re expecting the worst.”

“I’m expecting Corneo,” I correct.

“Fair point.” She sighs, tucking the money into her obi. “I have a contact inside the mansion. A boy with silver hair and a permanent scowl. He hates the Don almost as much as I do. He manages the… waste disposal. If your boy gets separated from his toy, I’ll send word to have it dropped at the exit. For a fee, of course.”

“Consider it paid,” I say, gesturing to the stack.

“And the second thing?” she asks, standing up and grabbing a measuring tape.

“I want the works. Hair, makeup, jewelry. I want to shine so bright Corneo goes blind.” I pause, turning around as she whips the tape around my waist. “And M? I need pockets.”

Madam M pauses. “Pockets?”

“Hidden ones. In the dress.” I tell her.

“It’s an evening gown, darling, not a cargo vest,” she scoffs, pulling the tape tight.

“I have a lot to carry,” I say, my voice firm. “Materia. Items. If I’m going into the beast’s lair, I am not going empty-handed.”

Madam M looks at me in the mirror. She sees the resolve in my eyes. She chuckles, shaking her head.

“Pockets,” she mutters, amused. “Fine. Hidden seams in the skirt folds. Reinforced silk. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

She finishes the measurements in a whirlwind of activity, shouting numbers to her assistants who scribble them down frantically.

“Alright, get out,” she commands, shooing me toward the door.

“Huh?”

“You’re in the way! True beauty takes time, and my girls need to stitch those pockets you demanded. Go kill some time. Come back in two hours. And don’t get into any more fights, or I’ll charge you double for fixing the bruises.”

She practically pushes me out the door and slams it shut. The “Closed” sign flips over.

I have two hours to kill in Wall Market. Most people would find trouble in two minutes, but I’m rich, armed with magic, and frankly, I just want to sit down.

“Two hours?” I mutter to the closed door of Madam M’s. “Fine.”

I pat my hidden pocket. 600,000 Gil. It’s a staggering amount, but trying to buy a sandwich with a 10,000 Gil note in the slums is like trying to pay with a gold bar—nobody has change, and everybody wants to rob you.

I head back to the Honeybee Inn.

The Dancing Soldier

The receptionist beams when he sees me. He definitely remembers the 100k I sent to Andrea.

“Miss!” he exclaims, bowing low. “Back so soon?”

“Just killing time,” I say, leaning on the marble counter. “And I have a small favor. Can you break a couple of these big notes? It’s hard to tip the staff when all I have are these.”

I slide two 10,000 Gil notes across the surface.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, opening the register. “We’re actually drowning in small notes from the entrance fees. This helps me with the count.”

He swaps them out for a thick stack of 100s, 500s, and 1,000s. I tuck the smaller notes into a more accessible pouch.

580,000 Gil in the main stash, plus walking-around money. Perfect.

“Your friend is about to go on stage,” the receptionist whispers, winking. “Mr. Rhodea has prepared something… special.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I grin.

I head into the main lounge and find a small table with a perfect view of the stage. A server glides over immediately—the 100k investment apparently comes with attentive service.

“What can I get you?”

“Something that’ll keep me upright for the next few hours,” I say honestly. “And a Cosmo Canyon.”

She returns with a Cosmo Canyon and a proper plate—grilled meat skewers, rice, pickled vegetables. Nothing fancy, just honest food that knows what it’s for. I eat without dignity and without apology.

The lights dim. The music starts—a thumping, infectious beat that makes the floor vibrate.

Andrea Rhodea descends from the ceiling on a hoop, looking fabulous. And then… Cloud steps out.

He looks so awkward at first, stiff as a board in his soldier uniform, surrounded by professional dancers. I stifle a giggle behind my glass.

Oh, Cloud. What have I gotten you into?

But then, something clicks. He catches the beat.

He spins. He poses. He actually… nails it?

The choreography is intense, a mix of martial arts and disco, and Cloud moves with a precision that only a SOLDIER could manage. He’s not smiling—he looks like he’s fighting for his life—but he’s hitting every mark.

“Whoo! Go Cloud!” I cheer, clapping loudly along with the crowd.

He finishes with a pose that is equal parts heroic and ridiculous. The crowd goes wild. Andrea looks delighted.

“True beauty is an expression of the heart. A thing without shame, to which notions of gender don’t apply. Don’t ever be afraid, Cloud,” Andrea tells, partly to the crowd, partly to Cloud.

I set down my glass.

Andrea Rhodea—famous, respected, beloved by this entire room—standing on that stage as exactly who he is. No apology. No hiding. Just himself, and the world—or at least this room—loving him for it.

I have been the weird one my whole life. The girl who talks to the Planet. The girl who grows flowers in the dark. I learned early that different wasn’t something I could fix, so I stopped trying. But lonely—lonely I never stopped feeling.

And now there is Tifa.

I don’t even know what to call it. The fairy tales have a word for it, but I’ve read those stories and this doesn’t feel like them. It feels larger and stranger and less certain. I saw her face for three seconds through a carriage door and I’ve been moving toward her ever since without quite knowing why.

Is that love? Is it something the Lifestream is doing? Is it just… her?

I don’t know. But watching Andrea up there, shameless and radiant—

I don’t think I care what anyone thinks. I just want to find out.

The lights shift. The screens descend. It’s time for the transformation.

I check the clock on the wall.

“Time to go,” I whisper. I leave a generous tip on the table and slip out the back way. The show was great, but I have my own transformation to attend to.

The Lady in Red

I return to Madam M’s parlor. The door is unlocked this time.

“You’re late,” she barks from the back, though I’m technically early. “Get in here!”

The next hour is a blur of silk, hairspray, and Madam M muttering about “accentuating the positive.”

I sit in the chair and let M’s hands work. The silk, the pins, the careful architecture of hair and makeup—I barely feel any of it.

My mind is somewhere else entirely.

She’s in there right now. Behind those walls, in that mansion, waiting for whatever Corneo has planned. Does she know help is coming? Does she feel anything at all, or is she just waiting alone?

I close my eyes while M works on my hair.

I don’t mean to do what I do next. I don’t even know I’m doing it. I just… reach. Through the Lifestream, through the walls, through everything between us. Not words. Not a message. Just a feeling, pushed outward with everything I have.

Hold on. I’m coming.

Whether it arrives, I can’t know. But I send it anyway.

Finally, M steps back.

“Turn,” she commands.

I turn toward the full-length mirror.

The dress is deep crimson—the kind of red that doesn’t ask permission.

A plunging V at the front, mirrored at the back, the fitted bodice pulling everything into a silhouette that shouldn’t be possible and somehow is. Layered ruffles cascade down the skirt, moving with every breath, a high slit along one side that adds something between drama and danger. And at the lower back—a large structured bow, the thing that should make it look playful but instead makes it look like a statement.

M’s assistants have pinned red flowers into my hair. Star-shaped earrings catch the light. A matching necklace. Silver heels that add three inches I don’t need and will absolutely regret by midnight.

I look at myself in the mirror.

It defies gravity. It defies logic. It defies everything Sector 5 ever told me I was.

And best of all? I slide my hands into the folds of the skirt. Pockets. Deep, silk-lined, invisible. M kept her word.

“Well?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“It’s perfect,” I say. And mean it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just make sure Corneo remembers the name.” She pushes me toward the door. “Now get out.”

I step out into the evening air of Wall Market.

The first three steps are negotiation. The heels are silver and beautiful and completely unforgiving, and I haven’t worn anything like them in my life. By the fourth step something clicks—weight distribution, the way the skirt moves with me rather than against me. By the sixth I’m walking like I was born to it.

The lights are blazing now. The city is alive.

Then I see him.

Johnny.

He’s standing there, fidgeting, looking like he’s about to bolt. When he sees me, his jaw practically unhinges. He stares, blinks, and then stares some more, completely stunned by the transformation.

“Aeris?” he squeaks.

After a moment of rebooting his brain, he makes a sound that might be words and gestures frantically for me to follow. I eye him suspiciously. He’s clutching a lumpy red roll under his arm.

If he tries anything fancy, he’s going to find out exactly how much Cetra magic fits into a red clutch. But he looks harmless. Desperate, even.

“Lead the way, Johnny,” I say, smoothing my skirt.

The Budget Premiere

He takes me up the slope toward the mansion. He’s surprisingly effective, shouting at tourists and locals, pushing people aside to clear a path.

“Move it! C’mon people, move!”

As we near the top of the hill, the atmosphere changes. It feels like a stage. The streetlights act as spotlights. Johnny stops me just before the small bridge.

“After Andrea told me the plan, I ran all over looking for… something,” he pants, breathless. “But, like, I don’t got a lotta money…”

He scrambles forward and unfurls the roll. It’s a strip of red carpet. Thin, cheap, frayed at the edges—Planet knows where he found it—but he kicks it out with such fanfare that I can’t help but smile.

“For the lady,” he bows.

I step onto the carpet. It barely covers the cobblestones, but I walk it like it’s the finest velvet. Camera flashes pop in the crowd. People are whispering, pointing.

And then, at the end of the bridge, I see her.

Him.

Cloud.

I stop in the middle of the red wooden bridge, letting the moment hang in the air.

He is wearing a dark blue dress with a shining corset that cinches his waist terrifyingly tight. The skirt is a cascade of ruffles in the Gothic Lolita style, dark and mysterious. He’s wearing a blonde wig styled into twin braids with dark ribbons.

It’s ridiculous. It’s beautiful. It’s… Cloud.

Those Mako-blue eyes glare out from under the bangs, the only thing that remains of the SOLDIER.

“Heya,” I say, tilting my head.

“That’s really…” Cloud starts, looking me up and down, searching for the flower girl in the glamorous woman standing before him.

“Yeah,” I interrupt, gesturing to my own outfit. “Corneo’s got certain… tastes. This dress is so gaudy and impossible to move in…”

“Y-yeah…” he mutters, shifting his weight. He looks like he’s in physical pain from the corset.

Welcome to my world, Bodyguard. High heels and breathing restrictions. Let’s see how you handle combat in those.

We walk side-by-side toward the mansion gate. Johnny stays behind at the bridge, holding back the curious onlookers like a one-man security detail.

“Stay strong, Tifa! They’re coming!” he yells into the night.

We enter the courtyard. The silence is heavy here. Standing by the massive double doors is a young man with silver hair and a permanent scowl. Leslie. Madam M’s contact.

He looks at me. He looks at Cloud. His eyes widen just a fraction.

“No way,” he breathes.

I step forward, radiating confidence. “Here you are—letters from Andrea Rhodea and Madam M. That ought to do the trick, right?”

I hand him the envelopes. He checks the wax seals.

“You serious?” he asks, looking up at us.

“Is there a problem?” I challenge, placing a hand on my hip.

“I hope you know what you’re in for,” he warns, his voice low. He glances at the mansion behind him with pure loathing.

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” I say breezily.

“If you say so,” Leslie sighs, shaking his head. “Come on.”

He pushes the heavy doors open. The smell of cheap perfume and stale cigar smoke hits us immediately. We step inside.

The Pigs

The heavy doors shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the market. The silence in the foyer is thick, broken only by the leering grins of the two lackeys standing guard.

“The two of you here for the audition?” one asks, looking us up and down with zero subtlety.

“Second floor, at the very end of the walk,” the other instructs, pointing a thumb toward the grand staircase. “And don’t go pokin’ your nose in where it doesn’t belong!”

We start moving, the red carpet beneath my heels feeling more like a tongue than a rug.

“That one’s Madam M’s girl, ain’t it?” I hear the first lackey whisper loudly. “Man, she’s hot.”

Ugh, pigs. I keep my chin up, staring straight ahead. I just hope Tifa finds this… well, if not hot in the way these creeps mean it, at least impressive.

As we ascend the stairs, the second lackey chimes in, eyeing Cloud’s corset. “That Andrea’s girl? I’d let her do things to me.”

Cloud stiffens. I nudge him with my elbow, whispering, “Don’t kill them yet. Eyes on the prize.”

We reach the door at the end of the hallway. It looks like a waiting area, perhaps? We step inside. It’s small, cluttered—more like a storage room for discarded luxury than a parlor.

Click.

The door locks behind us with a heavy mechanical thud.

Almost immediately, a hissing sound fills the air.

“What’s that weird, sweet smell?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. It smells like rot covered in cheap perfume.

“And why do I feel so dizzy?” My hand goes to my temple. The room tilts.

“Gas.” Cloud’s voice sounds distant.

He lunges for the door, rattling the handle. “Dammit.”

I try to hold my breath, but the gas is heavy. It clings to my skin, my clothes.

“Cloud…” I gasp, sliding down the wall.

The door opens. Through the haze, I see figures entering. They’re wearing gas masks that make them look like insects.

“Hey there, ladies,” one of the thugs croons through his mask, voice thick and mocking. “Feelin’ a bit floaty? Can’t have you toppin’ over. How ’bout we walk you to the parlor, let you get nice and cozy?”

“Yeah, yeah—let’s get movin’,” another one grumbles.

I try to reach for my staff, for a spell, for anything. But my limbs feel like lead. I wasn’t prepared for this. I thought we’d fight guards, not chemistry.

“Where… are you… taking us?” I manage to slur.

“Easy now. Up you go…” the first one says, grabbing for Cloud.

Cloud tries to shove him off, but he’s barely upright. They haul him between them, rough and clumsy.

“Hey! Watch it, dumbass!” the second one snaps.

“The hell’s your problem?” the first one barks, swinging a fist.

“They’re Corneo’s picks, genius. You leave a bruise on ’em, you’ll be lucky if he only takes a finger.”

“Tch. I know, I know.”

“Still,” the second one adds with a sleazy chuckle, “gotta admit—we scored some real lookers this time. Know what I’m sayin’?”

As my vision fades to black, one thought floats through the fog.

The world is full of Corneos and his lackeys. Has always been. Maybe that’s why she feels like destiny—Tifa. A woman who stands against this. Who fights back. If the air is always going to smell like this…

I just need to find the one person who makes it clean again.

Darkness takes me.

The Legend

I blink my eyes open. The world is swimming in a nauseating blur of grey stone and flickering fluorescent light.

Someone is hovering over Cloud. Long dark hair. From the way she’s looking at him, she clearly has no idea who the blonde woman in the ruffled dress is.

“Hey, can you hear me?” she asks softly, shaking his shoulder.

“Tifa!?” Cloud gasps, sitting up too fast.

“Yes…?” She pulls back, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“You okay?”

“…Mm-hmm,” Tifa hums a reply, still not recognizing.

“Good.”

Then her expression changes. She looks at the jawline. The eyes.

“Wait a minute.” She gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. “Cloud!? Is that you!? Oh my god, that makeup! And that dress!”

“Nailed it, I know,” Cloud grumbles, smoothing his ruffles with a dignity that shouldn’t be possible in a corset. “Thank you. Moving on.”

He spots me stirring on the floor nearby and scrambles over, his heels clicking on the stone.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie, rubbing my temple. “Bit woozy, but I’ll manage.”

I force myself to sit up. The world sways.

She’s right there. Three feet away. And I can’t quite—my eyes won’t focus properly, the gas still heavy in my head. I get impressions more than details. Dark hair. The way she moves—careful, efficient, already assessing the room. The warmth of her voice when she spoke to Cloud.

I’m scared. Of Corneo above us and the locked door and the mission that still has to happen. Of the feelings pressing against my ribs that I have no space for right now.

And of her. Of looking up and finding that she doesn’t look back.

This is not how I imagined this.

I force myself to stand.

“Hey, Tifa,” I say, offering a weak smile. “How you doing?”

“Okay…” she answers, looking at me with wide, puzzled crimson eyes.

Right, she doesn’t know me. To her, I’m just a stranger in a fabulous red dress who happens to be in a torture chamber with her childhood friend.

“Oh right—I’m Aeris,” I say, extending a hand. “A friend of Cloud’s. We were worried and thought we’d come help you out?”

“Thanks…?” She takes my hand. Her grip is firm, a fighter’s hand.

Warm. She’s warm.

She looks from me to Cloud, then back again, taking in the ruffles and the makeup and the red dress.

Cloud cuts the reunion short. “Cut the chatter. We gotta leave.”

“Huh?” Tifa’s brow creases.

“Right now.” He starts toward the heavy iron door.

“No!” Tifa steps in his path. “Not until I’ve got what I came for.”

Cloud stops. “What?”

“So… once we got back to the slums, a bunch of guys started poking around, asking all sorts of questions. It felt off, so I did a little digging…” She folds her arms, her expression tightening.

“And they turned out to be Corneo’s people,” Cloud finishes.

“Yeah. They were sniffing around about Avalanche… but I couldn’t figure out what they wanted. So I figured I’d go straight to the source.” Tifa lays out her reasoning.

“Seriously?” Cloud’s disbelief is obvious.

“I thought if I could get inside and get a moment alone with him… maybe I’d learn something. But then I found out he picks three candidates. And if he doesn’t choose me… the whole thing would fall apart,” she finishes.

I step forward, the pieces clicking into place.

“Then your worries are over, aren’t they?” I say, gesturing between the three of us. “Because the other two candidates are right here. Right?”

“Right…” Cloud nods slowly.

“So yeah! If we’re all in on it, then nothing can go wrong!” I clap my hands together.

“Uh, I guess not…” Tifa looks doubtful.

“You—me—Cloud. Makes no difference who gets chosen, does it?”

Yet, for me it does. I’d rather take the risk than let Tifa or Cloud face that creep alone. But strategically? Any of us could snap Corneo like a twig and get the information.

“I dunno, Aeris,” Tifa says, looking at me with genuine concern. “It feels wrong getting you involved in all this.”

She said my name. She’s looking at me like I’m a person who could get hurt, not a stranger in a dungeon.

It’s the smallest thing. It’s not nothing.

But Cloud cuts in before I can reply. “Don’t even bother trying to talk her out of it.”

Well, he has learned something.

“Aww! Cloud gets me!” I beam at him. “Took you long enough.”

“So what happens now?” Cloud asks, ignoring my teasing.

“I think they’ll call for us when it’s time,” Tifa says, looking around.

“This room gives me the creeps,” I whisper.

It really does. It’s not a parlor. There are stains on the floor, chains on the wall, and a vending machine humming in the corner that seems completely out of place. It looks like a break room for torturers.

Suddenly, static crackles overhead.

“Now ladies, listen up. I’m sure you’re still feeling a bit woozy, but tonight’s audition’s about to begin. Head out the door to the left and up the stairs. Come on ladies, let’s hustle.”

The heavy door unlocks with a clank.

“All right guys,” Cloud says, squaring his shoulders and adjusting his braids. “Let’s do this.”

Tifa covers her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. “Do you want to do this?”

I’m not sure if I hear it or if I just imagine it—that quiet, Chocobo-like grumble from Cloud that definitely means no.

The walk to the Don’s office is exactly what you’d expect from a man like Corneo. The long stairs open into a room that wants very badly to be impressive. Gold leaf. Velvet. The smell of cologne applied by someone who has never been told no.

The lackeys line the walls, watching us the way cats watch something they’ve already decided belongs to them.

“Okay, my beautiful ladies! Time to line up for the don!” Kotch announces, clapping his hands.

Tifa takes the lead, her posture perfect, stepping to the side. I follow, smoothing the silk of my red dress. Cloud shuffles into place at the end, looking like he wants to murder everyone in the room.

Kotch pauses in front of Cloud. He squints. “Wait. You look kinda familiar. We haven’t met before, have we?”

Something cold runs down my spine. He watched every match from the box above. If he puts it together—

He glances at me. I shake my head, widening my eyes innocently.

Nope, never seen us before. Definitely didn’t electrocute a robot few hours ago.

“Eh, whatever.” Kotch scratches his head, losing interest. “Alright! Y’all good to go? Then let’s do this thing! Introducing Wall Market’s most eligible bachelor… The one and only Don Corneo!”

The Pig King

He peeks from behind a pillar like a grotesque cherub. Don Corneo.

“Ladies!” he booms.

Ugh. Just looking at him makes my skin crawl. He’s sweating, his clothes are straining against his bulk, and his eyes are wet with greed. I already want to roast him. I can feel the heat gathering at my fingertips. I push it back down.

“Nice. Very nice! Whichever one shall I pick?” He drools.

It takes all I have to not punch him right here. He circles me and Tifa first. I can feel Tifa tense up beside me—the air beside her goes tight, coiled. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But something in the stillness of her costs her.

“Shall I pick you? Or maybe… you?” he muses, leaning uncomfortably close to my face. I force a stiff, frozen smile.

Then he moves to Cloud. He doesn’t just look. He reaches out, squeezing Cloud’s arm.

“Oh yeah! I’ve got it! I’ve got it! Today’s bride-to-be is…”

He circles back to the center, dragging out the moment.

“Today’s?” I ask, my voice sharp.

“And tomorrow’s or the day after’s—if the don takes a shine to you,” Kotch snickers.

“Pathetic,” Cloud mutters. It’s quiet, but in the silence of the room, it sounds like a gunshot.

“Huh? Hey, which one of you said that? Was it you?” Corneo spins around, marching right up to Cloud.

Cloud, you idiot.

“Ohhh, you got a mouth on you! I’m gonna enjoy breaking it in!” Corneo’s face splits into a depraved grin. “Today’s lucky lady is the big-boned girl!”

He laughs, a wet, hacking sound, and grabs Cloud’s hand. “Still playing hard to get? I can dig it. Oh yeah.”

He starts dragging Cloud toward his bedroom doors.

“The leftovers are all yours,” he throws over his shoulder to the lackeys.

“Good luck, Cloud,” I whisper in my mind.

Don’t kill him too fast. We need answers.

The Leftovers

“Hell yeah! Okay ladies, y’all coming with me,” Kotch cheers, ushering us toward a side door.

The door clicks shut, sealing us in with the smell of cheap cologne and bad intentions. Kotch steps forward, adjusting his tie like he’s about to give a keynote speech at a scumbag convention.

“Ayo, fellas, we’ve got guests!” he announces, spreading his arms wide. “And y’all got first crack at entertaining them! Courtesy of the ever-generous Don Corneo himself! Never forget, the don provides!”

“Yeah…” Scotch agrees, cracking his knuckles.

“Corneo!” the lackeys chant, like a cult of mediocrity.

“So, ladies,” Scotch sneers, stepping closer. “Ready to… get to it?”

I scan the room. Four of them. Two of us. And I am holding back more magic than any of these idiots could spell, wearing a dress that probably cost more than their combined IQ.

My mouth twists into a smile before I can stop it. Finally.

“Yeah… I guess I’m good to go whenever,” I drawl, shifting my weight. “How ’bout you, Tifa?”

Tifa exhales, shoulders squaring as fear turns into focus. “Mmm… Four guys between us. Okay. Let’s not keep Cloud waiting.”

Scotch blinks, squinting at me. “Wait… I know you… The colosseum!”

I don’t let him finish.

I snap my leg out, driving my heel into Scotch’s knee. Crunch.

He howls, buckling forward, right into Tifa’s range. She spins, all clean lines and controlled fury, and lands a kick to his temple that sends him flying into the wall.

“What the hell!?” the other lackeys shout, scrambling back.

“Get down!” Tifa calls.

I drop to a crouch instantly. Tifa uses my back as a springboard, vaulting over me to slam her boots into the chest of the brute behind me.

“Oh, you stupid— W-wait!” Kotch yelps, trying to scramble away.

I grab the edge of the carpet he’s standing on and yank. He goes down hard, flailing like a turtle on its back.

The last lackey thinks he sees an opening. He creeps up behind Tifa while she’s finishing off the brute.

Not on my watch.

A metal folding chair leans against the wall like it’s been waiting for its moment. I grab it. It’s heavy, cold, and extremely satisfying.

I swing with both hands, putting my hips into it.

CLANG!

The chair rings off the back of his head like a bell at the end of class. He drops in a heap.

Tifa turns, fists raised, sees the guy on the floor and me holding the dented chair, breathing hard.

She looks at me for a moment—really looks—like she’s recalculating something.

“Good job, Aeris!” she says, and the impressed smile she gives me is so real it knocks the air out of my chest for a second.

The Crash

It goes quiet. The only sound left is the groaning of men on the floor.

I let the chair fall. It clatters against the floorboards.

Clatter-clatter-thud.

And then the silence hits me like a wall.

It finally clicks. She’s here. Tifa Lockhart. The girl from the dreams.

And it’s just the two of us.

Will she see me? Not the flower girl. Not the act. Just… me.

A cold wave of anxiety washes the adrenaline right out of my veins.

Is this selfish? I know my path. I know the kind of hole it ends with, even if I don’t know the exact day it opens.

Why let her get close if all I’m going to leave behind is hurt?

For one stupid second I want to bolt. To slip into the noise. To be nobody.

But my body does what it always does.

“Tifa…” The name comes out wrong, like it snagged on something sharp in my throat.

I take two strides and collide with her, wrapping my arms around her waist. I bury my face against her shoulder and the tears come fast, hot, embarrassing.

Tifa freezes, hands hovering like she doesn’t know where to put them.

She barely knows me. We met today.

Then she softens.

Her arms come around me, solid and warm, and she holds on like she means it. A hand slides up to the back of my head, steadying me.

“Aeris?” she whispers, gentle, grounding. “You… okay?”

All the explanations, the warnings, the careful words I rehearse in my head, they vanish. I just cling to what’s real. Her strength. Her heartbeat. The way the world feels less jagged when she’s this close.

I am shaking. The adrenaline crash is hitting me harder than the Hell House ever did.

She smells of vanilla and gunpowder—and underneath the faint expensive perfume of the mansion that doesn’t belong on her at all, exactly like I dreamed she would.

Real.

“Aeris?” she whispers again, her voice vibrating against my ear. “It’s okay. We got them. You’re safe.”

I take a shuddering breath, filling my lungs with her scent.

Safe.

The word feels foreign, but in her arms, it feels real.

Then, the realization hits me.

I am hugging Tifa Lockhart.

The legend. The woman I crossed the city for. And I am currently sobbing into her expensive violet dress like a lost child.

Pull it together, Aeris. You didn’t come all this way to be a watering can.

I pull back, my hands lingering on her arms. I’m looking at her—really looking at her—taking in the violet dress and the strength I’ve only dreamed of.

“Aeris?” she whispers, her voice breathless. She’s staring at me with those ruby eyes, searching my face for something she can’t quite name. “You… Before you came in… I felt something.”

She hesitates, her brow furrowing as if she sounds crazy.

“It felt like rain,” she says softly. “And a garden. And… I felt someone holding my hand. Was that… was that you?”

She goes quiet for a moment, like she’s reaching for something just out of frame. “I’ve felt things before. Just never like that. Never that clear.”

I blink, the smirk faltering. I didn’t cast anything. I didn’t reach out consciously. The lily is long gone—that thread snapped the same evening I handed it to Cloud. I barely felt her through it, yet it was enough to get me here. Whatever has been passing between us since then has been something else entirely. Something I don’t have a name for.

But then I remember the Colosseum. I remember the panic at the gate. I remember sitting in Madam M’s chair, closing my eyes and wishing, with every fiber of my being, that she wasn’t scared. I remember thinking, Hold on. I’m coming.

I was haunting her.

I realize it with a jolt.

I was so desperate to reach her that I didn’t wait for the door to open.

I look down at my hands—the hands she felt before I even arrived.

“I didn’t mean to,” I admit, my voice quiet and honest. “I just… I was so worried. I kept thinking about you. I guess… I guess part of me ran ahead to make sure you were okay.”

Tifa stares at me, and then a slow, beautiful smile breaks across her face—a smile that matches the warmth I felt in the dream.

“Well,” she breathes, squeezing my arms. “You have really warm hands.”

I step back, blinking the tears from my lashes, and I let my eyes wander. I don’t try to hide it. I look at the way the violet silk hugs her waist. I look at the strength in her shoulders, the way her dark hair falls in a glossy curtain around her face. I look at her eyes—those deep, ruby-red eyes that are looking at me with such intense, genuine concern.

Corneo really is blind, I think, a sudden flash of indignation burning through the sadness. He picked the blonde in the ruffles when he had this perfection standing right in front of him? The man doesn’t deserve eyes.

A slow, mischievous smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. The mask slides back into place, but this time, it’s not for protection. It’s for fun.

“I’m okay,” I say, my voice still a little thick but steadying fast. I tilt my head, looking her up and down with a deliberate, appreciative gaze. “Better than okay, actually. I just… needed a moment to appreciate the view.”

Tifa blinks, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift. A faint blush touches her cheeks—the same blush I felt through the lily.

“The… view?” she stammers.

“You,” I clarify, stepping closer. “I mean, look at you. You’re stunning. Corneo must have lost his mind to send you away.”

Tifa looks down at her dress, then back at me, a shy smile breaking through her worry. “I… well, Cloud looked pretty good too, I guess.”

At the mention of Cloud, a crash echoes from the floor above. A shout—unmistakably the Don’s—followed by the sound of something heavy breaking.

Tifa’s head snaps toward the ceiling. “Cloud! We have to go help him!”

She starts to turn, her fighter’s instinct kicking in, but I reach out and catch her hand. Her skin is soft, but her grip is firm.

“He’s fine,” I say, squeezing her fingers. “He’s a big boy. And he’s got a sword… somewhere.”

I glance upstairs, then back at her, letting my gaze linger on her lips for just a second longer than is polite.

“Let the boys play alone a bit longer,” I whisper, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “Besides… I think you and I are just getting started.”

Tifa stares at me for a heartbeat, torn between urgency and the sudden, electric pull between us. Then, she lets out a small, breathless laugh—a sound that makes something in my chest lift like it finally found room.

“You’re… something else, Aeris,” she says, shaking her head.

“I try,” I say, flashing a grin that feels only slightly fragile. “Boring is overrated, don’t you think?”

Another crash echoes from above—this one sounding suspiciously like a heavy statue meeting a hardwood floor, followed by a high-pitched squeal that definitely belongs to the Don.

“Cloud!” Tifa gasps again, her eyes darting to the ceiling.

“Okay, okay,” I sigh. “Playtime over. Let’s go save the Princess before he breaks a nail. Or the Don’s neck.”

The hallway leading to the Don’s private quarters is quiet, suspiciously so. Just as we reach the heavy double doors, a shadow detaches itself from the wall.

Leslie.

He looks tense, his eyes darting around the corridor. He steps close, keeping his voice to a whisper.

“Madam M filled me in on the situation,” he says quickly, handing me a small key. “Don’t worry, it is handled. I’ll do what I can to clean this up. Just finish the job.”

And before I can even thank him for saving our skins, he vanishes back into the shadows.

We push through the Don’s office and straight into the bedroom behind it.

The Bad Boy

The room is a wreck. Vases are shattered, pillows are torn, and feathers are drifting through the air like snow. It seems the boys have had their… fun… chasing around the room.

“Don’t stop! Tell me what a bad boy I am!” Corneo’s voice squeals from the bed.

“You depraved bastard!” Cloud shouts, sounding genuinely out of breath from dodging the man.

“Yes! Yes, I am! Here I come, baby!”

Thud.

We enter just as Cloud delivers a sharp kick to Corneo’s stomach, sending the Don stumbling back against his gaudy headboard.

“Hey! Who the hell gave you permission to do that!?” Corneo wheezes, clutching his gut. “One of you get in here and teach this bitch some manners!”

Tifa and I exchange a look.

Our turn.

We step into the light, flanking Cloud.

“Sorry, but…” Tifa says, cracking her knuckles ominously. “Your boys had to learn some manners too.”

“What the—!?” Corneo’s eyes bulge as he realizes his backup isn’t coming.

“We’ll ask the questions,” Tifa continues, her voice hard. “Like: why’d you have men in Sector 7 asking about Avalanche?”

“Huh? Dunno what you’re talking about,” Corneo lies, sweating profusely.

“Don’t play dumb with me. Let’s try again,” Tifa steps closer, looming over him. “Why did you have men in Sector 7 asking about Avalanche? Spill the beans or…”

Cloud steps in, his face a mask of stone under the makeup. “I’ll cut ’em off.”

Corneo shrieks, covering his crotch. “Alright, alright! I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Some guy with a gun for an arm—I was paid to find him!”

“Paid by who?” Tifa demands.

“I can’t tell you that! They’d hunt me down like a dog!”

“Well you better…” Tifa warns, leaning in. “’Cause if you don’t…”

I step forward and wiggle my fingers at him with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’ll rip ’em off.”

Corneo turns pale. “It was the director of Public Security! Heidegger! It was Heidegger!”

“Shinra!?” Tifa gasps. “And what were they planning?”

“Some things are better left unsaid, ya know!?”

“See, I’m not so sure they are,” I say, dropping the smile. “Better keep talking…”

“Or I’ll smash ’em,” Tifa finishes, raising a fist.

“Heh. Alright, you got me,” Corneo squirms, letting out a nervous laugh. “I could never say no to a sexy girl. Since Avalanche blew up two reactors, Shinra’s decided they ought to stamp them out, home base and all. And I mean stamp out. By targeting the support pillar and blowing it up.”

“The pillar?” Tifa whispers, horror dawning on her face.

“Did I stutter? The plate will come crashing down!” Corneo makes an exploding motion with his hands, grinning like a maniac. “It’ll be Sector 6 all over again. I’m sure you’ve been there and seen the wreckage for yourself. So you know exactly what Sector 7’s gonna look like!”

“They wouldn’t…” Tifa breathes, shaking her head.

My stomach drops.

Sector 6. The crushed ruins. The thousands of lives snuffed out in an instant. And they want to do it again? Just to kill a few rebels?

“Come on, guys! We gotta go!” I shout, grabbing Tifa’s arm.

“Before you do!” Corneo interrupts, raising a hand.

“No,” Cloud says, turning to leave.

“Please! This won’t take long!” Corneo begs, his grin widening. “As everyone knows, villains only divulge their plans in a certain situation. But what is that situation?”

Cloud stops. He seems to know this script. “When they think they’ve already won… right?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a winner!” Corneo crows, reaching for a remote on his bedside table. “You get an all-expenses-paid trip… to the sewers!”

Click.

I glare at the pig one last time, burning his face into my memory.

The floor beneath us vanishes.

It doesn’t feel like a floor opening; it feels like the entire mansion has been violently yanked upward. The sudden weightlessness hits my chest like a physical blow. I don’t think—I just reach out blindly, my fingers catching Tifa’s arm, pulling her close as the light is swallowed by a pitch-black, rushing void.

“Hee hee hahaha! Enjoy the sights and smells!”

We fall.

Dec 14

The Fashion Disaster

The fall ends not with a splash but with a bone-jarring thud onto damp concrete. We roll, tangled together in silk and limbs, coming to rest in the dim greenish light of the sewers. I feel the Lifestream’s quiet cushion underneath the impact—just enough.

We are still holding on.

She’s above me. Her hair falls around us like a curtain, her breath warm against my skin. Her eyes—those ruby eyes—are an inch from mine.

I don’t want to let go.

If I reached up, I could…

In the fairy tales, this is where it happens. The impossible moment, the closing distance. I know exactly how small that inch is.

I don’t reach up.

Neither of us moves first.

Neither of us pulls away.

I wonder if she’s as afraid as I am. I wonder if she even knows what she’s afraid of.

Sector 7. The plate. Her home.

The reality lands harder than the fall did.

I watch it cross her face too—the moment she remembers. The ruby eyes refocus, sharpen. The curtain of dark hair shifts as she pulls back.

“We have to move,” she says.

“Yeah,” I agree.

We untangle ourselves from the silk and the moment, and the sewers smell like sewers again.

I look around the gloom. “Where is Cloud?”

Tifa spots him first—a heap of blue ruffles groaning near a pile of trash. We haul him upright. He looks miserable, the corset likely doing things to his ribs that no medical professional would endorse.

Tifa and I look at each other, then down at our own dresses. Somehow, impossibly, intact. The Lifestream has its priorities.

Cloud just glares.

Then I spot it. A rusted metal locker in the corner, looking suspiciously well-maintained compared to the rest of this dump.

I pull out the small key Leslie slipped me.

Please work.

I jam it into the lock and twist. Click.

The door swings open. Resting inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is the massive slab of steel that is the Buster Sword.

“Leslie, you beautiful, grumpy man,” I whisper.

Cloud says nothing. He just reaches past me, unwraps the oilcloth with hands that already know what they’re doing.

He grabs the hilt. And he looks… ridiculous. The contrast between the deadly, oversized sword and the frilly gothic lolita dress is absurd. He tries a test swing, but the corset restricts his torso rotation, and the heavy skirt tangles around his boots. He stumbles, barely keeping his balance.

“This is going to be a problem,” he grunts.

Tifa covers her mouth. I don’t bother.

Someone has to appreciate this properly.

“You could take the dress off,” I offer helpfully.

Cloud shoots me a look sharp enough to crack materia.

“…or not,” I add.

“We don’t have time,” Tifa says, though her eyes are bright with suppressed laughter. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”

Cloud attempts another test swing, more carefully this time, working with the restriction rather than against it. It’s not elegant. It’s not even close to elegant. But it works.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Moving.”

Then we hear it. A low, wet growl echoing from the darkness. A pair of glowing eyes appears in the muck.

The laughter dies.

Beauty and the Beast

Cloud raises the Buster Sword. The skirt tangles immediately. He kicks it aside with a grunt.

“Dammit,” I hiss, reaching for the Lifestream. My Guard Stick answers.

“You gotta be kidding me!” Tifa shouts, shifting into a fighting stance.

The beast emerges—Abzu. A horned, reptilian nightmare that smells worse than the sewer itself. It roars, shaking the stagnant water.

We were this close to a nice moment. Figures.

Cloud charges, but his usual grace is gone—heel catching on petticoat, blocking clumsily where he’d normally evade. He’s fighting the dress as much as the monster.

“Watch the hem!” I shout, pushing a wall of Lifestream energy toward him just as Abzu’s tail slams into his guard.

Tifa is a revelation. Her dress is short and slit high. She darts in, heels like daggers, fists connecting with the beast’s snout in rapid succession.

“Aeris! Now!” She backflips away from a blast of sewer water.

I channel the Lifestream. The damp air sizzles.

“Burn.”

The fireball illuminates the gloom, slamming into Abzu’s flank. The beast howls.

Tifa launches off a pipe without waiting, coming down with a devastating kick. I keep the pressure on while Cloud finally finds his footing and drives the Buster Sword down through the creature’s horn with everything he has.

Abzu shudders, shaking the water around it. It looks at the three of us—Cloud with his sword finally free of the petticoat, Tifa already repositioning, me with the Lifestream still warm in my hands.

It makes a decision.

The glowing eyes turn. The horned shape slides back into the darkness, the wet growl fading as it finds somewhere less complicated to be.

Silence returns, broken only by dripping water and Cloud breathing hard.

“Did it just… leave?” Tifa asks.

“Smarter than it looks,” I say.

Cloud lowers the Buster Sword. He doesn’t comment on the dress situation. Neither do we.

The Weight of the Plate

The dampness of the sewers seems to seep into my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the cold realization of Corneo’s words. I can feel the Lifestream humming beneath the concrete—a low, discordant vibration that matches the thrum of the Sector 7 plate overhead. It’s a giant, sleeping weight.

Tifa’s voice pulls me back. She sounds small, the fire I got used to hearing dampened, likely by the sheer impossibility of what we just heard.

“You think he was telling the truth?” she asks, her eyes searching Cloud’s, then mine. “Shinra wouldn’t drop a whole sector just to get rid of Avalanche. They wouldn’t kill… all those people.”

Cloud shifts, the wet fabric of his dress rustling—a sound that should be ridiculous but feels heavy in the silence. “I dunno,” he says, jaw tight. “Corneo’s a creep, but he’s not the type to spin a lie just for kicks. Not about something like that.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Tifa whispers, but her hands are trembling.

I look at her. I’ve heard it already—the metal screeching, the Planet’s held breath, the grief baked into the Expressway ruins. The pieces have been there for days. Corneo just named what they were building toward.

“But… if he was telling the truth…” I start, my voice steadier than I feel.

I don’t know exactly what’s coming. But I know enough.

If I tell her that, will she break? Or will I?

“…And there’s still a chance he was, isn’t there?” I continue, stepping closer to her, trying to offer a warmth I’m not sure I possess right now. “We’ll deal with that. But if he wasn’t… we can’t stay here. Right?”

Cloud nods, his face hardening into that mercenary mask I’m beginning to see through. “Right.”

He turns toward the only exit, splashing in the murk. “We move. Now.”

Tifa looks at me one last time, something in her eyes I take for a plea. I take her hand, and start walking.

I have to believe, even if I am lying to myself.

Shinra built those plates. People live on them, under them, because of them. They pay their bills, buy their electricity, keep the whole machine running from both sides. Why would you destroy what keeps you fed?

Unless the people were never the point. Unless the message matters more than everyone living in its path—above the plate and below it.

That’s not greed. That’s something colder.

“We’re not letting them do this,” I whisper quietly to the darkness.

The Long Way Round

The path splits ahead. One way leads deeper into the gloom toward a rusted gate while the other climbs.

Cloud pauses, looking back at us.

“Either of you have a feel for the layout down here?”

I let out a small laugh that echoes too loudly against the wet stone. “Cloud, I sell flowers up there. This is not my specialty.”

The lower path smells of things I don’t want to identify. The higher path ends in a metal staircase, rusted but solid.

“Higher,” I say, pointing.

I think of Tifa’s heels on wet concrete, my own skirt catching on every bolt in the muck below.

Tifa nods, looking relieved. “Good call. These shoes weren’t made for wading.”

We scramble up. Every rung groans. At the top, a heavy reinforced steel door with a Shinra keypad blocks the way.

Cloud reaches for his sword, then stops. “Shinra tech. Might trigger an alarm.”

I step up beside him to look—slip slightly—and catch myself on the keypad.

Graceful as ever…

BEEP. BLIB. BEEP.

The light turns green.

We stare at it.

“…Was that you?” Cloud asks.

I look at my hand, then at the keypad, then at the green light.

“I’m going to say yes,” I decide. “It sounds better than ‘I slipped.’”

Tifa makes a sound that might be a laugh.

The door swings open into a narrow service corridor—storage shelves, cleaning supplies, a single flickering light. Dry floor. The smell of industrial cleaner rather than whatever the sewers have been offering.

We cross it in about ten steps.

The next door isn’t locked.

Why would it be, from this side?

It opens onto a narrow walkway above a slow-moving stream of something I am choosing not to identify. The smell is immediate and comprehensive.

Tifa makes a small, pained sound.

“Don’t look down,” I advise.

“Too late,” she says.

Cloud just walks. Either SOLDIER training covers this or he’s decided not to process it. I envy him either way.

There’s a makeshift bridge ahead—planks over the stream.

Tifa stops before we reach it, looking around at the walls, the pipes, the way the tunnels meet.

“Wait.” She turns slowly. “I know this place. Sector 7 should be just on the other side of this waterway.”

Cloud looks back at where we came from. “So this is where Sector 6 ends.”

“And where Sector 7 begins,” Tifa confirms. “Once we cross we can start looking for a way to the surface.”

The Promise

We all look at the bridge.

It’s generous to call it a bridge.

Some of it sits on pontoons. Some of it appears to be resting on accumulated junk and optimism. It stretches across the stream in a way that suggests it was built by someone who needed to get across once and never expected anyone to use it again.

“Right,” Cloud says, and steps onto it.

It holds. Barely, but it holds.

Somehow—and I will never understand how—he crosses in Andrea’s heels like he’s marching on solid concrete. SOLDIER training, Mako enhancement, or pure stubborn refusal to acknowledge the dress. He reaches the other side and moves ahead to scout without a word.

Tifa goes next.

I watch her and forget, briefly, about the smell and the urgency and everything above us. She moves like water finding its level—the martial artist’s balance converting the unstable surface into something she simply works with. Each step placed with unconscious precision, the slit of her dress catching the dim light. It’s almost graceful. It’s almost dancing.

Almost.

She makes everything look easy…

On a bridge made of pontoons and accumulated junk over something I refuse to name.

Then it’s my turn.

I do well. I genuinely do well. The first two thirds are careful and considered and completely dignified.

Just a little further…

The last plank shifts under my heel.

I feel the lurch, the world tilting, the stream rising toward me—

A hand catches my wrist. Then my waist. Tifa’s grip is immediate and certain, pulling me onto solid ground.

We stand there for a second, her arms around me, both of us breathing.

…that was close.

“I’ve got you,” she says.

“Thanks. You saved me,” I manage.

She chuckles, while still holding me. “Least I could do.”

But I can feel it—the laugh sitting on top of something heavier. Corneo’s words are still in her, the way cold gets into wet clothes. She’s holding me and laughing and underneath it her home is still up there, still waiting.

“The future isn’t set in stone,” I say quietly. “That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”

She looks at me.

“So tell me something,” I continue, keeping my voice light. “After we save Sector 7—and we are saving it—what’s the first thing you do?”

Tifa is quiet for a moment. I watch her find it.

“Shopping,” she says finally. “Topside. Proper shops.” A small smile breaks through. “New coasters for the bar. Decorations. Maybe something for the walls that isn’t a wanted poster.”

I laugh—a real one. “That’s specific. Can I come?”

“You better!” She is sounding a bit better.

“Then it’s a date!” I propose, and we both laugh.

She steps back, miming the weight of shopping bags. “Cloud can carry all our stuff!”

“Our pack Chocobo,” I agree.

“What was that about me?”

Cloud is standing at the junction ahead, arms crossed, looking exactly like a man who knows he missed something.

“Nothing,” we say together, and keep walking.

He looks between us with the expression of someone who has decided not to pursue this.

Wise.

The laughter carries us another few steps. Then the sewer smell thickens, and the sound of something moving in the water ahead.

But for a moment, there is a date to look forward to. Coasters and decorations and a pack Chocobo.

Sometimes a moment is enough.

What the Dark Hides

The tunnels get darker. Not gradually—suddenly, the faint reflections that have been guiding us thin out and then disappear entirely, and we’re moving through something close to absolute black. Cloud doesn’t slow down.

SOLDIER eyes, probably, or just the stubbornness of a man who has decided the dark is not his problem.

Tifa and I stay close to his back. I can hear her breathing, feel the occasional brush of silk against my arm. The sounds of the sewers change in the dark—louder, wetter, more present. Every drip becomes something potentially moving.

We’ve been lucky since Abzu. Nothing’s come at us directly… and I’ve been pretending that’s luck, not something worse.

Then Cloud stops.

Dead end. The wall is solid, the path blocked—rubble or sabotage, hard to tell in the dark.

I reach for the Lifestream, pulling just enough light to see by. A soft glow blooms from my palm.

Our dresses are ruined. Whatever the Lifestream preserved on the fall, the sewers have claimed since. The crimson silk is dark at the hem, the ruffles grey with things I won’t examine.

I turn to see where we came from.

They’ve been following us. Three shapes, low and scaled, keeping just outside the edge of the light. Patient. Waiting.

Sahagins.

“Of course,” I say quietly.

“Great. Company,” Cloud says, and wades forward without waiting.

The corridor is too narrow for three. The Sahagins have formed up well—one forward, two behind with spears, the kind of formation that makes approaching from the sides impossible and charging down the middle very inadvisable.

For anyone who isn’t Cloud.

Tifa and I stay back. There’s nothing to do—stepping in would just tangle his sword arm. So I keep the light steady and reach for Tifa’s hand.

I don’t even think. I just reach.

She takes it without looking.

Her warmth helps.

The fight is loud in the confined space—the crack of the Buster Sword, the Sahagins’ hissing, the splash and drag of water around Cloud’s skirt as he works. He’s not elegant. The dress is fighting him at every step. But he’s a SOLDIER, and Sahagins are not Hell Houses.

It ends quickly enough.

Cloud stands in the aftermath, breathing hard, ruffles soaked to the knee.

“Clear,” he says.

I let the light breathe a little wider.

There.

A side tunnel, half-hidden by the angle of the wall. Low, but passable. The kind of opening you’d walk straight past in the dark.

The kind the Sahagins came from.

“That’s our way,” Tifa says.

We look at it. We look at each other.

“Of course it is,” I say.

The tunnel doesn’t require crawling.

Small mercy.

The darkness thins as we move. A faint, artificial glow ahead—the grey-green of working fluorescents instead of the black we’ve been wading through. Concrete underfoot instead of wet stone. Valves and piping along the walls. Something that might be a control room ahead.

I let my light go.

And beside us, a pool of standing water that I am choosing not to characterize further.

A door sits half-submerged in it, the water having spent what looks like years trying to swallow it whole and only managing halfway. Above the door, a metal placard clings to the wall, its bottom edge eaten by corrosion.

RAIL YARD DRAINAGE OUTLET

On the door itself, someone has painted a ghost. Childish brushwork, almost sweet—except the white has run in the damp until it looks less like a friendly haunting and more like something trying to stand up from a stain.

I don’t have the energy to interpret ghosts today. My feet are louder than my thoughts.

“There must be some way to lower the water level,” Tifa says.

We head to the control room. Tifa moves ahead of us, studying the panel with the focused expression of someone who recognizes what they’re looking at.

“Seventh Heaven’s water tank has something similar,” she says. “I’m betting we can control the sewage level from here.”

Cloud tries the controls. Nothing. “Busted.”

“Red light means a blockage.” Tifa is already moving to the hand pump. “We can clear it manually. I’ve had to do this at the bar before.”

Cloud and I exchange a look.

“The things you learn running a bar,” I say.

A fighter. A protector. And apparently a plumbing expert. Sometimes it hits me—this is what it’s like to stand beside a legend.

Then her hand finds mine.

“Cloud, stay put. Keep an eye on the red lights.”

“Wait—” Cloud looks between us, then at the controls, then back. “What if something changes on the panel?”

“Then you shout,” she replies as she pulls me out of the control room.

She lets go when we reach the pumps. Back to business.

My heart doesn’t quite get the message.

Did she just—was that—did she want a moment? Hard to tell when I’m this worn down.

“So maybe this is a little different from the one at the bar,” Tifa says, studying the pump with her head tilted. “More industrial. But same principle.” She points. “You open the valve, I work the pump, and when the pressure hits the right point—you close it. Got it?”

I look at the valve. I look at the pump. I look at the needle on the gauge.

No Lifestream to feel through. No instinct to follow. Just metal and pressure and a woman who knows what she’s doing.

“Think so,” I say.

She starts pumping. I watch the needle climb.

There.

I close the valve.

A deep mechanical groan runs through the pipes. Then the sound of water moving—properly moving, draining rather than sitting.

I did not overthink anything. We needed two people.

…Probably.

“Nice,” Tifa says, slightly breathless from the effort.

“One red down,” Cloud calls from the control room. “But there’s still another.”

Tifa and I look at each other.

“Again,” she says.

“Again,” I agree.

We reset and do it one more time—valve, pump, needle, close. The pipes groan their approval. The sound of draining water follows.

“Clear,” Cloud announces.

Tifa wipes her hands on what remains of her dress, looks at the damage, and decides not to comment on it. I follow her lead.

Back to the control room. The red lights are gone.

The door in the pool is accessible now, the water level dropped enough to reach it. The painted ghost stares up at us from just above the waterline, looking no more welcoming than before.

Maybe we can now walk away from this smell.

“That’s our way out,” Tifa says.

Cloud is already moving toward it.

We head for the door.

Ambush

We reach it—and hear them before we see them. A wet, collective hiss rising from the pool behind us.

The Sahagins apparently liked their sewage.

There are so many. Tens, maybe more, the dim light catching scales and spears and too many glowing eyes.

“Run,” Cloud says, which is the most useful thing anyone has said in the last ten minutes.

We run.

High heels on wet concrete. Long skirt catching on everything. The sound of the Sahagins behind us is not improving.

Cloud falls back, buying us time at the first ladder. Tifa goes up. I follow, the climb graceless and urgent, the dress doing its best to kill me independently of anything else. The rungs bite into my palms. My feet are screaming.

At the top, I turn and push fire down into the mass below. Not elegant. Just enough.

Fire catches a couple of them. Slows them down just enough for Cloud to climb up.

The smoke rises in a greasy curl. Smells like… fried fish?

“Looks like they’re hungry,” Tifa says beside me.

“We’re not delicious!” I shout down at them. “Not even a little bit!”

It doesn’t work. But the ladder slows them, and we’re already moving.

Second ladder. Tifa goes first, pushing the grate open with her shoulder. I follow close behind.

She pulls me up the last distance—and the momentum takes us both. We collapse onto the ground above, side by side, breathing hard.

My lungs burn. But we’re up. We’re here.

For a moment neither of us moves.

We’re lying there, hand in hand, looking up at the underside of the plate. The night air hits my face, even Midgar’s version of it, and it feels like the first clean breath in hours.

Another situation and someone watching might call it romantic.

Then Cloud hauls himself through the grate and slams it shut behind him, and the Sahagins’ hissing is muffled into nothing.

“You two alright?” he asks.

“Getting there,” I say, without moving.

Tifa squeezes my hand once before letting go.

We get up.

The plate is still there.

We are breathing, which is more than the sewers wanted for us. But breathing isn’t enough yet. Sector 7 is still up there, the pillar is still standing, and whatever Shinra is planning hasn’t happened yet.

Yet.

The Pause

“Train Graveyard,” Cloud says, already orientating himself. “We cut through.”

I look down at what remains of the crimson dress. The hem is ruined, the ruffles grey and matted. The silver heels have survived through sheer spite.

Madam M would be horrified.

It is quiet, dimly lit night. As I look around, I notice the old trains around us.

And there is a surprise. An old bench—wooden slats gone soft with age, metal frame rusted but still holding together. And a vending machine.

Rusty, but the lights are on. Someone maintains it, apparently. I feed it some Gil and don’t ask too many questions.

I grab some drinks and snacks. I gesture Tifa to the bench.

“A little break,” I say, exhausted. “And my treat.”

“Thanks,” she says, brushing a bit of dust from her dress as she joins me on the bench. There’s warmth in her smile, but something guarded in her eyes. “It’s just… people don’t come out here much anymore. Not only because of the monsters, but because of the stories.”

She hesitates, as if deciding whether sharing this is helpful or just going to make things worse.

“Everyone says the train graveyard is haunted. That if you wander too far at night, the tracks start shifting on their own… and people who lose their way out there never find their way back home.”

She exhales softly, almost embarrassed. “I don’t know exactly what’s out there. But… it’s better to stay close.”

Never find their way back home.

I think of the church. Of Elmyra’s door. Of the ribbon I tied on a crate in Wall Market and walked away from.

The path closed behind me today. I know where home is. I just can’t go back.

Ghosts don’t scare me. The Planet’s dead are always present—not frightening, just there. Sad, sometimes. Lonely, often.

It’s the loneliness that catches on something. Not fear exactly. Recognition. A quiet ache I’ve been carrying long before tonight.

I look at Tifa beside me on the bench, drink in hand, ghost story hanging in the air between us.

“Better to stay close sounds good to me,” I say, and mean it more than she knows.

Cloud grunts from the direction of the vending machine. He’s acquired a drink somehow, already moving.

“Let’s go.”

Always the SOLDIER. The plate is falling, the night is wasting, drinking on the move is apparently a skill they teach.

Tifa and I look at each other.

We finish the chips. We finish the drinks.

He can wait one minute. My legs aren’t ready to forgive me yet anyway.

The Door

I drop the trash to a bin.

Time to go. No point wasting more, but collapsing halfway won’t help anyone.

We climb onto the nearest train car to get our bearings. Up here, the Graveyard spreads out around us—rusted hulks of engines and carriages stretching in every direction, an old storage building, what looks like a maintenance facility looming in the middle distance. The plate hangs overhead like a ceiling that forgot it was supposed to be a sky.

“Sector 7 should be past that large maintenance facility,” Tifa says, pointing.

Cloud grunts.

I’m no longer sure if that’s a human sound or a very convincing Chocobo impression.

We climb down the other side and head toward it.

Something shifts on this side of the car. The air is the same Midgar air, the dark is just night-dark rather than sewer-dark, and yet. The story is in my head now, and the atmosphere is doing the rest.

“It’s deserted,” I say, mostly to hear a voice. “And kinda creepy.”

Tifa nods. Cloud grunts and moves ahead, as if taking the hint to put himself between us and whatever might be listening.

We walk. Through pathways, sometimes through the cars themselves, the rusted metal groaning occasionally around us. Old engines watching from the dark like sleeping things.

It is quiet. Almost too quiet.

We approach the maintenance facility.

The lights flicker.

Then the door opens.

Just—opens. Swings wide, slow and deliberate, the hinges groaning in the quiet. We all stop.

It closes.

Nobody there.

“What was that!?” Tifa steps back, her fighter’s instinct looking for something to hit and finding nothing.

Even Cloud stops. His hand goes to the Buster Sword.

I’m just tired—too tired for ghost jokes, too tired to pretend the story isn’t sitting in the back of my mind like a cold hand on my shoulder.

The silence after is worse than the sound.

Cloud approaches the door from the side, flat against the wall, moving with the careful precision of someone who has done this before.

Something launches through the doorway.

Small, fast, somewhere between beetle and dog in a way that makes no biological sense.

I am a florist, not a monster taxonomist, but I believe they are called Cripshays.

Cloud’s sword takes the first one before it finishes its jump. Clean, almost bored.

Tifa is already moving. Her kick connects with the second one with everything she has behind it.

“Don’t. Scare. Me. Like. That!”

The third circles wide, using the roofline, angling for a jump. I feel it through the Lifestream—the weight of it, the trajectory.

I channel cold into the air around it.

Maybe I was a little jumpy. The freeze was… thorough.

It hits the ground and shatters. Properly shatters. Like dropped glass.

The silence returns.

“Monsters,” Cloud says, sheathing his sword. “Not ghosts.”

COM ON

I look at the open door. At the darkness inside.

Tifa looks at me. Something in her expression has changed—a question forming, not quite asked.

Then she goes still.

“I think I just heard… a little kid?”

The question hangs in the air. Cloud turns, scanning the dark between the train cars.

“Why would there be kids out here at this hour?”

No answer. Just the Graveyard, and the dark, and the quiet that feels like it’s listening.

I reach for the Lifestream.

It’s there. Itself. But different—like a familiar song played in a different key. Not wrong. Just… off.

I don’t say anything.

Through the door is what used to be storage. Metal shelves, mostly fallen. Pieces of roof rusted through and collapsed. The smell of decades of disuse.

But the floor.

Someone painted it. Bright colors, childish brushwork—bats, or children, or ghosts, the lines blurring between all three. The same colors climb the walls around the doorway ahead, leading the eye forward whether you want to follow or not.

The colors feel… hopeful, almost. Or desperate. Someone wanted to be seen.

An arrow. And text, carefully painted by someone who didn’t quite have the spelling.

“COM ON”

Cloud stares at it. “Seriously?”

“Come on,” I say, reading it generously. “That’s… inviting.”

Then the sound.

Not imagined this time. Not distant. A wailing, high and thin—it could be the wind finding its way through gaps in the metal, through hollow cars and broken windows, wearing itself down into something that almost sounds like voices. Almost sounds like children.

Cloud goes very still. “Ghosts aren’t my thing.”

Beside me, Tifa’s hand finds my arm. Firm grip. The legend herself, pressing close.

“After you,” she says, looking directly at Cloud.

Cloud goes still in that way he does when he wants others to think nothing is wrong. It almost works.

He walks through first. The hall opens up around us—high ceiling, wide floor, the kind of space built for things much larger than people.

We walk through a car to reach the platform in the middle. Trains on both sides, dark and still. Cranes overhead, a control room at the opposite end of the hall.

Tifa lets go of my arm.

I stop walking.

Hide and Seek

Something is here. Not the muddled Lifestream-noise of before—something specific. Small. Frightened.

It’s hiding. Not from us—from everything. A loneliness so sharp it almost stings.

I take a few steps forward, slowly, and crouch near the door of one of the cars.

“Found you.” I wait. “Hey… can we talk?”

The ghost appears. A boy, or what was a boy. Pale, flickering, watching.

The heavy scrape of metal against a magnetic mount breaks the quiet. I take a quick glance behind. Cloud’s hand goes to the hilt. He is staring right through the boy, his eyes scanning the dark gaps between the rusted train cars, searching for the ambush I just reacted to.

“Don’t,” I say.

Cloud doesn’t relax his grip. “You’re talking to thin air,” he says, his voice a low, tight wire. “What’s out there?”

“Someone who’s lost.” I turn my eyes back to the boy, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Just let me—”

The ghost shoots upward.

The crane groans. The train car shifts.

“Move!” Tifa shouts, throwing her weight into me and dragging us both sideways, just far enough that the car crashes down where we’d been standing.

The car hits the platform where we were standing with a sound like the end of something.

Cloud scrambles up first. He’s adapting—the corset, the heels, the dress with its new tear. The SOLDIER finds a way.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly enough that it almost sounds like concern.

Tifa rises from on top of me, pulling me up with her.

“Yeah,” she says. Shaken, but standing.

She could have… Yet she risked it all for me. We were almost crushed. Almost.

I brush at my dress out of habit. After the sewers, the gesture is mostly ceremonial.

The car blocks the platform completely. We find our way through the train cars instead, picking through the dark interiors.

I’m almost through a door when the speaker crackles to life.

“This train will be stopping at the Sector 7 slums—”

Static.

I may have moved faster than strictly necessary.

The voice of a train that hasn’t run in years, still doing its job. The Sector 7 slums stop—its last stop, as it turned out. Still announcing it from where it came to rest.

Sector 7 slums.

I wonder, briefly, what would have happened if I’d taken that train once—back when it still ran, back before all of this. Walked into Seventh Heaven years ago. Met her then.

A timeline I’ll never know.

I keep walking.

Found You

The ghosts are playing with the lights again. A flicker here, a door swinging there.

Our clock is ticking and they seem to have all the time in the world—because they do, I suppose. Forever is a long time to play hide and seek.

I spot another one. “Found you,” I say softly.

It flies away.

We find the stairs eventually, picking our way through the cars. Up toward the control room. And the paintings are everywhere now—covering walls, floors, surfaces that should just be rust and dark. They seem to glow in the night, the bright colors refusing to stay hidden.

Someone spent a long time making this place their own.

Lonely spirits, stuck here. Waiting to be found.

I know something about waiting for someone who doesn’t come. And about being found by someone you weren’t expecting.

I wonder if it’s like that for them too. If they just need someone to finally show up.

“No power,” Cloud says.

The crane controls are dead. The car isn’t moving.

“I wonder if this is a prank,” I say, looking up at the dark ceiling, the flickering nothing where lights should be. “Someone messing with the power supply to make us run around?”

No answer. Just the Graveyard listening.

Children play tricks when they’re scared. Or when they want attention.

We find the power section on the lower level. Hard to miss—the danger placards with their lightning bolts are the brightest things in the room.

We enter the power room.

“Military grade,” Cloud mutters, crouching over the generator.

I’m not listening.

There’s a ghost by the far wall. Small. I registered the others as presences, sad things, lost things—but this one stops my feet completely.

I look closer.

Long dark hair. A dress that might have been pink once. Small hands.

The world goes very quiet.

It’s like looking at a photograph I don’t remember sitting for. The shape of her, the way she holds herself—hunched slightly, as if waiting for something that stopped coming. A child who learned early that the world wasn’t built for her.

Stuck here. Waiting to be found.

Five years. A church. Flowers growing in the dark because something had to.

Is this what I would have become? If nothing had found me first?

I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t reach for the Lifestream or the Guard Stick or any of the things that got me through today. I just stand there, looking at the small ghost that looks back at me with eyes I recognize.

“Found you.”

Tifa’s voice. Soft, certain.

I snap back into my body. My breath rushes back in like I’d forgotten to take it.

The ghost stirs. She turns—toward Tifa, toward me, toward something she maybe didn’t expect to find. Then she swirls around us once, twice, the cold of her passing raising goosebumps on my arms.

And flies away.

I try to shake it off, to pretend it was just another echo in the graveyard, but the silence between us is too heavy.

My knees feel shaky, like I’ve been standing too still for too long. A warm, gloved hand wraps gently around my arm. I blink, turning my head. Tifa is standing close, her red eyes fixed on the empty space by the wall before shifting to me.

“She looked like you,” Tifa says quietly. Not a question. An observation that hurts to say out loud.

The room feels warmer somehow.

I can only nod.

Playing Rough

The generator hums to life. Cloud heads back up to the crane.

Tifa and I wait below.

“Move it left,” I call up.

“That’s not—” Cloud’s voice, strained.

“Try right then,” Tifa offers.

“I can see what I’m doing,” he grunts from above.

My tips are off anyway. My mind is somewhere else entirely. Those ghosts. What are they, exactly? Souls that missed the Lifestream somehow, caught between here and there? They should be at peace. They should have moved on.

I should not be one of them. I know that. I know my path.

I’m shaking. I barely notice it until Cloud comes back down, heels clicking on the metal stairs, the way finally clear.

We continue toward the control room.

Dimly lit inside, emergency power casting everything in yellow-grey. Enough to see by. Panels with soft indicator lights.

Then the lights go out.

All of them. Every panel. Black.

“Aeris!”

Tifa’s hand finds mine in the dark and she steps behind me, pressing close. Something is happening—we can both feel it, the air changing, the Lifestream muddling further into something agitated.

Cloud seems to notice only the blackout. He takes a step forward.

A book hits him in the face.

He staggers.

Another book.

Then a storage crate launches itself from somewhere in the dark and connects solidly with his chest.

The spirits, it seems, have opinions about Cloud specifically.

“What the—!?” he starts.

And then the air changes.

A pressure building, the Lifestream churning into something I don’t have a word for. Books, crates, loose tools—anything not bolted down—beginning to lift and orbit something in the center of the room. Slow at first. Then faster.

Cloud backs away from a flying crate.

I walk toward the center of it.

I feel Tifa’s grip tighten on my hand—and then she comes with me, maybe involuntarily, maybe not. I don’t look back to check.

The spirits are here. All of them. The ones we found and the ones we didn’t, the boy from the train car and the girl who looked like me—all of them swirling in the dark, everything spinning faster around us, close enough that something clips my shoulder and the wind of passing things pulls at my hair.

This is dangerous. I know it’s dangerous. A crate at this speed could break bone.

But I also know what this is.

“Coming to get us…”

The voice comes from everywhere. Small, collective, the sound of children who have been playing alone for too long.

I stand in the center of it.

“You just wanted someone to play with, didn’t you?” I ask.

Still shaking from before. Still seeing that small ghost with her dark hair and her waiting eyes.

Still not entirely sure I’m not talking to something that was almost me.

One last swirl—violent, everything rushing outward—

And then nothing.

Books and crates clatter to the floor around us. The air settles. The Lifestream goes quiet.

Tifa’s hand is still in mine.

I wonder, not for the first time tonight, how she hears what Cloud doesn’t. Whether it’s the Cetra blood that was always supposed to be mine alone, or something else entirely. Something about her. Something about us.

I don’t have an answer.

Tifa’s grip tightens slightly.

“You okay?” Tifa asks. Her voice is quiet, close.

“I’m fine.” I pause. “I’m just… better when I can hear you breathing.”

Tifa doesn’t answer. She just shifts closer.

I exhale like I’ve been holding that breath since the sewers.

“What are you talking about?” Cloud appears from the dark, sword half-drawn, looking between us and the scattered books and crates.

The lights come back on.

“I don’t like games where the rules are ‘whoever’s alone loses,’” I say.

Cloud stares at me.

“…Right. Let’s move.”

The Clock

The door at the back of the room leads outside.

And outside has changed.

Outside is not relief. It’s a different kind of pressure, like the night itself has weight.

The wind catches me full in the face—warm compared to the ghost-room, but filthy, threaded with soot. It combs through the train graveyard, through hollow cars and broken windows, and turns the metal shells into instruments.

A low, restless moan, a thin scraping sound like dry vines worrying on iron.

The air tastes of rust and smoke, and underneath it a clean, electric tang that doesn’t belong in a place this dead.

Something heavy beats the air overhead. Not close yet. Coming.

Gunfire. From the direction of the pillar, sharp and distant but obvious. A Shinra helicopter cutting through the dark above the rooftops.

My knees are still unsteady, but the world won’t wait for me to find my balance.

The clock we’ve been pretending isn’t running screams the truth—we’re out of time.

A train blocks the direct path. Cloud looks at it, looks at the engine sitting on the adjacent track, and climbs up without discussion.

By some miracle it starts.

Tifa and I exchange a look and climb up after him. Might as well.

The engine moves—not far, just enough. It shunts the blocking train aside with a grinding metal shriek that probably woke up whatever in this Graveyard was still sleeping.

For a second it works so well it feels impossible.

The engine drags us forward in a stuttering roll, metal singing and complaining beneath us, and the graveyard starts to slide past in slow jerks. I grab for a handrail on instinct; it’s cold and grimy, and the heavy rattling shakes me right down to the roots.

Tifa looks at me—quick, sharp. And I answer with nothing but a nod and a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The noise falls away behind us. The momentum keeps going on its own, stubborn and blind… until it doesn’t.

We ride the last of it as the engine’s push starts to fade. The motion thins, slows, turns into a reluctant crawl.

Then it stops. Stuck.

“Everyone good?” Cloud asks.

“Yeah,” Tifa and I agree.

Maybe he is learning some manners.

From the engine’s radio, through the sudden quiet—static. Then something underneath it, trying to be a voice.

It’s tuned to a Shinra frequency.

“I think that’s—” I recognize the voice before I can finish the thought.

Tseng.

“The plate separation code is—” Static swallows the rest.

Then another voice. Reno, plain even through the interference. “Yeah… we can drop… the thing whenever.”

A pause. When he speaks again his voice has something in it I don’t expect.

“It’s just that—”

Static.

Dead.

The three of us stand in the engine cab, looking at the radio.

Even Reno had a moment of something.

It didn’t matter.

“Move,” Cloud says.

We walk the tracks to the Sector 7 fence.

The Pillar

The gate is there, Shinra troopers are there—but nobody’s watching it. Every face is turned upward.

We push through the gate, and the ghosts are left behind.

Sector 7. Finally.

The plate is still up.

For now.

The pillar rises ahead of us, across a rough, open clearing—too wide to be a road, too bare to be anything else.

My feet stopped feeling like feet somewhere around the Train Graveyard. They’re just things at the end of my legs now. Stopping isn’t an option.

I’m hungry in a way that has gone past discomfort into something quieter and more dangerous. The kind of hunger that makes the edges of things blur.

I can barely keep my eyes open.

Yet I look up. The night sky is violently torn open by the blinding wash of a Shinra searchlight. It circles the massive bulk of the pillar support right above us, casting frantic, erratic shadows over a crowd that is completely paralyzed by panic. The sharp crack of gunfire echoes off the steel, deafening and bright.

The Whispers are above the pillar, swirling frantically. More of them than I’ve felt in one place.

The Whispers blur at the edges, or maybe that’s just my vision.

A loud voice cuts through the gunfire.

“What you got!? Come on!”

“That’s Barret!” Tifa says.

The name comes out with something underneath it—not quite relief, but the shape of it. A voice she knows. Something in Tifa’s exhale says it cuts through.

A Shinra helicopter circles the pillar, cutting lines of fire across the supports. Up there, a figure is pinned against the ladder structure, returning fire with a weapon where his arm should be.

Then the explosion.

The ladder section buckles. A shape detaches from it—big, falling, the red of a scarf catching the light.

“Wedge!”

Cloud and Tifa together, the name torn out of them before they can think.

He’s falling—but his hands are already moving. A grappling hook fires, catches the stairway railing, jerks him hard against the metal. Not graceful. But alive.

He hits the ground level hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to end it.

Cloud is there first. Somehow.

“You okay?”

Wedge looks up at him—at the ruined makeup, the gothic lolita ruffles, the Buster Sword incongruously strapped to his back—and still knows exactly who he’s looking at.

“Cloud…” A groan. Something broken in there, maybe more than one thing.

He tries to push himself up. Cloud’s hand comes down on his shoulder.

“Stay down.”

I step forward. “Don’t worry, I’ll patch him up.”

I reach inward. Just for a moment, before my hands get busy.

A small prayer to the Planet. Upward, toward the pillar, toward the people climbing it.

Stay alive. All of you. Please.

I don’t know if it reaches anything. The Planet moves in its own ways, on its own time.

I just have to trust it.

The pockets deliver—herbs, salves, the practical things I made sure to carry in. I work quickly with those first, hands moving through what they know. Then I reach for the Lifestream and let the healing come through properly—not a large thing, but real. Knitting what can be knitted, steadying what can be steadied.

He won’t fight tonight. But he can walk.

Cloud is already at the stairs. Then up, without looking back.

Tifa and I finish patching Wedge up. And then help him to his feet. His body is beaten. His eyes aren’t.

Then Tifa goes still for just a moment.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out rough. “I can’t stay here—I have to help them.”

She starts to move.

I want to reach for her. Stop her. Keep her here where I can see her.

I don’t.

She has to go. I know she has to go. And she knows I know.

Instead, I ask her one thing. The words come as if the Lifestream brings them—not mine exactly, just passing through me.

“Tifa. Just…promise me one thing. If I’m ever in trouble… Promise you’ll come and save me.”

She stops.

“Aeris…” The name comes out rough.

She turns back. Her eyes are wet.

“You can’t ask me that,” she whispers at first.

But then her jaw sets.

She steps closer, quick, almost angry, like she’s closing distance with fate itself.

“I… I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” Her voice shakes. She swallows it down. “And right now, Aeris, everything is… it’s falling.”

Gunfire. Sirens. The familiar groan of metal.

She takes my hand.

Then she nods, once, sharp.

“Okay. Okay.” Another breath, steadier. “I promise.”

“If you’re in trouble, I’m coming.” She swallows. “I don’t care where you are. I don’t care who’s in my way.”

Her thumb brushes my knuckles softly.

“But you…” Her voice drops. “You promise me something too.”

This was not what I expected. Not the answer. The way she gave it.

“Yes?” I ask shyly.

“Seventh Heaven, the bar—you know it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “There’s a girl inside. Marlene. Get her to safety.”

“I’ll get her to safety,” I promise, and brush my thumb across her hand.

I know where it is. Not just from the thread or the dreaming—I’ve sold flowers in Sector 7. Some things don’t move in a few years. But none of that is in my head right now.

We both nod. We have our missions.

She runs up.

I watch her go for exactly one second.

A tear falls down my cheek.

Then I turn away. The pillar is no longer my place.

Wedge is already moving. “I can take you—I know the way.”

“Lead on,” I say.

He doesn’t need to know that I do. And he knows shortcuts I don’t.

Seventh Heaven

Wedge moves ahead, shouting at anyone who will listen.

“Get to safety! Evacuate! Move!”

People are starting to react—slowly, the way people do when they can see the danger but not quite believe it yet. The pillar above them. The gunfire. The helicopter still circling.

I keep walking.

Then—

Black.

I’m on the ground. Someone is above me, a shape against the light.

I don’t know how long. I don’t know how far I walked before I went down.

“You okay?”

I blink. I remember. Wedge.

Not now, Aeris. Not now. I made a promise.

I get up. My vision clears, mostly. Shadows still at the edges.

“I’m okay,” I say. There’s nothing left in my voice to make it convincing.

I look up. Seventh Heaven. We got here while I was out.

Wedge is still hovering. But something in him is pulled the other way—away from the pillar, back into the slums.

I notice it before anything else. Animal hairs on his shirt.

He cares. He has something worth running back to.

The tears come without warning.

“Go save your friends,” I say. “Now.”

He looks at me for a moment. Then nods, once.

And runs. Still shouting as he goes.

“Get to safety! Everyone out!”

His voice fading down the street.

I hope he finds them.

I turn to the bar.

Seventh Heaven.

This is my first time through the doors.

I take a look.

I want to remember it. I don’t trust myself to.

I take a deep breath. Vanilla. Coffee.

The promise.

“Marlene?” I whisper.

I look at the counter. Dark wood. Mahogany perhaps.

A mug on top of it. And a yellow lily sitting in there.

My lily. The one that started all of this.

Someone put it in water.

Of course she did.

I stand there a moment longer than I should, caught by it.

Then—a quiet sniffle. Behind the counter.

I approach the counter carefully.

Under it, a girl in a pink dress. Knees pulled up, sniffling quietly into them.

“Marlene, right?” I ask.

She looks up. Takes me in—the torn dress, the ruined hair, whatever the sewers left on me.

“Who… who are you?” she asks.

“I’m… a friend. Of Tifa’s,” I say.

She considers this. “Where is she? Where’s daddy?”

I connect the dots quickly. “Daddy—Barret? He’s with Cloud and Tifa,” I say. “Looking out for each other.”

“Wait.” She gets to her feet. Her lower lip wobbles once. “Daddy’s not coming home?”

“Not yet—”

A shadow falls across the door.

Negotiation

Tseng.

Followed by a pair of Shinra troopers.

He looks at me. I look at him. The helicopter is still audible outside, cutting through the distant gunfire.

“Aeris.”

Neither of us moves.

Marlene slips behind me. Small hands find the back of my ruined dress.

Tseng is calm. The kind of calm that doesn’t look for exits.

“Before you say anything—” he starts. “Your options are limited.”

I look at Marlene. Just for a second.

Then back at him.

The promise. I don’t have much…

“How about we make a deal?”

“You want me alive,” I say. “You don’t want me buried under the rubble of the plate.”

My eyes flicker—just enough. The Lifestream is right there, even now, even running on nothing.

“I can bring this place down on us. And you know it.”

Tseng nods. Once. Acknowledging the fact without giving anything else.

“First,” I say. “Marlene. This little girl goes to Elmyra. Safely.”

Tseng doesn’t hesitate. “We’re after you, not the girl. Agreed.”

As if he expected it.

“And second,” I say. “Let them evacuate.”

Tseng shakes his head. Just barely.

I let the fire come.

Not much. Just enough to dance around me, slow and certain, the Lifestream feeding it without effort. The bar is wood and old and it would go fast.

He looks at it. He looks at me.

He says nothing.

But he turns and gives a signal to the troopers.

They salute. And run. Really run.

He pulls out his phone. A short call.

“Five minutes.” He ends it.

“That’s all I can do,” he says. “The troopers will open the gates. Their own lives depend on their speed.”

Five minutes they didn’t have.

I let the fire go.

“Okay,” I say. The sigh comes out with everything left in it.

The Escape

I take Marlene’s hand.

Tseng approaches. He takes my other hand—firm, but not rough. The grip of someone doing their job, not enjoying it.

I don’t know if I would be able to walk without leaning on him anymore. I don’t have to find out.

We approach the helicopter.

He lifts Marlene in first. Careful. Then turns and helps me up.

Not a prisoner being loaded. Just someone who can’t quite manage the step alone.

We sit down.

Tseng crouches in front of Marlene, checking her belt. “For safety,” he says quietly.

Then he straightens. Looks at his watch.

We wait.

As promised.

Tseng signals the pilot.

As we lift, I press against the window.

The slums below. And at the edges—people running. Into tunnels, toward Wall Market, away. Wedge is there, I can see him. Cats with him, one draped over his shoulder, one or two in his arms. Those little ones.

An old woman at the edge of the crowd, arms wide, rallying. Moving people. She knows what she’s doing.

Even the Shinra men are there. Troopers from Tseng. Guards from the gate. Helping. Some are carrying kids, some helping elders.

They’re out. They’re going to make it.

I bought this.

We fly over Wall Market.

Then the explosion.

Metal groaning—not one sound but many, layered, the whole weight of the plate finding its voice at once.

Then the shockwave hits the helicopter.

The Plate.

I don’t look away.

Darkness takes me.

I’m not awake. I’m not unconscious.

Voices outside. Tseng and Elmyra—I can’t make out the words, but I know the shape of the conversation.

Marlene is safe.

They will know.

The darkness takes me back.

Awakening

Everything is still black. I am being carried.

A voice, somewhere off to the side.

“Need help?”

Tseng’s reply, closer. “It’s my job.”

Not tender. Not cold. Just—his.

Then nothing again.

I don’t know how long passed before I opened my eyes.

Warmth first. Something soft underneath me.

A bunk. Not comfortable exactly, but not a steel plate or cold floor. A blanket pulled over me.

Someone had taken care of the basics.

I look around.

Small room. Steel walls. Steel door.

A cell.

Of course.

A growl from my stomach reminds me I haven’t had a proper meal in a day.

As I shift to sit up, a hatch slides open in the door. Someone looks in. Then closes it.

Checking if I’m alive, probably.

I sit on the edge of the bunk and stretch. Arms, legs, everything that has been through today.

The room is small. Bed, a tiny table bolted to the wall, and a corner with a toilet and a small wash basin. A towel folded on the edge of it.

No mirror.

The blanket and the towel are the only things not bolted down.

Someone thought this through.

I wash my face at the basin. Clean my arms as best I can. The water runs grey.

The door opens.

Two guards. One stays at the door, the other enters, sets a tray on the table, and leaves.

The door closes.

Shinra room service. Might as well.

Cup noodles. Basic. Probably from a vending machine somewhere in this building. But warm.

Being that hungry, warm is enough.

I eat.

No window. No clock. No way to know if it’s day or night, or how many hours have passed since the plate fell.

Somewhere in this building is Hojo’s laboratory. I know that.

This is not it.

Small comfort. But real.

The weight settles in as soon as the food is gone.

The plate.

Seventh Heaven.

The pillar.

Tifa.

Did they make it?

I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. There’s nothing here but steel walls and silence and whatever the Lifestream can reach through Shinra’s machinery.

I sit on the edge of the bunk and wait for something to tell me.

Nothing does. Not yet.

I can only wait.

But it is the hardest thing to do.

I lie down and pull the blanket over me.

The Wait

I roll in the bunk, trying to find a position that works.

My mind won’t settle.

Are they alive?

I stare at the ceiling. Steel, of course. Everything here is steel.

Did I bring this to her?

Cloud came looking for Tifa. I helped him find her. I walked them into Corneo’s mansion. I ran to rescue the girl while they climbed into the lion’s den.

If I hadn’t been there—

I stop that thought.

They’d have found another way. Cloud would have found another way. That’s what he does.

I roll to the other side.

But Corneo’s floor. The sewers. The Graveyard. Every step of it, I was there, I helped, I—

Did I help? Or did I just make it easier for them to get to a pillar that was always going to fall?

The plate was always going to fall. Shinra decided that before any of us got involved.

That’s true. I know that’s true.

I pull the blanket tighter.

It doesn’t help.

Are they alive?

I roll onto my back.

The ceiling offers nothing.

Tifa on the stairs. The way she ran without looking back, because looking back would have made it harder. The jaw set. The promise.

I’m coming. I don’t care where you are.

What if she can’t keep it? What if the pillar—

Stop.

I roll onto my side.

The blanket is thin but warm.

Someone put it here. I keep coming back to that. Someone put it here.

Useless thought. My mind grabbing at anything that isn’t the other thing.

The other thing being: I don’t know if she’s alive.

I close my eyes.

It doesn’t help. Behind them is the plate falling, the shockwave, the darkness taking me before I could see anything.

I know they got out. Barret, Cloud, Tifa. They got out.

I don’t know how I know that. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I just need it to be true badly enough that it feels like knowing.

I can’t tell the difference anymore.

I open my eyes again.

The ceiling. Still steel. Still nothing.

How long have I been here?

The door opens.

Same routine. One stays at the door, watching. The other sets a tray on the table and leaves without a word.

The door closes.

I look at the tray.

Chocolate bar. Potato chips. A cookie package. Two cans of soda. A bottle of water.

Clearly a vending machine.

I pick up the chocolate bar and consider it.

Either the kitchen is out of order.

Or someone has a very specific idea of what I like.

I eat the chocolate bar first.

Of course I do.

The SOLDIER

I look at the tray again.

Snacks. Something else to think about.

I grab a cookie and crack open a soda.

Psssshht.

I sit there for a moment.

Of course.

Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

The Lifestream.

It is so simple. I am Cetra. I could at least try.

Yet it’s not that simple, actually.

I munch the cookie and think about it.

The Lifestream runs through everything—through the planet, through the living, through the dead. Through steel walls and Mako reactors and Shinra towers, probably. It has to.

It might work.

I finish the soda. Set the rest of the snacks aside.

I have to at least try.

I sit on the bed. Close my eyes.

Now. How do you find one thread in all of that?

I imagine a Chocobo.

In this space—suspended somewhere between dream and Lifestream—everything is still.

Dark. But a different dark than the cell. The air has changed. More familiar.

Home?

His voice breaks the silence.

“Sephiroth…?”

So that’s what his heart holds.

I file that away for later.

“No, you dummy. Forgot about me already?”

I reach for something we both know. Something I know well.

The garden.

The Lifestream isn’t a canvas. It does what it wants. What arrives is a bluish grey version of the place—the shapes right, the color drained out of it, like a photograph of somewhere warm.

Close enough.

He concentrates. Finds his footing in whatever this is.

“How is this…? Is this a dream? You okay? Your mom’s really worried, too.”

All of it at once. Very Cloud.

“Maybe. You tell me.” I can’t help it. “‘Too’? So you’re worried about me?”

“Yeah.” Embarrassed. Exactly like the bird.

The Chocobo was the right thread.

I let the smile fade.

“I’m sorry about that. Really.”

I’ve been teasing him. Leading him somewhere I was never going to go. He deserves better.

Yet I don’t know where the words come from. They arrive already formed, like something I’ve already said, or haven’t said yet, or both.

“We need to make the most of the time we have—to live our lives the way we wanna live. Every minute, every moment matters.”

He’s trying to follow. “You need to embrace the moment. Right?”

Close enough.

Time to set him free.

It’s not cruelty. It’s just that my heart is already somewhere else.

Somewhere I’m still not sure I’m allowed to go. But somewhere.

Not here.

“I’m glad I met you, Cloud. I’m grateful for all the words we’ve shared. But… whatever happens, you can’t fall in love with me. Even if you think you have… it’s not real.”

“Do I get a say in all this?” He tries.

“No.”

The connection snaps.

The cell comes back—steel walls, thin blanket, the half-eaten snacks on the table.

I’m panting. The Lifestream costs something even when you know what you’re doing.

But he’s there. Alive. Confused and embarrassed and very much himself.

That’s enough.

The Bartender

I reach back to the table. Grab the water bottle.

If he’s alive, they made it. They must have.

I take a sip.

I don’t know if I have the energy for another reach. The first one cost something.

But I have to try.

I don’t know why. But I have to know.

I close my eyes again.

How do you find her?

Cloud had the Chocobo—something specific, something that was already his in my mind.

Now… how would I find Tifa through it?

I sit with that for a moment.

Ruby eyes. Dark hair. Warm hands. A bar called Seventh Heaven with a yellow lily in a mug.

Something clicks.

The red. The yellow. Lily and ruby.

A yellow lily holding a crimson ruby, protected by its petals.

I am no longer in the steel room.

Reaching Cloud took effort. But this… This felt like a pull.

There is no in-between this time. No suspended space, no effort.

I am back in my own room.

And sleeping in my bed is her.

Vivid. Alive. Every color exactly as it should be.

I don’t want to wake her up.

I glance at the window. It is night outside.

Marlene. Elmyra. I guess they connected it all.

Cloud told me Elmyra was worried.

She is resting in my bed.

I guess they really are at my mom’s.

She stirs.

Eyes open.

She sees me and gasps.

“Aeris?!”

Not a question exactly. More like the name arriving before she can stop it.

I step closer.

I take her hand before I find the words.

“You okay?”

She doesn’t answer.

She pulls me down onto the bed, arms wrapping around me. Just—holding. Like something she thought she’d lost and found again.

She sobs.

“You…” She swallows hard. “You’re here.”

A breath.

“I thought I failed you.”

Her throat works.

“How are you… How did you get out?”

She glances toward the door, then back. If anything, her hold tightens. As if I might vanish.

Her hands move on my back. Small, soothing circles. Like she’s comforting me and steadying herself at the same time.

We don’t talk.

I hold her back. Finding my composure somewhere in the warmth of it.

I brush the hair from her face.

My old bed, holding both of us.

Just for a moment.

Her sobbing ends.

She looks down at her own arms.

Like she’s only just noticed where they are.

“I don’t…” Her eyes are wet. Tears on her cheeks. “I don’t do this.”

She doesn’t finish.

“I don’t even know you,” she finally adds.

But she doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t get out,” I finally say.

She nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t ask how then, or where, or what happens next.

“Please…” Her voice is small.

I hold her.

We just are.

I fall asleep in her arms.

Dec 15

Corporate Courtesy

Waking up to the steel cage is certainly not pleasant.

Not after falling asleep in her arms.

I miss the warmth.

The blanket is there on top of me. But it’s not the same.

The lights feel brighter than before. Someone adjusted them, or maybe it’s just that everything feels harsher this morning.

I get up.

A new tray on the table.

Sandwich. Vending machine, clearly. Canned tea. And the leftover snacks from yesterday, still sitting where I left them.

At least there’s food.

Not a great meal. But food.

I eat. Try not to think about the contrast.

Work through some of the snacks as well.

They are alive.

She is alive.

I hold onto that.

Now I just have to wait. Again.

I lie down on the bunk. Stare at the ceiling.

Nothing else to do.

Hojo isn’t here yet—maybe he’s not a morning person. I can’t remember from my early days in the lab. It was a long time ago and I’ve spent years trying not to remember it too clearly.

The ceiling offers nothing new.

But she’s alive.

That’s enough for now.

I try to find something to occupy my eyes.

Nails to count. Seams to follow. Anything.

But it’s like they thought of that too.

Steel, smooth and featureless. No nails. No seams. Just the bolted furniture and the door.

Someone designed this room very carefully.

I stare at the ceiling instead.

Some time passes.

I let my mind wander to last night.

I think about her instead. The strength of her arms. How that small bed managed to feel like somewhere safe.

Was it real? Or was it just my imagination?

Vanilla…

The door opens.

Not a delivery this time. The guards step aside.

Tseng.

He glances at the tray. The empty packages.

“It is time. Come.”

He waits while I stand, while I smooth what remains of the dress out of habit.

A Turk sent to escort me through the fortress.

Or did he volunteer?

I don’t ask. Some questions are better left as questions.

We move into the corridor. The guards stay at the cell.

Just Tseng and me.

The building is a maze. Security checkpoints, locked doors, more locked doors. Each one opening for him without pause, closing behind us with the same finality.

We walk through it in quiet.

I don’t try to map it. There’s no point. And somehow the silence feels like the right thing—neither of us pretending this is something it isn’t.

In the bar he had been—not warm, but present. A person doing a difficult thing.

Here, in the corridors of Shinra tower with its cameras and checkpoints, he is something else. The professional. The Turk.

I don’t hold it against him.

The Measurements

We enter the laboratory section.

The smell changes first. Chemical, clean in a way that isn’t clean. The kind of sterile that exists to hide what happens underneath it.

Tseng opens a door to a small room. Steps back.

“In here.”

I go in. He locks the door behind me.

No farewell. No acknowledgment. Just the click of the lock and his footsteps retreating down the corridor.

I stand in the room and wait.

Hojo. What else?

I look around.

Different than the cell. But not much.

Slightly larger. Still steel walls. No bed. No chair. Nothing of comfort.

Some cabinets in a corner.

Soon enough, the door opens again.

Laboratory personnel this time, clipboards and equipment, a couple of guards behind them.

Not Hojo yet. His people first.

I know how to stand still and give nothing away.

The laboratory personnel stop.

They look at me. Then at each other.

Horrified.

It takes me a moment to understand.

Then it comes to me. I’ve gotten used to it. Tseng is too professional to have reacted. But the smell—

The dress is torn. It has been through the sewers. Survived the train graveyard.

Whatever it smells like at this point, after everything it’s been through, is beyond my ability to fully imagine.

I straighten my spine.

Let them smell the life.

Not ashamed of a single moment.

The guards look at each other. And keep their distance.

The assistants move in reluctantly.

Some of them try to cover their noses.

It seems that their chemicals can’t cover this.

They take measurements. Keep their distance where they can, not touching me if they can avoid it. Scribble notes.

Step away. Huddle. Argue in voices too low to catch.

This is the place I’ve been afraid of my whole life. Not in the abstract—in the specific. The smell of it. The way they look at me like I’m a measurement rather than a person.

Come back. Continue.

More measurements.

Another hushed argument.

I hold my pose and let them work.

My mother got us out of a place like this. She ran, and kept running, until she couldn’t anymore.

The procedure keeps repeating.

I was five. I remember the train station.

I hold the pose.

At least there are no needles. Not yet.

The assistants stop finally.

They gather their notes and leave. The guards follow.

The room is quiet for a moment.

What is happening?

I let the breath I’ve been holding out.

Hojo should be here, right?

The moment stretches.

This room is as quiet as the cell.

Even if someone walked in the corridor, I wouldn’t hear it.

I wonder what they are doing now.

What she is doing.

I pace around the room.

The only sound is my heels on the steel floor.

The Glass Jar

Then the door opens again.

Guards. Two of them. Same ones or different—the helmets cover enough that I can’t say.

“Come.”

They gesture and turn without waiting.

We go deeper. Through more corridors, more checkpoints, more locked doors opening and closing behind us.

Then a marking on the wall.

HIGH SECURITY AREA

I don’t like that.

The door is reinforced steel. Large enough to drive something through.

The door opens slowly.

Reminds me of something I recently saw.

Giving me all the time to observe the room beyond it.

Beyond it, a room that feels more like machinery than building. Dimly lit. The kind of dark that exists because the light serves the equipment, not the people.

Mako tubes along the walls.

Stairs leading up to an observation deck.

Glass jars on shelves, glowing green.

Smaller specimens, probably.

I don’t look too closely.

Two larger containment units, glowing blue.

The guards gesture me toward one.

No point resisting.

I go in. The door closes behind me.

Circular. All glass walls. Nothing inside—no chair, nothing to hold or sit on or anchor to. Just the glass and the glow and me.

And the air.

Filtered. Different from the rest of the tower, different from anything outside. The kind of air that has been processed until nothing accidental remains in it.

Someone controls everything in this room. Down to what I breathe.

I don’t like that either.

The guards leave.

Their footsteps fade—not gone exactly, but muffled. The glass does something to the sound, thickens it, makes the world outside feel further away than it is.

And the glass itself distorts. The room beyond—the Mako tubes, the observation deck, the glowing jars—all of it slightly wrong through the curved walls. Like looking through water.

I can see out. But not clearly.

Someone thought about that too.

Just me now. Inside the belly of a mechanical beast.

It is quiet inside.

No hum. No machinery. Nothing.

It is so quiet it almost hurts.

I sit down, back against the wall opposite the door. The glass is cold.

What are they waiting for?

Hojo should be here by now—the mad grin, the needles, the moment he’s been building toward for years. I expected him to be waiting for me. I expected it to start immediately.

The waiting is worse.

Can’t they just be done with it?

I know the rescue is coming. I hold onto that. Cloud, Tifa—they’ll come.

But will they? Did I lead them into something they won’t survive? Did I bring them all the way here just to—

Am I the danger for them?

The thought sits in my stomach like something swallowed wrong.

I want to see her again. Feel her again. The warmth of her arms, the weight of her.

That’s real. That happened. That must have.

I hope.

The machines are alive. Their lights shift occasionally. The only thing that changes in here.

Is this real?

I drop against the glass wall, holding my head in my arms.

They are not coming.

I shake my head slightly.

How would they?

I lean back, looking at the machinery.

This is a fortress.

I slump back.

No point.

The White Coat

Then the lights shift.

I look up.

White lab coat. Black hair pulled back. The grin already in place, the one that has lived in my nightmares since before I could name it.

The one thing in this building I refuse to call a person.

I rise up. Brace for it.

And the coat walks past.

Doesn’t even glance at my jar. Doesn’t slow. Moves through the room with the distracted purpose of someone who has something more interesting to attend to.

Goes out through another door.

I stare at the space where it was.

All that waiting. And not even a look.

Alone again.

The machines do their work. The lights shift occasionally—green to red, then something else, back again. The only thing that changes in here.

I don’t know what to feel.

Hojo. Just… walking past. Not even acknowledging I exist.

Then the door opens again.

It comes back.

As if it forgot something.

This time, it approaches the jar.

I stand very still.

“The Promised Land.” A small sound, almost a laugh. “Shinra wants it for Mako. I want what you carry in your cells. We find our goals… conveniently aligned.”

It tilts its head. It feels like imitation, as if a monster is hiding under a human skin.

“Ifalna. You have her eyes. Her structure. I should know—I’ve had years to study it.”

Her name hits me like a blow I don’t let myself react to.

Something twists inside me—grief, anger, fear, I can’t tell. It all blurs together before I can catch any of it.

It stops. As if studying something.

“She didn’t have to run. If she’d simply cooperated, things would have gone differently. A waste.”

Something shifts in its expression. Not grief. Something colder.

“We were thorough, of course. One doesn’t let a specimen like that simply disappear into the slums. Every fragment. Catalogued. Preserved.”

Something shifts in the voice. Almost gentle.

“Would you like to see her? I can arrange it. Through a microscope, of course.”

It says it the way someone else might discuss the weather. Disgusting.

But I keep standing still.

Yet I want to reach through.

“You have her elegance. Remarkable.”

Its eyes move over me. Not like a person.

Something inside me curls even tighter, sharp as a nerve touched wrong.

I don’t move.

I don’t react.

But I think about fire.

The pose holds. It’s the only thing I have in here.

But the words get through. Whatever it uses to push sound into the jar—a speaker, something built into the glass—it works. It designed it that way.

“Ah. I’m needed elsewhere. Don’t go anywhere.”

It turns.

And leaves.

Not coming back this time.

I breathe once, slow, because it’s the only thing I can control.

The Wait

The monster is gone.

Alone again.

I don’t know what to feel.

Hojo. Just…

I don’t finish that thought.

I pace around in the jar.

Is that good? It’s occupied elsewhere. Something bigger is happening in this building.

I hope.

The machinery is out there. Lights shift. I stare at the lights for a bit.

I hope it isn’t them.

If Cloud and Tifa are already in this building—if that’s what’s keeping it busy—

I stop that thought.

But it comes back.

I sink down against the glass.

Not even dust. Nothing.

I just watch the lights change. Green. Red. Something else. Back again.

It’s the only thing changing in here.

At some point I can’t keep my head up anymore.

I’m not sure about anything anymore.

Am I just exhausted… Or is something breaking?

The glass holds me up more than I hold myself.

Maybe both.

Maybe there’s no difference at this point.

I close my eyes.

I don’t know how long passes. Time stopped meaning anything when they took the windows away.

They must be okay. I hope.

As I open my eyes, something has changed.

I don’t know when they arrived.

Guards. But not the usual ones.

Big guns. Something is happening here.

I watch them through the distorted glass.

They don’t approach. Just stay in their positions and wait.

I can’t hear anything through the muffled walls.

Are they guarding me, or something else entirely?

I slump back against the wall.

Tifa.

I let the thought of her warmth shroud me.

I close my eyes.

I have to hope. It is the only thing I have left.

They must be alive.

No sound.

Nothing.

The wait continues.

The Storm in Violet

Something releases in my chest. Something that has been wound tight since the plate fell, since the helicopter, since the cell.

I open my eyes.

The guards shift.

Weapons up.

I stand up.

I lean on the glass.

Something is happening.

Is it…

I feel her before I see her.

The door in the back opens.

Black hair. Crimson eyes. That torn violet dress—but different now. Red boots. Leather gloves. Changed what needed changing.

I gasp.

She’s alive. She came.

The guards have no time.

No time to react. No time to raise weapons properly. No time for anything.

If I ever saw a Goddess…

It is like a hurricane hit the room.

Kicks, punches, flying guards—the whole thing over before it fully begins.

…then this is it.

I have seen her fight before. Abzu, in the sewers, in heels and a slit dress.

This is something else entirely.

Behind her, Cloud with his sword drawn. And another man—gun where his arm should be. Barret, I guess. The voice from the pillar.

They were ready for a fight that was over before they came through the door.

I lean stronger against the glass.

She looks distorted through the glass. Unreal.

She’s scanning the room, still coiled for a fight.

Then she sees the jar. Me.

Something crosses her face that I don’t have a word for.

She crosses the distance like she was never standing still.

We both reach for the glass at the same time. Palms flat against it. As close as the wall between us allows.

I can see her mouth moving. Calling my name, I think. The glass takes the sound.

I do the same.

She came. Whatever the reason—the promise, or something else, or both—she came.

“Tifa.”

I don’t know if she hears it. But she sees.

Something in me steadies and shakes at the same time.

She gestures. Steps back.

I move away from the glass.

She hits it.

Again.

Again.

Not even a fracture.

I look around the small space.

Magic.

The thought arrives and leaves just as fast. In here, in this enclosed circle of glass, anything I release would bounce back. I’d fry myself before I’d make a dent.

Tifa keeps hitting the glass.

And it holds.

And I stand there, watching her unable to reach me.

The fear creeps back in.

Not of him. Not anymore. Of losing her now that she’s finally here.

Why?

In those tales I remember… The prince always rescues the princess.

Why not now?

I look at her, and the hope is draining away from me.

Unreachable

The loudspeaker crackles.

Tifa stops.

She places her hand on the glass. I reflect it.

She looks up.

I follow her gaze.

Hojo. On the observation deck. Looking down at us.

“Remarkable. The combat data you’ve provided should prove to be quite valuable.”

I jump slightly at the voice.

Almost forgot about it.

The distorted voice fills the room.

Behind her—outside the glass—the ruckus starts. Barret seems to be shouting something back. Then the sound of gunfire, muffled but unmistakable, before it stops abruptly.

Cloud has shifted. Said something probably.

“The results provided by my predictive models…”

Static.

Silence.

Did he cut it? Or did the speaker just die?

It doesn’t matter. The monster is up there. And I’m still inside this jar.

No.

No. I have to trust her.

She can open this.

More guards arrive.

Hojo must have called them. Or maybe they heard the gunfire.

But their entrance…

Straight into gunfire and blade.

Tifa shifts—then holds her ground. She doesn’t need to move for this.

It’s over quickly.

I feel almost sad for them. They had no chance.

Then the talking starts. I can see them—Cloud, Tifa, Barret, the observation deck above—but the glass takes the words. I have no idea what’s being said.

Then Cloud clutches his head.

I have seen that happen before. The sudden stop, the hands going up. But this time it looks worse. More violent.

I don’t know what it is. Something that happens to him.

I watch from behind the glass, unable to do anything about it.

Then something unexpected happens.

The Whispers.

Why? Why now? Why here?

They swirl through the room—I can see them even through the distorted glass—and then Hojo is simply gone. Carried off. Removed.

Barret looks around, weapon raised, nothing to aim at. Tifa pulls back from the glass for just a moment, scanning the room.

Of course. They can’t see what I see.

I have lived with the Whispers most of my life. The dread of them, the weight. Always assuming they were against me.

But they enforce something. Their own version of how things are supposed to go.

And this time, Hojo was standing in the way of it.

I’m not sure what to make of that.

Tifa leans back toward the glass.

But this time the door opens.

She stumbles in. Her hands up, braced for the glass.

She falls straight into me.

I just hold on to her.

She is warm.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Her hands still try to reach out, trying to catch herself—then stop. Already held.

She turns in my arms and hugs me.

“Hey… I told you I would.”

Her hands finding place on my back.

I breathe in.

Vanilla.

Our moment is cut short.

Heavy troopers drop in from above.

“Thanks for saving Marlene. I owe you one.”

Barret’s gun arm doesn’t wait for a response.

I notice it only now—I’d been too focused on Tifa. Cloud is back in his own gear, the dress finally gone, and he moves through the room like a different person entirely. The sword a blur.

Tifa and I prepare to move.

We don’t need to.

We just stand there, hand in hand, finally outside the jar. Watching the fight that doesn’t need us.

I let out the breath I have been holding.

Safe. For now.

Red XIII

Something lands on the floor not far from us.

Reddish fur. Cat-like ears. A tail tipped with fire.

It glances at us—just for a moment.

The muscles tense. And then it leaps straight through the observation deck glass and after Hojo.

It is gone before we even register it was there.

“The hell was that thing?” Barret stares at the broken glass above.

I watch after it for just a second.

Then—“We need to go. Now.”

I move toward the door I came through, Tifa’s hand still in mine.

The massive steel door opens agonizingly slow.

Something changed. Security is… off?

I skip through before it is even fully open.

Through another door. Up the stairs.

I don’t know exactly why this way. Just that it feels right. The Lifestream pulling toward something, or away from something else.

Through a door.

A long corridor ahead.

At the end of the corridor—an elevator.

And Hojo, stumbling toward it.

Something spikes inside me.

Anger?

The red flurry bursts through a side door before I can think more.

Straight at him.

Jumps.

The elevator door closes.

Just then.

The beast turns.

Walks toward us.

“What? You wanna go?” Barret takes aim.

I feel it before I think it.

Not a monster.

I step between them.

I don’t know what yet. There is anger inside. But… I have to try.

“Stop. This child’s a friend.”

I reach toward it. It growls—then stills as I extend through the Lifestream, just enough.

Barret lowers his weapon slowly, confusion written across his face. “Uhh… so what the hell is it?”

“A fascinating question,” the beast replies, voice calm and measured.

Beside me, Tifa goes very still. “Did it just… talk?”

“Hmm. I am as I appear,” it replies, with the calm of something that has had to explain itself before.

We both see it at the same time. A tattoo in the fur.

“Thirteen?” Tifa asks.

“Red XIII.” It turns toward the elevator as it speaks. “A label Hojo saw fit to impose.”

Something tightens in my chest at the name.

Even now.

We move toward the elevator.

The dread of the cell, the jar, the glass—it’s fading. Not gone. But fading.

I take her hand again.

The tales from the books pop in my mind.

The smirk arrives before I can stop it.

I turn to Tifa.

“Should I thank the heroine for the rescue… by kissing her?”

I feel the heat rise in my own face as I say it.

Tifa turns.

Her free hand waves in front of her face. The blush is clear.

She shakes her head.

But I kept the smirk.

I wonder…

“Let’s go,” Cloud takes the lead. Ignoring us entirely.

We’re almost at the elevator when he stops.

He drops to his knees, reaching for the button.

His hands go to his head.

“Cloud?” Tifa and I both hover over him.

I still have no idea. He has recovered quickly before, so… I hope it happens now too.

Barret calls the elevator.

Cloud is on the floor, holding his head.

No response.

The lift arrives.

Barret grabs Cloud like a sack of potatoes and lifts him in.

We pile in.

“Helipad’s up top. AVALANCHE’s gotta have a chopper somewhere!” Barret barks, as if that explains everything.

So up we go.

The elevator rattles.

The alarms quiet down in here.

Even with Cloud out, I can’t stop smiling.

They are here. She is here.

The Trap

The elevator stops.

The door opens.

Dark glasses. A shaved head.

And beside him, the one who walked me through the corridors this morning. Composed. Jacket pressed.

Like none of the last few hours happened.

Rude. Tseng.

A pair of heavy guards behind them.

They step inside.

Calm. Unhurried.

My smile vanishes.

We walked right into a trap.

Barret reacts.

“Oh, so now you wanna ride the damn elevator like nothin’—”

The doors close.

Red growls. Then stills.

Maybe he senses it too.

Rude quietly pushes Barret’s gun arm down.

Tseng and Rude glance at Cloud. Still out cold.

No reaction.

Not from Cloud. Not from the Turks.

I hold Tifa’s hand.

No point fighting. Not here, not now. The space is too small, Cloud is out cold, and whatever we do next needs to be smarter than this.

We go down.

So close.

I failed them again.

The lift rattles. The motion feels different this time.

Heavier. Almost sad.

We descend in quiet.

The doors open.

A gesture. Out.

Barret moves for Cloud without asking.

The Turks watch. Don’t stop him.

Barret grunts and lifts Cloud on his shoulder.

The guards make the direction clear. We follow.

I look down at my feet while walking.

The fear is rising again. Everything that faded in the laboratory climbing back up.

I take Tifa’s hand.

I just need something to hold onto.

We are led through the corridors.

This feels familiar.

Different company this time.

Steel walls. Corridors. Security checkpoints.

We walk in quiet.

Prisoner Again

A door opens. Tifa and I are gestured through.

It closes behind us.

A cell.

I recognize it.

The towel still on the basin edge. The blanket on the bunk the way I left it. Those unchanged.

The food packaging gone. A fresh vending machine meal on the table in its place.

I look at it.

Chocolate. Chips. Canned tea.

Lucky guess. Or someone behind the scenes.

I’ve stopped trying to decide which.

My stomach growls.

I don’t know how long I was in that jar. Long enough.

I sit on the bunk. Gesture to Tifa.

She sits beside me.

I break the chocolate bar in half and hand her the other piece.

I sigh.

Here again.

But not alone this time.

“I failed you…” she says quietly.

She takes the chocolate. Looks down at her feet.

I push closer, resting my arm lightly over her shoulders.

“You came for me. You didn’t fail.”

The air in the small room feels heavy.

Tifa holds her half of the chocolate as if it’s something fragile, her thumb tracing the edge of the wrapper.

She doesn’t eat yet.

“I failed you…” she murmurs, eyes fixed on her boots. “I should’ve been faster. Stronger. Something.”

I shift even closer, my arm settling around her shoulders tighter, anchoring her. She doesn’t lean in right away.

But after a breath, the tension breaks. She leans in.

“You came for me,” I repeat. “You didn’t fail.”

Tifa shakes her head slowly, her eyes still fixed on the floor. “I came for you, but I was late. I’m always just a second too late, Aeris. Sector 7… the Plate… I keep playing those moments back thinking if I had just moved faster, if I had known sooner…”

I let my hand brush her arm.

“Tifa. I’m here. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

She exhales, a fragile sound. Like she has held her breath the whole day.

“I just… I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

I rest my head on her shoulder.

“Not tonight. Tonight we’re here.”

For the first time since we sat down, she turns to me.

I raise my head from her shoulder. To look at her. There are tears in her eyes.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Then… let’s stay close.”

I have no words for this. Not now. I just hold her. Lean to her. Let that be my promise.

We hold each other and eat the chocolate.

The quiet is more comfortable now.

Everything

We split the meal, making a quiet ceremony out of what is given. The sharp crackle of the chip bag sounds too loud in the quiet. The chips are too salty, and the canned tea is lukewarm, leaving a thin, metallic tang on the back of my tongue. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to keep us going.

We pass the half-empty bag back and forth, chewing methodically as we share the tea. We eat, and we drink, and we talk. We spin long, winding stories about nothing important, exhausting ourselves talking about absolutely everything just to desperately steer the words away from the shadows hovering over us.

I look at my torn dress. Her dress, too.

Cloud in a dress comes to my mind.

“So…” I start. “When they met… You know. Cloud and Barret?”

She snorts.

“Yeah, that…”

She leans back against the wall.

“He still had the wig. Makeup smeared halfway down his face. Dress torn up the side.”

She pauses for a moment.

“And the sword.”

Her shoulders start shaking.

“I caught up with him before the top. We ran the last stairs together. Barret had his back to us, firing at the helicopter.”

She grins.

“Then he turns around.”

She drops her voice into a rough imitation.

“SPIKY! You still breathin’—”

The expression shifts. Barret’s confused scowl.

“…The hell?”

“He just froze.”

She pauses to emphasize it.

“…Why’s the merc wearin’ a damn dress?”

She shakes her head, still grinning.

“And Cloud, being Cloud—covered in soot, mascara running, wig crooked—just stands there. Dead serious.”

She straightens. Delivers it flat.

“…It’s complicated.”

She exhales through her nose.

“Barret stared at him for about five seconds.”

Then she throws her hands up.

“TO HELL WITH IT, SPIKY! WE’LL TALK ABOUT THE DAMN DRESS LATER!”

I can’t stop laughing.

“Cloud will hear about that dress forever.”

Tifa laughs until there are tears.

“Oh yes he will.”

The laughter dies eventually.

We talk about the snacks. Which leads somehow to Seventh Heaven—the wood of the counter, the shelves, the dartboard.

Then the silence arrives on its own.

Neither of us reaches for more words.

The plate.

We sit with it for a while.

“Aeris…” she starts. “The promise… How did you…”

She doesn’t finish it.

“Tifa…” I start quietly.

The words don’t come.

I don’t know where to begin.

I take a deep breath.

“I’m Cetra. Ancient, as Shinra calls us. Last of them, apparently.”

I pause, thinking what to say.

“Which means they couldn’t let me die under the plate. Too valuable to lose.”

“That’s why Tseng listened. Why Marlene got out.”

The easy part.

“And…”

I reach for the words.

“It’s true. I can listen to the Planet.”

I reach for the words again.

I wonder what she will think about it all.

“It talks. Not in words exactly. More like… feelings. Warnings. Things that haven’t happened yet, sometimes.”

I look at my hands.

“I felt something was wrong. With the plate. With Sector 7. I couldn’t tell you what exactly. Just that it was wrong.”

I sigh.

The silence stretches.

She notices.

“Aeris?” She’s an inch away. The worry in her voice, in her gaze. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Tears fall.

“I… the promise. To be with you… I don’t know how long I can keep it.”

My voice cracks.

“I have seen it. The end.”

“The blade… through me. My own…”

I stop.

“No,” she says, her jaw setting.

Her hand tightens around mine.

Just that.

The silence is deafening.

I can’t stop the tears.

I don’t know what I feel. What I should feel.

The second time I’ve let her see me like this.

The real me. Not the flower girl. Not the smile.

Just this.

She holds me.

I grab onto her.

The tears stop, eventually.

The Sleep

The day is starting to weigh us down.

So much has happened.

“This doesn’t make any sense. None of this does,” Tifa whispers quietly.

And I can only agree.

This morning, I woke up alone here.

She looks at me.

“I met you like two nights ago…”

She shakes her head.

“…I don’t know. Not anymore.”

I reach out to her. Take her hand in mine.

She stops shaking her head. The frantic energy drains out of her shoulders.

I yawn.

“We need to sleep,” I say softly.

We both look down at the narrow stretch of mattress under us.

It is small. Fits barely one person.

“Yeah,” she replies. “Going to be tight.”

We leave our shoes on the floor. My heels and her combat boots, next to each other.

To my surprise, she pushes me down.

Gently enough, but firm.

What is she going to…

She is hovering there on top of me.

Her hands deliberately avoiding touch.

My mind is racing. The fairy tales. The stories I’ve heard.

And then she finds a spot, head resting on my chest. One leg between mine, other between my leg and the wall.

She pulls the blanket over us, then her arm rests over me.

Not an inch wasted.

“Good night,” she calls softly.

“Good night,” I reply, brushing her hair.

My mind was overreacting again.

As tight as it is, this is likely the safest I have ever felt.

She falls asleep first.

I listen to her breathing for a while.

My mind keeps returning to one thing.

No.

Is my own destiny truly set in stone?

I have no idea. Not anymore.

I drift into dreams in her warmth.

Dec 16

Quiet Morning

I wake up in the cell.

Tifa is still there. On top of me, exactly where she fell asleep.

She stirs.

I don’t know if I moved, or if it’s just her time.

But I slept well. Better than I have any right to, in a steel cell in Shinra tower.

Her weight helped.

As I look around, things seem almost the same.

Almost.

The trash is gone. Sandwich and drinks replaced.

Someone was here while we slept.

Saw us like this.

I don’t know what to think about that. The cell has no privacy—I knew that. But knowing and feeling it are different things.

But we were under the blanket. Just two people sleeping.

Business as usual for guards, probably.

I think about us for a moment.

What are we now? Cellmates? Friends? Something more?

I’ve had so few friends to compare against. Zack, years ago, before he vanished. Folia, who I trust completely but who is so different from this.

I have read stories, at least. Fairytales mostly. Not the most reliable guide.

But men never quite sparked. Not the way the stories suggested they should.

She does.

Through whatever lens I have—borrowed from books, shaped by a strange life—I don’t have a clean word for what this is.

Maybe I don’t need one yet.

Tifa starts moving.

My thoughts vanish.

She rises, hair falling around her face, those ruby eyes finding mine.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning…” Her voice is low from sleep.

She’s up on one arm, her leg still between mine. Her other arm—the one that was around me—hovering in the air.

She blushes.

Avoids my eyes for a moment.

“I, um… hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

She jumps up suddenly, turning around.

“Last night, I just… didn’t want you to be alone.”

I start rising, stiff from the narrow bunk.

“And it was cold,” she adds quickly, before I can say anything.

I can feel the blush coming up as I say it out loud. “I haven’t slept better in days.”

Her shoulders loosen.

“Good,” she murmurs. Almost to herself. “I’m glad.”

She sits back down beside me.

I reach for the tray. Hand her a bottle of tea while I split the sandwich.

“Could have used some real coffee,” she says, eyeing the tea.

“I know,” I say. “But at least the company is good.”

She pauses mid-sip, eyes flicking to mine. “Yeah,” she says softly.

Not much to eat. About the same as what I had alone yesterday.

Still better than nothing.

We sit there, legs touching, eating in quiet.

The silence feels more comfortable now. She knows what I am. What waits at the end of my path.

I put the tray aside as we finish.

My stomach grumbles.

Trail of Blood

We sit on the bunk, leaning into each other.

I rest my head on her shoulder.

Coffee.

I let it run on my mind for a bit.

“Tifa…” I start before I get cut short.

The door opens.

We both go still.

Expecting guards.

There are no guards.

Our gazes drop.

Red fur. Flame at the end of the tail.

He just walks in.

He sits near the door.

“Fear not. I come alone.”

He glances at us. His tail moves, just slightly.

“You are both well. I am relieved.”

We reach for our shoes.

My silver heels are faster. I wait while Tifa works at her boots.

“Our confinement ended when the locks were released,” Red says. “Cloud and Barret remain ahead. I came to find you.”

We step outside.

And stop.

Not the clean air.

Not the clean floor.

A trail of blood. Starting from a cell door—broken open, not unlocked—leading around the corner.

I was not expecting this.

Or maybe I was, somewhere. Red’s words landing properly now.

Locks released. Cloud and Barret remain ahead.

Someone else went ahead.

So much blood.

The smell of it everywhere.

I don’t try to imagine what happened here.

No alarms. No guards. Just quiet.

And blood.

The kind of quiet that means something happened here.

I take Tifa’s hand.

Something warm in the cold corridor.

We follow Red.

He doesn’t walk so much as flow. A leap where a person would step. His tail catching the light as he goes.

Turn of the corridor.

The blood doesn’t stop.

I shake my head at the sight.

Corridor after corridor, the same trail. The smell staying with us.

Then Red turns away from the trail.

Through a door broken from its hinges.

But no blood in here.

The Hackers

Another door beyond—this one opens cleanly.

Inside, Cloud and Barret hunched over a console.

I have only seen Cloud hit things with a sword and Barret with bullets.

Watching them work a console is something else entirely.

The quiet breaks as we enter.

“I AIN’T HITTIN’ IT! I’M ENCOURAGIN’ IT!” Barret barks at the machine.

“That’s hitting it,” Cloud says quietly.

I can picture his expression.

“BOY, I SWEAR—!” Barret’s fist goes up.

The console beeps.

Barret freezes.

Cloud blinks.

“…Did that actually work?” Tifa whispers.

I can’t help it. I laugh.

Cloud and Barret lean over the console.

Red sits in the middle of the room.

Tifa and I lean against the wall, still hand in hand.

I am just about to ask what they’d found when—

Cloud chuckles.

Barret roars.

They chuckle a bit, intently staring at the terminal.

The computer beeps again.

“Way is clear,” Cloud says, his voice flat.

I wonder what they saw on that console. I let it go.

Back outside.

Through the door. And then through the broken one.

Back to the blood trail.

It still chills me. The smell. The amount of it. Nothing natural bleeds like this.

And yet.

No choice.

Borrowed Time

We follow the trail to the stairs.

Cloud looks inside. “Service staircase,” he explains.

Great. Stairs. Why can’t the monsters use the elevator for once?

Red flows up the stairs effortlessly.

Cloud and Tifa have no trouble either.

Barret spends as much energy on shouting as on climbing. “Why the hell we runnin’ up ALL THESE DAMN STAIRS?!”

My feet are killing me, but I am climbing up behind them.

High heels are certainly not the choice for this.

After a couple of floors, I hear Barret over his own panting.

“I swear this tower’s laughin’ at me…”

I have lost count of the stairs.

I catch the rest of them.

Red is sitting on the floor. Barret is leaning on the wall.

“These stairs’re killin’ me… an’ I ain’t even eaten since mornin’…”

Cloud and Tifa are peeking inside through a door.

I join them.

On the wall is simply the text.

FLOOR 69

I push through them.

No blood here.

Steel is replaced by dark wood. Floor, wall paneling.

The air smelling different. No blood. Cleaner. Something artificial.

I spot a vending machine there.

“Can we take a break?” I ask them. “There is a vending machine here, and some soft-looking benches.”

“You kiddin’ me? Food? Outta my way!” Barret runs through us.

I shrug.

Convenient. I was hoping for a break.

Even Cloud heads to the machine now.

Cloud and Barret already have something to eat and drink.

Barret is on a couch that seems too small for him.

Cloud is just pacing while eating and drinking.

I head to the vending machine. Most of the options are out. But I feed it some Gil.

Not much of great choices. But food is food still.

First sandwich I give to Red. “Here you go.”

He nods and takes the sandwich gently, and turns a few paces away, his tail giving a small flick.

I take another sandwich.

After that, the light turns red.

“Guess we share again,” I whisper to myself.

Not that it is too bad.

I take pair of energy drinks as well.

Head to the leather sofa Tifa picked.

“Last one,” I tell her. “So time to share it.”

She simply nods.

I split the sandwich as she opens her drink.

As I hand over the half, I look at her.

Not even sweating after the stairs.

I eat and drink, watching her in silent awe.

Break is short and we are soon back to the stairs.

Cloud is first one to move. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’…” Barret grumbles as he gets up from the couch.

Tifa and I get up as well. Red flows up the stairs before we are even at the door.

Only one flight of stairs.

The blood is there.

Floor 70.

My own vision flickers at the edges of my mind. The blade. The end.

I push it back.

Not yet.

There is a door at the top of the stairs.

We enter into a hallway. Elevators.

And the huge door.

The trail of blood leads to it.

Empty Throne

The door opens.

A different world.

Even after the last floor’s luxury, this is something else.

Black marble floors. Red carpet. Pillars of the same dark stone.

A desk that could seat a meeting. Steel on the outside, mahogany within.

A chair behind it like a throne.

Room-height windows beyond, the city below.

The blood trail ending just outside the room.

Nobody on the throne.

Just the dark skies beyond the windows. Not night—storm. The city below half-swallowed by it.

Potted tropical trees along the walls.

Alive, and apparently unbothered.

I approach the desk. Tifa close behind me.

Cloud and Barret move toward the balcony. The helipad beyond the windows is empty—no helicopter, anyone can see that. But they go anyway.

Red pauses at the entrance.

His ears angle forward.

His tail lowers.

Nothing on the desk. Clean. Monitors off.

No sign of anything.

“There is… something amiss,” Red says from the entrance.

Calm. Still sitting. As if waiting for what comes next rather than looking for it.

Then something hits the glass.

From the outside.

Barret. Holding a man against it.

President Shinra.

Soundproof glass. Whatever they are saying out there, stays out. We heard nothing until Barret pressed him against the glass.

I watch them through the window. Talking.

Shouting, more like.

Barret lets him down. Not gently, but down.

Tifa and I move toward the center of the room.

Something is in the air.

Not the Lifestream exactly—not something I can point to. Just a wrongness. Present and growing.

They come inside.

The door swings open mid-shout.

“—ain’t Wutai or anybody’s puppet!”

President Shinra storms toward his desk.

Barret right behind him.

President falls.

Gets up.

Falls again.

Gets up. Runs.

Barret keeps going.

“The AVALANCHE fights for the people—the Planet!”

President Shinra got those seconds he needed.

He’s behind the desk now. Gun raised. Aimed at Barret.

“You dress it up nicely. Truth? Justice? Honor? Even freedom?”

He holds the aim. Almost smiling.

“Every man who ever held a gun thought he was fighting for something that mattered.”

His finger moves toward the trigger.

President’s face turns into a grimace.

He coughs blood.

I gasp.

My vision goes black on the edges.

The sword.

Through President Shinra’s chest.

Exactly like my vision.

Except the place.

Except the person.

I find myself being caught by Tifa.

I didn’t even know I was falling.

The room is black for a moment.

Dreamweaver

I find my senses again.

Warmth.

I’m being held.

Gunfire. Screaming—certainly not human.

Darkness still gathering around my vision.

Dark hair against my face.

I straighten myself.

Her hold relaxes.

“You… okay?” Quiet, close.

I shake my head.

“No. But—”

A faint laugh. Tired.

“—I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me.”

Tifa lets go.

“Good.” A whisper as she turns.

I think that was as much for herself as for me.

I finally look.

Tifa is already sprinting.

Toward a monster.

One tentacle severed, still moving on the floor.

I want to throw up from the sight.

I’m still dizzy. But the fight doesn’t care.

I find my footing and reach for the Lifestream.

A tentacle swings toward Cloud. I throw up a shield—it connects, he’s thrown, but not hurt. He’s back up before I finish the breath.

I turn.

Tifa is fast. I make her faster. The Lifestream flowing through, sharpening what’s already there.

She hits harder.

Red tears into something from the side. I don’t see what. I hear it.

Barret is firing. Continuous. The sound of it filling the room.

Another tentacle. I redirect it—barely. My hands are shaking.

Tifa finds an opening and takes it. The sound of the impact is satisfying in the way only truly desperate hits can be.

Cloud drives the sword in.

The thing keeps moving.

Of course it does.

I pull the Lifestream again. And again. Each time it answers, but not as easily as before. The dizziness isn’t clearing. The noises are loud.

This is taking too long.

Everyone is still standing. That has to be enough.

I reach for my staff.

Focus. And something to lean on.

Tifa is striking.

Before I see it, I feel it.

An opening.

I channel the Lifestream. Fire. Release.

The flame hits the instant she moves away.

Not touching her.

A shriek.

The monster felt that.

Red strikes the burned spot.

Clean. Deliberate.

The monster shrieks again.

Hurting. Finally.

Cloud takes the opening—another tentacle gone while it’s off balance.

I follow Tifa. Not watching, just knowing. Her rhythm, her weight, the half-second before she moves.

She strikes. I strike.

Wailing. Louder than before.

Barret’s voice cuts through it all—he’s been going the whole fight, I just hadn’t been hearing the words.

“DAMN THING WON’T SHUT UP—JUST DROP DEAD!”

Cloud grunts something I can’t hear.

Barret fires. A full salvo, relentless.

Cloud leaps.

The bullets stop the instant the sword comes down.

The monster splits.

Silence.

Deafening.

Barret hums a victory tune. Loud and completely unashamed.

Barret approaches Cloud with hand up.

Cloud stares at it a moment.

Then a miracle happens.

He gives him a high five. It looks awkward. Maybe a bit too strong. Bit too late.

But I stare at them.

I don’t know which surprises me more. That he did it. Or the way he did it.

I spent so long trying to get a reaction out of him on the expressway.

And here he just… does it.

Awkward. Like a Chocobo who watched someone do it once and decided to try.

Kinda cute.

I will never fully understand that man.

I lean on my staff. Let out a breath.

Red sits in the middle of the room.

Tifa walks toward me.

The corpse is already dissipating.

“Jenova Dreamweaver,” Cloud says. As if naming it helps.

I don’t really care. A monster. A hard one. It’s gone.

I let go of my staff as Tifa reaches me. Instead, I take her hand.

It is cold here. But her hand is warm.

The Heir

Sound outside breaks the moment.

Loud enough through the glass.

Helicopter approaching.

Barret pauses by the desk.

Looks at the old man.

“Didn’t want it to end like that…”

He turns away.

We follow outside.

Cloud is already on one of the service towers. Climbing. His attention fixed on something above, or ahead, or somewhere none of us can see.

No time to question it.

The helicopter finishes its circle.

We can see the AVALANCHE logo on it.

Our exit.

As it approaches for landing…

BOOM.

It is shot down.

It falls into the city below.

I hope it doesn’t hurt anyone where it lands.

“NO—NO, DAMMIT! That was OURS! Those were OUR PEOPLE!” Barret is running toward the edge.

But he stops when he sees the next helicopter approach. “Shinra sons of—”

I see it too. Shinra markings.

It doesn’t even land before someone jumps out.

A man in a white suit. Shotgun resting on his shoulder like it belongs there.

Behind him, an animal. Dark—nearly black, something between blue and shadow. Moves like a dog. The tail not quite right for one.

Hellhound is the closest word I have.

Cloud jumps down from the tower.

Cloud and the man in white look at each other.

Taking measure.

Barret breaks it. His voice steadier now—not calm, but controlled.

“If it ain’t Rufus Shinra. Heir to the throne himself.”

Rufus sounds calm. Five of us against him and his hellhound, and he sounds calm.

“Interesting timing. I was just considering my first order of business.”

He pauses for a moment, looking at us.

“Who are you?”

Only Barret could make an introduction sound like a battle cry.

“I’M FROM AVALANCHE!”

Rufus’s gaze shifts.

“Cloud. Former SOLDIER, First Class.” Clipped. Precise. Trained.

Red speaks from where he sits, tail moving slowly.

“Hojo kept me for his experiments.”

“Bartender from the slums.” Tifa’s voice is quieter. Her face turned slightly away.

I move to stand beside her.

Rufus’s gaze finds me.

“Flower girl from the slums.”

That is what I will give. Not the Cetra. Not the last of the Ancients. Certainly not Hojo’s specimen.

Rufus looks us over.

“What a crew.”

He spreads his hands slightly, as if presenting a stage.

“Fitting audience for my debut.”

Then the cold smile.

“Well. I’m Rufus. The President of Shinra.”

A slow exhale, almost a sigh.

“Father left me quite the situation to sort out.”

Cloud turns to Barret.

“Take them and get outta here.” Hand already on the hilt. “I’ll buy you guys some time.”

Barret steps forward. “I could stay—back you up.”

Cloud looks at him. Just for a second.

“Barret. I’m asking you.”

A grumble. Then Barret turns.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

He gestures us to follow.

As we head inside, Rufus’s voice follows us through the door.

“A new Shinra starts tonight. Try to keep up.”

Poor Cloud. I wonder how long he listens before he swings.

The door closes behind us. The voice from the outside is cut.

Buy us time.

Right.

Part of me wanted to grab him by the collar and drag him with us.

But there was truth in it too. Someone has to hold that roof.

Mister hero.

The Long Way Down

We are inside the lobby of the president’s office.

The plan to escape through the roof is gone with the helicopter.

So, down it is.

We try for the elevator first.

Not working.

So back to the service stairs.

The ones we climbed up not long ago.

Still covered in blood.

We head to floor 69. Where we rested briefly earlier.

It takes a while, but we find the elevators.

The button works. The call goes through.

As we wait for the elevator to arrive, Barret paces. His mouth is working. No sound.

First time for everything.

Red is sitting.

“Shouldn’t’ve left him… damn it.” Barret finally says.

Red rises.

“He should not face this alone. I will go.”

And he leaps back up the stairs. Gone before anyone can respond.

“I hope they are okay.” I sigh.

Barret stops. Settles.

“You’ve seen them both in action.”

PING.

The elevator arrives.

Glass. The city outside visible through it.

The lift starts going down.

68…

I lean on the back with Tifa. Avoid looking down.

I hate heights. This is… torture.

65…

64…

63…

The quiet doesn’t last.

A massive armed drone comes into view.

Great. Another fight.

It circles around us.

Once.

Twice.

Then opens fire.

We duck.

The glass shatters around us.

Cold wind hits my face.

Barret returns fire immediately.

I reach for the Lifestream.

The floor is steel at least.

I focus on keeping us on it.

Tifa is behind me. Something comes through—not quite the Lifestream, not quite anything I have a word for. Frustration.

It dawns on me—she has nothing to hit here.

Barret’s bullets find the drone but don’t find purchase. Sparks. No damage.

Even Barret sounds smaller up here.

“WILL YOU JUST GO DOWN ALREADY, YOU DAMN TIN CAN!?”

I keep the Lifestream up.

I won’t be able to hold this all the way down.

No solution in sight.

All this fighting.

Barely anything to eat.

The drain is physical now. Not just the Lifestream—everything.

I hold the barriers.

But I don’t know how long.

The wind whistles in my ears along the bullets.

I close my eyes to concentrate.

“Damn thing’s tougher than it looks—just break already!”

Even Barret sounds quieter.

More noise. More sparks. No damage.

Sparks.

Even I know enough about drones. They don’t like sparks on the inside.

“Barret. The vents,” I guide.

Barret shifts his aim.

Please work…

The different angle doesn’t drop the drone. But interrupts it.

Long enough for the bullets to stop.

I let the barrier go.

Reach for the Lifestream.

Spark. Lightning.

Inside the drone.

Lightning strikes.

Once.

Twice.

The drone tries to aim at us.

But I spot smoke from the vents.

The drone starts falling, its bullets flying harmlessly away.

I fall back.

Straight into her arms.

I let her hold me.

Floor 20.

Almost there.

“I’ve got you,” she says quietly.

Barret looks down the edge, and throws his gun arm up.

“HAH! FINALLY! SHOULD’VE DROPPED TEN SHOTS AGO!”

I lean on her until we reach the bottom.

Floor 3.

PING.

The lobby.

We take the last stairs to ground level.

Look around.

At the back—an exhibit showroom. Cars. Motorcycles. Locomotive parts on display.

Shinra, proudly showing off its achievements.

“We could drive away…” I start. “But where to? Where would we go?”

Tifa answers quietly.

“Anywhere that isn’t here. We just need to get you safe first.”

Barret doesn’t hear it. He’s already stomping toward the pickup.

“Don’t matter where—long as it ain’t HERE!”

Barret starts the engine. Drives it straight off the display stand.

Red arrives at a run. Doesn’t stop.

“Cloud is on his way. Do not wait for him.”

I let out a breath I have held since the top.

They are okay.

Red lands on the pickup bed without breaking stride.

The pickup is the only one, and it isn’t large.

Tifa pulls me toward a motorcycle.

She swings on, starts it, motions me to follow.

I hesitate.

The engine runs so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts anymore.

What is she planning? It doesn’t matter. I trust her.

I get on. Take hold of her. The engine vibrates like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

Barret drives straight through the glass wall.

Drops to the highway below.

Really? I hope she…

Tifa follows.

I scream.

The air. The fall.

Thud.

Then the road.

The Chase

Barret accelerates.

Tifa follows.

I hold on.

The wind hits like a wall. Our hair goes everywhere. The road is a blur beneath us, the city streaking past in lines of light.

I can’t tell if I’m terrified or alive for the first time in days.

Maybe both.

The world is a blur. Even the voices are drowned under the sound of the engine vibrating under us.

I glance behind.

But we are not fast enough.

Shinra mobile unit closes in on us.

Barret falls back slightly behind us.

Then his gun arm starts spinning. Firing while steering, the pickup sliding wide with every correction.

Red hanging off the back, claws holding on the truck, teeth finding anything that gets close.

Tifa slows just enough. We fall in behind the pickup.

“Aeris!” she yells over the roar of the engine.

I know what I have to do.

One hand on Tifa. Holding her like my life depends on it.

And it does.

I turn slightly so I can see behind us. I reach for the Lifestream.

I don’t aim at the drivers.

Ice across the road. Vehicles slide, spin, lose control.

Fire into the engines. Something catches. Something stops.

Earth—sharp, sudden, rising through the asphalt. Tires shred.

One by one the pursuit falls away.

Behind us, the highway looks like a junkyard.

I collapse against the warmth of her back.

Then another motorcycle.

Not Shinra.

Cloud is catching up.

He looks like he’s out for a leisure ride.

Through the junk.

The Storm

Cloud slows to match us.

Then a Shinra helicopter comes into view. Turning toward us.

Before it can open fire, the storm hits.

Wind first. Then lightning—one bolt, direct, the helicopter smoking and veering off.

The winds keep building.

It feels unnatural.

The Lifestream itself feels wrong.

The helicopters further away are retreating.

The winds grow stronger. Sharper.

We are speeding through it.

The roads themselves start twisting.

I hold on to Tifa with everything I have.

I close my eyes.

But I can’t close my ears to the Planet.

It screams.

It always does.

But not like this.

A black feather.

I want to scream.

I feel the blade through me.

I fight against it.

“Sephiroth,” I whisper.

Nobody hears it.

Not through the engine.

Not through the wind.

Another sensation.

Cold.

Empty.

The Whispers.

I hold on to her.

The warmth of her back against me.

Tears in my eyes.

Then it changes.

The winds drop.

The roads stabilize.

The dread. The fear. The hunger. The exhaustion.

All of it tied together in one tight knot.

But relief too.

Still here.

I open my eyes.

Look behind.

The Whispers are storming over one place.

More of them than I have ever seen gathered.

Far away.

I know what they are. I know their purpose.

What they did there—I don’t know. But it needed all of them.

And the city.

At least parts of it.

Are in ruins.

Then I feel it.

The brakes.

The engine changes under us.

We slide sideways.

I look forward.

End of the road.

The pickup already stopped there.

We stop right next to it.

The air smells like burned rubber.

Tifa turns the bike off.

Vibrations stop.

The world is quiet again.

I let out a breath I have been holding.

But I don’t let go of her.

Feels like we did just ride through the end of the world.

Exit from Midgar

The end of an unfinished highway. Above the plate, outside the walls.

High up. The city behind us.

A day of fighting behind us.

Cloud is holding his head.

For a moment, nobody moves.

The storm has cleared.

Leaving the sky dark with the approaching night.

Barret gets up from the pickup.

“So… what the hell now?”

“Sephiroth is alive.” Cloud states it like a fact he’s been carrying. “I have to settle the score.”

Three times now. Three times he’s said that name like it belongs to him.

Barret is loud. Almost angry.

“An’ that’s supposed to fix the damn Planet!?”

“…Feels like it’s the only way,” Cloud responds quietly.

Barret exhales hard. Shoulders drop.

“Hell. Fine. I’m in. Somebody’s gotta watch your ass.”

Tifa slides off the bike.

“Guess this is goodbye to Midgar.”

She turns to me.

“You coming?”

I fumble off the bike. Her hand finds mine, keeping me up.

I look back.

The ruins. Shinra Tower in the distance.

“Guess I have no option.”

I manage a small smile.

Two ruined dresses. Gil won’t do us much good out here. Cloud and Barret armed, at least.

Red, who famously has no pockets.

Night approaching. The city full of enemies behind us.

No food. No shelter. No plan.

Barret has started rummaging through the pickup.

At least someone is thinking about it.

“FINALLY! Somethin’ that ain’t tryin’ to kill us!”

A backpack lands on the road.

Someone’s survival gear. A couple of heated blankets. First aid kit. Outdoor stove. Some canned food.

He puts it all back in.

I avoid the edge. I certainly don’t look down.

“This is the point of no return,” I say. To nobody in particular.

Barret somehow fits the backpack around his massive frame and starts down the service ladder.

I finally look.

A platform below. Not so far.

Red jumps. Lands clean.

Cloud follows on the ladder.

Tifa sees my hesitation.

“Don’t look down. Just look at me. One step at a time, okay?”

I sigh.

I guess there really are no options.

“Okay.”

I start down. Eyes up. On her.

Awkward. But it works.

Soon I’m on the platform.

Tifa climbs down last.

Barret, Red and Cloud are already gone.

A steel cable tied to a crane. Leading all the way down from the plate level.

No way…

“Ready?” she asks.

I shake my head.

But I place my hand on the cable.

She wraps herself around me. Tight. The cable between us.

Pushes us off.

We slide.

I almost scream. My eyes are closed.

But her presence is there.

I would never have thought I would be sliding a cable down from Midgar plate.

Yet here I am. And not alone.

I calm a bit in her steady hands.

Soon we hit the ground. Softly enough.

More tears in the dresses from the cable. But alive.

The Wasteland

We are down here. On the ground. No more steel floors or paved roads. Dirt. Mud. Gravel.

And my heels are sinking in.

The air smells more familiar. Dusty. With a hint of smog and metal.

Almost like home. The slums, the garden. Almost.

It is getting truly dark. Night falling in full.

The city lights behind us still give enough to see by.

“We need to go,” Cloud says. Already walking.

Does he ever stop?

But he is right. Shinra is after us. And maybe some other forces too.

We follow.

The place is lifeless. A wasteland. The Mako reactors have drained everything out of it—the soil, the air, whatever used to grow here.

Only monsters live in what’s left.

The soft ground and high heels are a painful combination.

Yet, I have to press on.

The path joins the road to Kalm.

We follow the road.

As good a destination as any.

The quiet is heavy. Even Barret has stopped talking.

Tifa takes my hand.

My feet are aching. The sandal straps biting into my skin with every step.

My stomach growls. Loud enough that anyone paying attention would hear.

The paved road is easier than the wasteland. But these heels were not made for this.

The wind is cold.

I shiver.

The city lights fading behind us.

No sign of the next destination ahead.

No pursuit.

No Shinra.

No Sephiroth.

No Whispers.

“Stop,” I call out finally.

“I can’t take another step. I need to eat.” I look at Cloud. “And I’m going to freeze in this torn dress.”

“But—” Cloud starts.

I cut him off before he gets another word out.

“If you love walking around in heels so much, let’s swap shoes.”

Tifa chuckles.

Cloud stops.

Maybe he still remembers.

“Fine.” Cloud looks back the way we came. “Seems safe. For now.”

“Spiky?” Barret starts.

Cloud stops him. “She’s right.”

Barret just nods. Something in him slumps.

Even him.

Cloud, Barret and Red take a look around.

They move around a bit. Never far. Seeing each other.

But certainly searching.

After a bit, Red motions us to follow.

Not many words.

Either we all are too tired. Or too scared.

He found a spot off the road. Some rocks for shelter from the wind.

Others provide flat surface to sit and lie on.

The Break

I drop on a stone. Take off my sandals.

Cloud and Red check the place and head off.

“We need fire,” Cloud says.

So they are off to find something to burn I guess.

Without my sandals biting me, I fall on my back.

I look up.

The sky. The stars.

Not the steel plate.

The real sky.

It makes me feel so small.

Barret puts the bag down and starts going through it.

Tifa sits next to me.

Yawns.

Even she is tired.

How do Cloud and Red have all that energy still?

The mysteries I will never understand.

The only sounds are Barret rustling through the items and our heavy breathing.

The stars and half of a moon up there are our only light.

A whole world out here. And it already feels like too much.

I look at Tifa.

In many ways.

Cloud and Red return with some dry wood.

They build a fire with quick, practiced precision.

A small camp takes shape.

Barret finishes with the bag.

“Ain’t much…” he says, looking over what he has sorted out. “But it’ll do.”

He throws a heated blanket to me and Tifa.

I sit up. Look there.

Some canned food. A couple of water bottles.

Some basic cooking utilities.

Tifa takes a bottle and a can for us.

The fire starts to warm the air. Blanket around us. Her warmth beside me. Dried food and water.

It feels almost like luxury.

Eating from the can with fingers. Sharing the water bottle.

The hunger eases. The shivering stops finally. My feet hurt still, but sitting down helps.

Barret paces. Grumbles at the sky.

“You two get some sleep. I ain’t closin’ my eyes anyway.”

“Right,” I reply quietly.

I take a look around the camp.

Cloud has gone out of sight.

Brooding? Resting? Keeping an eye out? He just vanished, so hard to say.

Barret sits down on a rock near Red. Starts scratching behind Red’s ear.

Only Red’s tail moves. Slow, conflicted rhythm.

Empty can licked clean.

I notice the empty can in my hands. I put it down near the fire.

Might come in useful later.

Tifa and I position better on the rock so we find somewhat flat ground to lie on.

Tangled together, the blanket tied around us.

Outside is cold. But inside, it is warm.

“Good night, Tifa,” I whisper.

“Good night,” she replies.

I close my eyes.

I smell the air around. The burning wood. The sewers. Sweat.

But also a trace of something sweeter. Vanilla. And something bitter.

Coffee?

I slip into the dreams.