Chapter Text
“I guess we’re getting a pretty nasty thunderstorm later on tonight. Something about a flood watch?”
It’s a nice day. Zack isn’t too fond of summer—it’s a bit too buggy and hot for his tastes—but the sky’s a deep, cloudless opal and the midday light looks nice trickling in through the prodigious windows. Cicadas chirp cheerfully from the trees that outline the front lawn, and the slow, lazy curve of the lilac mountains is a breathtaking sight in the distance.
Zack sighs contentedly. He’s gotten plenty of sleep in the past day or so, his usual anxieties curbed by the promise of a familiar, extravagant roof over his head and a plush mattress under his sore back.
The speckled lavender duvet cascading over the bed frame had been impeccably soft, too. In some spots, it still held the near-invisible traces of light, pleasant jasmine perfume. Not the exact scent he would’ve picked for himself, but it’d been good enough. Didn’t hinder the immersion one bit.
Up until now, he’s had the entire house to himself, which has given him more than enough time to truly appreciate the architectural care that’s gone into a property such as this one—a country home, lots of privacy, the only intrusive noise an occasional shout from one of the energetic kids that live down the street. There’s two of them, loved very dearly by their father, who works long days and only ever returns at the crack of dawn the next morning.
They’re the only neighbors in the vicinity. Virtually quiet, too, and peaceful, which Zack greatly appreciates.
He quietly gazes out over the veranda, cigarette dully lit and cindering between his lips. He takes one final, gentle drag and then stubs it out in the glass ashtray to his left.
Zack’s outlined by the wide frame of two french doors, which are pushed open to let in the light breeze. The stereo is still playing one of the old CDs that Zack found in the beautiful cherry wood armoire. He’s not familiar with the vocalist, but the guy’s got a nice voice, kind of weathered and crackly around the edges. Zack listens. He hums softly and takes a sip of his lemon iced tea.
“I will say, Midgar never quite gets hit as hard as my hometown did when I was little. Back in Gongaga we’d get hit with sheets of rain, real thick shit. We’d lose power for days at a time.”
Zack tilts his head as he revisits the memory. His mom used to sit him down in the living room and teach him how to play cards, their only light source a dying grey sun. Back then they’d had nothing but each other, but to a kid it all felt easy. Sometimes Zack has days where he can’t remember his life before Shinra, and sometimes he’ll play mental reruns of his mom’s tired laugh until it’s hard to think of anything else.
The sunlight bounces off his glass, his fingers wrapped loosely ‘round the rim, and he glances down interestedly at the engagement band wrapped around his finger. Pretty thing, blue diamond, .75 carat. Probably one of his dumber decisions in retrospect, but he’s always been so soft for the color blue. It fits on his finger like fate meant it so.
Then, his eyes flicker towards the darker part of the sky, where distant storm clouds have begun to congregate into a dark grey mass. Zack sighs. He sets down his tea. The ice clinks mildly against the glass. He turns around.
The man staring back at him is hogtied like a gutted deer. He’s already lost six fingers to Zack’s paring knife, and thick scarlet has already begun to mat the white carpet beneath him like wine. His face is haggard and bloodied, and there’s an awful gurgle underneath his breathing. It’s obvious that he’s already begun to die, anyone with eyes could see that, and Zack suspects one of his lungs has collapsed. Internal bleeding too. Probably. Hard to avoid it, what with the four kicked-in ribs.
He’s from Avalanche. That’s the only detail that matters.
“Your wife’s bed was plenty comfortable,” Zack tells his target. He used to number them, back when he was a rookie. About two years ago, he lost count somewhere around 500 and didn’t have the heart to start over. “So was the vibe under her pillow. Made it real easy to pretend they were both mine.”
His target makes a pitiful sound. It’s obvious he wants to say something, but it’s hard, considering his tongue’s hanging from his mouth by a filament. Zack could’ve cut it off fully, but then he would’ve had to think of some presentation for it, and last night’s deep sleep has left him kinda lazy. So instead, Zack gathers his things from the coffee table. He grabs a map from the side pocket of his rucksack. Then, while he’s there, he dotingly packs up the kilo of coke he’d found tucked away in the medicine cabinet.
Later, maybe. He’s not supposed to, but after three days of squatting he’s finally finished, another mission successful, and that’s grounds for celebrating, right? The realization makes Zack impossibly giddy. He unhooks his Nighthawk from its holster, checks the silencer, and then languidly makes his way over to where his target’s now barely breathing at all.
Zack frowns. He pokes him with the toe of his boot. His target lets out an exhausted whimper, and Zack grins. “Awesome,” he says sunnily. “Thought you tapped out on me.”
He squats down to his target’s level. Down here it smells like blood and fear and slow-creeping death. Distantly, Zack wonders if he has enough time to grab a grinder on the way back to HQ. He unfurls the map and lays it out about four inches away from his target’s face.
“You should recognize this, you terrorist fucker,” regards Zack warmly. “It’s a map of Midgar. Now, I’m looking for a certain special guy, and you’re hoping that I put you out of your misery. I think we can come to a very satisfying compromise here. And I know it’ll be hard for you to speak— I know,” he adds, sympathetically, as his target lets out another pleading whimper, “But really, all I need is a little hum. Tell me which sector my Strife is hiding in, and I’ll put a bullet right up into your brain that’ll be sure to kill you quick.”
Zack doesn’t wait for an answer. He taps the pale green box depicting Sector Zero with the tip of his finger. His target’s eyes have almost fully closed at this point, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s from fatigue or resignation. Zack makes sure to tap it loudly so that his target can keep count. “Zero,” he mutters helpfully. Counts to three, and then patiently glides his finger lower. “One.” Lower. “Two.” Even lower. “Three. …Four. …Five, are we getting any warmer? No? You’re not holding out on me, right?”
Sector Six, and still his target doesn’t utter a single noise. Zack puffs out a breath, fanning his dark bangs away from his eyes. He hovers over Sector Seven, taps, and—
—his target’s breath whistles. Zack glances his way. “Seven?”
Nothing. Zack leans over and tucks the barrel of his Nighthawk snugly underneath his target’s chin. His target makes a soft, appreciative sound. Something in Zack’s gut warms possessively at the sound of it.
“Strife’s here in the city,” he summarizes for his target. “Last seen in Sector Seven. Am I right?”
There’s a shaky purl. It’s a hell of a noise.
Zack sucks his teeth.
“If I bring this information all the way back to Shinra, and it turns out you’re lying to me,” Zack begins gently, “if you make me look like an idiot in front of my superiors, I will slit my own throat and come looking for you, man. I’ll make the devil look like a caretaker. You’ll wish I had left you alive here on the floor.”
His target swallows. Tries to. Zack quietly watches ruddied saliva trail down his chin.
“So, Seven?” he asks patiently. “You swear?”
His target jerks his head in a quick, curt yes.
Zack angles his gun and promptly unloads a single bullet into his brain. His body doesn’t jolt at the muffled sound of it anymore, hasn’t in years, but his heart rolls lazily like it remembers what it must’ve been like.
The moment his target’s dead, Zack relaxes. He releases the corpse like an old receipt. Crosses the room to swipe up his glass of iced tea, and as he polishes it off, he slips his pager from his bag and taps out a single message to Angeal:
got it. stopping for lunch. want anything?
When Cloud jerks his bike into the parking garage, haphazardly and between two spaces, he’s wholly unsurprised to look up and see the sleek, black car already waiting for him. Cid’s in the front seat, arm halfway out the window, wisping cigarette snagged between his fingers.
Cloud drags his hand through his blond spikes. He quietly makes his way over to the car and slips into the backseat. It’s dark inside, air conditioner blasting on max. Tifa’s tapping away at her phone, legs crossed, black sunglasses perched on her nose.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up. Cloud barely has the door shut behind him before Cid starts pulling out of the garage.
Cloud doesn’t bother buckling himself in. He sits stiffly against the leather seats. “Got caught up with something.”
“Caught up with what?”
“Errands,” Cloud explains curtly, and that’s the end of the conversation. Tifa doesn’t exactly sigh, but she doesn’t look satisfied, either.
Nobody speaks the entire way to Avalanche.
They used to be friends once, Tifa and him. Perks of being countryside next-door neighbors. But then Tifa moved to Midgar and Cloud took too long to catch up. Years of being a silent watcher has taught Cloud to keep his mouth shut—it comes as a comfort, at this point—so that’s what he does. When Tifa kindly thanks Cid and ducks out of the car, Cloud follows without a sound.
Silent, they walk into Avalanche’s main building. Cloud glances around, takes quiet inventory of the new decorations. There’s a spiky plant by the front desk now, and they’ve gotten a new receptionist. For the most part though, everything’s as dreary and dark-lit as he remembers.
They go to the elevator.
“I’m really sticking my neck out for you, you know,” Tifa mutters once the doors have slid fully shut. “This is a big job. You could’ve at least shown up on time.”
Cloud keeps his arms folded over his chest. He leans one shoulder against the wall. “Sorry.”
Tifa scoffs. “No, you’re not.”
He’s not. Cloud absentmindedly watches the floor numbers glow in slow succession. The elevator sways lightly around them.
“M’not doing this to make friends,” he says mildly. “Need the money. You need the body.”
“You’ll be lucky if Barret doesn’t fire you on the spot.”
“Got someone else lined up for the job?” Cloud asks, pleasantly derisive, and that makes Tifa’s lips thin into a tight line.
The elevator lets out a cheery ping. The doors slide open. Tifa steps out first, and Cloud follows like a shadow.
Barret’s office is on the twelfth floor. Not a ton of lighting up here, and it reeks of old wood and tobacco. Tifa leads them around the corner, her carmine gaze sticking straight ahead, and Cloud trails behind her with a frown.
In passing, he peers into side rooms with doors carelessly cracked open. He only catches glimpses of the people inside them, all rough-hewn with glinting eyes like hungry animals. Some have been listening for approaching footsteps and level Cloud’s gaze with a darkness that sends shivers down his spine.
Over the years he’s grown used to the slums, this caged womb of shadow. Sector Seven’s about as hopeless as they come—it has an affixed talent of eating people alive and leaving them with nothing but bone and marrow.
Vacantly, Cloud stares back.
They stop in front of Barret’s office. Low muttering travels from underneath an imperceptible space under the door, and Cloud studies the fractures of dull light seeping from within.
Tifa delivers two sharp raps.
The muttering stops. There’s a gruff voice on the other side. “Come in.”
She steps inside. Cloud sticks close.
Five months ago, when all that mattered to Cloud was finding something to stop the petulant cramping of his starving body—long after he could remember sleeping upon something soft, even longer since he cared whether or not the people looking upon him saw a mad dog or a human being—it had been Tifa who found him.
He doesn’t care to remember anything about it. Tifa’s always had a knack for taking in strays, and Cloud has—unfortunately—been one that she’s known for years. Her wing had been pure and golden, maybe faintly weathered by the weight of her heart, and Cloud fit under it like a leech.
But back then, that was all he cared to be. She’d offered him the blood of her soul and he’d damn near sucked her dry.
It pisses him off sometimes. Cloud doesn’t even know her birthday.
“You’re late,” says the man at the desk.
The tetchy tone draws in Cloud’s attention like a magnet. His gaze flicks across the room—small, two-toned brown, most of the place consumed by a roughhewn, scarred man sitting and smoking a cigarette on a torn beige settee—and then lands, succinctly, on the other man in the room: Barret Wallace.
He looks no different from the pictures. His glower is cold, although not entirely unforgiving. It’s aimed directly at Cloud.
“Sorry.” Tifa licks uneasily over her bottom lip. “We were late to pick-up. I—”
“Wasn’t talking to you,” says Barret.
The back of Cloud’s neck prickles hotly.
After it becomes obvious he has absolutely no intent to apologize, the other man—nothing but a second voice, a body, an unwanted guest—lets out a low bark of a laugh. He taps the butt of his cigarette; cinders fly. The stench of tobacco makes Cloud wrinkle his nose.
On the next drag, the man levels Cloud’s gaze. He holds out a carton of cigarettes and gives it a single shake, like beckoning a dog with a bag of treats.
Cloud’s frown deepens. The man grins, meanly. Tension stretches throughout the room like a taut rubber band.
“Dyne,” says Barret.
With a roll of his eyes, the man—Dyne—puts down the carton. He plucks the cigarette from between his lips and blows out a plume.
Cloud briefly fantasizes about stripping him of a few fingernails.
“You know how to talk?” Barret asks.
“Sure,” Cloud says. “Not very good at it.”
“Let’s get straight to it, then.” Barret tugs open a drawer below his desk and pulls free a manila folder. He holds it out in Cloud’s direction, expectant, and after a beat, Cloud steps forward and accepts it.
He hasn’t been in this line of work for long. Took a few jobs here and there for the chance at some pocket money. And he’s had some close calls with death, sure, but the good thing about having a broken soul is that Cloud has nothing left to lose.
He’s got no friends. No family. Nothing and no one to go home to.
Still, something in his stomach sinks when he stares down at the lack of information in his target’s folder. No identification tags, no documents, no passports—nothing.
Cloud slides a finger under the barren sheet of paper. Underneath, he finds a fake ID with his own picture on the front.
He looks at Barret.
Barret scoffs. “S’all I got for ya. Fair’s a goddamn ghost.”
“He’s a master assassin,” Cloud says. “Everyone’s scared shitless of him. Don’t need a piece of paper to tell me that.”
“You still up for the job, then?”
The fact that Avalanche has nothing on the guy is slightly disconcerting, yes, especially considering how high risk the operation is bound to be. But Cloud can’t find it in himself to be intimidated.
He has nothing. And the bottom line is, Fair’s just a man.
“Flesh is flesh,” Cloud says.
Barret frowns. He directs his attention to Tifa, who’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. “So you’re sure—”
“Cloud’s the best chance we have,” Tifa strains. “Barret, think about it. How many people from Avalanche are willing to hunt down the most harrowing assassin on Shinra’s team?”
“Well—”
“Exactly. You’d be out of your mind to even consider going after Fair. But Cloud’s crazy enough to go right in, fists swinging.”
“I’m just doing it for the paycheck,” Cloud weighs in. “Heard that killing Fair offers an insane reward.”
“It does,” Barret grunts. “But that’s only if you’re able to locate him and then eliminate him, no holds barred. Listen, kid, the only reason I’m offerin’ this job to you in the first place is ‘cause Tifa gave you a shinin’ recommendation.” He pauses. “Well. That, and you’re the only one stupid enough to do it. But once you accept this mission, there’s no turnin’ back. If Fair takes you out, it’s no skin off my ass. The only thing I’m losin’ is a body. Capiche?”
“Whatever.”
Barret stares at him. He turns to Tifa. “Kid’s outta his fuckin’ gourd.”
Tifa nods. “I told you.”
“There’s something else, too.” Barret rests his head back against his seat. “Allegedly, Fair’s been stationed here in Midgar. We got intel that the asshole just got back from takin’ down one of ours in Bordeaux. Before that the guy was runnin’ laps in Tokyo. Point bein’ he hasn’t been this close to us in a while. This might be our best chance to flag ‘em. And while Cloud makes a pretty hunting dog, I think we’d have better odds if we sent in a remote team to back ’em. There’ll be no contact, of course. But my men’ll be less likely to run if they’re not the ones lookin’ Fair in the face.”
Cloud folds his arms. “You don’t think I can do it on my own?”
“By your lonesome? Hell no,” Barret says. “And if we have any chance at all of takin’ this fucker down, I wanna cash in.” He gives Cloud a quiet, purposeful once-over. “Can’t say I trust you to do the job, either. Tifa may like you, but that don’t mean I do.”
Cloud frowns.
“Tifa.” Barret shifts his gaze in the brunette’s direction. “I think it’d be a good idea if you went with ‘em.”
Tifa watches him carefully. Her lips press together with maybe the slightest hint of concern.
“I need someone to keep tabs on him,” he continues. “From a distance, anyhow. Make sure he doesn’t go spreadin’ Avalanche’s business just ‘cause he’s got a bone to pick with the system or whatever.” He gives Cloud a momentary glance. “Also… I wanna make sure he’s got an extra pair of eyes lookin’ out for him. The kid’s never taken an assignment like this before. Don’t want him dyin’ senselessly.”
“Thought the only thing you’d be losing is a body,” Cloud quips.
“Shut up, asshole.”
In the corner, Tifa shifts her weight between her feet, and Cloud takes a moment to process the momentary void in his chest where guilt should be.
She doesn’t have to do this.
She doesn’t have to risk her life to help keep his own afloat.
But she will. It’s nothing he can stop, nothing he can change.
So why try?
Grasping at the emptiness of this realization gives him no indication of where the sympathy has gone, or what it once felt like—for some reason, when he tries to force the guilt, all he can summon is the memory of an empty stomach.
“I’ll do it,” Tifa says, easily. “But you gotta station me somewhere I can keep my hands busy.”
Barret hums. He rubs a palm over his chin. “There’s a bar on one of the main streets,” he tells her. “Bit of a dump, but m’sure we can figure somethin’ out.”
“Perfect.”
He nods. “Glad we understand each other. Now, there’s gonna be a banquet over at Wall Market in three days, hosted by none other than President shittin’ Shinra. We’re already sendin’ some people in to do the dirty work, but Cloud, I want you there too, if needed. Your ID should get you in fine. Maybe you’ll run into Fair, too, if you’re lucky.” A chuckle. “It’d make your job pretty damn easy.”
Cloud doesn’t find it funny. “Where am I gonna be staying?”
“What do you mean?”
“During the mission.”
“Figure it out.”
Cloud opens his mouth. He closes it. Anxiety worms its way into the pit of his stomach.
“Could he stay with me?” Tifa asks.
Barret shakes his head. “Under no circumstance will the two of you interact once you’re in there. Huge fuckin’ liability.”
A flare of anger stokes Cloud’s core.
“How the hell do you expect me to track down Shinra’s most lethal assassin if I don’t even have a damn place to crash?” he demands.
“This is your first mission,” Barret replies, unamused. “I ain’t gonna spend thousands of dollars for you to hole yourself up somewhere just ‘cause it’s your first taste of freedom. But tell you what: m’in a good mood. I’ll send you in with enough money for food, maybe a few nights at a hotel down in one of the lower sectors. The rest you can figure out.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Not my problem.” Barret levels his gaze. “You want special privileges, Strife? Earn ‘em.”
Dusk kisses a bruised plum sky as Zack steps out for a smoke.
It’s colder than he thought it’d be tonight. People wander the city streets in droves, most of ‘em having just returned from trips to vacant countrysides where you can better see dying leaves and garden variety pumpkins.
Down the street someone lays on their horn; a man bellows a slur out his car window.
Zack cups a big, calloused hand around the dull flame of his lighter.
Pretty thing. 1950s. Frisked off an older target who favored trenchcoats and Lucky Strikes. He can’t remember what the guy looked like, or why he’d been assigned to Zack. His blood had smelled the same as the others. Bones were just as weak.
Luminescent light shines against the damp asphalt. As Zack takes a drag of his last cigarette, he tips his head back and gazes up at the grandiose winding staircases leading up to Shinra’s annual banquet.
Laughter reaches him, but none of it’s real. His neck feels cold.
Zack’s not a huge fan of hand-rolled tobacco. Never has been. Thing is, there are lots of people who will tell you that the additives make this kinda cigarette taste better, with all the flavorings and blends and shit—but they’re all rough on the throat. None of ‘em hold a candle to menthol.
Zack finishes the cigarette. It takes a good minute.
Here—away from the crowds, secluded by the dumpsters, his only company is the moon. She watches him pinch the burnt cigarette between his fingers and peel its layers away, bit by bit, until he’s found the tightly wound shred of foil wrapped inside.
He unfurls the foil.
The note waiting for him inside is nothing but a short string of numbers. He memorizes the coordinates, flicks the cigarette to the dirt, slides the note back over his tongue and swallows it whole.
As he heads up to the banquet, Zack’s already mapping out where the coordinates will lead him this time around. Straight into the lap of another Avalanche informant, no doubt. Another stubborn mouth, another throat to cut. It’s tedious fucking work. But hopefully they’ll bring him one step closer to Strife.
It helps, maybe, that he’s not just in it for the money.
The paychecks are great, sure. But Zack doesn’t spend a lot, especially not with how many assignments he receives. After sorting through stacks upon stacks of new flags, the last thing he wants to do is waste a sliver of free time shopping when he could be resting his feet before the new one comes in.
He supposes money is useful to build a savings, to help with bills. But Zack’s never really needed to worry about rent either, because working for Shinra means that he sleeps in the same cot every single night under their roof.
It’s just this: there’s an honor that comes with snuffing out lowlife pieces of shit. Especially when Shinra goes to such great lengths to deliver each one in a pretty little file, all with minimal information, leaving Zack with the righteous task of sniffing them out within a week.
He’s like a dog, one of the higher-ups had laughed once during a meeting—years and years ago. Zack had maybe been around eighteen at the time. You throw a bone for him, no matter how far the distance, and he’ll bring that shit back in minutes, Hewley, tail wagging so fuckin’ fast you’d miss it if you blinked.
Zack had said nothing. Back then he didn’t talk much. But he’d watched the guy’s Adam’s apple bob around and had faintly—amusedly—remembered just how easy it was to carve one from someone’s throat.
Now, something acrid burns at the back of Zack’s as he accepts a flute of champagne at the door. As he takes a sip, tasting notes of fig and plum dance across the back of his tongue.
1985 Cheval Blanc. A bit dusty for his tastes. The residual hint of cigar smoke makes Zack crave another cigarette—a luxury he can no longer indulge on.
There’s no real reason for it. He hates smoking during missions. Something about it feels karmic—like he’ll fail if he brings any sort of familiarity with him.
It makes him antsy. He fidgets with his cufflink. Polishes off the flute and swipes up another.
“Zack,” says a low voice in his earpiece.
“Mm.”
“All the guests have arrived. Everything still clear on the inside?”
He keeps his voice low. “Still too soon to tell.”
“How’s the wine?”
“Fruity.”
“You can thank the president’s son for that one. Guess he selected it himself.”
“By the gods,” Zack mumbles. “Cheval Blanc?”
“He’s not shy about spending his father’s money.”
“I guess not.”
“Although you’re one to talk… how much did you just put down on that fucking house, again?”
“Tseng picked it out.”
“But you still signed the paperwork.”
“I think I’ve exhausted the shitty rooms and abandoned factories. You heard ‘em—this mission should be a cinch. Shinra can rent the damn place out after I’m done. Call it a premeditated favor.” He pauses, for a moment, to ogle the shaved glass chandelier looming from the ceiling. “Tseng said it’d help me blend in.”
“Living in a big house all by your lonesome?” asks Angeal. Zack has nothing interesting to say in response. There’s a light chuckle on the other end, and then, “Shit, Zack, if he wants you to take the family man route, you might as well find someone looking for company. Get yourself a wife, maybe. People do it all the time to keep their cover.”
Zack watches the slow swirl of couples as they lead each other across the ballroom floor. Their wide smiles, the swaying of their bodies as they come together in an affectionate sine flow—the subtext of love is all there, but nothing about it excites him.
He was sixteen when he joined Shinra. Whoever he was before then no longer exists. His adolescence, his dreams, his identity—he traded it all away for the sake of doing something good for the world. Traded it away to be a hero.
He’s never been in love. There’s never been a point.
Zack scoffs. “Reckon Shinra would send me one?”
“Doubt it.”
“Think I’ll pass, then.”
Their conversation tapers off. In a way, Zack’s grateful for the quiet. The banquet’s gone smoothly so far, but with so many Shinra executives gathered in one place, so many of them inebriated and clueless and adorned as sweetly as sitting ducks can be—really, Zack thinks stupid is the only word for it.
It’s only a matter of time until Avalanche shows. That’s how it always goes, anyhow. Terrorists show; Shinra knocks ‘em dead. The only difference this time is that Zack’s manning two missions at once.
Strife. Shame he has no idea what the guy even looks like. Zack was hoping his assignment would make things easy for him.
Another craving hits. This one’s hard.
With a short grunt, Zack slips a jolly rancher from his pocket and pops it between his teeth.
It’s only expected that the overlapping wave of noise starts to get on his nerves. Zack coasts for a few minutes more—double-checking that all the right men are in the right places, flashing lazy grins to executives who don’t care to remember his name half the time (but who could blame them, really, he uses so many), briefly getting pulled into an Italian conversation with an exec’s wife who’s almost too drunk to hold it—and then, flute in hand, he escapes the ballroom.
The din of the banquet is immediately, graciously, muffled by the doors.
It’s cool in the hallway. Zack doesn’t relax, he hasn’t the time, but breathing does come a bit easier. He sips his wine. He starts towards the sliding doors that’ll bring him to the terrace.
“‘Geal,” he says.
His in-ear crackles to life instantly. “Yeah.”
“M’headed out for a sec. All clear inside.”
“I see you.” A pause; a curt laugh. Zack can just see him, sitting there at his desk, watching the tracker blip along the grid. “Don’t tell me you’re taking a smoke break.”
“No.” Zack only feels more irritated as he pulls open the door. “When the time comes, though, I’ll kill for it.”
“You’re hilarious.”
There’s a chill in the air when he steps out onto the terrace. Down in the city, horns honk and sharp orbs of industrial light swallow up the world. Above his head, the sky is bleak and dark and starless. Zack breathes in the crisp fall air, the stagnant city pollution he’s grown noseblind to.
He rolls the blue hard candy along his tongue. When it dissolves completely, he washes down its sweet, sticky taste with red wine. He goes to grab another from his pocket. He comes up empty.
Fuck.
Zack meanders towards the edge of the terrace. Here the world has gone blissfully still, and here Zack braces his arms against the iron railing overlooking the city and stares down at the ocean of insects swimming on the streets below. He watches a woman hail a taxi; watches a homeless man curl up under a ratty old blanket; watches a couple walk side by side.
No matter where he goes, the world around him stays the same. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. He’s never figured out why.
Zack exhales. Then he looks to his left.
A man stands about twenty feet away. Perched on the wrong side of the railing, dressed in black from head to toe, pale fingers of one hand lazily looped through the rungs. His head lolls back, gazing up with distaste at the hollow, invisible stars, and the wind runs cruel fingers through spikes of platinum blond.
By one hand, he hangs over the city like an anvil.
Zack’s flute slips from his hand. It surges to the streets below and shatters, too far away for either of them to hear it.
The blond’s fingers—slender, beautiful as they are wicked—loosen around the iron. His blue eyes are indifferent and calculated as he searches for a single pinprick of white in the grey. His body breezes over the precipice.
The world around Zack screams to an abrupt stop.
The blond’s lips part.
Zack runs.
The wind howls like bloodflow as Zack darts to him. He doesn’t make a sound—and his hand clamps around the blond’s wrist before he can let go.
It’s smaller than he’s expecting it to be. It flexes faintly in his grip as the blond turns to look at him.
They lock eyes. Zack stares into deep, unrelenting pools of cold blue and something inside him strikes blind. Blood roaring in his ears, he seizes the man’s collar with another hand and yanks him to the safety of the terrace.
Zack throws him to the ground. Grunting, the man goes down hard.
“What,” Zack gasps out, shoulders heaving, “the hell, is wrong with you?”
He pushes himself back up. He looks at Zack and, oh, what a sorry fucking gaze. Zack’s heart tears at the seams.
“Wanted to see the stars,” says the blond, sullenly.
Zack’s breathless. “What if you fell?”
The blond furrows his brow. His gaze has a terrifying clarity to it. “What if I did?”
Overhead, a plane flies low in the sky. It leaves a dirty carbon trail in its wake.
Zack stares. With a low hum, he rakes his fingers through his hair, dark and tangled now by the wind current. “Unreal.” He laughs once, darkly—it startles both of them. “Fucking unreal. Okay. Um.” He looks back down. A thick piece of hair droops into the blond’s cagey gaze. “I’m…”
Needed inside.
Gonna head back inside.
I have to go. I have to go back to—
The blond holds Zack’s stare. Hell if Zack knows what’s going on there. After a moment, he echoes, “You’re…”
Zack can’t stay. He’s got two missions on the line. Whatever happens to this guy isn’t his problem.
Still, Zack wavers. He licks hotly over his lips. Fuck, he needs a smoke. “I, uh… I can’t keep you company. You gonna be okay?”
“Was fine before you showed up.”
“You… huh,” Zack says. “Right. Who’d you come here with? I’ll send ‘em out here for ya.”
“No one,” the blond replies.
“No one?”
“No. I’m here by myself.”
“You can’t get in without an invitation.”
“Never said I didn’t have one,” the blond says. He gets to his feet. There’s a thin layer of debris coating his dark dress shirt—he doesn’t bother dusting it off. “You seriously think I’d waste my time here if I didn’t have a good reason?”
Zack watches him. Curiously, he asks, “What’s your reason?”
“What’s yours?”
“The wine’s alright.”
“The wine’s shit.”
Zack grins. He tries real hard not to. The blond doesn’t smile, not a bit, and somehow it drives Zack utterly insane. He casts a glance over at the main building, which is how—with a subtle twinge to his gut—he remembers the whole place is bound to be overrun by Avalanche terrorists at a moment’s notice.
He looks back at the blond. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
“This is a cute game,” Zack allows. “My name’s Zack.”
The blond considers this. He tilts his head this way and that. “Cloud.”
“Hm,” says Zack, because, adorable. “Well… tell you what, Cloud. Wait here.” Where it’s safe. “I’ll run in and grab us something to drink, and—”
Cloud huffs. “Sorry. M’not gonna wait out here for you.”
Zack’s words die in his throat. He chews on his bottom lip. Tries to think of any other way that he can get Cloud to stay out here on the terrace, far fucking away from any sort of potential bloodbath. Nothing comes to mind.
He doesn’t worry for long.
A single gunshot rings from inside Wall Market. A choir of screaming civilians is quick to follow; then, a crackling shout from Zack’s earpiece. Cloud jolts. His hand twitches up towards his own ear, hidden mostly by blond spikes.
Zack swears. He takes off running.
Eyes dark, Cloud follows.
“I told you to wait outside!” Zack shouts.
“Kid, where the fuck have you been?” roars Barret’s voice from inside Cloud’s earpiece. Cloud winces a second time. “You were supposed to be inside ten minutes ago—”
“Shut up,” Cloud snarls.
Zack shoots him a dirty look.
Not you, Cloud thinks, annoyedly. It’s already too much: the sweeping chaos of screaming patrons, the gunfire, the shrieking of metal on metal for those who wield swords. Cloud’s head pounds. He rips out the tiny earpiece and shoves it deep into his pocket.
His hands itch for his handgun, tucked away neatly in his waistband. Unfortunately, Zack’s standing too close for it. He can’t pull out any sort of weapon—it’ll blow his cover. And it’ll endanger Zack, the only civilian he doesn’t care to see smeared across the floor.
Zack turns and meets his eye. What Cloud finds locked away there, he won’t realize for months.
Most of the other civilians have cleared out already. The ballroom’s a goddamn mess, now—tables are overturned every which way, chairs laid askew, shattered chandeliers coating the polished floor in a maze of grime and glass. Cloud’s breath comes quick as he surveys it all. He hopes someone got a good shot at the president.
They leave the ballroom in haste. A few bodies lay abandoned in the hallway—Cloud identifies a few from Avalanche. He rolls his frustration within himself like a smooth marble. Barret’s gonna chew him out for this. What a fucking headache. He wishes he had fallen off the roof.
“It’s not safe here,” Zack tells him.
Cloud shoots him a look. “You think?”
If only he could get Zack somewhere safe. Then maybe, he could get in contact with Barret and explain, like, hey, sorry for the delay, ran into some trouble on the roof, six feet of it, actually, and now I’m stuck in a situation ‘cause I can’t just kill this guy, he took it upon himself to save my li—
A flash of movement at Zack’s flank catches Cloud’s attention. He looks just in time to catch the masked figure lurching their way—Zack’s way, to be specific—knife raised high, high, higher.
Cloud doesn’t think twice. Handgun in forced abandon, he grabs the leg of a discarded folding chair and swings it, hard and fast.
It hits the assailant’s skull with a loud crack. They stagger. Before they can go again, Cloud surges forward. He hooks a leg around their body, using it as leverage to scale them so that he sits atop their shoulders. Thighs fastened tightly around their throat, he leans forward and twists once, hard, to snap their neck from their spine.
It all happens in sheer seconds.
They crumple to the floor. Cloud lands on his feet.
A quick glance at the body confirms they’re Avalanche. Dumbass. Why would anyone in their right mind go after a civilian? Maybe they’re new. Dyne had said something about extra bodies. Fresh meat.
Cloud looks at Zack. He’s mildly startled to find the other man staring at him.
“Hi,” Cloud says. He explains, curtly: “Taekwondo. There’s classes for it.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah. They, uh…” Cloud’s mouth has gone dry. He wonders if he’s just blown his cover. “They were gonna hurt you. Had to be quick.”
Zack looks dazed. “I think we should get married.”
Cloud takes two seconds to think about it.
Marriage is a roof over his head. It’s stability. Not to mention Zack’s tux, his black wristwatch: along with the rest of him, they both scream money. There’s clearly something wrong with the guy, but Cloud’s one to talk, and he sure as hell has nothing to lose.
Zack seems decent enough, anyway—not like Cloud couldn’t handle him if he wasn’t.
It’s simple. Cloud sees, he takes.
“Sure.”
Zack seems satisfied by this. He swipes up a leg from the decimated folding chair and tests its give as a makeshift weapon. Then he nods towards the exit.
Whatever dignity Zack has—or whatever dignity belongs to the persona he’s taken on this time ‘round—dies when he pukes in the grass at a children’s playground, precisely two minutes to midnight, while his fake fiancé uses one hand to hold his hair back.
“Fuck,” Zack croaks.
Cloud hiccups. He uses his other hand to take another swig, straight from the bottle, of champagne freshly stolen from an overturned banquet table. “L’say,” he slurs. “Bastards must’a spiked the booze.”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t. Zack needs nic, like, yesterday.
He straightens to his feet. Cloud relinquishes him without a comforting word otherwise, silent as he plops himself down in the rusted swing just a few feet away. Zack presses a fist to his mouth as he burps—once, twice, three times. He groans low.
The low hum of crickets fill the gaping silence. A bullfrog sings from over half a mile away. Cloud digs his tip-toes in the dirt and lightly swings himself. The chipping swingset creaks with age.
“Zack,” he says. “Why did you go back in there?”
Zack tilts his head. He stares down at his ruined oxfords, rubs the back of his neck. “It… sounded bad. I wanted to help.”
“What are you, a cop?”
“No,” Zack says. “Financial analyst.”
“Our undercover hero,” Cloud mutters drunkenly.
Zack looks at him. “I’m sensing some sarcasm.”
“Yeah, moron. Some help you were. You almost died.”
“What about you? You followed me in.”
Cloud’s eyes are so dark in the light of the moon, they look black. “Couldn’t let you go alone.”
A little smile graces the corner of Zack’s mouth. “Bullshit.”
“What else was I supposed to do? Wait out there for someone to jump me?”
Zack laughs. “Guess you got a point. Strength in numbers, or something.”
“Or something,” Cloud mumbles.
He passes Zack the champagne. Zack takes a swig. He passes it back. Watches, with growing, drunken curiosity, as Cloud tips his head back and examines the cage of trees above their heads. His black tie’s been pulled loose, dress shirt rumpled at the collar.
“My turn for a question,” Zack proposes.
Cloud closes his eyes. He looks tired. “Shoot.”
“Why’d you say yes?”
It’s obvious what he’s referring to. A smirk ghosts Cloud’s face, and it’s the closest thing Zack’s ever seen to a smile on him. “Why’d you ask?”
“Honestly? I’m getting a lot of pressure at work,” Zack answers, and before Cloud can press further, he says, “It’s a good job and all, but the social part of it drives me crazy. Feel like people look down on me ‘cause I’m not hitched.”
“Why should that matter?”
“You don’t know these people like I do.”
“But—”
Zack grins. “Ah, ah. Your turn.”
Cloud furrows his brow. But he relents. “Got kicked out.”
“Of college?”
Cloud nods.
“You’re in debt,” Zack paraphrases, and the light shrug Cloud throws his way makes his stomach hurt for some reason. He pushes it away, focuses on something else. Like, for example, his lack of an academic experience. Sometimes he mourns the fact that he never got to pursue a proper education—another part of him can’t even begin to imagine the stressors that must come with it. “What about your family?”
“Mom died when I was sixteen,” Cloud tells him. “Don’t know my dad.”
“So you have nowhere to go.”
“Bingo.”
Zack frowns.
It explains why he was dangling off a roof, he guesses. But it doesn’t explain—
“What the hell were you doing at Wall Market?” Zack asks. Cloud opens his mouth, and Zack quickly adds: “I don’t wanna hear any shit about you being invited, either. Really. Tell me the truth.”
Cloud scoffs. He rests his lips against the mouth of the bottle. “The place is full of rich, shitfaced bachelors desperate to make connections and blow their cash,” he says flatly. “Easy way to score a bed for a night.”
Zack swallows. “That’s…”
“S’cool.” Cloud sips. On the next swallow, he adds, “Could be worse.”
Huh.
“Guess we have a deal, then.” Zack reaches over and pries the bottle from Cloud’s fingers. The blond looks drowsy, especially softened from his buzz. Zack’s hiding a smile as he steals the rest of the champagne. “You help me with my social status, I’ll take care of you. Sound good? Strictly transactional.”
“No strings attached?”
“Nope,” Zack says, popping the ‘p’.
Cloud seems appeased by all this. Mildly, he swings back and forth. His eyes are wide and innocent as he takes Zack in—entirely, from head to toe, for the first time in the whole night, probably. He takes his time with it. Then, “What’s your last name?”
“Smith.”
“Huh.” Cloud tilts his head. “I’ll take yours.”
Zack snorts. “Why, what’s your last name?”
“White.”
Zack’s laughter tapers off immediately. He says, very carefully, “‘Cloud White’?”
“Mom was a riot.”
“I guess so.” He claps his hands together, just once. “Well! I guess I should propose for real. To make it official, and all that.”
“What,” Cloud whispers. His eyes dart around the empty playground as if some nonexistent passing bystander is just waiting to jump out at them and tearfully congratulate them for their sham marriage. “Zack, no. Shut up. Don’t—”
“Cloud,” Zack begins, quite loudly, to Cloud’s growing mortification. “When I first met you, I knew I’d be embarking on the adventure of a lifetime. Every moment I spend with you is better than the last. Truly. My love for you is a soaring bird, and it has only just departed the nest of my soul and learned to take flight—”
Flushed, Cloud stiltedly waves his hand, like, hurry the fuck up.
“So today I pledge a solemn vow to love you, and only you. I promise that—from this day forward—I will always take care of you. Whether it’s cooking you meals, or doing your laundry, or arranging the bath soaps just as you like them, every time, so that you look upon your showers with the utmost delight… I vow to do all that and more.”
“Give me a break.”
“In the names of the gods, I, Zack, take you…” Zack gestures, courteously, to where Cloud’s watching him, rosy cheek tucked embarrassedly against the thick chain of the swing, “Cloud, to be my husband. To have and to hold from this day forward—for better, for worse, for richer—”
“For poorer,” Cloud mutters.
A smitten smile nicks Zack’s mouth. “In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…”
They finish in slurred unison. “’Til death do us part.”