Chapter Text
Zack floats in a world of liquid green for what feels like an eternity. His world is constantly shifted on its axis, his mind fraying at the edges, somewhere between awareness and another plane of existence. His senses feel as if they’ve been dialed up to ten; sound and light and sensation each press insistently against his body, voices and touch vying for his divided attention, lights flashing in esoteric patterns, a puzzle he feels he can vaguely understand. The world is electric at his fingertips, ever-present and overwhelming, every movement sending shocks through his muscles and every breath grinding against his ribcage like a pulley system heaving under its insurmountable weight. At the same time, he feels nothing; every touch against his skin is numbed, as though felt through layers of cloth; every voice in his ear is heard only through the dampening of whatever solution he’s floating in, simultaneously, but contradictorily, loud and quiet; every flashing light beyond his closed eyelids only understood given a moment’s pause, as though his body could not process it fast enough. He feels the world in bursts, and not at all; he is present and yet drifting, his consciousness aware and pulsing but his body refusing to respond—and now I see with eye serene—but still, he floats. The world is green, and that is all Zack knows.
Then there is more. There is a heightened sensation, pushing insistently against his skin, a shocking cold that, under normal circumstances, would cause him to shiver; the familiar creak of leather shifting with movement both far away, distant, and impossibly loud and close. The world behind his eyelids becomes pink instead of a dulled, washed-out acidic green, and his skin prickles with the sensation of drying moisture—he can hear the steady drip as he’s shifted in somebody’s arms, and his hair sticks to his neck with a combination of mako and his own sweat. The air smells distinctly of chlorine and gasoline, tell-tale signs of refined mako, but a stinging undertone of alcohol and steel jolts him, because he knows this smell, intimately. The smell of a lab. His eyes fly open in a panic—his eyelashes stick together, liquid weighing them down, and his breathing, outside of mako for the first time in what must be months, is laboured and closer to panting than any calm pattern, but he’s awake . He’s alive, and aware, and awake. Zack, with all the grace of a newborn deer, unsteady on its feet, twists in his captors’ arms, and they must be shocked enough that he manages to break free of their hold (why was their hold so loose, so gentle?) and drop to the floor.
He is not aware of his body as much as he expects to be, his battle-ready instincts betraying him; though he attempts to land in a crouch, a crouch he knows like the back of his own hand, because he’s done it a thousand times, because Angeal taught him how to land, he only manages to stick one foot on the floor, the other awkwardly bent beneath him, before his body collapses beneath the pressure of physical activity. He feels both weightless and heavier than usual—his body responds, but slowly, and he doesn’t even have enough time to brace himself for the impact of meeting the cold floor below, when gloved hands grip his shoulders and he’s pulled towards a beacon of warmth instead. As soon as his cheek meets a cool leather strap (this must be the harness of their uniform—) and his knees make a loud thunk as they slam on the floor, one of the hands keeping him steady finds its way to the back of his head, cradling him and speaking in jumbled words that Zack can hardly hear over the rushing in his ears and spinning of his head.
Their voice is—familiar. That’s the best descriptor Zack could give it; although it tries for gentle and warm, the connotations it carries reminds him of the scent of smoke, the burning ache of his muscles as he fights someone faster and lighter than he’s used to, and a biting laughter in his ears. Almost instinctively, he reached towards his pants pockets, grasping for materia that wasn’t there, and the voice continued its hushed tones, attempting to calm him as one might calm a beloved pet. (In the back of his mind, overlapping voices whisper, “Puppy”, but these are quieted quickly, because “Zack the Puppy” died when Angeal did, and now he was only a guard dog, because naïvety was a bad look for him, but escape was impossible, so what options did he have—)
Blinking rapidly clears both the mako still clinging stubbornly to his eyelashes and his increasingly blurring vision, as he attempts to prevent unshed tears from falling. He could not have the luxury of distraction; there were too many variables—a lab, the mako, the not-quite-stranger. He was no longer the excitable Second who would entertain himself by creating new maneuvers on the field, or doing squats when he got too bored on a mission; composure was half the battle. But his sight becoming clearer only left him with more questions than it answered, because he knew only two people who wore a First Class uniform with a crossed harness over their chest, and neither of them should be alive. Zack reared back, barely paying attention to how the stranger (not-stranger) pulled their hand back to allow him to move, and stared dumbly, for a moment, forgetting himself, slowly shaking his head, as if that would change the sight in front of him. But no matter what angle he looked from, and no matter how desperately he blinked and prayed for the person in front of him to change, he knew that obnoxiously unmistakable red coat, the low, steady hum of fully-leveled materia, the scent of burning wood that clung to the other man like a gruesome cologne. Because, somehow, impossibly, incomprehensibly, Genesis Rhapsodos was kneeled down in front of him, hair as auburn as they day Angeal had introduced them, no lingering streaks of silver-grey that the degradation had peppered through his locks, and mako-eyed full of concern that would look laughably out of place if it didn’t seem so startlingly sincere.
“What,” Zack manages, partially in shock, voice thick and low from disuse. His hands clench into fists, briefly, and his instincts tell him to run or punch the other man, but Genesis only continues staring at him, eyebrows knit and eyes scanning him, almost as if checking for injuries, like Angeal used to, like Sephiroth used to–he squeezes his eyes shut, gripping at his hair and shaking his head violently, as if trying to dislodge the memories of that night, of screaming, of fire, the contrast between the mountain chill and the scorching flames that licked their way across his skin, the way that people had begged him for help, the scent of burning meat (that wasn’t normal meat) stuck in his nose. Hands intercept his, deftly removing his fingers from his hair, loosely holding his wrists, to show that he could break the hold, if he chose to. But Genesis wasn’t attacking, wasn’t mocking, and instead, was knelt there, on the floor of a lab he had no reason to be in, trying to talk Zack of all people down from the edge of a panic attack, as if he’d done it a thousand times before. (And wasn’t that a thought, that maybe he had done this a thousand times before?) Zack choked out a laugh, bordering on manic—what had his life come to, that this was happening to him?
Still, he didn’t break the hold Genesis had on his wrists, letting the other man talk in low, soothing whispers, and retreated back into himself, eyeing the room around him. As far as Shinra labs went, it was dirty; disturbed dust on the ground bore marks only of the scuffle he and Genesis had just had, with no other footprints visible; tools, which appeared mostly rusted, were scattered about in random places and layered in cobwebs; the mako tubes themselves even appeared dilapidated, glass fogged up, the low hum of machinery occasionally stuttering, as if the electricity itself were unreliable. He allowed his gaze to drift over the room, comprehending but not truly caring about what he saw, but then—then, the other tube wasn’t empty. It wasn’t empty. There, submerged, encased in green, was Cloud. His eyes were closed, his hair was floating up, somehow spikier than usual; his trooper uniform had a bloodied stain, a stab through the chest, but he was here, and alive. (Was he? Was he, was he, was he?)
“Cloud,” he whispers, reverently, fingers reaching pointlessly towards the small trooper in his watery grave, uncaring of his unwitting audience. How could he have forgotten? Genesis shifts, looking towards the tube where Cloud floated, unsuspecting, angelic, then back at Zack, where he was frozen, eyes wide and mouth agape in a picture of perfect shock and unadulterated relief. Zack locks eyes with his fellow First Class (former fellow First Class, he thinks bitterly, considering that neither of them really count anymore, do they?) and a flicker of understanding in Genesis’ eyes, and the slight cave of the other man’s shoulders, was all the warning Zack had before the red-clad man was suddenly up and punching codes into the outdated keypad, and the drain of the tube and hiss as the hydraulics released became the center of Zack’s world. He watched, dazed, while Genesis surged forward to catch the little blond trooper as he tumbled out of the tube, reducing the amount of force the boy hit his chest with, the image such a drastic contrast to his memories of the man in red, and clutched desperately at the buckle of Cloud’s trooper uniform, situated across his chest, as Genesis softly deposited the other boy in his waiting arms.
Zack ignored his eyes watering as he tugged Cloud further into his lap, making sure the blond was supported, before cradling the other boy’s face, brushing his fingers across his features; his eyelashes, long enough that they might be mistaken for feminine; his cheeks, pale and mottled with marks that, given enough sunlight, might become freckles; his lips, pink and kissable—he shook his head, sharp, quickly, ignoring the thoughts that attempted to rise against the tide of Cloud’s presence, because he was alive, and that’s all that mattered. Gaia above, he was alive. In a mako-coma, fundamentally changed, but he was still Cloud, wasn’t he? Did it really matter, if his eyes were tinted green, if his muscle mass were densified? Was he not his friend, still? A high, keening sound tumbled out of his lips, ripped from his throat, not dissimilar to the cry of a wounded animal, as he released Cloud’s head to rest his cheek against his chest, cradling him with one hand. With the other, he gently pries at the blond’s eyelid, where his pupil lay unmoving, even to the sudden light, and the mako glow was dizzyingly bright—on the level of a First, at least.
The things Shinra had done to Cloud—had done to both of them, truly, but if Zack considered what had been done to him, too, he would lose sight of the rage he had, and begin to spiral into misery, and he couldn’t afford that, not when the scientists who’d hurt them were still alive, when there was a chance Cloud could have died—couldn’t be changed. There were things (a glint of steel, a promise, the feeling of his hands slipping against a sword’s grip, too slick with blood to hold it up, the sting of a scar that never truly healed, what it means to have SOLDIER honor, if it ever existed—) that couldn’t be taken back. Two choices loomed dangerously before him: a path of treason and treachery, one where he went back to Shinra, back to the den of monsters that SOLDIER is…or, a path of treason and treachery all the same, but one where he went with Genesis, instead. Neither option was preferable. Both options carried incredible risks. Neither were reliable; Shinra would turn on them in a heartbeat, should they prove a threat, and they would be back under the lights of a lab and scalpel of scientists before they could say “mako”. But Genesis was unreliable, in that he was proving…inconsistent.
Zack thought he had Genesis figured out. A Sephiroth-wannabe with an inferiority complex the size of the sun, a pyromaniac, and a theater kid to boot, simple as that—but everything Zack thought he knew was being flipped on its head. Shinra wasn’t just sketchy, but willing to do whatever it took to eliminate its enemies, even if those enemies happened to be soldiers doing their jobs; Sephiroth wasn’t just misunderstood, but cruel; and Genesis wasn’t just cruel, it seemed, but misunderstood. Genesis was inconstant; where, before, his violent tendencies had been predictable, if obnoxious, now…now, he was scarily close to Angeal. Angeal, the way he was before. Angeal, with his meaningless anecdotes and concern and pats on the back. Before he changed. Before everything did. The only thing that had been constant, since Angeal, since Sephiroth…he glanced back down at the trooper in his lap, stroking his wayward, mako-laden locks. They lacked their usual gravity-defying shape, wet as they were, but Cloud looked angelic, lips parted as he breathed, the slow rise and fall of his chest captivating as much as it was relieving. Alive. Zack would do anything to protect that rise and fall, to preserve the slight curl of the blond’s lips, the flush that ran over the bridge of his nose and the way he tilted, just slightly, into Zack’s hand, as he caressed his cheek. Whatever it took. Whatever risk he had to. Because Cloud was worth that risk.
…Genesis it was. As unreliable as he was, as dangerous as he was, at least Zack had the surety that he could defeat him, the confidence of expectation and experience; Shinra was an unknown, a variable he couldn’t predict. Genesis was one man, strong as he may be—Shinra was hundreds, or thousands, if their luck was bad enough (and Zack always had rotten luck). With Genesis, at least they’d have the advantage of numbers, once (if) Cloud woke up. He shifts back, baring his teeth in warning, as movement registered in his periphery, but it was only Genesis, a ragged old shirt in hand, lifting his hands in surrender, as he kneeled beside the two curled-up soldiers. “You can clean the mako off his skin,” the red-head said; his voice lacked the quality of theatrical performance that Zack had so closely associated with him, and he seemed almost world-weary without it. A performer without his mask. “Then we can get moving.” Zack had never known the other to be short with his words, but wasn’t going to question his sudden brevity, either—so long as Genesis’ suspicious behavior continued to benefit Cloud, then Zack was content to let sleeping dogs lie.
Taking the old shirt, though he makes sure to put on a show of notable apprehension, Zack turned his attention back towards Cloud. While the other boy was undeniably pretty, feminine and sharp features that combined with wiry muscle and a determination you can sense even in his unconscious form (visible, if one only looked; the furrow in his brow, the twitch of his fingers against Zack’s standard-issue turtleneck), he was also pale and sweaty, appearing almost feverish, but most SOLDIERs tended to run hot. This early after enhancement, there was no telling whether it was something to be concerned with, or simply a residual side effect. Wiping the liquid from his skin only confirmed his state: although his eyes visibly moved beneath the layer of skin separating them from the seeing world once the cloth touched him, a distinct improvement, his breathing only got more ragged. One step forward, two steps back. The story of his life, he thought. Still, he removed as much stray mako as he could from Cloud, patting down his hair and even using the shirt to soak up particularly wet areas remaining on the uniform. He’d (they’d, he thinks, better to take advantage of whatever ‘kindness’ Genesis is willing to offer) have to change Cloud out of his uniform, sooner rather than later—it was soaked. Once the mako was removed, the healing process would start, and the sooner that happened, the sooner Cloud would awaken.
Zack hardly paid attention to Genesis moving around the lab, seemingly assessing and snatching anything that caught his eye. Figures the guy would have sticky fingers—but he couldn’t really blame him; something petty in him wanted to grab whatever he could, too, just to stick it to Shinra. As soon as the thought took root, though, he stomped it down; best to leave the childish impulses to the other (former) First, and focus his dwindling energy toward Cloud. Zack did pay attention, however, when Genesis was beside them, again, picking up the discarded shirt (Zack had enough presence of mind to briefly wonder whose it was—by its size, it should have belonged to a child—but he dismissed the line of questioning as soon as it popped up, too fatigued to worry about where Genesis got the materials he had, or why Shinra buildings may have child-sized clothes lying about) with a look of suspiciously personal disdain as he incinerated it in his gloved hands.
For the infinitesimal moment that the scent of smoke lingered, Zack thought of Nibelheim. He thought of the buildings, every last one of them significantly older than him, reduced to ash in mere seconds; the scent of burnt flesh, a smell so innocuous that one could have mistaken it for a home-cooked meal atop a stove, had the scent of burnt hair not followed so quickly after; the screams, each unique and differentiable by pitch or cadence alone; Tifa, her small hands clenched, her eyes alight in a determination that Zack had only ever seen in Cloud (“I’m sensing some issues here,” his voice echoes. “Shouldn’t you do something?”) as she dug through rubble and ashes for anything salvageable, only to come up empty-handed each time. But there’s something different about the smoke that Genesis brings. Both are destructive in nature, but Sephiroth—and by extension, Nibelheim—held the smell of terror. Of fear and pain. The smoke lazily drifting upwards from the leather-clad palm mere feet away smells like campfire, like the particular spark fire materia brings with it. Something is different, there. Something significant. He’s too tired to ponder on it.
“Time to go, then,” Genesis says; he’s making his voice quieter, Zack realizes. Is the other man simply tired, or is he watching out for Cloud’s newly enhanced senses? It was hard to tell—while Zack would never have pegged Genesis for a particularly empathetic man, he clearly had enough misconceptions about him as it was, without adding to the mix. It was best to play it safe, and make assumptions only with facts in evidence. Caution was going to be his only friend, until Cloud woke up; he’d have to make do, by himself, until then. Zack nods, sharp, not trusting his own voice, and hauled himself to his feet, until he was situated in a crouch. He looped his arms around Cloud’s shoulders, prepared to lift the smaller trooper; Genesis, hovering nearby in a strangely familiar move (so much like Angeal; they had been best friends, hadn’t they? Childhood friends, even, had practically grown up together. Didn’t it stand to reason their behaviors would be similar? Didn’t it make sense they would, inevitably, pick up on each other’s mannerisms? How much of Angeal was made up of Genesis, and Zack had simply never known? How much of Genesis was made up of Angeal?) did not intervene, but was clearly prepared to.
Zack, ignoring the mother-henning SOLDIER, and the strange sense of déjà vu the scene gave him, began standing up, lifting Cloud as best he could, given his current physical state. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, an overlapping voice—first, Angeal, then Sephiroth, the latter mimicking the former—spoke, “Lift with your legs, puppy.” He blinks back the tears the memories bring and focuses on supporting Cloud’s weight.) Once he’s mostly upright, only slightly bowed from the strain of carrying Cloud, and equally only slightly frustrated by his newfound weakness—he supposed months of inaction and muscular atrophy would do that—he began moving, in shuffling, stilted motions. The resulting sound of boot-on-stone scuffing is almost overwhelmingly loud, and Cloud’s slight wince, despite his deep sleep, is enough to give Zack pause, though he sways forward dangerously as his backward momentum is lost. Genesis, still hovering to their side, has his hands out, as if ready to catch the duo as they tilt ever-closer to the ground; another stab of familiarity makes itself known, a memory of Angeal, hands out, preparing to steady him, working through new attack stances. The soft, “Steady, Zack,” and the warm smile as Zack finally got it—how much of Genesis was made up of Angeal?
His eyes began to droop, and his shoulders began to collapse beneath the combined weight that he and Cloud created; he was exhausted, in body, but also in mind—he wouldn’t be able to continue going for much longer, regardless of whether he trusted Genesis or not. His body didn’t care about trust, or whether he was ready. A decision had to be made. He stumbles to the side, steadying his grip on Cloud, his own body suddenly seeming heavier as his knees began to buckle, and he knew his decision was made: to entrust Cloud’s care to Genesis, to put his blind faith in fate, to put SOLDIER honor to the test, one last time—because this was all he had left. All he could do. His final stand.
As he curled his body protectively around Cloud, taking the worst of their collective fall, his arm cradling the blond’s head, his last sight was of Genesis’ face—pinched tight, in concern, and in shock, as if he hadn’t truly expected Zack to pass out. If he had the strength, he would have laughed. As it was, he could only muster enough energy to vaguely note the sensations of the world as it all faded into black; Cloud’s presence, solid and real and alive, melded against his body, his motive; the sounds of cloth rustling as Genesis presumably moved around; and the soft pressure as something is placed in his free hand. Running his thumb along the strange object, he notes almost hysterically that it’s a fruit; knowing Genesis, probably a dumbapple (“What’s the deal with dumbapples?”). It feels like a connection. It feels, however awkwardly, however out of place, like an olive branch. His world goes completely dark as he and Cloud are lifted, their total heft seemingly nothing to the other ex-First; the more poetic part of Zack, that he’s sure Genesis would be delighted to know existed, notes that it feels like a burden has been lifted off of his shoulders. An olive branch, huh?