Night 18: Intercom, Midnight

[damned_intercom]

The intercom's announcement didn't begin with a hiss this time. It was a faint clicking, first faint, then louder, as if the Head Doctor's hand was underneath his desk and slowly turning a volume dial up as he rapped the tip of his pencil upon his desk's surface

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[class_one]

If Shin-Ra was one thing, they were thorough. Four or five shots that successfully took him to the ground weren't enough. It didn't matter that he already had blood and dirt in his mouth; they had to make sure they got the job done. He felt the vibrations of military-issue boots coming closer, felt the dust being kicked up near him as someone skidded to a stop closeby. He heard the gun being cocked--and the way the blaring noise seemed to coincide with the way his body thrashed from the impact was almost melodic.

Not that anyone was appreciating the art of the moment.

He had to wonder if he'd met any of the men who had been chasing him down like bloodhounds. It was possible he'd run into any number of them back at headquarters, perhaps even exchanged a few words. They were grunts, so there was a better chance of them knowing him than the other way around. He couldn't help thinking that at least one of the men riddling him with bullets knew exactly what they were doing.

Then again, he didn't have much time for wondering. He could feel the way his lung was punctured, culminating in the blood-tinged wheezes for oxygen. He didn't know why he was bothering (his life wasn't flashing before his eyes, but he knew what was happening), but his body acted without his consent.

What he had more than anything else at that moment was hope. He hoped as hard as he'd ever hoped that Cloud would make it. His hand grasped forward through damp grass, searching for his friend, but found nothing.

Then it was over and he was a martyr.

After that came green. It was expansive and crushing and everywhere. Everywhere. He was so sick of green green green. He thought he'd gotten away from all that!

But this was different. He wasn't simply suspended in some narrow tube any longer. There was no distorted background beyond the burning chemical color. This was more than that, ultimate and absolute.

Lifestream.

Time went on, that much he knew. There was no way to measure it anymore. There was simply wandering, searching out similar spirits and catching glimpses of a world that was no longer his. There was a striving for contentness that would never be obtained until he was certain his friend had made it.

There was no transition, no clean movement from one place to another.

Instead, he was suddenly shooting up from a bed, sputtering (but he wasn't wet and the Lifestream didn't have beds). There was no green anymore; no, it was white, and the striking color change forced Zack to cover his eyes. He slowly moved his hands away, glancing around the meager room.

Alive again. A second wind.

He didn't feel hurt or worn out. Nothing was atrophied, there were no telltale scars or bandages--no signs of any mad science or foul play. Nothing buzzing in his head, no slight nausea from recent exposure to mako.

No, he felt as if he'd been walking and talking just yesterday.

But he hadn't.

As he stood from his bed, it was with ease. He was barely even disoriented now that he'd gotten used to the white. Zack finally noted the intercom, catching only the end of its message. It didn't make any sort of sense, so he wasn't going to worry about it for the moment. He was still in awe at the fact that this was even happening.

He would have thought it was a dream, but the dead didn't dream.

Something seized in his chest. Cloud. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Not bothering to search the room, the soldier hurriedly moved to the door and exited.