「 where is that old friend gone? 」

[neverwinged]

characters: The ghost of Zack Fair, open to anyone.
location: Wandering about in the slums.
time: Early evening.
rating: Going with PG for generally unpleasant imagery.
open/closed: Very much open!
summary: One of the spectres that appeared in the city seems to be searching for something. Or someone. Poor guy. That sword sure looks heavy.

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[encypher]

[*SOB FOREVER*]

He recognizes the sword before he recognizes its bearer, the lapse in perception filled by--yet again--the same, fragmented memories from before. The texture of the hilt that grips to the leather of his gloves, the weight of the blade straining every sinew in his arms...

He's held that sword before... But when? For what purpose...?

--have to... finish him--

"Zack."

The alarming figure in front of him was Zack. But it couldn't be--

He was--

Blood, fire, steel, smoke.

"Wait--"

Left on his own... both on their own...

Unreachable, intangible. A specter, a memory. Phantom calling upon phantom, Cloud begins to feel the nauseating pull of mako through his veins, the chorus of whispers quickly becoming a foreboding chant. Despite his panic there is some semblance of cold logic working at the back of his mind, and a sickening realization; he knows, and it's only a matter of time before he remembers.

[neverwinged]

The ghost knows that voice, recognizing it immediately even though it's so quiet. His grip on the sword never falters as he turns around slowly, eventually meeting the blond's wide, frightened gaze. There he is. There's the one he was looking for, the one he's meant to protect.

He died protecting him. It's his only purpose now as he walks the stone streets of the city slums. The boy not far from him had to be kept safe.

One hand then lets go of the broadsword's hilt, trembling as he lifts it up and reaches out towards the other. The blood flows freely from his wounds, falling to the ground with a splatter though the pavement does not stain. And the ghost smiles, meant to be reassuring. The poor boy, he looks so scared.

"It's okay, Spike."

He turns his palm over, gesturing for the boy to come closer. His voice echoes in the streets, a chilling reminder that he's not really there.

"Don't be scared. Everything's okay. I'm here to protect you."

[encypher]

He remains fixed where he stands, watching in horror not because of the state his friend is in, but why.

For him... it had all been for his sake... hadn't it?

He can remember now. No, he must remember.

Nibelheim, the Reactor, the Manor. Unnumbered, unsuccessful, unable. Unable to move, speak, or comprehend for the entire year they'd spent fleeing from ShinRa. Is this... is this what had happened after?

"Why..."

For someone like himself? A failure as a soldier, a failure even as an lab rat.

Because we're friends, right?

Friends.

Scraping together what little courage he has, Cloud manages to stumble forward, voice shaking as badly as the rest of him.

"No..."

Not this. Please, anything but this.

"We're... we're safe now."

But even that sounds like a lie. He's always running, terrified of his past-- but there's no where else to go, now that the truth stands so clearly in front of him.

[neverwinged]

The poor boy. The ghost knows he's the cause of such distress, and his expression falls accordingly. He's made his friend so frightened, so broken and cold. Not unlike himself.

They are friends. They're the best of friends, aren't they? A person doesn't face an army and a horrible fate for just anyone. That's how his story ended, to let the other one begin.

Wasn't that it?

The ghost steps closer, dragging the heavy sword behind him. His steps sway to the side for a moment, breathing ragged as he regains his footing, and continues moving closer. He'll meet the other halfway. He can do that. He's strong enough for that. He has to be.

"You're safe, Cloud. I ... I kept you safe. C'mon, let's get out of here."

[iluphone]

The last thing Kunsel remembers is leaving Roxas to chase down a perp for public disturbance. Some guy-- Kunsel can't even recall who. Just that he must have had a guilty conscience, because the moment Kunsel shouted, the guy ran.

So what was Kunsel to do but run after?

He snagged his shirt on a broken fence somewhere along the way, though, and Kunsel wound up losing both the guy and the shirt. So here he is now, a little bit breathless and a little bit cold, looking for the guy who got away. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, deciding to keep moving if only to keep warm, when all at once he sees a familiar silhouette.

"Zack?" he calls out with a half breathless laugh, turning the rest of the corner to walk up to his friend. "Is that you? How'd you get out of your--"

And then he stops. And if he thought that he couldn't get any more breathless or any more cold, he was wrong.

His breath stalls completely, his core temperature plummeting to what feels like below freezing. Kunsel is so numb with it he can't even move.

[neverwinged]

The ghost recognizes that voice just as quickly as the other's. At first, his only recollection of that voice is of the uniform associated with it. The helmet, the belt, the swords and the guns. The very ones that were used against them on the cliff, like right now.

At first, he's fearful. The ghost can't lift the sword that far off the ground, but he tries, only managing a brief moment a few inches off the pavement before the blade once more clatters against it. But he has to. He has to protect his friend. So he tries once more to lift the blade.

But it drops again when he finds the face that matches the voice. Then the ghost smiles, seemingly beyond relief. His friend, his best friend-!

"Kunsel!He tries moving forward again, a little more hurriedly. It's been so long since he'd seen his SOLDIER friend, so many years. But he's so weak, that he can't manage a proper running pace. His boots shuffle along the ground, the sword clattering behind too heavy to allow him to move as fast as he would like. He's too weak, enough so that

[iluphone]

"Zack--!What can Kunsel do but stumble forward, hearing the only good friend he's ever had call to him like that? How many times has he done this to himself since Zack disappeared? How many times did he fall asleep to the sound of gunfire that wasn't there, to the phantom memory of wing beats outside his window? How many times had he dreamed of finding Zack and waking up to nothing but the stillness of his room and his SOLDIER uniform hanging on the wall, reminding him of all he really was? How many times had he dreamed of losing Zack and woken up shaking and ill because, as bad as the dream was, the reality could only be worse

[neverwinged]

But the ghost can feel him, even though Kunsel feels nothing but cold. The ghost can feel those hands that reach out to him, to help him.

And the ghost smiles at his friend, grasping that hand and pulling himself up as best he can. Though he's not strong enough to make it to his feet, all he can manage is to inevitably slump against his friend, completely out of breath. His blood would be staining the other's clothes if it were real.

"Hey ... you found me ..."

The ghost is grateful for the comfort, even though he's the only one who can feel it. He doesn't close his eyes, nor does he let go of the sword as he rests against the other. He's missed him so much, so glad to be able to see him one more time.

"Sorry I didn't call ..."

[custoshonour]

The snow has stopped but it is still pretty cold and Angeal shivers, inwardly cursing the curse for the hundredth dull time since it happened, but not really caring. Not that much. He hasn't cared about much for a while now, not the cold, not his small but surely flourishing group of plants in the greenhouse, not anything

[neverwinged]

The ghost recognized that voice as well. And he didn't- no, not now. He stops in his tracks, the grip on the sword's hilt as tight as he can manage. Which isn't much, but he has to try. He has to try his best, use all his strength. He can't, not yet.

Not yet.

Blood from his arms trails down the blade of the broadsword as he shifts, turning around with slow, shaking steps to face that voice. The voice that was always a comfort to him, a guiding light when everything was dark, answers to all his questions. But not now, no, he can't be here now. He wasn't finished yet. He didn't know ... they weren't safe yet, he hadn't found them.

It's not far, but the ghost lifts the sword up just in time, putting enough space between him and the man hurrying towards him (had this been he real ghost, he'd be making a snarky comment about tearing such a lovely garment, your highness). But he's shaking so badly. The sword's so heavy, and he's so weak. But he can't go yet-!

"No ...His voice is a whisper that echoes in the streets. It's not long after

[custoshonour]

Angeal stops himself just in time, staring at the sword being held in front of him like that. The Buster. Impossible. But he was seeing it there, with his own eyes. The Buster Sword. The blood sliding down it, Zack's blood, is enough to keep him stopped for a moment, eyes widening in slow, disbelieving horror. There's too much blood. Angeal's own hands shake even as his student's do, face slowly losing all colour as he takes in the tattered SOLDIER uniform, the bullet holes, the- the-

"No..."

The whisper startles him back into action and he approaches slowly, cautiously, each rasping breath that Zack takes like a knife in his heart. How had this happened? How had he let this happen? One thing was for sure. Angeal was never going to forgive himself for this, never. Never. If Zack didn't manage to

[neverwinged]

The ghost can feel the warmth that the mantle provides as it briefly passes over his skin. And it's tempting, it's so tempting to just drop everything and hold it around his shoulders. But he can't. He can't, he's not finished here yet. There's still so much he has to finish, he hasn't found--

"Don't ..."

It's so cold. The sword is so heavy, he can't breathe, there's so much blood everywhere. But he simply can't go just yet.

That has to be the only reason his mentor is here. Isn't it? To take him away?

"I can't ... please, not yet ..."

That's all the ghost manages before collapsing to his knees in a coughing fit, blood sputtering from his mouth to the ground below. It disappears before reaching the pavement. And he can't get back up. It's not fair, he can't ... he has to get up, he has to find them and ... he's strong enough, he has to be. He has to ...

[ribbontier]

From the sounds of things Aerith hasn't suffered the worst of what this week has to offer. She reminds herself of this fact as she tugs at the gossamer pink skirt, far too short for her liking, a sigh huffing past her lips when as expected it doesn't extend to any reasonable length. It seems for now she's stuck with it, though she hasn't any doubt that she'll try again

[neverwinged]

Her voice.

The ghost lifts his head and turns toward her, a smile on his face as he recognizes her. To him, she hasn't changed. She's still the sweet, shy young girl that he remembers. And that's perfect. That's everything he needs to see.

Metal scrapes along the ground once more as the ghost drags the heavy blade with him, slowly making his way towards her. His girl, his beautiful girl. His steps are small, gradual, and shaking as much as his breathing. Blood steadily flows from the many gunshot wounds over his body, but he's smiling nonetheless.

He's so proud of himself. He knew he'd be strong enough.

"Aerith ..."

He reaches out with a trembling hand, but that single movement is too much, and he falls down to his knees. But still he keeps going, shuffling ever closer.

"I made it ... I promised ... I made it back ..."

[ribbontier]

At first Aerith can't move. She just stands there trying to remind herself that breathing has and always will be a very fine idea, but the lump in her throat isn't making this easy for her at all. All she can seem to do is stand there staring, wondering what's happened to him and how - and whether it's possible for her to do anything about it

[neverwinged]

But he feels her.

Her touch is so warm to him. Her very presence is of the most comfort to him, that he no longer feels the need to keep fighting. He completed his journey. He fulfilled his promise. This is the last part of his story, the one that he never got a chance to see last time. And it's made him so happy that he can't seem to stop smiling, no matter how much it hurts.

It does trouble him that she looks so frightened, however.

The ghost tries to fix that, smiling as reassuringly as he can as he lifts the hand not gripping the broadsword's hilt to touch her cheek gently. None of the blood covering his fingers stains her lovely skin, which he's quite thankful for.

"Don't look so sad. I ... I made it back to you. Don't worry, it's okay now ... remember, I promised you ..."