Hearing the slight edge of panic in Sephiroth’s usually controlled tenor had shaken him. Here was the man he’d both feared and adulated as a teen, then later despised and chased, obviously human and more than slightly overwhelmed with their current situation.

Even with Zack’s reassuring presence at his side, seeing the man again, very much alive and breathing, was disorienting and confusing. Cloud’s reality was now almost merged with his nightmares and his memories and the labs around them; scientists bustling about busily wasn’t helping. By Gaia, he was exhausted, and the coming conversation was a looming mountain ahead of him, another long trek, alone, through uncertain terrain. Would they find stable ground there, or had Jenova wiped all possible traces of sanity from Sephiroth’s mind? Would the telling of what happened destroy him again?

Would anyone even care if they failed? Even Tifa didn’t want this to happen, and the blond felt sure Reeve was starting to have doubts on his ability to handle this. Hell, even I’m starting to think this was the dumbest idea in the very sad history of really stupid ideas. He shook his head, fighting to clear his mind, to steer his tired brain back to the job at hand.

“Strife?”

A jolt, that voice, sending an uncontrollable shiver all the way down his spine. How the hell did he just remember my name? He felt sure the man hadn’t known him then, couldn’t possibly have both recognized him and pulled a name from memory. Unless he’d memorized the roster, which wasn’t impossible.

The alternative was unthinkable; if Sephiroth possessed memories from after Nibelheim, then Jenova had left more than simple cells behind. Cloud lifted nervous eyes to meet Zack’s gaze, where he also read surprise. Not from his photographic memory, then, otherwise Zack would take it in stride.

Fuck.

He forced his eyes back to the silver-haired man, where he found both nightmare and flesh staring back at him. A slight edge, a barely perceptible tension, betrayed the man’s state of mind although his face was carefully schooled into a neutral expression. Cloud felt panic and bile rise up in his throat and forced himself to close his eyes and breathe. When he felt human enough, he stared up at Sephiroth again, trying to control his erratic heartbeat. If he could just make it through this one conversation without anything blowing up in his face, everything would be fine.

Trying to ignore the man’s eyes, he took three quick steps forward and managed to keep his hand blessedly steady as he held up the file he’d prepared with Reeve earlier. The silver-haired man simply stared at the file. When the other’s man gaze traveled up his extended arm and reached his eyes, the blond felt a slight blush creep up his cheeks and mentally cursed. Several times.

Sephiroth was simply sitting there calmly, a curious and slightly disoriented look now on his face. What should’ve been just a standard pair of military slacks, was, on the tall man, the lowest-cut pair of uniform pants Cloud had ever seen. The man had just been brutally awakened in what must appear to be another Shin-Ra lab, yet he still managed to command and dominate the entire room with his presence. The blond felt ridiculously small and obscenely young and it infuriated him; he’d gone through hell and back, had endured pain and betrayal and loss, all because of this one man. Yet he still felt insecure and inferior, a mere pawn whereas Sephiroth was the major player, the one who would lead him, forward or astray. This close, and without the added pressure of fighting for his life, the blond had time to notice all those little things he had been sure he’d erased from his memories; the fact that the silver-haired Soldier was much taller and broader than him, the way his hair always pooled around his form like silver silk and his eyes, piercing and mesmerizing at once, of that almost obscene shade of green that haunted his dreams and nightmares.

The blond felt his gaze drawn down the man’s hunched torso, draping down his relaxed arms and lingering just slightly too long. Cloud realized he’d been staring and forced his eyes to steer back up to the older man’s face with a start, praying he hadn’t been gaping like a fool.

The distaste at his own weakness must have shown on his slightly reddened face, because Sephiroth eventually extended his own arm to reach up and delicately take the file from him. The man’s face showed a slight edge of what could be confusion, and on the ex-General it was a humbling sight; waking up in the labs must have shaken him more than he was letting on. The blond stood his ground, letting his arm fall gently back to his side as Sephiroth’s eyes lowered to the folder, scanning it briefly. After a few seconds he raked a hand through his hair in a gesture so beguilingly human and confused that Cloud almost caught himself laughing. Again, something new, unexpected. Sephiroth turned his eyes to Zack, who still stood close by his side.

He waved the folder at the younger officer, a slight frown now on his face. “Just what in the hell is going on?”

Cloud flinched, then cursed inwardly, as the man’s striking eyes swept back towards him. “And what in Gaia happened to you, Strife?”, he added, with a casual wave of the folder towards the blond.

There was a tense silence, and for a moment Cloud doubted his own strength. Shit, I can’t do this. I can’t just blurt out all of it, I can’t live through this all over again, I can’t be here, I can’t BE HERE… His heart hammering a wild beat in his chest, he managed a nonchalant shrug that surprised even him and saw, from the corner of his eye, Zack’s face growing a little dark, brows arching just ever so slightly. Worried.

“It’s a long story. The file explains most of it. I…” A pause, then, as he took one long breath, averting his eyes from the silver-haired man’s intense green gaze. He more or less felt irritation radiating from the Soldier now; he was avoiding giving him a direct answer and knew the other didn’t like his dancing around the question. He shrugged again, mimicking Sephiroth’s earlier motion and weaving his left hand through his blond tresses hurriedly.

When he spoke again his voice was clipped and angry but he didn’t care. It sounded, to his own ears, blessedly free of the trembling nervous fear he was drowning in. “Just read the damned file. Zack’ll be there to answer any of your questions. If you really need to talk to me, I’ll be in Hollcomb’s office.”

He managed a small nod in Zack’s direction, then turned about smartly, averting his eyes quickly towards the exit and away from all that silvery green, his chest thrumming violently. He forced his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking and shouldered his way through the hallway door.

* * *

There was a long silence during which even the nurses contrived to make themselves look busy. Sephiroth stared at the door where the younger man had disappeared, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Did Cloud Strife… Did Cloud Strife actually just brush me off?

It was Zack who finally broke the silence, clapping a hand on Sephiroth’s naked shoulder with a laugh. “Don’t mind him, man. He’s just, you know, been through a lot.”

The silver-haired man cast a sidelong glance at his second-in-command. “Any time you’d care to explain, Lieutenant? I’m all ears.”

With a heavy sigh, Zack dropped his hand from Sephiroth’s shoulder, then turned to the nearest nurse. “Excuse me, Miss, can we do this elsewhere? Labs aren’t really, you know, ideal for conversation.”

“Sure. There’s an empty office right down the hall,” she pointed towards the corridor opposite the one Cloud had exited through and flashed Zack a small smile, then blushed furiously and busied herself with her medical clipboard. Sephiroth shook his head, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth despite his uncertain situation. Zack, at least, hadn’t changed much.

“Come on, man. We’re blowing this lab.”

Sephiroth sighed and got up as Zack hurried towards the office and held the door open for them both. The silver-haired man glanced up at the group clustered on the second floor railing then followed Zack into the office, grateful for the chance for a little privacy. The room held a small desk and a threadbare chair, which Zack motioned the older man into after closing the door. He sat down less than gracefully and with a sigh; away from prying eyes he could let some of his confusion and distress finally show. Zack was pacing the room nervously and that worried him more than he would care to admit. He opened his mouth to speak but the smaller man interrupted him with a wave of his hand and a frown, then seemed to realize how agitated he was and finally plopped himself down onto the desk.

“How are you feeling? I mean…” Zack smiled then, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must be wondering what the hell’s going on, Seph, but this is important.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow at him. “I feel fine, Zack. What’s this about?” There was a pause, and he could see Zack was clearly trying to collect his thoughts.

“A lot’s happened, Seph. You know how I always exaggerate and shit? Well, this isn’t one of those times. A lot has really happened.” The black-haired man sighed, then essayed another smile. “To answer your first question, you’ve been out of it for about eleven years.”

For a few blessed seconds he thought Zack was messing with him, but the younger man’s face remained serious and Sephiroth felt his heart rate spike in a bout of dizzy nervousness. The shock must have shown on his face because his friend smiled again, and this time it looked tired and strained.

Sephiroth looked down at his hands pooled in his lap, trying to grasp the enormity of what Zack had just said. When he looked up again, Zack’s face was a carefully-controlled mask and his eyes were trained on his own, trying to gage his reaction. “You all right, man?”

Sephiroth shook his head slightly. His mind was racing. That explains Strife at least. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen when I saw him last. He felt the world spinning around him again. And when was that exactly? He couldn’t remember; his recent memories were a jumbled mess.

Zack reached over and gently took the manila folder from his unresisting hands. “Let’s just go through this thing one fact at a time, right?”

* * *

“What the hell was that? I thought Cloud said we would see everything from up here!”

Reeve shook his head calmly. “I’m not sure everything went exactly as planned; Cloud was supposed to stay down there and explain things.” He nodded towards Vincent, who nodded back wordlessly. “I’m going down to try and find him; find out why he bolted. You guys stay here. If anything happens, I need to know there’s someone here that can handle this mess.

“I’ll be right back,” he added before turning back towards the stairs.

Tifa turned to stare at Vincent. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

Vincent, standing propped against the railing, shrugged. “It’s not my place to say.”

Tifa frowned. “It’s not your… For fuck’s sake, would you listen to yourself? This isn’t some sort of game!”

“I know.”

Yuffie turned and laid a hand on Tifa’s shoulder. “Tif, we both know this isn’t easy on him either. Maybe he just left to gather his thoughts or something.”

From the corner of the upper deck, Cid puffed out a breath in a noisy wheeze. “Yeah. You’d have to pay me a fortune to drag my sorry ass down there with that folder. Kid’s just regroupin’. Least we can do is give ‘im a chance to do this properly.”

Tifa snuck a glance at Barrett, who was leaning next to Cid and watching her. The big man shrugged. Tifa shuddered, worried. “I don’t know how you guys can all manage to be so damned calm about all this. If something happens in that office we won’t know anything about it until Zack’s really in trouble.”

Yuffie shook her head vehemently, keeping her arm on her friend’s shoulder. “Zack can handle this, Tif, I’m sure of it.”

* * *

Zack’s words washed over him in as he sat and listened. At first he’d tried to voice his protest, interrupt with his own jumbled memories, but as the story unfolded he fell silent. He stared at his hands, still clasped in his hands, as Zack’s voice calmly told of the burning of Nibelheim, the reactor, what they’d found in the ruins of Hojo’s labs and the scientist’s true involvement with the Soldier process.

When his friend stumbled in his telling and his voice trickled to a stop, Sephiroth looked up unsteadily, watching the other’s face as he tried and failed to lighten his expression. The silver-haired man frowned. Nibelheim was only just the start; everyone’s terrified of me, even Zack. Something else happened.

Did he want to hear the rest of it? Zack’s silence as they stared at each other spoke volumes. When his friend opened his mouth to continue Sephiroth raised his hand in protest.

“Just give me the file, Zack.”

“Seph…”

“Now.”

It was torture to watch the pained look that passed across his second in command’s face but, to his credit, he reached over and handed him the file back. Sephiroth snatched it from his hand with rather more force than he’d meant and opened it, scanning its contents. It took quite a while for him to force his way through all of it. Some part of him wanted to shove the folder at Zack’s face and scream; he hadn’t done any of these dreadful things, he had no memory of any of it. He read on. The file was written in the very cold, calculating manner of a report, which made the actual contents easier to assimilate. He read of the Cetra and Hojo’s misguided attempts at recreating what he mistakenly thought was a true Ancient. He read of Avalanche and their role in ShinRa’s fall, of the murder of one of their number at his own hand. He read of Jenova and what she was, of the genetic experiments Hojo had carried out in secret. Of his own death. Of Geostigma.

It should have been too much to take in; he should have stumbled, forgotten, lost his track, but his mind was painfully clear as he absorbed the knowledge of the destruction he’d caused. Parts of what he was reading clicked neatly into place, filling holes in his own memories and experiences. Hojo’s constant meddling in his life had been dismissed as Soldier maintenance, but it had never made any sense to him. His own file in the ShinRa personnel records had always been incomplete and now, finally, he could put names to his own genealogy, could now correctly identify his mother as a scientist on one of Hojo’s teams. Hojo. The scientist’s lies unravelled one after the other as he read.

After a very long while, he finally closed the folder and gently placed it face down on the desk next to Zack. He glared at it as though his gaze could changed its contents, could nullify its existence.

“Seph?”

A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he stared up in surprise into Zack’s worried eyes. “You all right? I know you have questions, and that’s why I’m here. Why we’re all here.”

“How…” His voice was raw, unrecognizable as his own. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead and sighed heavily. Questions. They were piling up in his mind. Why had anyone let him do any of it? How had Strife managed to best him, not once but three times? How could he have been foolish enough to let Hojo manipulate him so clearly? How could he have been so deluded as to let himself be goaded by some— some monstrous thing he hadn’t even ever heard of, save in Hojo’s lies and half-truths? In his mind’s eye he saw Midgar, defeated and destroyed under an onslaught of his own making. He took a deep, calming breath.

“How many dead?”

Zack blinked at him. “I… What?”

“How many people have I killed, Zack?” To his own rising horror, his voice broke as he spoke and he forced his free hand into a fist.

“I don’t really know, Seph. A lot.”

Another deep breath. He felt his own fingernails digging into the palm of his hand and squeezed tighter, gritting his teeth. “Jenova?”

“Dead, as far as we can tell,” Zack answered.

He forced the next question through clenched teeth, voice murderous, and felt blood start to seep through his fist. “And Hojo?”

“Definitely dead. Cloud made sure of that.”

Strife, again. He had destroyed the boy’s hometown, killed whatever family he’d had left, fucked with his mind in the sickest way possible and forced his hand into playing his own twisted game. Jenova had used him and he’d used Cloud in return, as a weapon, as a plaything and, ultimately, as a way out. Well, that explains that, at least. No way the cadet I remembered would’ve grown up into such a tortured man. He’d seen it immediately, in the blond’s eyes; something had been destroyed and crushed utterly. The boy had matured into a fighter but he’d lost something of himself in the process. Sephiroth had recognized the cold stare and hatred that lay dormant there, he simply hadn’t understood why it was there.

It had hurt, to see the blond so changed; the shock alone had been enough to render him nearly breathless and had forced the cadet’s name out of his lips before he could stop himself. Stupid mistake. By all accounts he shouldn’t even have remembered the kid’s name and he’d mentally slapped himself as soon as the word left his mouth; he’d seen both Strife and Zack flinch.

Well, now you know why he’s changed so damn much. Congratulations; not only did you almost destroy half the planet, you also managed to mangle the one damned thing you might have ever wanted.

* * *

You weak-willed git! After all this time, all the preparation you forced yourself through and all the shit you’ve inflicted on everyone else, you bail at the last minute! As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, Cloud had stumbled his way to Hollcomb’s office chair and had gratefully sunk his long body into it before burying his head in shaking hands. What had he expected to find in that lab? Reeve’s short report should have told him all he needed to know; not an empty husk sitting there confused, not one of Hojo’s clones staring blankly at the wall but Sephiroth himself, as he had been during the blond’s own Soldier training, alive, aware and definitely confused.

He had hoped the long walk down to the labs would calm his trembling nerves, had somehow thought that he could will himself to confront the man he would find behind those damned double doors. He knew exactly when things had spun out of his control, when he had felt his legs threaten to give way under him and breathing become erratic, when the world had spun to a stop for him.

He shouldn’t have remembered my name! Even Zack told me he’d never once mentioned me by name. Their friendship had been discussed, he was certain of it, but as Sephiroth had called out his last name in a breathless hiss, Cloud had seen the look of surprise on the black-haired man’s face and had known something was wrong.

This entire plan rested on him; while Zack was a formidable fighter, Cloud knew if it came to it he was the only one truly capable of stopping Sephiroth. But facing him again in theories and plans was one thing and now that he was here, and this was now, it was an altogether different matter.

The blond realized he’d been digging furrows into his own scalp with his nails and dropped his hands into his lap, his blue eyes panicked and wide, breath leaving his chest in short bursts of panic.

“Shit. What have I done?”

A soft knock at the door interrupted him and he jumped, startled. “Cloud? Can I come in?” Reeve’s voice, calm and more than slightly hesitant. The blond sighed; as he got up to open the door for the man he took note of the weariness in his limbs and forced himself to concentrate, to stay awake and aware. He couldn’t let Reeve know he was breaking down now.

“Christ, Cloud, are you all right?”

Well, so much for that plan. The blond shrugged and motioned Reeve inside, walking aside to let the taller man through. “I’m fine. How’s everyone up on the second floor?”

“Worried. Tifa’s a nervous wreck,” he added as he turned to face Cloud. “Not that I can blame her. You don’t… look so good, Cloud. I know you’d planned to stay with Zack all the way through this, but maybe you should simply get a bit of rest.”

The blond opened his mouth to protest but Reeve waved a hand at him, waving his concern away. “They’re going through the file as we speak, and everything’s under control. You’re running yourself ragged with this, Cloud. I don’t care what it takes, I want you to sleep; Zack told me you’ve been up for days.” Reeve dropped a hand on Cloud’s shoulder and smiled at the smaller man. “If I have to post a couple of Turks outside the door to make sure you stay in here and rest, I will.”

The blond exhaled slightly, managing a small smile at the other man. “Fine. Did you speak with Hollcomb about the tests?”

“Later, Cloud. I said rest.” Reeve’s voice was playful as he squeezed his shoulder then walked back out to the corridor and closed the door behind him. Cloud stared at his retreating back, then at the grain of the wooden door and tried to collect his thoughts.

Sleep. He knew restful slumber would be next to impossible now, and had no desire to revisit his old nightmares once again. No way in hell am I going to even try sleeping, not with him so damned close. He could barely tell the difference as it was, between his nightmares and this new, confusing reality; when he was near the man, he felt the ground twist under his feet feverishly, his heart race in irregular beats that definitely did not feel normal.

He had to avoid the nightmares at all costs; he wasn’t sure how many more time he could visit that featureless, barren plain on the outskirts of Midgar before he drove himself completely insane.

Gaia, what had he gotten himself into?

That's Right. It's Analytics Time!

By far. As in, absolutely no contest. I understand that PH is made of bloody awesome, but still. Strange world.

Update: They are printed, and lovely and much bigger than I’d anticipated. Standing up, I reach just a little over the line between the green and white wall painting. So they’re huge. But oh so lovely and dark and rogue-ish. Mrr. Also, I only have one measly little window in my boudoir and when it gets dark (as it so often does in winter now…) all I can see are the hoods and vague menacing faces of my fave assassins; they’re actually a little scary in the dark.

Two bad-asses playing wall scrolls.

They are 36 inches wide and 48 inches high, and I managed to output them both at 150dpi without anything getting too grainy. I’m betting the large format inkjet printing will add enough texture and grain to offset any stray jpeg compression from the original images.

Assassin's Creed Poster - Featuring Altaïr ... Mrrr.

Altaïr gets a blue-ish poster, in keeping with the original game’s colour scheme. I modified the image somewhat; if you can find the original out there, you’ll see that I tweaked the character’s hood to better fit the angle of his face. The original just looked freaking weird. I also added some depth and width to his chest, because I can. :P

Assassin's Creed 2 Poster - Featuring Ezio ... Double Mrrr.

Ezio gets a lovely, pretty much unaltered image in red, which I used in part to tweak the Altaïr image so they would look more similar. Redid both logos in vector, because I simply couldn’t find them in a big enough resolution. Both files are pretty big (around 100 mb each), even flattened and rasterized.

Update: There have been quite a few requests for the large .psd files for these two. Seeing as how I’m so cool and all, I’ll be sharing these files directly here instead of asking you to send me an email. These are accessible through my Me.com public folder. The only thing I ask you guys is to please send me piccies of the posters on your wall so I can add them here.

• Here’s AC1’s Altaïr’s .psd link
• And here’s AC2’s Ezio’s .psd link

Watch out though, they are both around 100mb each, so it might take a while, depending on your connection speed. Have fun!

Brought to you by the awful, awful lack of decent Assassin’s Creed posters out there. Ubisoft is having a contest and giving away one with Ezio and the AC2 logo, but I couldn’t find -anywhere- where I could fork over some dough and get one of my own. Even Ubi’s own online shop carries nothing of the sort. Well. Screw that, and please don’t sue me; I’m making no money from these posters.

It was written pretty quickly, and it turned out surprisingly longer than I expected; I guess my NaNo blitz made me even wordier than I usually am, although I’m really not certain that’s a good thing. Feel free to comment on the new chapter.

As for On Silver Wings, it’s still officially on hiatus; I’ve been playing the shit out of Assassin’s Creed 2 (Mrr, hello, Ezio…) so I find myself itching and twitching to revisit some of my old favorites, mainly Damascus and Masyaf. The AC franchise is just so rich and gritty and violently lovely, it’s hard to tear myself away.

But I promise I’ll get back to On Silver Wings soon. :)

The road stretched on in front of the merchant caravan; to Jehane, unused to such travel, it felt endless, bordered left and right by lifeless desert, seemingly the same stretch of land for miles and miles. There was, at that time, plenty of opportunity for Jehane to regret, and remember. Although the trip itself had been easier than anticipated, Jehane would never again, she was certain, face something quite as hard as leaving Fezana, and saying goodbye to her mother while her father stood unmoving beside her.

A silent, almost accusing presence, he had not acknowledged either his wife or his daughter in the telling of the news of Jehane’s leaving. Velaz had helped with the packing of some of the most important herbs and poultices she would not be able to find or make on the road. She had also packed dried bunches of antiseptic leaves, and pain-killing seeds from the opiate plants, which she wasn’t sure she would even be able to find so far south.

They had left on the first day of spring. According to Ibn Jubayr, this would allow them to profit from the gradually warming weather on their way to Genoa, where, if they were lucky, they would find a merchant boat to take them south to Jerusalem before the winter. After that, the road was much traveled, and Ibn Jubayr assured her the voyage from Jerusalem to Damascus would be easier and as pleasant as such travel could be.

Jehane was more than a little sceptic about that claim. Although they hadn’t encountered many people on the road, those she had seen from her vantage point in the back of the caravan had seemed poor, and worn from their trek. They had crossed quite a few other caravans, and she guessed their road was taking them through the merchants’ paths, doubling back this way and that to accommodate their horses and carts. The peasants had at first kept closer to the forests, and following their departure from her hometown she could see trails leading into the woods, well-worn from travellers’ boots and mules’ hooves. The mountain passes were closed to large carts and, as such, they had to go many miles out of their way to circle around to flatter, easier terrain.

She sat now, at the very back of the caravan, gazing eastward as they circled a large expanse of land she had been told was owned by a very rich man who didn’t at all appreciate travellers going through his settlements.

Another small hurdle, a tiny bend in the road, which added days to their already long path.

Ibn Jubayr seemed restless now, sometimes getting off to help the merchants push the cart over rougher ground or simply walking beside the carts. He seemed to her now an almost alien presence, unfathomably in his element, comfortable and happy on this dusty road. He was an altogether different man than the one she’d met in Fezana, almost giddy and childlike in his excitement. In the city she had almost laughed at his awkward gait and wizened skin, but on the road he was a different man; he came alive, and seemed to grow taller and more confident. He conversed easily with the merchants and passersby, sometimes speaking their native tongues, then slipping easily into dialects she had never heard, all strange guttural noises and unfamiliar syllables.

His smile now was infectious, and although she herself had discovered she had no passion for the road, she couldn’t help but feel optimistic. She knew, more or less, where they were headed, but wondered what might wait for her along the path, and Jubayr’s easy mood helped her feel adventurous. She essayed a few tentative talks with the driver’s wife and struck an easy friendship with her eldest daughter.

But the monotony of the road, the weariness of unaccustomed travel and the long dusty days were starting to wear her down, and she surprised herself with her yearning for excitement; she missed the city already, its many sounds and smells and busying people. Her father’s absence was a constant ache, and she yearned even a little for Velaz’s comforting, grumbling presence.

Damascus. Weeks and weeks away still.

* * *

The guard struck a blow to the side of his face with his armoured glove, sending his head snapping violently to the left. Altaïr cursed under his breath, spat blood onto the quickly reddening stone floor and waited. There were now three guards in the cell with him; the rest had climbed up the old stairwell back to street level.

His arms had been tightly bound behind his back; one of his shoulders was a bloom of pain and he suspected it had loosened from the socket. Blood seeped from a deep gash in his thigh, a painful and throbbing reminder of the fight he had lost on the rooftops. Down in the cool cellar, it congealed in a puddle at his feet and made standing upright difficult.

The men guarding him were alert and very happy to have him in their care. He’d been raiding guard-posts all over the city, at his master’s request; many of those now in Saladin’s service ran corrupted through the streets of the city, using their influence and power to take advantage of the people in the poorer districts. Using their weapons and rank to steal, rape and torture those who had no voice, they were allowed to roam free within the city and wreck havoc with its inhabitants. Al-Mualim had had no choice but to send a warning to others who would follow suit; the creed dictated they should help.

Altaïr sighed. He’d been careless as he’d fled the compound he’d been sent to raid and had assumed the rooftops would be clear of guards, ensuring an easy escape route. That he had been captured was insult enough; that he could find no hope of escaping now was torture.

Another sharp blow sent him reeling to the floor, twisting his dislocated shoulder. A groan escaped him as he fell to his side, panting. The guards snickered above him. The youngest one, with a look of pure hatred on his face, was removing a leather and iron flail from his belt. The one who had first struck him approached and ground his booted foot into his injured leg.

“Get back up, cur!”

Altaïr moaned something unintelligible and laughed, coughing up blood. The guard turned to look at his brethren. They shook their heads. “Speak up, you whore-son!”, he stepped forward and lowered himself to grab Altaïr’s tunic and pull him up.

Which brought him in range of the assassin’s knee. Twisting his upper body backwards and using the floor against his back as leverage, Altaïr brought his healthy leg up, snapping into the guard’s face and crushing his nose and brow. The man staggered backwards in shock, disbelief on his disfigured face.

The remaining two guards stared at their falling comrade and only reacted once the man had hit the floor a choking, gurgling mess. The closest guard managed to reach Altaïr before he could right himself and drove his elbow into his stomach. As the assassin bent double in pain, the soldier unsheathed his dagger and followed his blow with a vicious jab of his blade into Altaïr’s already injured shoulder.

As his vision blurred and the world swam perilously around him, Altaïr heard the thunder of boots on the stonework staircase, and saw, dimly, the men frantically trying to help their fallen comrade. He managed to stumble to his knees weakly as the captain of he guards staggered through the doorway, sword in hand, staring for a moment at the fallen guard, then at him.

The man removed his helmet and threw it at the nearest guard, who straightened up just in time to catch it in trembling hands. He barked for his men to drag the dying man out of the cell, then motioned for the others to stay back. Advancing towards the assassin, he reached back with his gloved hand and sent Altaïr’s head reeling with a vicious back-handed blow, his armoured glove splitting open a large gash across the assassin’s cheek and lip.

Altaïr managed to stay upright, but his head swam crazily, and he stared at the captain’s boots while waiting for the world to come back into sharp focus. His breathing was ragged now and he fought to keep his grip on consciousness.

“That will cost you, dog. You have killed many of our men; don’t think for a moment this death will go unpunished.”

Unbidden, and against his better judgement, a chortling laugh rose up in his throat and Altaïr braced himself for the second blow he knew was coming. This time when the captain’s glove connected with his jaw, he couldn’t force himself to stay upright and he crumbled into a graceless heap at the man’s feet, his arms still bound behind his back.

The man pulled him up by the chain connecting his hands, sending a wave of tearing pain through his dislocated shoulder. As he was forced upright, he couldn’t hold the scream that traveled up his throat. Blessed silence followed the echo of his howl and for a few seconds darkness overtook him. When the ringing in his ears finally subsided, he was standing weakly and a dull throbbing in his shoulders and arms indicated that he was being held up by the chain that bound his arms; someone had hooked it to a peg in the wall and he hung weakly, knees barely supporting his weight.

The captain of the guards still stood motionless in front of him; all the others had left, as he was now in condition to put up a fight. Altaïr managed to focus on the man and raised his head to meet the other’s gaze.

“You will get nothing out of me.”

The man laughed, softly, and shook his head. “What makes you think I intend to make you talk? We have already been paid for capturing you; getting any information from your worthless corpse will not fall to us.”

He paused, and sent the assassin a chilled smile.

“The Templars will come for you soon. In the meantime, we have been allowed to keep you here as we see fit. Trust me, when I am done with you, you will beg for the knights to steal you from my care.”

The captain moved his arm, signalling for another guard to come out of the darkened doorway.

Altaïr tried to control his ragged breathing as the man approached him. His heart was now beating a mad rhythm in his chest, and he struggled to remain calm, to call up the wall inside him that kept him detached and safe. The younger guard, barely out of childhood, stepped around his leader and reached for the flail at his waist. Then he stepped towards Altaïr, his face a mask of hatred, and swung for the assassin’s legs.

As his knees buckled under him from the force of the young man’s blow, his entire weight dropped unto his shoulders and arms, and this time Altaïr’s scream echoed around the walls of the cell for what seemed an eternity.

When at last the world faded slowly into oblivion, Altaïr closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.

* * *

Although the boat ride from Genoa to the southern coast had only taken a little over two weeks, to Jehane it had felt like years. The roiling movement of the sea had immediately made her feel unwell and despite Jubayr’s constant reassurances that she would get used to it, time seemed only to aggravate her uneasy stomach. She had appreciated little of the voyage, and had spent most of her days below the ship’s deck, comforted by its dark and cool interior.

The stench alone would have been enough to make her sick. Combined with the constant rolling of the floor it made her voyage an unending nightmare, and she could only glare at Jubayr when he came down to see her, an unfamiliar youthful grin on his face. He was enjoying himself on the voyage, and his lined and weathered skin seemed to melt into a young boy’s features; his eyes were alight with excitement and although Jehane couldn’t match his enthusiasm, she relented to his nervous chatter.

When he came down to visit her, he’d spend most of his time extolling the virtues of the places they would visit, and Jehane tried to smile with him, letting his own sense of adventure wash over her.

It did little to dispel her sickness, but at least it passed the time. They made a short stop at Messina, following the trade route south. By the time they finally disembarked in Jerusalem, Jehane had lost a good deal of weight, and felt weakened and weary; the clothes she had brought with her from Fezana seemed to hang off her slight frame now; however nothing could have diminished the joy she felt at finally setting foot on solid ground again, and even the thought of embarking on the road so soon after finally arriving couldn’t sully her good cheer.

Jubayr himself was glorious in the midday sun that beat upon the docks at the edge of the city; he seemed more alive and excited every day, and Jehane tried to forget the long days spent in the ship’s hold. This far south, the driving sun seemed almost choking and dusty and it quickly warmed and invigorated her again. They set off the very next day after a short rest, wasting no time in the holy city. Jubayr promised her they would visit it again on their way back, before leaving. Here, there were many caravans leaving and going into the city itself, and Jubayr had no trouble finding them a means to get to Damascus.

Their day had dawned bright and early and Jehane had waited by the side of the dirt road while her caretaker had spent the early morning bartering with merchants for a ride north and east to Damascus. It hadn’t taken long for him to find someone to take them, and as coins had exchanged hands, Jehane had been motioned forward, and had climbed up the back of the merchant’s cart with some difficulty, sitting herself atop the man’s cargo of dried fruits and heady, perfumed wines.

They had set off soon after that, leaving behind the gates of Jerusalem to travel the road that would take them to Damascus. As they’d left, weaving among the throngs of people going both in and out of the city, she’d sat, perched up on the back of the cart, watching the lines of weary travellers pass her by. They hadn’t taken the time to truly rest, and Jehane felt weary herself; it had been days since she’d been allowed to have a true bath and in the rising heat she felt sticky and unpleasantly warm. Her wavy red hair was a mess of tangled curls, and it clung thickly to her forehead and neck.

She’d known the trip would take a while, but hadn’t expected she’d grow tired of the road so soon. The way through the mountainous terrain was extremely tedious, and they encountered little except for wary travellers and the occasional small town. For the first few days, she kept mostly to herself, only seeing Jubayr when they stopped to rest and eat. She soon discovered the merchant himself to be pleasant enough company, and by the end of the first week, she often found herself engaging in conversation with the older man. He was wizened and used to the road, and kept her entertained with stories of his travels, elaborate tales of encounters with bandits and thieves told by firelight. His stories both delighted and frightened her and he often laughed at her naivete, assuring her that, despite his extravagant exaggerations, the road they were on now was quite safe, and guarded by Saladin’s men.

She heard quite a lot of the kingdom’s ruler through the merchant’s accounts of his travels. Nodding by their campfire, she’d ventured her opinion on the man’s leadership and politics, and Jubayr excused himself more than once. When she finally got up the nerve to ask him why he was apologizing for her behaviour constantly, she was told in no uncertain terms that a woman should keep such opinions to herself; things were different here, and women were not supposed to be so boisterous and opinionated. Jehane scoffed at his answer, and retorted that he’d be fairly hard put to shut her up if he expected her to behave like a shy little flower.

He’d laughed at her, but she’d known he’d been serious. By the time they finally arrived in Damascus, Jehane had made up her own mind about her place there, and had vowed to herself that she’d do everything she could to make her own place, despite the fact that women were not valued as highly as they were in her native Fezana.

As they finally approached the city, more than three weeks after they’d first left Jerusalem, Jehane was finally silenced, awed by the size and grandeur of the walled metropolis they were nearing. The merchant laughed at her open-mouthed stare and he spurred his tired horses forward, driving them towards the gates.

The city itself was majestic in the dying light of the setting sun, a rambling, shambling huge beast of a town. People of various colours and dress were queuing up at its gates, and several guards kept watch at the open doorway, scanning the crowd with a wary eye. In the distance, past the fortified walls, Jehane could see, rising above the other brick buildings, towers that rivalled the most majestic monuments in Fezana. There were dozens of such towers, and she felt like the smallest thing in the world, sitting behind on the cart, as they were slowly led towards the gates.

The guards there inspected the merchant’s cart carefully, asking him what he was carrying and why. When they were finally let through, the man breathed a sigh of relief and spurred his horses towards a small gathering of similar carts. He jumped off once the cart stopped advancing, gesturing to Jubayr, who trotted to a stop beside him.

Jehane jumped down and made her way to them. As she walked towards the pair, she noticed several passersby staring openly at her, and she hurried forward, dismayed at garnering so much attention.

“Here we are then,” the merchant said, brushing one hand absent-mindedly against the neck of the lead horse. “You’ll find the district you’re looking for that way.”

Jubayr nodded, and coins were once again exchanged as Jehane watched on. “Thank you, for taking us this far. I know my way around the city.” Jubayr’s smile was as infectious as ever, and he and the merchant shook hands good-naturedly, grinning at each other like boys.

“Have a good stay in Damascus, friend.”

They parted, and Jubayr made his way to her, grabbing her elbow as he passed and pulling her with him as he walked away from the cart and merchant. Jehane looked back to the man who’d brought them here, sending a small wave his way which he answered with a wry grin and a wave of his own.

“You’ll find that most women here cover their hair. It might be beneficial for you to do so as well.”

She blinked at Jubayr, uncertain. “Why?”

He shrugged. “It is part of their custom. You have very… distinct hair, Jehane. It will keep the people here from staring at you. I will find you a veil once we are settled at Ma’mun’s practice.”

She nodded at him, noticing once more that people were starting to stare. “Thank you.”

He led her away, weaving past the crowd, keeping his arm on her elbow. They eventually reached a quieter part of the district and he released her, walking ahead of her. She followed, still a little unsure of her feet after so much time spent on the road. Around her, the sounds of the bustling city seemed deafening, and she was surprised to find so much activity so late in the day; Fezana, it seemed, went to bed a lot earlier than Damascus.

The few women she saw going about their business were veiled and never alone, travelling with other women or with a man. The realization that she’d just entered a very different place hit her then and she wondered for the first time whether she would have trouble adjusting to life here in Damascus. She missed her family terribly, for a moment, and fervently hoped Ibn Ma’mun was a kind man, one that would be patient and understanding with her.

Damascus was huge; it was quite different from what she’d imagined in her mind. As she followed Jubayr further into the district, she hoped with all her heart that she would adjust here, fit in with the other people, and eventually find her place within this sprawling city.

I’ve been thinking of trying NaNo for years and years, but have only just gotten enough courage to actually sign up. On Silver Wings has been extremely good practice for me, and although I’ve been busy as hell and updates are getting scarce, I adore it to death; it’s taught me a lot about character development, pacing, dialogue and other such things which are pretty important when you plop your bum down to write what is basically 50k words on one topic.

So, head on over to the NaNoWriMo website and visit me!

If you have ideas, please share them; if you spot errors or weak bits, feel free to point them out in a most violent and direct way.

Thank you! :)

EDIT: Be sure to use the new “fullscreen” button at the top of the chapter pages, they make reading a lot easier!

“Get your ass down to the labs, Reeve. Sephiroth’s awake and I could really use some help here.”

“He’s what?!”

“Awake, Reeve. We have a bit of a situation here — nothing serious, but it’s chaotic enough without having aides running around with broken noses. I need someone to handle this guy, because honestly, I can’t.”

“We’ll be right down. Thank you, Diane.”

She put down the cordless phone back in its cradle and frowned. Reeve had obviously downplayed their conversation; she knew he’d promised Cloud not to alert anyone if anything went wrong. Still, considering their current situation, his reaction had been surprisingly calm and collected. She hadn’t just talked with Reeve, she’d talked with President Reeve, and that was disconcerting. Everything’s politics to him.

She understood his desire for control, and his wish not to induce panic, but she couldn’t fathom how he always managed to stay so calm; she herself usually felt more at ease with a very direct, none-too-subtle approach to life. Reeve’s strength, and the reason he was so far doing a great job managing the derelict corporation, was in being her complete and total opposite. If the man felt it necessary to pussyfoot around the subject in order to try and keep some semblance of order, it was fine with her. She simply couldn’t help feeling that it was all an illusion at this point.

She knew they weren’t in control; had known it from the beginning, when the man had fought the drugs and made her job that much harder. No matter what Cloud Strife assured her, no matter how many times he came down here with that hard-set look to his eyes, Diane knew none of them were in any position to pretend that they knew what they were doing anymore. And she certainly wasn’t equipped to deal with what the silver-haired man could throw at her. If things had calmed down now, it was only because he’d agreed to wait until the new president of Neo-ShinRa showed up.

“Fuck. This could go very bad, very fast.” She shook her head and signalled a nearby nurse. “How’s Roland?”

The nurse cringed. “He’ll live. But it’s a nasty wound, and a pretty bad break… He’s going to be alright, but someone will have a fun job trying to reconstruct his nose.”

She sighed, ran a hand through her short hair and puffed in exasperation. “I told that idiot not to stand so damned close… Send Doctor Levine to see to him; I have to get back out there before something else happens.”

* * *

He became aware of his surroundings in stages, and that was the first clue that he wasn’t simply waking up. Sound came to him first, gnarled and distorted, as though he was underwater. It brought back memories of the Wutai war, nighttime ambushes in the marshes and rain-slicked troops advancing in the dark. He knew as his brain fizzled to life that the memory was an old one, but he couldn’t place it. He felt numb and heavy; his head throbbed and he could barely make out a sort of buzz, distant but annoying all the same, like a crowd shouting just out of hearing. He thought he heard his name, and panicked voices shouting jumbled nonsense.

The feeling in his limbs came back next, disorienting for his lack of vision. His arms and legs tingled unpleasantly, and this time he was reminded of countless nights of guard duty as a young Soldier, arms and legs falling asleep as he slumped against his post to try and catch a few hours’ worth of rest. The memory faltered and spun out of his reach, leaving him confused and annoyed.

He twitched an arm and felt immediate resistance. A frown, then, which made him aware of the rest of his body; he was lying down, on a cold, hard surface. And he was restrained.

His chest tightened, panic rose briefly then fell, and was replaced by sharp, hard anger. Hojo. Another bloody test. Where was he, this time? The man had a habit of moving his laboratories when ShinRa reduced his funding. This echoing place was alien to him, and he supposed he must be in yet another new facility. In the mountains, somewhere, out of reach of ShinRa’s lawyers and Midgar’s rebels.

He fought to keep his breathing even and slow as the pleasant thought of his hands around the skinny scientist’s throat rose up in his mind; no point in alerting anyone that he was awake, if they didn’t already know. Light seeped in slowly from under his lashes and he felt himself come awake fully, felt his limbs start to respond and his mind slowly clear. He started discerning the sounds he had heard at first. Definitely voices, definitely scientists.

Directly at his left, close by, he felt a hint of something familiar, a breathless excitement that made the bile rise up in his throat.

“Oh, good, he’s conscious. Finally! Here, hold this, I’ll check his I.V. in case we need to put him under again.”

A sense of movement then, and he almost felt the man’s hand brush against his arm. The anger rose up again, before he could get a firm grip on it, and it slipped his control entirely. Put me under again, Hojo… Well, fuck you! As he felt the other man lower himself to his left arm, he pulled with the other, hard, and broke the leather restraint easily. His right arm had been lying at his side, and that left him almost a full four feet of swing before he reached the other man’s face. He opened his eyes just as he felt the very satisfying crunch of the bastard’s bones under his fist…

Shit. Not Hojo at all.

He had a few second of blessed silence in which to reflect that ShinRa’s scientists really ought to develop their own personality and mannerisms; they were all way too much alike for comfort. And then the world exploded around him, and he blinked in surprise as two dozen armed guards sprung up around him, rifles trained directly at his face, unwavering.

A quick glance around him confirmed that the masamune was nowhere close by, and while his current predicament was unpleasant, he knew ShinRa required him to cooperate with Hojo’s tests. A full blown attack on the company’s leading scientist’s team would be more than frowned upon, so he sat back down and waited. Eventually, a small, rather mousy-looking woman pushed through the ranks and came to squat by the wounded doctor’s side. She checked for a pulse and gingerly felt the broken contours of the man’s face, cringing. Apparently satisfied that the man was still alive, she signalled two other nurses who dragged the unconscious doctor away; he trailed blood the entire way to the exit, and Sephiroth smirked.

He turned to the woman, who was apparently in charge. “Where’s Hojo?”

She flinched, and two of the guards around him took a hesitant step back. A few of the closer ones looked nervous, and one of the younger ones was sweating profusely and seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Sephiroth frowned. He’d never been known for his social graces, but this was bordering on ridiculous.

“Reeve’s coming down here in a few minutes, he’ll explain everything. You’re not in one of Hojo’s labs.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow at her, unsure if he’d heard her right. “Reeve? Why the hell would I want to talk to Reeve?” Around him, more flinching, and one guard shot the woman an uncertain look which she ignored.

“Look, what the hell’s going on here?” He pulled against the other restraint and it gave in with a sad tearing sound. He’d been staring at the woman, trying to pull her face from his memory. When the restraint gave and his arm came up, he was shocked to feel a bullet hit him squarely in the shoulder.

The sound of the lone gunshot reverberated through the now silent hall and Sephiroth grimaced. He shifted his gaze to the trooper who had fired and managed, gritting his teeth, not to reach for the man’s throat. The grunt took two wavering steps back as Sephiroth reached for the wound with his good hand; he dug his fingers in and managed to extricate a sad, flattened metal disk which he sent flying across the floor with a flick of his fingers. The trooper’s face blanched.

“Okay, everybody just calm down. Reeve’s already on his way. You three, back off, give the man some air.” The woman pushed past the troopers closest to the steel bed and motioned a nurse forward. “Get me some bandages, we can’t use Materia at this point; I don’t want to risk mako-poisoning.”

She shifted her eyes to him, and Sephiroth was surprised to find a silent plea there, and a hint of annoyance. “Please, just play nice, would you? I swear Reeve will explain everything; nobody here wants a bloodbath.”

After a long silence, he huffed at her and nodded. “Fine.”

She gave a slight nod, and a relieved little smile. The nurse she’d sent for supplies came back and she made quick work of his wound; it was cleaned, staunched and dressed in very little time. As she walked away back to her office, Sephiroth took another look at his surroundings.

He was definitely not in one of Hojo’s labs; the man would never allow a female scientist with a clear head on his team, not without risking some serious bruises to his already expansive ego. The troopers surrounding him were laughably nervous; several of the rifles were now trembling slightly, and the younger one who had shot him was no longer in sight. They were all in uniform, but to Sephiroth’s trained eye they were rag-tag, not a single one of them in proper stance, their defensive position broken and scattered.

He could spot two breaches in the circle of men and one of the troopers kept glancing back at the scientists behind him, his aim wavering off Sephiroth every few seconds. He was outnumbered and outgunned yet he knew he could break out of the hall without breaking much of a sweat and, barring some freak accident, with minimal risk to his life.

It was, in short, a pitiful guard force. Hojo would’ve had trained, very well-paid Soldiers keeping an eye on him; this was ridiculous at best and insulting at worst.

He swung his legs over the side of the steel slab and rested his elbows on his knees, settling in for a long wait; ShinRa officials weren’t known for punctuality. The circle of guards around him grew bigger as he moved, then relaxed again. He sighed.

At his side, the nurse who had been taking away the soiled sponges and bandages the doctor had used to clean his wounds flushed a deep, embarrassed red and fled. Sephiroth realized that the thin cotton sheet which had been covering him had slipped and fallen. A few minutes later, a well-pressed and folded generic ShinRa uniform was hastily deposited on the furthest corner of the steel bed. He ignored it.

ShinRa officials… Of all the people the President could have sent down, Reeve seemed the least likely choice. The man was head of urban development; he’d never had anything to do with any of Hojo’s projects, and Sephiroth even doubted if he knew about Hojo’s involvement in Soldier Division’s genetic enhancements. Even Scarlet, as head of weapon research, could’ve had an excuse to come down here herself and gloat.

The fact that it was Reeve who would be explaining his present situation spoke volumes to him. Something had happened, and there was nothing he could do now but wait.

* * *

As they made their way down to the science wing, chaos and crowded corridors slowly gave way to dead silence and empty halls. Cloud knew everyone who had any right to be in this area had a fairly important job to do somewhere in the room up ahead, and wouldn’t be hanging about in the halls dejectedly.

But the silence got to him all the same. The air was heavy around him, and as they neared the big double doors Cloud felt his chest constrict painfully. It was probably just fear, and a growing sense of dread, that made him feel giddy and a little out of breath; the alternative was unthinkable. Hollcomb had assured him several times that, as far as she could tell, Sephiroth’s Jenova cells were dormant. Whatever physical effect he felt now was simply a reflection of his own fears and nightmares.

He nodded to himself slowly as they approached, then stopped. Tifa nearly collided with his back as he slowed and he turned to look at the group that was now turning as one man to stare at him.

He sent Tifa a small, nervous smile, which she returned. “Guys, I’m going to have to ask you to wait on the second floor railing.” He pointed to the nearest hallway on his left. “It’s right that way, you’ll get to see everything and you’ll be close by if anything happens.”

Tifa had a questioning look on her face. “Why, Cloud? I’m sure it’ll just be easier if we’re all nearby,” she said. She paused, searching his eyes. “With you.”

Zack, at his side, reassuring and warm, came to his aid. “We can’t have too many people down there, Tif. To keep security tight, for one. Also, because we don’t want to seem to be putting on a challenge, you know? Seph’s never been one for crowds.”

Tifa’s face twisted slightly and Cloud winced. They’d talked about this several times, but the nickname seemed to have slipped Zack’s lips. “Seph…?” She looked up at Cloud, unsure. “I’m sorry, are going to nickname every mass murderer that comes our way?”

A sharp, pointed sting in his chest, another guilt he didn’t need. He sighed, raked a hand through his hair tiredly; he was alienating himself from the only people who could possibly care about him.

Too late to back down now. “No Tif, just those mass murderers we’re bringing back from the dead. The stairs to the second floor are right there… Please.”

With a huff the brunette turned away. “Fine!”

Yuffie followed the young fighter with an apologetic look on her face, and Barrett and Cid, who had watched the exchange in silence, went after her. Cid gave him a thumbs up and a grin as he passed. Vincent approached him and gave his shoulder a squeeze before following suit.

And that was that. Nothing left now but to go in; no more excuses, no more stalling, nothing standing between him and whatever lay on that slab of steel.

“C’mon Spike, Red’s up there already, he can deal with whatever mood swing Tifa wants to throw at him.”

“Right.”

The blond didn’t move. Zack frowned, dropped a hand on his friend’s shoulder lightly. “He’s fine, man. Trust me. Diane said he’d already woken up, right? If the shit was going to hit the fan, we’d be knee deep in it by now. I mean, one scientist with a black eye isn’t exactly Jenova’s style, you know?” He paused, gave the shoulder a slight shake, and almost gasped as the blond looked up at him.

Zack hadn’t talked with the others much about everything that had happened after he’d died, but he knew enough about Cloud’s state of mind to expect him to be a little fragile. His newfound confidence as he’d led Avalanche against Jenova had been thoroughly shaken when Aerith had died, and from what he’d understood, the blond had never fully recovered. He’d put up a strong front, out of habit, even after Jenova had fallen, even after the remnants had been defeated.

That front was gone now, and in the blond’s eyes he thought he recognized the young cadet he remembered from his ShinRa days. Zack knew Cloud would never let Tifa see him crumble like this, and he supposed he should feel lucky, despite his own fear that he was less than ill-equipped to help.

He sent the younger man his best, most dazzling smile and hoped he was doing the right thing by pushing him like this. “Hey. We can do this, man.”

A pause, and Zack took the time to search his friend’s face; fear there, naked and raw, overwhelming and absolute; a barely controlled panic he would never let the others see. And, something else, something Zack would never had recognized if he hadn’t already known about it, something pure and absolutely unthinkable; a longing to be accepted, to be acknowledged, by the one man he had never dared meet face to face. A longing to surrender, a twisted and strange desire for the silver-haired man that the blond had only once been able to put words to. Zack inwardly grimaced. Yeah, and you had to get him stinkin’ drunk to get even that much out of him.

Eventually the blond’s face settled into an approximation of his usual look, although now that Zack had seen through the mask it was a little easier to see the edges where Cloud’s facade broke. His friend was more than exhausted, that much was clear, running only on adrenaline and pure guts at this point. Once this meeting was over and done with, Zack was going to drag the blond into his quarters and force him to stay in there and sleep.

“Yeah, I can do this… Thank you, Zack, for being here.”

“Don’t mention it, Spike.” Sending a small grin the other’s way, he shrugged. “Where else would I be, man? My season pass to the Golden Saucer is expired, you know that.”

Cloud’s eyes lit up, a small glimpse of the man he still was, buried under that shell. The blond allowed himself to laugh at his antics, more a nervous expulsion of breath than anything, but to Zack’s ears it was heaven.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Although he had steeled himself prior to entering the main hall, it was still a shock to see the silver-haired man sitting there amidst the hustle of Neo-ShinRa staff. His very presence dominated the room, and everyone around him seemed to be entirely focused on either observing him or very carefully avoiding him. The man was wearing a pair of nondescript Neo-ShinRa uniform slacks, his chest bare. Cloud could see the dress shirt crumpled and carelessly tossed against the farther railing of the steel bed; it probably hadn’t fit. Something he hadn’t thought of, in his haste to get this over with; he’d suggested Hollcomb keep a spare uniform down here but hadn’t bothered to check the fit.

In a haze of nervous fear he focused on this small detail; it was a comforting thought, a normal thought. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn’t have provided the man with a military uniform. Civilian clothes might have been more appropriate, more neutral. He was dimly aware that a small, choked chuckle escaped him. Shopping for Sephiroth. What an insanely stupid idea.

Zack turned to him, a worried frown on his usually cheerful face. The blond tried to wave his friend’s concern away but knew the other man didn’t buy it. He felt weak, dizzy even. The sleepless nights were trying to catch up to him at this incredibly inopportune moment. So damn weak… As they walked into the room Cloud looked back and up; the rest of Avalanche were standing on the railing with Reeve and several security guards. Tifa’s face was drawn, nervous. She sent a little wave his way and he managed a smile, hoping it would be enough to reassure her. Yuffie, Cid and Barrett seemed to be waiting, with varying degrees of patience; Yuffie was fidgeting, and as he looked up at them she reached over and drew closer to Tifa, sending the young fighter an encouraging smile.

He’d found an unlikely ally in Yuffie, and Cloud thanked whatever gods were listening that she seemed ready to help Tifa through this. Vincent and Red seemed a little more relaxed, although he knew they’d be ready for a fight if it came to that.

It was Reeve who bothered him the most. The man was sending him a look of such concern and pity he almost panicked for a moment. Had Zack told the man anything? Had Reeve simply put two and two together and come to the only logical conclusion on his own? Had Hollcomb herself guessed? He’d avoided coming down to the labs because he couldn’t stand the woman’s gaze on him; she was perceptive and smart, and he didn’t like her.

“Commander Fair.”

Sephiroth’s smooth voice brought Cloud out of his paranoia so fast he almost walked right into Zack, who had stopped a few feet from the steel bed. The blond took a few steps back and managed to keep himself out of view, out of reach of Sephiroth’s piercing green eyes. A nurse was at the man’s side, jotting down notes in a ledger as she checked the health sensor attached to the silver-haired man’s arm. Cloud frowned.

“It’s good to see you again, Seph.” And the way Zack said those words made the blond’s blood run cold. He knew what his friend meant; it was good to see him as he was, as he always should’ve been, before Jenova poisoned his mind.

“I was told Reeve would explain my current situation. He seems intent on staying up there and staring down at me.” Sephiroth sent a nasty look at the nurse and gently pushed her hand away as she reached towards his face with a pen light. She shrank back, and Zack put a hand on her shoulder.

“Give us a few minutes, miss.”

There was a pause, a few breathless seconds, and Cloud was shocked to hear his own voice, blessedly unwavering.

“No. Not a few minutes. No more tests. Hollcomb promised me there wouldn’t be any of this.”

He almost shrank back as Sephiroth looked at him, surprised to hear him speak. The man hadn’t looked his way, not once. Cloud wasn’t surprised; he was unimportant to the man, the shadow of a young trooper.

But as Sephiroth stared at him his eyes widened, pupils dilating. He hissed a small breath and steadied himself by snapping his arm towards Zack and grabbing the black-haired man’s elbow. Zack looked down at him in surprise.

“Seph? You okay, man?”

In Sephiroth’s eyes Cloud saw recognition, and panic. It was the most emotion he’d ever seen swirling there and the blond’s chest tightened uncomfortably. He’s human. Definitely stronger, and maybe a little strange, but human all the same.

When the silver-haired man spoke it was with a slight edge of nervousness in his voice, a breathless panic that Cloud knew well; a feeling of spinning out of control, of having Hojo’s hands pulling the strings of his life. And the blond knew Sephiroth had recognized him, had known him as the sixteen-year old trooper who had followed Zack around like a lovesick child.

“How long have I been out, Zack? How long?”

Browsing for writing software is also becoming quite confusing; there are now a number of very nicely designed apps that can help you finish or start your projects. Some of those target fiction writers more than others. Here’s a quick rundown of the most popular ones and their main features. I didn’t include general writing software, like Apple’s Pages or OpenOffice; this list is really geared toward organized writing, software that both lets you plan and write from start to finish.

Storyist, from Storyist Software

Storyist

This is the first one I came across, back when it was still a v1.0 application. It had its shortcomings back then, and definitely didn’t measure up to its relatively larger and more feature-rich cousins. 2.0 introduced full screen support and generally improved the interface and structure. It’s still relatively light on features and its export capabilities are somewhat limited. The Outlining feature is a thoughtful add-on, but considering the structure is already present in the sidebar, it feels a little repetitive. It could stand to have a little more robust research pane and the Characters and Settings section is a little too restrictive for me.

It still stands on its own, though, and can provide a fiction writer with a nice interface to plan out the next novel. It’s not quite as flexible as either Storymill or Scrivener though, so its usefullness seems pretty much limited to fiction.

Price: 59$ USD

StoryMill, from Mariner Software

StoryMill

After experimenting with Storyist, I moved on to StoryMill, from Mariner Software, the makers of MacJournal and MacGourmet, two very good database-driven applications for OS X. The team behind StoryMill is much bigger, and mostly this shows in the overall finish and polish that went into its development. The app itself is gorgeous and streamlined, and the interface simply makes you want to sit and write. Fullscreen support is marginally better than Storyist, but only because it’s been implemented longer. The sidebar pane is more visually pleasing, but mostly serves the same purpose as Storyist’s; you get default panes for Characters, Locations and Research, and the rest is handled via folders and smart views. It’s a nice compromise between structure and freedom, and it’ll do for most writers.

Again, this one is strongly geared towards fiction, perhaps even more so than Storyist, with the addition of the Timeline feature which is heavily advertised as its strong point. Perhaps this is why I moved away from StoryMill altogether; while it’s a very nicely designed piece of software overall, the Timeline has always been a frustrating issue for me. There is no way to properly manage different timeframes; if you set it to display hours, you’ll have hours until the end of your manuscript, which to me seems absolutely useless. Most stories will partly happen in real time, partly in flashback, memories and long, uneventful stretches of passing time. Having set the timeline to Hourly or Daily to get that important, detailed scene just right, you then have to scroll left-to-right all the way to infinity to set the rest of your action. Frustrating, and there seems to be no fix in sight. Placing events on the timeline itself is also a bit of a chore, as it doesn’t behave the way you’d expect; events tend to jump, and aligning on the grid is difficult.

Still, StoryMill is a very solid app, and a good choice if all you’ll be writing is fiction. However, again, it felt a bit too restrictive for me, and the Timeline required me to spend an obscene amount of time planning, and left me exhausted and bored enough that I eventually moved away from the computer to do something without having done any writing. Not good.

Price: 49,95$ USD

Scrivener, from Literature and Latte

Scrivener

I’ll go right ahead and admit that my first experience with Scrivener wasn’t a happy one. After meddling with the very simple-to-use Storyist and Storymill, I felt more than a little overwhelmed with the huge amount of options and freedom inherent in Scrivener’s design. There were too many panes, too much info on the screen and no sign of templates, or steps to achieve a basic novel structure. You can install the extras package and work from there, but it still feels like a far cry from the beautiful simplicity of Storymill.

But that’s only until you realize the power of Scene-by-scene synopses and the sheer amount of side notes, research links, tags and info you can cram around your document. The left pane is called the Binder, and its structure is entirely up to you. You can create as many folders as you wish, and while you feel a little lost at first, you quickly get used to the freedom. You are provided with two default views for opened Binder documents: Corkboard and Outline, both of which are powerful and concise and provide you with an instant bird’s-eye-view of where your project is going.

But that’s not where this app truly shines. Full screen support is simple to implement and, you ask, pretty hard to get wrong; but Scrivener’s full screen features blows the competition straight out of the water. Upon launching it, you’re presented with a basic page right in the middle of your screen. This page’s width and color can be adjusted and you also get the very cool option of having your document notes, project notes and tags inspector right there besides your manuscript.

The Very Awesome Full Screen

While some may argue that this could potentially distract you from your writing, the purpose of full screen is not to eliminate screen clutter, in my mind. Full screen should eliminate anything that has nothing to do with what you’re writing; keeping notes and pictures related to the current scene close by seems pretty logical to me. What we want to remove is all that extra GUI and desktop annoyance and Scrivener understands this perfectly.

With multiple styling and extremely flexible export functions, Scrivener becomes an extremely versatile tool that you can use to plan and manage blog entries (which I obviously should do…), write poetry, write assignments and do all your creative writing on. The learning curve is slightly steeper than the competition, but it’s definitely worth your time and investment. With evolving features, iPhone sync in the works and the lowest price tag of the bunch, it’s without a doubt my favorite app of the three. It also has, hands down, the best support community; people are passionate about this app.

Price: 39.95$ USD