Chapter Text
It was days like this she had to remind herself her chest was made of steel.
Her heart was locked behind the metal plate that pieced her back together. And though its thickness amounted only to so much, it was still enough for her— enough to guard the last fragment of humanity she felt she had left. She wore it like armor. Any attempts to poke and prod, her last resort was that armor. There was no lock and key to open the door; her heart is forever sealed away. That's how she preferred it, and everyone knew.
That fateful night two years ago did more than sear her flesh and bone. It tore her life apart with a few mere swings of a blade. She'd never forget its weight in her hands, while anger imbued her. She saw red through and through, both when she swung, and when it was turned against her. Back then she clung to a thread, something compelling her to hang on just a little longer. In that moment she wondered if it was to bear witness to the captivating orbs of cerulean that gazed down at her mournfully, stained with tears and ash. Maybe it was one last moment of serenity she's been graced with, carried in the arms of the boy she missed the most.
But that thread didn't snap when her vision went dark. Fate had other plans. And they were cruel.
“Hello? Gaia to Lockhart?”
A shrill voice permeated her thoughts, and filled the space of the helicopter they sat in. Tifa fixed her crimson gaze onto the blonde seated beside her. Her brows were furrowed in both inquisitiveness and slight annoyance. As Tifa eyed her expression, she wasn't sure if she was grateful or irked about her attention being drawn away from the haze of memories she was losing herself in. Either way, she sure as hell wasn't going to tell Elena.
“Did you even hear me?” Elena questioned. “You always look like you're in another world when we ask you your story.”
Her eyes narrowed the blonde's way, sharp and unyielding, as if hoping to pierce her with the scrutiny. “Then maybe don't ask.” She didn't expect her words to come out so bitter, but they did.
The shorter female huffed in response, head turning away as she leaned back into her seat. Tifa half expected her to grant her silence, but she knew Elena well enough.
“Well excuse me for trying to take an interest in you.” She heard her mumble.
But she didn't respond. She didn't need nor want to. And it seemed Elena accepted that— albeit begrudgingly. And thank Minevra the rest of the ride was silent. Nothing but the hum of the helicopter blades sounded, gracing the Turks— Tifa especially —with the slightest sense of peace. It was a peace they’d relish as long as they could.
The task that called their attention wasn’t something unusual for them to confront. An assassination requested by their higher ups; the details weren’t important, so as long as they got the job done. It was a routine drilled into their heads since day one; find their target, take them out, leave no traces behind. The latter was especially important, and something Tifa excelled at. If she was dispatched for this mission, then it meant the boss wanted this to end as quickly and as cleanly as possible. Her abilities were enough to rival that of Tseng. Both held each other in high regard because of that. Though it never failed to surprise everyone how the doe-eyed girl from Nibelheim could hold her own against him in a sparring match. Two years ago, when she was first “recruited” into their numbers, she fought him with vigor, and an unsettled rage that lingered within. She held her own until her injuries reminded her of the limits she was close to reaching. Even with her body battered and bruised, she could fight. That recognized strength is what landed her where she is now.
Tifa had protested against them for weeks, but Heidegger was ruthless. He saw something in her that he needed to fulfill his vile agenda, to get the praise from the president he so desired. She hated Shinra, but it was shamefully easy to turn that hate into their own personal weapon. They held her trauma on a tight leash, and molded it into something they could use. And they always knew how to get to her.
“What else is left for you anyway? Who else is there to judge you now?”
Nothing, and no one. Her home was gone, and her loved ones were dead.
Every kill she was forced to enact, she was reminded of this. She was a husk of pain, anger, and shame. Another piece of herself lost until she grew empty— until she grew numb to the ear piercing crack of gunfire, the feel of blood splatters not her own trickling down her skin, and the sight of a corpse staring into her soul.
This time should be no different, right?
The group would arrive at Junon's topside, and promptly split up to draw less attention to their appearance. Tifa searched alone for their target; a middle-aged man with rapidly graying black hair. An image was provided to them, of course. She opted to search the lower section of the city. It wasn't uncommon for fugitives to hide down there. It seemed to make the most sense. With care she maneuvered her way through the small crowds that traverse the underside's township. Her guard remained up, eyes warily scanning every individual in front of her. Few paid her any mind, and she was thankful for their ignorance. The less people who remembered her face, the better. Still, it was disappointing that no one here seemed to be who she was looking for.
As time went on, she began to wonder if the leads steered them wrong. A rare occurrence, but it did happen. She was about ready to pull out her PHS when something peculiar did finally catch her attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pair of brown hues staring her down in the distance. When her head turned their way, the small form they belonged to was quick to bolt towards a seemingly abandoned house. Something compelled her to follow— so she did. Tifa trailed after them, approaching the home with caution. Her pistol was pulled from its holster, and held firmly in her hand. One glance at the entrance revealed the door was ajar. Careful steps were made toward it, until she stood against the aging wood. Finally she opened it, and entered, gun pointed out in front of her. She wasn't prepared for what she saw next.
A child that had to be no more than thirteen, hair long and dark draped over her shoulder sat on her knees and hovered over the body of a much older man, their target. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she shook him.
“Dad…please wake up…they're coming.” Her voice was small, faltering with every word that left her. When Tifa stepped in, her head snapped up, gaze quickly locking on her until it fell onto the man she presumed to be her father again.
No amount of steel could hold back the wave of emotions that flooded her in that moment. Her eyes were wide, trembling as memories of that night pooled into mind yet again. Before her the scene flickered between reality and her own father's dead form lying still on metal grating. Though this man wasn't bleeding out, not yet. Instead he appeared sickly and pale, eyelids closed, but shaking.
Mako poisoning.
She should end his misery now. If she didn't kill him, the mako would. Yet, she couldn't do it. Her finger quaked as it hovered over the trigger, hesitation growing when she heard the girl's sobs finally break free. Tifa's breath would hitch, and she scolded herself repeatedly for letting this happen. She shouldn't feel anything; she was a killer, a monster. She didn't deserve to feel anything. Not now, not again. Grasping onto that, her trembling hand reoriented her aim, pointing the firearm at the man's temple. She counted down in her head.
5…
Flames licked at her fair skin, staining it with ash and filling her with an uncomfortable heat as she and her father ran for their lives through the burning village. Screams of agony rang from all directions, eerily fading the further away they got. They drew up the mountain path, and she felt her breath stiffen as a desperate sob tried to escape her.
4…
The visions haunted her again. Dark red poured from her father's gaping wound as she fruitlessly begged for him to get up.
3…
Despair. Anger. Hatred. She screamed to no one how sick she was of everything. A familiar, large sword laid next to her father's body as if to mock her. As if this was all some sick joke. She grabbed the hilt, and lifted it. It was heavy in her hands, but she pressed forward, dragging it behind her. She was heading towards her death and she knew it, but maybe death would be a mercy.
2…
She trudged up the metal staircase, the blade still in tow. She clutched it tightly as she cursed Sephiroth and all he's done to her. The pain was eminent in her voice. He didn't even face her. He didn't care. Not until she swung. He caught it with such ease, and lifted her like she was nothing. The next thing she knew her chest spewed blood, the sharpest pain gnawing at her until she couldn't breathe. Her ears rang when her head slammed against the metal floor, and her body tumbled down the stairs.
1…
A gunshot snapped her out of it, followed by a wail of horror
Tifa opened her eyes she hadn't realized she clamped shut and looked ahead of her. The man had a bullet hole in his forehead, and his daughter cried for him. One glance at her pistol revealed it wasn't her trigger that was pulled. She turned around to see Tseng behind her, his own gun drawn, a line of smoke trickling from the barrel. His face was devoid of emotion, but he eyed her with a scrutiny she could feel burn holes into her.
“We're leaving.” He said to her, his eyes darkening, tone grim. “Now.”
The steel in her chest wasn't enough anymore.