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Chapter Text

Mechanical clicking and the low drone of the television slice through Barret's sleep. Myrna's heart-shaped face, her soft hands gliding over his shoulders, and her golden eyes as bright as a sunny dawn fizzle away into the same old words on the television as Marlene's complaints jar him awake.

"Get up! You promised you'd make me pancakes!" she whines, standing by the rundown sofa. Marlene pouts, the pink dress Tifa picked out for her at the shops last month smudged with black grease. Dark streaks linger in the fringe of her bobbed brown hair, too.

His daughter has gotten sneaky since the "hard-headed" landlady, Marle, keeps fussing over her, letting her stay up past bedtime when he's out on "business trips." Barret's grateful as much as he finds her insistence on handing out candy like it's going out of style somewhat frustrating, especially when he's the one who has to deal with Marlene's sugar high. Still, it's a trade-off, leaving her behind while he dishes out justice with the rest of AVALANCHE.

Lately, Marlene's got a talent for getting into his things when she shouldn't, and she's got into his tools, judging by the metallic tang of gun oil and the spilt liquid dripping through the metal grates on the basement floor.

Groaning, Barret sits up; the fraying couch has seen better days. It does no justice to the stiff joint in his right shoulder, or the aching old bullet wounds he earned back in Corel that sneak up on him like the monsters in the slums. He rubs at the scars webbing on his brown skin, fingers calloused from his old work. Makes him wonder if Shinra will ever go back to using Mythril. Doubtful. Those suits don't care about employees; better to use cheap crap that wears down faster than a buggy after an hour in the Gongaga swamps.

"I've been waiting all morning! You promised, Daddy, you promised!" Marlene bobs up and down, blocking the view of his gun prosthetic locked in a wall case.

"Alright, alright, I'm up. Did you get into my stuff again, Marlene?" He looks pointedly at the stains on her dress.

"I was trying to help..." Her face falls, focus glued to her patent leather shoes. "But I made a mess..."

"Nah, don't worry, darlin'," he yawns. "I'll clean it later." He kisses the top of her head. "Go upstairs and wash up. I'll be there in a sec."

Marlene brightens. "Okay!" Her footsteps tap, tap, tap; the elevator, disguised as a jukebox, jitters while carrying her upstairs.

The television shows Scarlet, head of Shinra's Weapons Development. Her blood-red dress and blonde hair flood back memories of North Corel. It crashes through his mind: her manicured nails rapping against the table as she monologued about building a reactor. Dyne was unsure, and Barret's half-baked ideas about bumping up the economy, getting better medicine for Myrna, thrashed through his head like an echo in a tunnel.

Shinra took him and the townsfolk for fools, and they fell right into the greedy corporation's trap, their promises nothing more than a honey pot filled with bees and barbed wire, a trail of smoke leading to a raging inferno. If it hadn't been for the mako and that damn reactor, maybe he and Dyne could have still been with their wives, looking after Marlene together in a happy home...

Scarlet's shrill voice screeches at the reporters in the room. "But hear this, AVALANCHE, we will squash anyone who opposes Shinra!" The news ticker flashes a banner stating:

His heart pounds. No wonder she looks ready to breathe fire, but damn if it doesn't give him a sick sense of pleasure. A taste of revenge. She's not the one he wants most, though. Scarlet's just a symptom of the bigger evil: President Shinra himself.

He scowls and turns off the television. "Bunch of greedy bastards, draining the planet dry," he mutters, boots thudding against the ground, soles worn thin from all his running.

Not enough money for a new pair, and he won't ask Jessie or Tifa. Those two have helped enough, getting him and Marlene a place. There's no way he's asking SOLDIER boy either. The spiky-haired tightwad keeps demanding more gil every mission. One day he'll chew through Barret's wallet and Marlene's college savings.

After taking his gun from the case, ensuring the safety is on, he tucks it under his right armpit and fastens the leather harness, sliding his left arm into the sleeve. A push of the button, and the prosthetic attaches to the harness and metal cap fitted over his stump, locking in place. "Pancake time."

He moves onto the elevator and snaps the rod left. Gravity lessens; the platform rises slowly. After washing up in Seventh Heaven's bathroom, he treads down the rickety steps. Tifa's and Jessie's words drift up from the bar:

"─did not expect Cloud to agree without charging his usual fee," Jessie chuckles, her weapon holster rustling while she taps her metal-plated greaves against the carpet with a soft thump. "Who knew upgrading his rusty sword would work? Boys and their toys."

"Who's gonna man the bar while we're gone?" Tifa asks, the neon egg and chips sign bouncing off her tawny beige complexion.

"Biggs will. Marlene always likes showing off her drawings to him. It's so sweet!" Jessie's hazel eyes dart to Barret as he moves down the last step. "Well, well. Look who it is. Pancake man himself!"

"Huh? What you on about?" Barret grunts, striding to where Marlene swings her legs on a green stool at the counter.

"Marlene was telling us all about your famous breakfast," Jessie snickers and tightens up her red headband.

"I wouldn't call 'em famous," he huffs.

Tifa offers a small smile, long brown hair falling over her shoulder. "Morning, Barret. I was organising the pantry. Want me to get the ingredients?" The edges of her white top cut a sharp outline in the dim lighting, wrinkled and coffee-stained. A glimpse of the scar on her collarbone flashes before she conceals it, folding her arms.

Everyone in their little rag-tag team in AVALANCHE has got something they don't want to talk about. He isn't going to force her to cough.

"Nah, I got it," he says, his tone more curt than intended. He knows Tifa offers the same to everyone each day, but his rocky sleep isn't boosting his mood.

Jessie clears her throat, picking up her tea, her fair skin flushed from the heat rising from her red mug. "C'mon, Tifa, let Barret come round. He's not a morning person. We can discuss the surprise upstairs." Her lips curve into a cheeky smile Barret knows all too well. It means trouble.

"Oh, sure," Tifa agrees. "See you later, Barret."

"Uh, yeah. Later." He watches her fiddle with her red gloves before turning. A nervous tick. Tifa's never been good at lying, not to him. What could she have planned that has Jessie so excited?

For a moment, Barret thinks of how Myrna's laugh bubbled up like waterfalls in the meadows and how bright she smiled when he gave her the colourful patterned headscarf he had surprised her with for their fifth anniversary. She always did love her yellow and purple flowers. He clenches his hand on the counter, leaning against it as Marlene draws happy, messy petals in her colouring book.

The red stains from the crayons writhe from the page, gunshots, fire, screaming. Dyne, Eleanor, and Myrna. They all died that day. Shinra's troopers were trigger-happy bastards, and the burning embers, the wailing of children, the sound of Scarlet and her infantry guards shooting people down like Doomrats─

And then the memory passes, replaced by Marlene looking up at him, studying his face. 

"So, pancakes, right?" Barret asks, his features softening. Can't show weakness, not as a leader of revolutionaries.

"You were talking to yourself again. Is everything okay?" Her forehead wrinkles, mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm just thinking. You want chocolate or strawberry syrup on yours?"

"Chocolate." She jiggles up and down on the stool. "With blueberries and strawberries."

"Alright, sit tight, lemme get the ingredients." He treads into the kitchen, gathering milk, butter, flour and eggs. Then the blueberries, strawberries, and whipped cream. He glances at his gun arm, wondering if the barrel will work properly on their next mission. Doctor Sheiran told him he could get a new, more up-to-date version. One that could morph into a bionic hand.

But what's the point? As long as he's got his little princess, Marlene is all the reminder he needs.

He grabs a bowl and a mixer Biggs salvaged from the scrapyard. Cracking eggs one-handed proves awkward but manageable. With his teeth, he opens the flour bag—the white dust clouds his beard, making him sneeze. After adding sugar and baking powder, he mixes everything together and heats the frying pan.

While he's cooking, Tifa and Jessie return, whispering between themselves, and Barret notices Tifa holding something behind her back. A flash of green and blue. A present?

"Hey, girls, what've you got there?" Barret calls, waving the spatula, pancake batter dripping onto the tiles.

Tifa shifts from foot to foot. "We remembered you mentioning how you could do with a new communication device, so we all chipped in."

The sweet smell of pancakes wafts through the air and his stomach growls. Better to focus on breakfast instead of the idea that his friends went behind his back and spent a fortune. A waste of money, is what it is. Still, the fact that they did is touching in a way. “Yeah?”

"Biggs, Wedge and me made it. Tifa's been keeping it safe," Jessie says, her words tumbling over themselves. "And Cloud pitched in with the building process, too."

"Did he, now?" Barret’s brow wrinkles, the spatula frozen in mid-air.

"Gave him something to do, other than brooding." Jessie imitates his signature sullen expression, her nose twitching. "That and Tifa gave him a few words of encouragement. So, are you gonna open it?"

"Hold your horses, just finishing off Marlene's breakfast," he huffs, plating the food. Grabbing the syrup from the pantry, he tops the pancakes off, the fresh scent of blueberries and chocolate wafting through the bar. Lucky the Angel of the Slums steals good produce and sells it here for lower prices. Otherwise they probably wouldn’t get access to fruit. "Here you are, darling, your favourite." He slides the plate of steaming breakfast towards her, and Marlene's face glows with joy.

"Yay! Thank you," she squeals, and digs in, shovelling the pancakes into her mouth, her cheeks puffing out like a Mu. A chuckle ripples from his chest, the noise rolling from his gut and booming through the quiet morning.

Jessie grins, her hands on her hips. "C'mon, over here, boss man, you're going to love it." She's got a glint in her eyes, the same one she has when she's designing a new bomb.

Barret follows the young women over to the tables and plops down on a seat. Carefully, Tifa places the box in front of him and lifts the lid. Inside rests a sleek, silver device with buttons and a fancy OLED screen. Barret picks it up, noting its metallic finish and sturdy construction. His eyebrow raises in confusion. "So anything new this gizmo can do, Jessie?"

"It's got multiple channels, so we can communicate with everyone on the team, even if we're split up. And Biggs added in a radar that detects any nearby Shinra troopers or monsters. It's a work in progress, but still pretty cool, right?"

Barret turns the gadget around in his hand, marvelling at the intricate design and the thought put into it. "It's real somethin', alright. You all made this, huh?"

Jessie's auburn ponytail sways as she nods. "Yep, total team effort! I designed the motherboard, Wedge asked the folk in the slums for patrol patterns so we could track 'em with the radar better, and Biggs sorted the software with military-grade encryption. No one’s listening in unless they can crack it! You can keep in touch with Marlene on missions too. Send her lessons or pictures, that kind of thing. Plus, it’s got a music player. Just tap the sensor panel to play it!"

Rigid demeanour mellowing, Tifa chimes in, "Cloud sourced all the rare parts unavailable on the market. It wasn't cheap, but I told him higher charges would help him pay off his rent." The floorboards creak beneath her red boots. "We believed an all-in-one deal would be more beneficial in combat in general."

"And you like how the case matches your clothes, right?” Jessie laughs, gripping the edge of the table, tilting her head. “Biggs said it was a perfect way for you to show your team spirit, even if AVALANCHE doesn't technically have colours or anything. We thought a band with grey and green accents would fit."

Barret smiles, peering down at it. It’s got everything he needs for missions, and the music feature means he won’t have to listen to the old jukebox blaring the same boring tunes over and over. "Oh, guys, you shouldn't have. This is—"

The shriek of the bar's door interrupts, followed by the distinct sound of heavy steps crossing the threshold. "Hey," a deep, smooth voice says from the entrance. Barret glances up. Electric blue irises storming like the sea surrounding Under Junon and the spikiness of a cactus quill on top of his blond head. "Oh. You got it?"

Barret clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. Thanks for chipping in, SOLDIER boy." His hand brushes over the gift, cool and sleek in his palm.

"It's nothing.” Cloud’s leg muscles tense. He's itching to be out there, Barret can tell. The guy's a little annoying at times, sure, but at least he's making an effort. Maybe he's taking a cue from Tifa watching them. Doesn't matter, though. Cloud deserves a beer on the house for working and not complaining. Tifa's gotta keep some cans stashed somewhere.

Shifting to rest her back against Barret’s left shoulder, Jessie stretches her arms. "Right, we’re testing those new weapons on the monsters bothering the locals at Scrap Boulevard. Ready for it? I need your thoughts before our next raid, especially if we'll need to defend ourselves. Can’t have anything happen to that pretty face of yours." She winks at him.

"Don't you worry, Jessie, I'll give my full report." Barret beams, patting her forearm. She's not bad for a little firecracker always itching for an explosion. “Let's get to it. I'll finish my breakfast and wash up, then we'll head out."

"Sure thing!" Jessie skips over to Cloud and latches onto his arm, earning a disapproving grunt. The guy always looks at women like they're made out of broccoli. "You wanna come, too?"

"Can't. Got a job," he sighs, and pries Jessie off his shoulder. "But tell me how the new equipment goes, alright? Gotta make sure we get it right before the next mission." He strides off, the door swinging shut with a soft click.

"Ah, damn. Oh, well." Jessie shrugs, her lips tightening. "How do you put up with his attitude, Tifa?"

"Cloud's just... a little shy," Tifa murmurs, walking behind the bar and placing some empty glasses into the sink, focus drifting to the mixer Barret used earlier. "He's not that bad, I promise." She's a little too quiet, a little too defensive. Interesting. Barret wonders if there's something she's not telling him.

"Hey, don't get too worked up about SOLDIER boy," Barret says, gently moving Jessie from his side and sauntering back to the counter, where Marlene's polishing off the rest of her pancakes. "He'll come around eventually. I'm sure he's got a lot on his plate."

Tifa bites her lip, her fingers curling in the hem of her black miniskirt. "Yeah..."

After finishing his meal, he washes up and stops by Marlene, pulling her into a careful hug. Her tiny hands wrap around him, and her head leans into his chest, the top of her hair tickling his chin. "I'll see you later, darling. You be good for Uncle Biggs and Wedge, okay? They should be coming back now. If anyone gives you trouble, call me right away."

"Okay. I'll miss you." Her eyes shine, wet with unshed tears, the kind he's seen far too much of in the mirror. She's been through a lot in the past couple of months, and he can't stop the guilt swallowing him whole, leaving her here while he's out trying to save the world from Shinra's bullshit.

"I'll be back soon. I promise." Standing, he collects the gift, slips it into his pocket and scoops up the weapons and equipment he got for the crew: a bladed knuckle-duster for Tifa, a pair of twin pistols for Jessie and a collection of potions and antidotes. 

Placing his sunglasses on, he heads out of Seventh Heaven, the warm morning breeze drifting through the streets, smog and gasoline filling his nostrils. The sunlamp glimmers beneath the plate, and he takes a deep breath. Another mission awaits.

Chapter Text

Yellow splotches of crusty paint stick to the walls of Cloud's small apartment in Stargazer Heights, the thin mattress he’s sprawled on playing havoc on his back. At least the blanket is warm. Lifting his head, the hairs on his neck rise. That feeling of someone else in the room, an intruder, a threat, hangs in the air, but a second glance confirms there's no one. 

Only him and his own thoughts.

Paying this place off is like a drop of clean water falling into a bucket filled with crude oil. But, hell, as long as he's got a place to sleep between his jobs and somewhere to stash the Buster Sword, that’s all he really needs.

Besides, he already knows what AVALANCHE thinks of the ex-SOLDIER boy from up north: nothing, a nobody, some merc.

He's no stranger to people staring through him, but it never gets easier. Everyone's a critic, especially in places like Midgar.

Stepping over the various letters he received and placed on the floor, until he can save up for a decent letter tray, Cloud tugs down the blinds covering the grimy window overlooking the stone of the apartment complex. The next-door neighbour Tifa keeps trying to help out stumbles outside Cloud's door in a tattered black cloak, the number '49' stencilled in black on his wrist.

Marco.

Tifa insists he's harmless, but... something about him doesn't seem quite right, like he's a broken copy machine spewing the same image over and over. Pallid skin and slender, skeletal trembling hands. They remind him of someone, but he's not sure who. 

If Cloud didn't know any better, he'd think the guy was a test subject. At least, he overheard Marle say so once, anyway.

Sighing, Cloud treads to the Buster Sword. It's in its usual place: propped up by the wall next to the box of a bathroom, close enough to his bed in case of emergencies. 

The metal shines, and the handle's well-worn, moulded to the shape of his palm, though his fingers sometimes don't feel as if they belong to him, even now, after a month of staying here in the slums.

If Tifa hadn't brought him here, Cloud doubts he'd have had anywhere to stay at all, let alone a steady source of income.

Gil and fighting. The only things keeping him occupied.

AVALANCHE are a bunch of bleeding hearts. They've got a real bee in their bonnet over Shinra and the reactors sucking the planet dry. He's been in this dump of a town for a few weeks now and he's not surprised the air stinks of sewage and car fumes. A far cry from the mountains, trees and wildflowers of Nibelheim, and the dragons lurking on the outskirts.

But he's not thinking about it, nope. Not today, at least.

Better to focus on the weapon before him. The weight of the blade's hefty, even for a swordsman. Shinra's training did a good job. And that's all he'll give them credit for. With his free hand, he picks up his trusted whetstone. Nothing fancy, but the grit does the job.

He sits cross-legged, a rag and bottle of oil next to him. The floorboards dig into his thighs, but he barely notices. His arm muscles clench firm like a petrified log, as grips tight to the stone. He starts with the edges of the blade, making sure to keep an even angle, working his way from the heel to the tip.

Most folks use automation to sharpen up tools these days. Machines have mostly rendered the natural resources moot. So be it; this was the same stuff his Mum always had around for scraping stray branches in the backyard. His hand holding the stone moves in a steady, rhythmic motion: up, down, up, down. The soft scraping echoes in his mind, a lullaby of sorts.

His breathing syncs with each stroke—something they must have taught in SOLDIER. 

"Not much point in using it, if it’s only gonna wear and tear, y'know?" The country drawl filters through his memory, and Cloud's jaw tightens. 

Why can't he remember who said that?

Was it him?

When he thinks too hard about it, spiny ants burrow along the periphery of his skull and turn their fiery pincers upon him. Breathe out; pain; breathe in—involuntarily a quick hiss between teeth—sparks dance, lightning forks across a landscape—green-tinted skies and jagged lightning shapes streaking in a blue glow.

No. Ignore it.

Mind drifting to his mother, Cloud thinks about the soft lines of her face. The way she always smelled like apple pies and the cookies she baked on a Sunday afternoon, and the gentle warmth of her arms whenever he'd come running to her, scraped knee and bruised ego after the boys Tifa was friends with laughed at him.

"You'll make a great hero one day," she said, ruffling his spiky blond hair. "And when you do... you can always come to me to tell me about your adventures."

But he didn't come to her.

Not when it mattered.

Not when he's supposed to be a SOLDIER.

A hero.

Scrape. The whetstone cuts into the leather of his glove, nicking the pad of his thumb, but he feels nothing. Up. Down. Up. Down. Like a pendulum ticking to the seconds, each scrape another chip of a clock's cogs clicking into place. Something to fill the emptiness.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. An itch that's not an itch, not a real one, not on the surface. More of a deep-down-under-the-skin type of sensation, something that buries into the flesh, down to the bone.

After honing the edges, he wipes the blade clean with the rag, removing any residue and grime. Then, he applies a thin layer of oil to protect the steel from rust and corrosion.

A knock at his door interrupts his thoughts, and his electric blue irises dart to the source, glowing in the dim light of his apartment. On instinct, he clutches the hilt of the Buster Sword, and his right hand reaches for his materia. "Who is it?"

"It's me," a cheeky feminine voice calls back. "The one and only, Jessie."

Not this again. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, a headache throbbing between his temples. His thoughts scramble for the right response—something casual but firm, friendly but distant. What would a normal person say?

"I told you, I'm not interested," he manages.

Maybe he should have added something else? Too late now.

"Hey, it's not that kind of visit! I swear, you're so paranoid. Open the door, okay?" she asks, the door handle shaking. "Don't make me pick the lock."

He can't remember if he's locked it or not, so it's better to answer, just in case. He stands, the blade resting on his shoulder, his boots thudding against the floor. He tugs the handle down and Jessie's smiling face greets him, auburn hair tied up in a ponytail, the red headband she wears speckled with dust and grime.

She's far too happy in the morning.

"Morning to you, too." She offers him a playful two-fingered salute and rummages in her weapon holster, sticking her tongue out in concentration. The armour on her torso glints under the sunlamp hanging above the slit in the Upper Plate. Machine oil and floral notes—her shampoo maybe?—waft into his cramped apartment, clashing with the musty air inside.

"Ah-ha!" She pulls out some gil, the coins clinking in her hand with a sound that makes the ropes in Cloud's chest loosen. "For the last mission. Think you got a bit extra from Tifa. She seems to like you."

Cloud's left eyebrow twitches, his mouth a thin line. A warm flush threatens to creep up his neck, and he attempts to keep his expression neutral. What is he supposed to say to that?

A witty comeback isn't exactly his strong suit. Besides, he's got a job to do, and whatever crush Tifa might have on him isn't his concern. 

It's not as if she wants him in here, anyway. It's obvious. The way she looks at him sometimes, it's like she doesn't trust him.

Things between them aren't what they used to be—not that they were ever particularly close to begin with in Nibelheim. But now there's this distance, a gap he can't quite breach no matter how many times she tries to include him, how much she smiles and offers him drinks on the house. 

She's AVALANCHE; he's just a mercenary passing through. Better to keep it professional. 

It's easier that way.

"How much?" he asks, leaning against the door.

"Fifty extra, I think. She said it's a bonus for helping with Barret's PHS." She rolls her eyes when Cloud's face sours. "But you can deal with anything, right, Mr Ex-SOLDIER?"

He ignores that. The pay's not great, but at least he can get more potions for his next job, even afford a new jacket, maybe. "Appreciated." He takes the money, shoving it inside the left pocket of his baggy trousers.

Jessie looks him up and down, and Cloud shifts under her stare. "You sleep in your uniform? Is that a SOLDIER thing?"

He shrugs. "I always have to be prepared. Never know when an enemy could attack.”

"Wow, that's kinda depressing," Jessie snorts. "Anyway, I've got to go help Biggs and Wedge test out some equipment, so see you later." She waves, and he closes the door, but before he can lock it, she opens it once again. "Oh, and don't be a stranger, ya hear?"

"Sure," Cloud mutters, and her footsteps tap away on the concrete steps.

His shoulders relax and he turns to the window. In the distance, Lookout Bridge crawls with Smoggers and Cutters, robots Shinra abandoned. No doubt he'll have to deal with them later today.

He looks at the split material of his black leather glove and balls his hand into a fist.

It could have been worse.

It's fine.

Right?