Eulogy for the Everyman

*****

I can’t imagine it. I know I am here. My breath leaves my lungs, my muscles are aching and tired from lack of sleep, but it doesn’t feel real yet. Like some strange dream that I’ll be shaken from in a moment. I look around and everything has a touch of the bizarre about it, so familiar yet so very wrong.

I shouldn’t have come back.

I didn’t have a choice in the mater, of course.

If I had… well it’s fruitless to think on that now. Here I am. Back into a world I never had any particular love for even before Jenova’s mind games and Hojo’s pretensions to the divine. He brought me back to be his puppet… just goes to show that he always did have more teeth than brain cells. He’ll be dead soon. If not by me, than by any of the dozens of others with whom he’s managed to incur personal vendettas.

He’ll be dead soon.

That’s a promise.

Oddly, I’m glad I came back. Horrified, yes. Stunned and sickened, by my actions, by Hojo’s actions, by this new world that is the result… but strangely… glad. It’s like the strange pleasure that comes from cutting a splinter out of your palm, or setting my own broken leg. It hurts, hurts in ways I don’t have the words to explain… but at least I understand. I finally understand everything that once confused and disillusioned me. “Who is the real Sephiroth?” I spent a whole lifetime trying to find that out, only to get lost along the way. Maybe being dead a while has helped my perspective. Maybe there is something to this whole ‘born again through cloning’… maybe all I needed was a swift kick to the head.

You would laugh, if you heard me say that now. “About damn time,” I bet you’d say.

Except you’re not here to say it.

I can’t imagine it. You can’t be dead. The fact that I’ve seen your corpse with my own eyes, those fragile bones telling their final gruesome tale, seems unreal. It can’t be you. The DNA tests were… no. If there is one thing I know, it’s that tests like that don’t lie.

I think they were surprised at my reaction. ‘Avalanche’, I can’t remember being their enemy, my time with Jenova was a blur of places and events; a feeling of vertigo where I spun and spun and never was able to focus on any one, or anything. War makes for strange bedfellows they say. I imagine they never expected anything as strange as me.

Clone.

The word bothers me deeply but there is no avoiding it. I am the clone of the man I was, same soul, new body… part of me wants to know how. The rest of me wishes Strife had finished me when he had the chance. Killed me before I had the chance to remember. Killed me before I could find out the price I have to pay for sanity, an unasked for resurrection.

Why return when the only thing I would have come back for is gone?

… and you’d laugh at that too.

You’d laugh and say, “You always knew I would die first.”

Do you remember that day? I do. We made a promise to each other on the beach, watching the recruits flounder their way through the drills in the distance. Strange that I can remember it so clearly now. Stranger still to know that I am the only one left who can remember you as you deserve. I didn’t mean to speak aloud you know. The shock of seeing you, what was left, it was an unforgivable lapse of control. But what was said was said. I promised you that you wouldn’t be left behind. That should you fall -- on that implausible day -- you would be buried with full honors.

The airship is quiet now. I prefer it here at night; the younger ones need their sleep more than I do. Often it seems like Vincent, Strife and myself walk the ship in the dark before dawn like ghosts. Each of us carefully avoids the others for fear of shifting the delicate balance that keeps us from fading away entirely or snapping once and for all in the face of all that we have survived. None of us really belong. This isn’t their world anymore than it is mine. I don’t ask what thoughts occupy their evenings. Every man has a right to keep their own council. Besides, you know I was never any good at starting conversations.

He was the first to agree of course. Strife. Years of history are there between you two, things that /I/ can only read about in old notebooks. I can barely remember him, certainly nothing note worthy. But you took him under your wing, like you did with so many before him, and jealous as I am I can’t begrudge him that. Friend of a friend… there’s some brotherhood there, even if unwanted. He mourns you too in his muddled way. I can see you in him, you know. It frightens me more than I care to admit. Sometimes I close my eyes, and I get the feeling that it’s you… that you’re with him somehow. I can’t explain it, but there it is. Maybe I’m suffering from guilt-inspired hallucinations.

Your laughter haunts me.

You could find the funny side to any situation. It was irritating.

Reeve is on a mission to find the old squad, you know? Forty SOLDIERs… they don’t just disappear into thin air, and yet that’s what they managed to do. Hojo again? The president? Natural fatalities? There are no official records of what happened to them. Sounds familiar, hmm? Just like me… just like you… They might as well have been wiped off the face of the earth.

If I find them, they’ll want to come. It’s fitting that there should be a row of gray uniforms standing ahead of the blues and reds. They were just an army… We were practically a family. Someone still has to tell your uncle, and your parents… I don’t envy Reeve with that job. One of the secret benefits to being a non-person myself right now… I don’t have to go to your house and tell your family how badly I failed them. I don’t have to tell them that their ‘golden son’ is dead. The best anyone can offer them is closure. Your family, your students, friends and mentors, drinking buddies… the SOLDIERS… we’ll all be there.

It’s the last office any friend can do… to be there for you. To say goodbye.

It’ll be the first military funeral that Midgar’s had for a while, no expense spared.

So, with so much to do… why am I sulking you ask?

I’m not ‘sulking.’ I never ‘sulk.’ Wipe that stupid grin of your face Cornel or be prepared for a kick in the ass…

Reeve made a point of reminding me today that as someone who knew you best, I ought to… say something… at the service. Strife too, although I bet he would dearly like to jump all over me given that he is one of the few people who knows the hand I had to play in your death. He was there after all… both times.

I know I didn’t kill you… but I might as well have. Had I known what would happen, had I had any control over myself… I’d have rather killed you than let the scientists take you from me.

Everyone of us has their own reason for wanting Hojo on a platter.

For me? He was dead the minute he laid a hand on you.

Vincent has the oldest grudge I think, strange to learn that Lucretia was my mother after all these years. When we find him I think I’ll let the old Turk go first he deserves his chance. I’m second in line. I warned him years before any of these kids even knew how to pick up a gun, much less start a revolution. He knew that you were off limits. Not that it matters now. Chalk it up as another failure on my side. God knows I have plenty where you are concerned. Maybe that’s why I am determined to do this right. I want to make them understand, all these people who have willfully forgotten you, who never knew you, who blissfully live their lives never knowing you existed. I want to shake them, and make them see you for what you were.

I want them to know how important you were.

I want them to mourn you like I do.

Maybe they can give you the tears that I cannot.

I used to curse my damnably photographic memory. Do you remember? Now I cling to it. Strangely ironic that memories are all I have now. I keep sifting through them late into the night when no one is around to bother me. Forwards and backwards, from start to finish and back again. Years worth of time spent talking, eating, drinking, fighting, quarreling like schoolboys and sometime even brawling like them. I search them for those moments that I can show to the world and say, “This was Zack… this was the sort of man he was.”

“This was Zack, and he was my friend…”

“… and now he’s gone.”

And nothing will ever be the same again.

It won’t be the first eulogy I’ve written, but it will certainly be the most painful. Coward that I am, I wonder if I will be able to go through with it.

You’d have done it for me, had you ever had the chance.

It would probably have been good. You had a knack for knowing how to say good things about people, even when they didn’t especially deserve them. I on the other hand will muddle my way through it somehow, making mistakes, talking too fast, or too loudly. They taught me how to give orders, not toasts, and definitely not requiems. Now it is just one more reason why I miss you.

Assistant.

Ally.

Instigator.

Friend.

Brother.

… goodbye…

*****

*****

-- The Cake --

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

Sephiroth considered the reply a moment, wondering if the question was rhetorical. It /looked/ for all the world like his second-in-command was losing a messy frontal assault against his kitchen. The small galley-like corner of the apartment was coated in a liberal dose of flour; the sink stacked high with empty mixing bowls and pans. The air smelled suspiciously of burnt pastry. Arching an eyebrow in silent challenge, the general leaned against the wall and casually wiped a blob of powder-blue frosting off his friend’s battered apron. It tasted as it should, an almost too sweet mixture of whipping cream and sugar.

“Homemade?”

“Tada!” The dark-haired man showed off his spoils of war. “Cake-a-la-Zack… well except the candles… those came from the gift shop downstairs.” It was lopsided, and rather forlorn looking despite the name cheerfully scrawled across the top; an amateur job at best.

“… I didn’t think you knew /how/ to bake, Cornel… I’m… impressed.”

“Yeah I can tell you’re totally bowled-over alright… go ahead and laugh… I don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t dare…Does Hollis know that you’ve gone through all this effort for his upcoming celebration of survival of the past year?” He watched the watched the frosting-covered man carefully store his treasure in the small refrigerator and helped himself to the nearly empty bowl of left over colored whipping cream while his back was turned.

“You’re just jealous because I’ve never baked /you/ a cake…”

“That’s probably it.” Sephiroth scooped a finger full of the sugary fluff off the edge of the bowl. “… He seemed a little… quieter than usual lately…?”

His second gave him a startled look, surprised that he had bothered to notice something so outside of his usual scope. If the General was seen as the stern and distant father of their unusual group, then Zack prided himself on mothering them to death. Keeping track of birthdays was only part of the wider scope of duties that the man willingly took on to keep the troops feeling content and functional at the level demanded of them. “… He’s just homesick, that’s all… a bit of an informal party and some R&R time will fix him right up.”

“Hence why you didn’t just buy the food?”

“Watson and some of the other guys are going to do a proper Bar-B-Q, just like the kid has back home… it’ll be sort of a family thing, you know? Everyone chipping in…”

“Ah. What should I bring, I wonder… Somehow I don’t see myself competing with you in the kitchen…”

“I’m amazed that you know what one is.” The dark haired man ‘tsked’ in amusement and reclaimed the now-clean frosting container. “Sugar does not a healthy lunch make. Sit down at the table and I’ll fix us some sandwiches.”

“Yes /sir/.”

The sarcasm was ignored. “Damn straight.” Somehow he cleared enough counter to lay out some plates and a loaf of bread. “Mustard, General?”

“Please.”

Sephiroth wondered if the other men who found themselves invited to ‘lunch at Zack’s’ felt nostalgia when sitting at the small dining room table watching the officer make their meal. It was pointless to offer to help. The tiny kitchen barely fit one SOLDIER, much less two. He winced as his friend banged his head against the counter when stooping to retrieve a jar that had rolled to the floor. For anyone else it would have been a reminder of home. The general pillowed his head on his arms and watched in quiet pleasure. It wasn’t nostalgia he felt. Nostalgia implied that you were experiencing something that you had felt before.

He had felt uncomfortable the first time Zack had all but strong-armed him into a chair and cooked him a meal. He hadn’t known what he was supposed to do, or say. It had never occurred to him that it was unusual that no one had ever cooked for him before. Or rather, had never cooked for him with him in the room. The nameless SHINRA employees of his childhood had never invited him into the kitchen to watch them work. Bland unmemorable food had simply shown up at his door every day, the plates whisked away afterwards. No one had ever fretted about burnt crusts or too much spice as they set the table and mourned their ‘bachelor lifestyle.’

“Penny for your thoughts?” He was handed his plate with a grin. A moment later a glass of water was provided.

“… nothing in particular…”

Zack pulled off his apron with a sigh, looking critically at the stains a moment before balling it up and carelessly pitching it on the kitchen floor. Claiming his own plate he slid into the remaining chair. “I dunno… you seemed to be thinking about something pretty hard…”

“If you must know… it was about food… and family… or how food is often the focal point of a family.”

“Yup. Why else do you think I feed the boys so damn much… good food is good morale.”

“Hmmm. Or is it just that they are overly generous with their compliments to the chef…?”

“Well my morale can sometimes use boosting too…” The reply was shameless, as was the smile. “Dig in. It’s not toxic, I promise.” As if daring his friend, he took a large bite out of his own meal.

“The mustard is too spicy.”

“Spice is good for you. Puts hair on your chest.”

Sephiroth looked askance at the man. The joke was beyond tired. It was dead. Only his second refused to accept it. “The only way any of us are ever getting any of /that/ particular body hair back is if someone glues it on in the night as a prank.”

“Hush you… I have fond memories of my chest hair… /and/ my stubble… damn chemicals.”

“I thought you liked not having to shave anymore…”

“Yeah but now I can’t grow a debonair mustache. How can I grow old and grey and twirl my mustache when my silly Mako enhanced biology refuses to concede and grant me a few hairs anywhere but the top of my head?”

“Be thankful you have the ones you do.”

“Believe me, if the SOLDIER program was a one-way-ticket to permanent baldness it would be even less popular than it is now.”

“You think?”

“Well I sure as hell wouldn’t have applied.”

“Ah vanity.”

“Shut up and eat your sandwich… /sir/.” The last was tacked on as an after thought.

The general simply smirked, the expression relaxing into a smile with out him meaning to. His roast beef was good, spiciness aside. It would help to counteract the unusual amount of sugar in his system at any rate. “Fair enough. But I still have no idea what to contribute to the Lieutenant’s party… or should my gift be my conspicuous absence? ‘While the cat’s away…’”

“Oh you’re coming if I have to drag you.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

His friend simply smirked, “I think an official ‘present’ would be a little… hmm… out of character for you?”

“… Don’t ask me to bring beer…”

“Volleyball.”

Sephiroth blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You can find us a volleyball…” The soldier leaned back in his chair and stretched. Muscle played impressively down the length of his bare arms as he worked to pop the joints in his shoulders. “I’ve got a lead on a net, but the ball eludes me. Pull rank on jerks down in Appropriations and get me one?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“We’ll have a one-on-one of course… after the kids have had their fun…”

“Who, you and /me/?” Incredulous, the white haired man stared at his companion. “I don’t play volleyball.”

“That’ll about even the odds then, I think. It’s really not that hard a game.” Zack’s smile was positively carnivorous.

“… and I suppose there’ll be a friendly wager among the men?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. You know how I /abhor/ gambling…”

“So who are /you/ betting will win?”

“Me, of course.” He grinned. “I’m the one who knows how to play after all…”

“… Don’t ask me for a loan when you lose.”

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind.” The dark haired man collected the plates and dumped them on the pile in the sink. Producing two new dishes from the cupboard he revealed the oven had one last surprise in store. He set it on the stovetop.

Clapping his hands together in childlike pleasure he turned back to his stunned superior. “So… who wants pie?”

*****

next up:

-- Strictly Ballroom --

*****

and…

-- The Radio --

*****