Aerith is a window.

The glass of her being has been shattered. There are holes where her lungs should be. Shards spill into her bloodstream. They catch on the angles of her bones and dig deeper. The world around her floods her senses as light might. It definitely feels like it moves at the speed of light: everything is far too fast for her to comprehend.

The Empty Set is gone. Or she is gone from it. It takes four desperate gasps and a pinch of air before Aerith recognizes the dimly lit dead-end street she finds herself on. Takes another before she can hear a voice that is not her own internal scream.

"Don't be gone," says the voice. It sounds far-off. "Please, don't be gone..."

She knows that voice.

Aerith turns around and calls out his name. It comes out as a breathe and nothing more. Air escapes her faster than she can inhale. Stumbling forward, Aerith gathers the skirts of her dress into her fists. Lifts the hem of it up from the pavement.

Aquamarine light cuts across the street. Something glows just beyond. Whatever it is juts out from the median strip ahead.

Juts out from someone sitting slumped against the median's iron-rod fence.

She nearly has nothing left to breathe with.

"If she's hurt, I'll..." It is him. Or it is his voice, at least. The sword-like object fills with light as he speaks. "I'll what?"

Aerith steps into the ray of light. Steps past it. Cloud sits at her feet with the backsides of his hands against the pavement.

"Aerith, is that you?" The sword glows. Her eyes find the place where the blade meets Cloud's stomach.

He had protected her.

Two or three minutes ago, a man named Rufus had thrown this sword at her like it were a dart. Scarlet had shouted something unintelligible as Cloud's forearm pushed Aerith backward. Behind him.

Her fingers close even tighter on her gown. Scarlet had asked them to meet with her after the last performance at the Empty Set to discuss flower arrangements for the upcoming Fashion Week. The citizens of Cloudbank had voted on electric-blue poppies and pitch-black peonies, but Scarlet had said when it comes to floral arrangements, yours is the only voice I can trust.

She should have never believed her.

"You're okay," Cloud says. "You had me worried." The sword shines brighter than anything else on this street. Its light washes out the colour in Cloud's unblinking eyes. Raising the backside of her hand to her mouth, Aerith heaves. Tears corrode at her eyelids. It seems right that her voice should have been taken: this is all too horrible for words.

Cloud lets out a noise like a laugh. But she has known him far too long to mistake it as one. A tear burns a trail down her cheek.

"Hey now," he says awkwardly. It really is him in there. "Aerith..."

Quickly, she swipes the tear aside with her knuckles. Gives her head a shake.

"Listen, we don't have a lot of time. They'll be coming for you. For us." Aerith believes him. Her gut tells her that Scarlet and her cohorts will not let things end as they have. "We'd better make a run for it while we can."

A second tear escapes at that. As he is right now, Cloud cannot walk. Running is out of the question.

"Aerith," Cloud says gently. The things inside her chest ache at the sound. "Can you hear me? You haven't said a word."

She wants to say way more than just one. There are well-over a billion words crowding her mind. She wishes she could give voice to them all. Wishes she had the time to. If only they could go back to yesterday: Cloud had let her put a passionflower behind his ear. He had said against the skin of her neck that he could hear the Country through it. With a giggle, she pressed a passionflower against her own ear and hummed in exaggerated contemplation. It had felt like they had all the time in the world back then.

Now they have none to spare.

Aerith taps three fingertips against her lips. Drops her hand.

"Oh."

Seconds linger beyond their welcome.

"I'm sorry." Aerith shakes her head. There is nothing he needs to apologize for. "But I—"

She stamps her foot.

"Alright... alright," Cloud says. "Yeah, we've gotta get moving. Think you can pull me free?"

Something hard coalesces in her throat. A part of her had hoped he might leave the sword and go back into his body. She wants to ask if that is still an option. If it ever was.

"Hey..."

Quivering, her hands close around the hilt. Aerith pulls with all of her might. The sword comes free. Not a drop of blood can be found along its slanted edge. Makes sense, really: it had never been after blood anyway.

Aerith knows that now.

She truly is a window: information streams in from the blade and through her. She learns the name of Cloud's Function as his lifeless torso slides further down the fence.

"This is Goldwalk Bay, right?" he says against the skin of her palms. "Hm... not far enough. Let's get moving, before they catch up."

Steeling herself, Aerith nods. Runs her eyes quickly over the length of the sword. It is about a foot wide and nearly six long. Despite its size, the sword is surprisingly light. Something resembling an eye is embedded in the centre of the blade. Perhaps it is an eye: Cloud's eye, now. She cannot help but shut her own at the thought of that.

He deserved so much better than this.

"Hold up..." His voice trails off. "I've a feeling it's gonna get colder."

Aerith grits her teeth. It feels like she is disconnecting veins from her heart as she strips Cloud's corpse of his coat. After sliding her arms through the too-big sleeves, she bends down again. Presses a kiss between his eyebrows. His skin is colder than she could have ever imagined.

"Guess that's a fair trade." There is humour in his tone. There is also something else. "You might've overpaid, really."

If Aerith still had her voice, she might have pretended to laugh.

Cloudbank is changing. It seems silly to think that: Cloudbank is always changing. The flowers in her many city-sponsored gardens change throughout the year. Sometimes, they change even in as little time as a week. It is difficult to convince the public to leave any of her gardens be for more than a month or two.

But this is different. This Cloudbank is changing into something unrecognizable. They come across two bodies in the streets. They look like shattered windows. Colourless fragments of their bodies lie scattered around them. It is the first time that Aerith has ever seen what Processing does to a person. Or maybe it is the second time.

Cloud is able to speak to what is left of their being. From him, she learns their names: Shera. Cid. They join Cloud inside the Transistor. She learns other names for them then: Spark(). Jaunt().

Never has she fought like this before. The closest thing to a sword she has ever held has been a spade or a pair of gardening shears. She does not believe either would be much good against the things she battles now: the Process. Thankfully, the use of each Function has been easy enough to understand and apply. It is also easier to move now that she has cut her gown down to knee-length.

Aerith and Cloud pass by one of her smaller gardens. Strange, mushroom-like things have sprouted among her daffodils and tulips. The sight reminds her of the glass shards still stuck in her bones.

She is glad when they finally find what could be their ticket out: a motorbike.

"Don't turn left," Cloud says as she swings her leg out over the seat. Only, there was never any other direction she would ever go.

Aerith turns left.

"I don't want you to get hurt." She can feel his voice run as a vibration diagonally down her back. If she were not driving, Aerith would cast him a smile over her shoulder. Opts for letting go of the left handle bar and bumping her elbow against the flat side of the blade.

"You're a real handful, you know that?" This is the part where he leans over her shoulder and kisses the spot just ahead of her ear.

He does not. He cannot.

The show must go on. Aerith returns her left hand to the bike's handle.

"Alright then," he improvises. They will be doing that a lot. "Let's go."