Author's Note: This chapter gave me a lot of trouble, and for a long while I wasn't satisfied with it. I think I've finally gotten it tweaked to where I like it, so I hope it comes across all right. It was not easy!

Part II: Reality

One week later …

There was a loud pounding in his ears, and his breath was ragged. He hurried through the deserted hallway as fast as he dared, head down, praying that no one would see him.

Blood stung his shoulder.

He was terrified.

"Hey, you've heard about the Graveyard, right?"

"Graveyard?"

"Train Graveyard. Next to the Sector 7 slums. It's supposed to be haunted. By a demon."

He barely registered the pain. There was blood on his shirt and jacket, too, a lot of it. He shook.

"Give me a break, man. Demons don't exist."

"I wouldn't be too sure. They say it has a burning red eye and rides a pale horse. I think I've seen it."

"You've been there?"

"Yeah. Scared me stiff, whatever it was. I'll never forget it. Not sure what it was, but it definitely had that burning eye. Never want to see that again."

He'd overheard, thought it would be a cool idea to head down and check it out. He had some time that evening and training wasn't until next morning. Not yet having had the chance to celebrate his promotion to Third, he saw it as the perfect opportunity – he'd go out exploring, see the sights, and be back before anyone was the wiser. It was supposed to be fun.

"Are you serious, Zack? I don't know … I'm not going to be able to go with you, this time. I've got a mission early in the morning, and it's already pretty late. Gonna have to take a rain check on this one, buddy. … Are you sure you want to go yourself? I know you've been to the slums before, but … Well, all right. Just be careful, okay?"

Kunsel couldn't make it, and his other pals in training had already scattered to the winds or were catching up on sleep. So Zack had decided to go alone. It wasn't like he didn't have experience, after all. Besides, he was a SOLDIER. He could take care of himself.

The knife glittered, reflecting the flickering lamplight. "Give me your wallet and empty your pockets."

Blood coated his hands. He could feel it, adhered like some kind of awful, nightmarish glue. He hated it. He kept his hands jammed into his pockets; maybe no one would notice if they couldn't see the red, dull and browning now, caked on pale skin.

The weapon came at him, carving into his shoulder. The sudden hurt shocked him. This was real.

His breath was shallow and fast. He felt lightheaded. He was probably hyperventilating, he knew, but he couldn't help it. His thoughts focused on one thing:

To get back without being seen.

The man's much larger hands, rough and gritty, were fastened tightly around his own, wrestling for the knife. A sheen of red already marred the edge, and it hovered, unsteady, between the two of them. The man's heavy bulk pressed him into the coarse pavement; it was hard to breathe. He felt panic rising.

He couldn't remember reaching the building. Somehow he'd made it back from the slums, huddled in a dark corner of one of the midnight trains. Everywhere was dark, foreboding, and empty. He'd run, as fast as he could, until his legs threatened to give out; still they trembled. He hid from people, dark strangers, men in long coats, or scantily-clad women, speaking in harsh, judging voices – they could see, he knew, see what he'd done. They'd know. Steam from the vents, tinted green with Mako, cloaked the shadows and shimmered in intermittent, artificial lighting. Even the shady form of the ShinRa tower had loomed in judgment before him.

Then the knife flashed, and it carved through reality like butter, stained it red, and kept carving, and didn't stop. A shrill sound rang in his ears.

He'd managed to sneak in through one of the service elevators. It was after curfew. He'd get in trouble if he was caught.

There was a strange gurgling sound, like water running through some old pipes. Zack stopped. He straddled the man beneath him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He looked down, meeting the man's eyes. There was something in them, for a moment, and then there was nothing. The gurgling sound stopped. The man was dead.

No, Gaia … I didn't …

He had to hurry. He hadn't seen anyone yet; maybe he'd be lucky. He was inside now, working his way back through the building. He took several turns, quickly, hardly daring to breathe. It was late; things were deserted. But he didn't recognize this part of the building.

He couldn't be lost. He couldn't be.

His head buzzed. He was numb, except for the fear. It welled up, strangling him. His steps came quicker, his breath, faster. His heart pounded. Soon he was running, careening around the corners. Everything was a blur; he didn't know where he was going. He had to find his way back. He had to, before someone found out …

He'd found what he was looking for.

Death rides a pale horse.

All of a sudden, reality crashed into him like a freight train, jarring his surroundings to a startling halt. He bounced back and hit the floor, slapping out his hands to break the fall. His head spun for an instant, before it cleared and he looked up to see what he'd hit.

His blood froze to ice.

No … Gaia, no, anyone but him!

Angeal Hewley's voice was irritated after he recovered enough from the shock of the collision to speak. "I hope you have a good explanation for this, SOLDIER. Running in the hallways, in a restricted area, past curfew, and barreling into your superior officer?" Though he hadn't seen the boy in a week, he recognized the spiky head from the promotion banquet, which only added to his irritation. He wasn't going to turn out to be a troublemaker, was he? "Don't expect me to go easy on you this time."

"Sorry! I'm sorry!" Zack's voice was panicked, and his words came out in a rush. "It was an accident, I didn't mean to, it won't happen again, I promise, please, please don't report me!"

Angeal frowned. But the disapproving expression abruptly melted away, to be replaced by one of concern when he saw the boy's ragged appearance and torn clothing. Nearly the entire side of his face was one large bruise. And was that … blood?

"Shiva, kid … What happened?" He stepped forward to help the boy to his feet, only for Zack to scramble up and back away. Angeal could feel the fear radiating off of him, like it was a tangible thing. Abruptly, with a last, frightened glance in his direction, Zack turned tail and bolted the other way.

Angeal overcame his surprise in time to snag the boy by the arm in two quick strides. "Whoa! Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing? You're hurt!"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean t' do it! Jus' please don't get me in trouble. I'll go right back to my room, I promise, I won't let anybody else see me-"

Angeal shook his head, shifting his grip so it wasn't so rough. "Never mind that. Let's get you to the infirmary."

Zack's eyes widened, and he jerked away. "No!" He shook his head, terrified. "No, I can't go there! Don' send me there, please! I'm fine, I really am, I-I'll be fine, I promise! They can't know …"

"Know what?" When no answer was forthcoming, Angeal took the Third by the arms to look him directly in the eyes. His face, left of his eye, Angeal saw, was a painful-looking blue and black, the skin above the cheekbone split and bleeding. His lip on that side was split, too, and there was another dark bruise blossoming on the side of his jaw. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated with pain and fright, and clouded with something else. Angeal frowned, examining his face, and searched his memory for the boy's name. "… Zack. It's Zack, isn't it?" If possible, Zack's eyes only grew more frightened. "What happened, Zack? Were you attacked?"

Hesitant, he nodded.

"Can you tell me who?"

There was no answer this time. Angeal could feel the boy's trembling beneath his fingers. "Are you in any danger now? Is anyone else?" he pressed.

Zack's eyes went vacant, then, and he stared over Angeal's shoulder. "… No." The word was raspy, barely audible.

Angeal sighed. It sounded like he wasn't going to get much else out of the boy. "All right. Let's go get you fixed up."

At that, Zack snapped out of wherever he'd gone, and began to struggle once more. "No. Please, no! Not medical, I can't-"

"It's fine, Zack, they're not going to hurt you. There's nothing wrong – It's perfectly safe-"

"No. No! I'm not goin'!"

Wondering what had gotten the Third so worked up, and how on Gaia he'd come to be in his present state, Angeal's brow creased. Finally, worried and exasperated at his stubbornness, the First relented. "All right. Okay. You don't have to go to medical. Will you come back to my apartment?" At the fear still emanating from the boy, he soothed, "You're not in trouble, Zack. I just want to help you. Will you let me help you?"

There was another long moment. Finally, Zack nodded. "Okay." His voice came out as a dry whisper.

"Good kid."

Angeal escorted him back to his apartment, keeping a firm, but gentle, hand on his shoulder to ensure he wouldn't bolt. They walked in silence, the First glancing down at his younger companion at regular intervals. Zack kept his head down, watching his feet. Finally, Angeal had them navigated back to his rooms. Ushering Zack inside, he closed the door, locked it, and settled the boy onto a chair at the dining room table.

"I'm going to get some things to treat your injuries. Just wait here, all right? If you can, remove your jacket and shirt so I can see what I'm doing."

Wordlessly, Zack nodded. While Angeal busied himself, the boy glanced around the apartment, slowly, as if in a daze, shivering. The living space was covered with plush, tan carpet. The furniture was simple but functional, most of it in warm colors and rich, antique oak. A large bookcase stood against the wall across from the couch and easy chair nearby, with a relatively small television on a stand beside it, and there were pictures – photographs – on many of the surfaces, artfully arranged, with several varieties of potted plants joining them. There were larger photographs hanging on the walls, and, at any other time, Zack would have been curious enough to investigate. But they seemed like a distant thing now, blurs of color outside the reality of his mind. He felt nothing but hollow, other than the fear vibrating beneath everything.

He reached up to tug on the zipper of his jacket. He got it halfway before he glanced down at it … and froze. There was blood on his hands.

His fingers were white around the hilt of the knife, stuck to it by the liquid red coating them. He felt a tiny rivulet snake down his wrist, warm and tickling like a feather. It made its way to the middle of his forearm before dripping off. He heard it, a single, dull tap onto the pavement. It was followed by another. And another.

Something touched his hands, and he jumped, badly startled.

"Hey, hey … it's okay. It's just me," Angeal said quietly. Gently, the man took the zipper from his hands and finished undoing the jacket. Zack's eyes slid to the table. There was a large bowl of water there, some rags, and a green materia, somehow already put in place by the older SOLDIER.

Zack glanced back to the jacket. Unexpectedly, a strong revulsion hit him. It was streaked with blood; he needed to be out of it. Grabbing the edges, he all but ripped it off, surprising Angeal.

"Careful, now …" Angeal cautioned, not knowing how badly injured the boy was, and not wanting him to cause further harm to himself.

The shirt had to go too. Arms trembling now, Zack tore it off, over his head, a sting of pain biting into his shoulder where the shirt had stuck to the gash there. He deserved it.

"Zack-" The SOLDIER frowned, now, at what he saw. The Third was uninjured for the most part, other than a ragged cut on the side of his neck, and a nasty-looking laceration across his shoulder, which was once more beginning to well with blood. Neither injury was life-threatening. So where had all the blood come from …?

Zack bit his lip, refusing to meet his eyes. He kept his head down now, trying to keep his face a mask, but Angeal could see occasional flashes of torment flickering through.

The First was silent for a long, long moment. Zack attempted to keep himself steady, but began to tremble despite his efforts. He knew Angeal was judging him. What would he say? What would he do? Zack gripped the sides of the chair tightly; too late, he remembered the blood on his hands. Yanking them back as if burned, they hovered over his lap as he tried to figure out a place to put them. He laced them together – no, not good, he could feel the blood between his fingers. Pulling them apart, he lightly touched fingertip to fingertip – no, that didn't work, either. Finally, they ended up curled into fists upon his knees, and although that was equally awful, that's where they stayed. He stared at them, shoulders hunched, waiting.

A soft touch on his shoulder startled him once more, and he glanced up to see the First kneeling in front of him, dabbing at his skin with a warm, wet rag. The man offered no words, but went straight to work. The expression on his face was one Zack hadn't expected to see – it wasn't the incriminating one he was looking for, and it was that, more than the horrible, burning bite as the rag touched the actual wound, that made him look away. He sniffed, his eyes suddenly stinging; quickly, he wiped at them.

Zack kept himself rigid throughout the ordeal, as Angeal meticulously cleaned the wounds to prevent infection, then healed them with the materia. He moved to Zack's face, and, ever so gently, while the boy kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut, examined the bruises there, and healed them too. He gave the boy a cloth to clean his hands on, and, finally, understanding how he must feel, pointed him down the hall to the shower. He left a clean set of clothes with him, directed him to drop his own dirtied clothing outside the bathroom door so Angeal could wash them, and retired to the kitchen table. The First sat there, waiting, with the bloodied water for company, and put his head in his hands.

The water was scalding. Zack needed it to be, to wash the taint from his skin, but he didn't even know if that would work. He saw pale crimson flow from his arm and hair and vanish down the drain, and was sickened to know how it had plastered his bangs together, couldn't even remember how it had gotten there.

His movements were numb and automatic. Though he didn't rush, taking far longer than the five-minute showers they'd been allowed in training, the luxury was lost upon him, and he soon found himself finished. He blinked. Unwilling to leave the hidden confines of the shower, he dawdled for a while longer, facing the spray, and let the water scorch his bowed head.

At last, he prompted himself to turn the water off, and stepped out into the steamed room. Toweling off, he found the pair of sweat pants Angeal had lent him, and pulled them on. Even with the waistband cinched to its tightest, they were still a little loose; the legs piled at his ankles. Uncaring, Zack shuffled to the sink, wiped the condensation from the mirror, and began to struggle a comb through his hair.

How odd. It felt almost normal.

Finished, he set the comb to the side. On impulse, he met his eyes in the mirror.

That was a mistake.

All at once, he saw brown eyes, empty; he saw thick, matted hair, the same color, tangled; he saw a hooked nose, a square jaw, pale, yet weathered, skin, marked by a life in the sunless slums and streaked by grime. There was a thin scar beneath one eye, and a nick in one ear. Pale, pink foam bubbled from the lips, and trickled from a corner of the mouth.

He saw the face of the man he'd killed.

More than that, he felt himself bent over the body, felt the last breath die upon his face, felt the hot, sticky wetness of the blood fresh against his hands and arms. He looked down at those hands, and couldn't see it with his eyes, but he knew it was there.

Death rides a pale horse. And its eye is most definitely red.

Abruptly he had the faucet on, hands trembling and fumbling with the soap. His stomach churned; he could taste bitterness on the back of his tongue but willed it down. He dropped the soap several times before he got a good grip, and began to wash his arms once more. The man's blood had soaked into his pores, he knew – he could feel it. He had to get it out. Had to.

The man was dead, and it was all because of him, and oh, Gaia, what if he missed a spot and someone could see? You could smell it, even, and the stench was thick and cloying, enough to nearly make him gag. And if he could smell it, surely others could too.

He scrubbed harder. Harder.

He was oblivious to anything else, focused so single-mindedly on that one task, that one purpose, that he almost didn't notice when strong arms wrapped around him from behind and took the soap from his hands.

"No." His voice was raw and scratchy, and he wanted to yell his protest, but he couldn't because something had squeezed his throat tight. He fought against the other set of hands, but it was useless, because his were wet with soap, and they kept slipping. The other hands guided water, now cool, over skin as raw as his voice, and pulled him away from the sink.

"No." A large towel, white and fluffy, wrapped around him. He tried to struggle against it, return to his task, he really did. But his strength had left him. He crumpled, wrapping his arms around his stomach. It felt like something was welling up inside him. But he didn't want to let it loose; he was afraid of what it would bring. Teeth clenched, he stared, wide eyed, at the whiteness of the towel, and struggled to cling to the numbness. It was beginning to crumble.

Strong hands guided him out of the bathroom and to the living room, rubbing at his shoulders and arms through the towel. They set him down on the couch.

Angeal sat next to him. In a very quiet, patient voice, he asked, "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Zack didn't want to. He knew if he said anything, if they found out what he'd done, they'd hate him. He hated himself for it. It was the unthinkable, and he'd, somehow, taken the steps to do it. Weren't there barriers against that sort of thing? Something deep and primal, that prevented you from doing it, even if you'd thought about it, even if you'd wanted to? But there hadn't been any barriers. He'd somehow transcended them without ever knowing, and it was done. He didn't know if he could ever go back.

He didn't want to say anything. But the kindness in Angeal's voice, and the patient waiting there, cracked another fragment of the numbness, and drew him out, just a little. He made a small sound in response. And after that, it seemed, it felt necessary to continue.

The words flowed out of him; he could almost see them, he thought, from his frozen plane of existence. They told of his excursion beneath the plate, how he learned of the Train Graveyard there and decided to explore. They told of stopping for a quick bite to eat beforehand, the journey down full of nervous excitement, and the final awe of ending up in the dilapidated, abandoned wreck of the old train yard. He described his explorations in detail, a piece of him not wanting to reach the part he dreaded. But his words carried him there, when all else was exhausted; it had been inevitable.

He told how the man had cornered him, on his way back, demanded his money. He'd been disbelieving and troubled, unsure what he was supposed to do – he needed the money to get back. He was more afraid of what would happen if he didn't, if ShinRa had found him out too late, if he didn't show up for training in time, tomorrow.

But somehow the man was serious, serious enough to use the knife to get what he wanted. So Zack had fought back, like he'd been trained to do. But it wasn't easy at all, not like he'd assumed it would be, now that he was a SOLDIER. And the guy hadn't given up when he wrestled the knife away, not like they did in training. And things took a turn for the deadly serious. And someone was going to die.

But he killed the man first.

Zack stared down at his hands, as he talked, or would have, but they were wrapped in the towel. The words trailed off, trickling away, like blood from a knife. He'd planned on continuing, telling about coming back here, but there was no point to it anymore. Now that the words were laid bare, the all-consuming fear of someone finding out had faded to nothing. His charade was over. His heart lurched.

Angeal shifted beside him, causing him to glance up. The abrupt action shattered the barrier to reality he'd placed around himself, and everything flooded in. He saw Angeal's eyes, dark with sorrow, his brow knitted with regret, his lips parted as if to offer words. But no words came.

Horror set in, and Zack was overcome by an ugly, awful feeling, as if his soul was corrupt, black, and decaying. He'd done the unthinkable: he'd killed a man, watched his life ebb away right before his eyes, right between his fingers. And it was something that could never be changed, never be undone. It was just too horrible to be real, but it was.

He trembled. His breath hitched in his throat, and his eyes blurred.

He wanted to fling the towel off and run away, to hide somewhere and never show his face to anyone ever again. But, before he could, Angeal had wrapped strong arms around him, and he had his face buried in the man's shirt. Sobs welled up and began to wrack his body. They were ugly and broken, just like he was.

"Shh. Shh, it's all right," Angeal whispered. "It's all right." He rocked the young SOLDIER, gently rubbing his back. His own face was anguished, and his heart broke for the boy. Mentally, he cursed ShinRa, and SOLDIER, for taking these kids, these children, and forcing them into these positions where they would be made to kill. Zack was, what … thirteen, fourteen? It was too soon, far too soon, to be made to face reality in that way. Even if Zack wasn't supposed to face human opponents yet, until a few years into Third Class, it was still ShinRa's fault, for it put him there. And it would be too soon, even then. They were children, damn it.

Couldn't anyone see that?

So he rocked the heartbroken, young child in his arms, held him tight, the way his parents should have been there to do. There were no words of comfort he could offer, for nothing would change the reality of what was. It would have to settle on its own.

The night passed.

The smell of something delicious and enticing invaded his senses, coaxing him back to awareness. He let it lift him from the depths of sleep, and became aware of a luxurious warmth, all around him. Sighing in bliss, he burrowed into it and stayed there for a few, glorious minutes. Then he opened his eyes.

Beyond the blankets encroaching upon his vision, he saw a bookcase filled with novels and photographs, lit by warm sunlight streaming in through windows, somewhere behind him. He didn't recognize it. But the fact that it was daylight was nagging at him, for some reason.

Shiva! Training!

Zack leapt to his feet, blankets sliding to the floor. He took a step in preparation to madly dash for his uniform and throw it on, only to be caught up in the fabric and stumble.

"Finally awake, I see."

The deep, warm voice of Angeal Hewley brought him up short. He jerked, whipping his head around to find the man busying himself in the kitchen. He stared.

SOLDIER Hewley? What …?

The past night's events hit him hard, then, and he reeled. There was a sharp intake of breath.

He had killed …

Gaia. He had killed someone last night, and it was still real. He'd been hoping that … Slowly, he sank back to the couch. His momentary panic faded in light of the new misery that settled in.

Pans clinked in the kitchen.

There was no way he could take it back, was there? He'd have to go forward, from this point on, knowing what he'd done. He stared at the hands in his lap.

It was amazing – shocking – how such a short period of time could change everything. Things had been fine just yesterday morning.

"So, how do you like your …" Angeal trailed off upon seeing the boy slumped on the couch. The First's cheerful attitude slowly evaporated. He hadn't really thought it would work, anyway. Turning down the stove, he set the pan to the side, wiped his hands on a towel, and came into the living room.

Pausing a moment, he grabbed something off a chair and tossed it lightly at Zack.

"You can put that on, if you like."

It was one of Angeal's shirts. Zack numbly shrugged into it and sank back onto the couch. Angeal sat beside him.

"… So …" Zack ventured at last, glumly, quietly. "… What happens now?"

"… Breakfast, I was hoping." Angeal offered a small smile, trying to lighten the mood once more. It didn't work; his smile faded. He cleared his throat. "Well, that depends on you, Zack. What do you want to do?"

Uncertain, Zack glanced up. "W-what d'you mean? I'm in trouble, aren't I? Isn't … isn't SOLDIER gonna kick me out?"

Surprised, Angeal raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For murdering someone!" Zack abruptly yelled, fists clenching. Taken aback at his own actions, he shrank in on himself. "'M sorry." He sniffed, wiped his eyes.

"Zack … you didn't 'murder' anyone." Angeal said, gently. "You defended your life against someone who was trying to take it. You aren't going to get in trouble for that – that's what we expect all SOLDIERs to do. Or anyone else, for that matter." When there was no reaction from the boy, Angeal continued. "You did exactly what you had to, Zack."

"Then why doesn't it feel that way?" His voice was thick. "I lost control, I don' even … Shouldn't I've stopped before I k-killed 'im? Shouldn't I have just disabled 'im, or somethin', so he'd still be alive?"

Angeal hesitated.

"That's what they teach us in training, isn't it?" Zack demanded. "The … the … 'appropriate use o' force'? We have to – we've got a responsibility to, as SOLDIER …"

The First sighed. "Yes, you're right. But there are two things to that, Zack. One, you've been neither fully trained, nor tested in that regard, and SOLDIER understands your inexperience. Two, you were confronted with deadly force, so you were authorized to use like force to subdue the man and keep yourself safe. If that meant his death, so be it. It is only through extensive training and control that you can meet that type of scenario and keep your target alive." Angeal leaned down to look him in the eyes. "Do you understand me, Zack? SOLDIER … I … understand your position, and what you had to do. The important thing is that you came back alive. That is what matters."

Zack stared at him, then glanced away. "Then why do I feel like that's not good enough?" He bit his lip. "Shouldn't I've just … I dunno … just given 'im my money? Then he wouldn't've attacked, and wouldn't be dead right now!"

Angeal closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. This boy was asking all the hard questions. "Yes," he finally supplied. "You should have." When that brought Zack's startled gaze back to him, only for it to degrade into further misery, Angeal continued, firmly, "But never, ever confuse that with being responsible for the man's actions, Zack. Yes, had you given up what he wanted, it might have gone differently. There is something to be said, a great deal in fact, for having the foresight to act to prevent dangerous situations, to keep yourself out of them entirely. If you can give up something small on the chance that you will walk away from a situation uninjured and alive, and without conflict, that is always worth more than you will ever know." Angeal paused. "But … that said … you are never responsible for someone else's actions. It may be that the man would have tried to gut you anyway; he sounded ruthless enough to do just that. In the end, he chose his own fate with open eyes, and you did just what you needed to in order to survive. … Besides … cruel, though it may sound, and it doesn't justify what happened … you may have saved future lives by ending his." He didn't want to make it sound like it was a good thing the man was dead, or that it was justifiable to go forth killing petty criminals … but it was far better that Zack was alive, and he needed the boy to see that.

Zack was silent, as he took it all in. "… So … you're sayin' that the guy deserved to die?" he finally asked.

Angeal frowned. Had the man deserved it? Was that how Angeal felt about it? It was certainly understandable that someone could feel that way, but … He sighed. He had simply seen, and dealt, too much death in his lifetime. There was no longer anything gratifying about it, if there had ever been. His only desires had been to protect others or to stop atrocities from going further than they already had. Perhaps there had been satisfaction in doing the deed, perhaps he'd felt, beforehand, that certain people had deserved to die for what they'd done … but when it had come down to it, when things were over … he'd never held onto those feelings. There was only grim resolution.

"It's not about whether anyone deserved to die, or not, Zack," Angeal finally replied. "It is not our job to weigh that scale, or to balance it. But it is a matter of what was necessary in the moment to do. And you did what was necessary. Anything else is nothing but an attempt to justify how you feel, or want to feel about it."

Zack's expression was troubled. He wasn't quite sure how he should take all that, or whether it really helped him at all. Absently, he noticed a pair of slippers stuck beneath the couch, and toed them out. Was what he'd done right? Was it wrong? How was he supposed to feel?

"… But … I …" He bit his lip, trying to figure out what exactly it was he wanted to express. "But what d'you expect from me, then? What am I s'posed to do?" he finally asked, plaintive eyes imploring Angeal for the answers.

"… I expect you to live," Angeal said, simply. "I do not blame you for what you had to do, Zack, nor will anybody else. There is nothing you've done that needs forgiveness … try to understand it, and forgive yourself. If it helps …" Angeal paused. He wished he could dismiss the case entirely, say that Zack was absolutely right, and there was nothing wrong at all in his actions. But he knew too much about such things, and felt it would do Zack a dishonor to treat him that way, as if everything were fine. "If it helps, the man you killed was in the wrong, wholly and completely." He laid a hand on Zack's shoulder. "When you understand that, you will find the perspective you need."

Zack remained silent for a while, neck bowed and shoulders slumped, trying to process the words, to come to grips with everything. Finally, he shook his head. "This wasn't what I thought SOLDIER would be like," he said, quietly. "This wasn't what I thought it'd be like at all."

Angeal examined the boy with the broken dreams. Then the corner of his mouth crooked upward in the small offering of a melancholy smile, though Zack couldn't see it. "What was it you said you wanted to be, again? Hmm …"

"… A hero." It was whispered.

"Ah, yes. Do you still want that, Zack?"

"… Yeah. I guess." A slow nod. "Yes."

"Then stand up, Zack. Being a hero isn't something that comes easy. To be a hero, you need to have dreams. Are you going to fight for them?" He stood, stepped around in front of the Third, and held out a hand.

Zack's eyes rose, to settle upon the hand. Fight for my … dreams? Was that what he was supposed to do? Was that what he wanted? Was this the kind of life he wanted? To be a SOLDIER, even if it meant he'd have to … to kill?

Maybe SOLDIER is about more than killing. Maybe it is about having dreams.

I wanna make a difference. I want to be a hero.

He took the hand. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Angeal pulled him up. "Good. Remember those dreams, Zack. They will carry you."

Zack took a deep breath; it shook, but he nodded. "Right."

Angeal smiled then. He gestured toward the kitchen. "Would you like something to eat?" At Zack's doubtful expression, he continued. "I've been told I'm quite the cook … I haven't yet had anyone turn me down, so don't you be the first. Bacon, eggs, and dumbapple pancakes," he finished, hoping to appeal to the boy's appetite.

Despite himself, Zack chuckled. "Sure, I guess." He didn't really feel like it, but it couldn't hurt.

Attaboy, Angeal thought. He would have been worried if the young Third hadn't been in the mood to eat anything; it was a good sign that he would be okay. He clapped the boy on the shoulder, about to step back toward the kitchen, when Zack's almost comical appearance brought him up short. The too-large shirt dwarfed the smaller SOLDIER, practically sliding off a shoulder, pant legs piling around his feet, and … Angeal's mouth twitched in amusement.

"You look ridiculous in those."

Zack blinked. Then he looked down at himself, taking in the baggy clothes, and, finally, the slippers, which he must have inadvertently slipped onto his feet at some point. Somewhat squashed from being stuffed beneath the couch, they were black and white, with large, smiling puppy heads sporting floppy ears and cheerful blue eyes. He gave a small bark of laughter. "Well, you're ridiculous for having 'em," he retorted.

Angeal chuckled, waving for him to sit at the table. And Zack did, shuffling over in the slippers, stomach finally waking up and giving an anticipatory rumble at the thought of food.

Kunsel hurried through the halls, mind racing. It was after three in the afternoon, and Zack still hadn't come back from his excursion last night.

The older Third had returned from his mission by late morning. He hadn't seen Zack when he'd woken up earlier that day, which had him a little concerned. But he'd had the mission to get to, so he'd headed out to take care of that as quickly as he could; when his friend was still gone from the room upon his return, he actually hadn't thought much of it, assuming he'd have headed off to training by then.

It was only later that he'd learned Zack hadn't shown up for training at all that morning, that no one had seen him for his all-important lunch.

That was when he knew something was wrong.

Viciously, he berated himself. He knew he should have gone with Zack to the slums, or tried harder to convince the young Third to put it off! But Zack had been so earnest and excited about it, and he hadn't seen any openings for it in the near future, so Kunsel hadn't had the heart to push the issue. Zack had worked hard; he deserved the time to head out and relax.

Kunsel, you stupid, stupid idiot. You knew Zack still didn't know all the ins and out of Midgar, let alone the slums. You knew it could be confusing at night. You knew it could be dangerous. You knew Zack was too innocent and naïve and oblivious for his own good. What if he's lost? What if he's scared somewhere, or hurt, or worse?

Gaia, how he wished he'd had the foresight to get his friend a PHS. At least then, he'd always have a way to contact him and make sure he was all right.

He'd spent the last hour and a half running around ShinRa to see if anyone had seen Zack. Maybe he was just goofing off, and there really wasn't anything to be worried about.

But no one had seen him, not since before yesterday evening. He'd even tracked down the security guards on duty for the night – they'd seen him go out, but not return.

Practically beside himself, Kunsel hurried back to his room. Maybe, just maybe, Zack had returned while he'd been out looking. Maybe he'd just stayed out too late, forgot the time, spent the night somewhere … Yeah, yeah, he could see Zack doing that. Maybe.

Except Kunsel knew Zack wasn't one to miss training, either, not for anything.

But he was desperate.

It took him three tries to key the door open, before the electronic lock finally took. He let it swing open. The room was dark. He didn't expect anyone to be there.

But there was. As Kunsel's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the familiar, spiky head of his friend sitting on the lower bunk.

"Zack!" Relief and fury mixed in his voice, and it was all Kunsel could do not to full out bellow at him. "Where on Gaia have you been? What did you think you were doing, staying out that late, skipping training? What is the matter with you? Do you have any idea – I've been looking all over-" His words trailed off at Zack's very uncharacteristic, subdued posture.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"… Zack, what …?"

When Zack looked up at him with those misery-filled eyes, Kunsel's heart broke. Oh, no.

Instantly, he was striding into the room, abandoning his sword in a corner, and pulling Zack into a hug. Sadness welled up within his chest. Somehow, from Zack's expression, from the things he left unsaid, and the hitch in his breath, Kunsel knew.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Zack had tried. And Angeal had helped. But it would take a while yet, before he could accept what he'd done.

End