Archive of Our Own

Contrary to human belief, Chaos is not a mere mindless, purposeless force of destruction. But matters look very different when one has a horizon of eons versus years, and also when one is not obligated to demonstrate concern over matters of worldwide import that one neither started nor insisted on integrating into the very fabric of the Planet. They do appreciate the continued existence of all life, including themselves, but other than that, they don’t really care about who else happens to inhabit the place. They also don’t appreciate having their independence forcibly curtailed by incessant human needs to eat and sleep and disagree about what body parts should or should not be covered in seemingly excruciating details that change every two seconds.

“Well, okay, I understand. I’d be mad too,” the Cetra girl says patiently. “But it’s been a while now, hasn’t it? And I don’t think—well, honestly, we aren’t going to yank you out of him. That might actually hurt both of you.”

Chaos is perfectly conscious of that. And they admittedly were being a little dramatic just now, but also, it’s been a few decades since anyone actually bothered trying to talk to them outside of the frame of ‘give the evil demon orders.’ They do appreciate that the Cetra girl is making an effort to do that and they do also appreciate that this human has made significant adjustments rather than simply demanding some mechanism for rewriting their elemental nature. More generally, human existence has its good points, and Chaos is not inclined to torture themselves by longing for the past when they too can adapt to the future. They do have eons, after all.

“Great!” the Cetra girl says with a bright smile. She reaches out and pats them on the forearm, then sits back with a slightly more serious expression. “But then why are you, I mean Vincent, always coming back here and not answering your calls? You have friends—Vincent has friends, anyway, and we’d all love to see him. That’s why I’m here, actually, because we’ve been worried he isn't doing so well if he just keeps wanting to hide somewhere like this.”

This is the human’s problem.

“Okay, but you’re also in there too, and I thought you just said that you like parts of being a human,” the Cetra girl says. She starts to reach out again, but then pauses and thinks instead, pursing her lips. “You…don’t like this, do you? That’s not one of them?”

Not really. But the human doesn’t seem to have any motivation for anything else. This body makes few physical demands because of its alterations, and now that the Calamity from the Skies has been eliminated and the Lifestream is no longer confusing apocalypse for negotiation, he doesn’t appear to have any kind of drive to act. Chaos does understand that certain other humans claim ‘friendship’ with the human and also that this concept typically involves regular interactions, but just because Chaos has adapted to the human doesn’t mean that they have fully adopted the human’s thoughts and feelings and have decided to invest themselves in one or the other side of any such friendship. They have just exited a millennia-long involuntary commitment to someone else’s vendetta, after all.

The Cetra girl winces. “I’m really sorry about that, by the way. I mean, I know what my ancestors meant to do with you and they were desperate, but I still don’t think that means you can just magically make someone work for you in a completely new form and anyway, I’m not going to do that. I just…” she sighs “…really am worried about Vincent. Maybe he doesn’t feel this way, but I can’t see how this is good for him.”

It’s not ideal. Chaos themselves would prefer not to be trapped again, and they actually enjoy a beautiful sunny day outdoors, as watching anything, such as the trials and tribulations of humanity, is best done with all the senses acting to their fullest capacity. But they are tired of fighting with the human too, and the human does not want to go out.

“Okay,” the Cetra girl says, but her tone and manner make it clear that this is merely a sound of acknowledgement, not agreement. She thinks a little more, while her companions eventually take up seats on the floor above them and start whispering about unpacking lunch. Her eyes wander around the room and she wraps one arm around herself, then tugs at the coat she’s wearing. “Sorry, it’s pretty chilly…and it’s not lonely? Because if he really honestly just wants to be this way, we’re not going to make him either. I just…I don’t really think he is? I know I’m not his best friend but I just…”

No, he’s not happy. He just doesn’t seem to want to do anything. If asked, he would likely say that now that he’s accomplished what he set out to do, he has no purpose.

Interestingly, the Cetra girl pricks to attention. She does seem more capable than her exterior would suggest and Chaos has more than a little admiration for such deceptions. “No purpose, huh. And what do you think? Do you think that that’s right? You’re in there with him and I’m not saying you have to care, I’m just asking what you think about what you’ve seen. You’ve seen a lot about us, right?”

If she means humanity in general, then yes. And based on that, Chaos thinks the human’s self-assessment is fairly accurate. It’s not uncommon either and Chaos has seen this before, where humans dedicate themselves to singular pursuits and then, once their goals are accomplished, find emptiness rather than satisfaction in the deed because they no longer have the means to structure their lives. Many of them welcome death at that point.

The Cetra girl frowns and opens her mouth. Then suddenly blinks hard, inspiration spreading across her face. She digs into her pocket and then pulls out a phone. “Oh! Oh, that makes complete sense, though I don’t like the death part but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. So actually, maybe he just needs something else to work on. All of us are in pretty good shape now so I can see why he’d think we don’t ‘need’ him even if I disagree with that too, but he could have a hobby?”

The human shoots people. And he’s already very good at it.

“No, it needs to be something that he hasn’t done before. And also something that doesn’t involve hurting others, and that makes him feel needed and not just like he’s struggling with something new, since that’s probably part of all this too,” the Cetra girl says as she taps and swipes at her phone. She pauses on something, then shakes her head and swipes a few more times. Then she lands on something else that she approves of and looks up. “I already know Vincent’s not much of a plant person but what about a pet? Since now that I think about it, he might also feel like it’s hard for him to make enough of the right kind of effort and be a ‘good friend,’ even though friendship isn’t really about that—but I can see how he can feel that way. A pet’s not about who puts in the most effort or things like that, they’re just unconditional affection and dependence. And they don’t have to be much work if they’re the right kind.”

This…has potential. Chaos will reflect on this.

“Oh, okay! Take your time, and if you want to talk about it a little more, he should have my number,” the Cetra girl says, looking pleased. She starts to get up, but then stops and looks around. “Ah…I did just come down because we’re worried, but I know it was still a little bit of an invasion—”

If it had been serious, Chaos would have woken him. After they had eaten the invader. Like they said, it’s been a while since anyone has come specifically to talk to them. They appreciate it.

The Cetra girl looks a little dismayed about the ‘eating’ comment, but politely refrains from imposing her morality and simply nods. “…so does he still have his phone?” she asks. “It’s just so bare in here.”

He has his phone. But she can say her number and Chaos will check the phone later. They are sufficiently versed in technology and they may wish to speak to her again.

“Great!” the Cetra girl says again, determinedly reviving her optimism. She recites her number, which Chaos memorizes, and then stands up. She looks on for another moment, then smiles awkwardly. “Well, I hope—I hope it’s a little better soon. If not, please just—let him know we’re here for him. Or call me too, because I don’t think it’s fair for you either.”

Chaos agrees to this.

* * *

In truth, Chaos has already been contemplating various approaches for forcibly stirring the human. They did not misrepresent themselves in telling the Cetra girl that they no longer wish to mentally overpower the human, who has proven impressively stubborn and who has earned coexistence. But Chaos is capable of feeling—they simply aren’t limited to feeling what the human feels—and this is depressing. It is not as bad as being stuck as Omega, or having to deal with an enraged Lifestream, but it is not how Chaos wishes to spend an eon.

However, other potential solutions have so far seemed unlikely to accomplish the desired result without unnecessary side-effects, such as another millennia-long war, or the human deciding to ruin this body in a fit of disproportionate morality. Of course Chaos would survive but they have grown used to it, and without another ready avatar, they would have to expend a great deal of energy regenerating themselves in fleshly form. Also, they do think that they haven’t fully explored options with this body and if there is anything capable of making Chaos feel what the humans label ‘regret,’ it is missed opportunities.

The ‘pet’ suggestion is not one that Chaos has considered previously, but the Cetra girl’s psychological analysis and reasoning is at least superficially sound. That said, Chaos is aware that human concepts can change dramatically over time and they have not paid much attention to ‘pets’ in the last half-century, so they consult the human’s phone.

The Cetra girl’s number is in it. She has also texted a series of links after their conversation and Chaos clicks on each, reading about the relative requirements, benefits, and drawbacks of several types of common pet types. Then they do their own research, since the human has set up automatic billing on his phone plan and isn’t using any of it. They watch numerous videos. They review the human’s own memories, including those predating their merger and any likes or dislikes expressed at that time.

At the end, they conclude that the idea is valid, but that to execute it, pet selection is critical. The human may not have many bodily needs but what he has is very specific, and—not unlike Chaos, admittedly—he has already adapted so much that he is unwilling to adapt much more. Also, the Cetra girl was correct in diagnosing him with an obsessive concern about how much of a burden he poses to others.

The ideal pet, therefore, cannot be entirely helpless and must have some capacity to preserve itself, including when the human poses the threat as well as when others do. On the other hand, it also should demonstrate sufficient vulnerabilities to appeal to the human’s desire to be protective and helpful. It should present him with conditions that he is not normally accustomed to, but should not force him into completely alien settings or interactions. It also should have high strength and stamina so that physically, it will be able to occupy a great deal of his time. It should have intelligence and spontaneity to maintain his interest. Since he appears to have a submerged fondness for soft things, mammals and birds have an advantage over reptiles, fish, and amphibians from a tactile standpoint.

List assembled, Chaos goes shopping.

* * *

“Wait,” Strife says, squinting. His hand goes to the sword-hilt jutting over his shoulder, but then lowers. “You’re…is Vincent still in there?”

Yes, he is, he just doesn’t want to bother right now. If it is necessary, Chaos can rouse him because Chaos was never a messenger for others. Nor does Chaos care to serve as a sounding board for someone else’s relationship issues or as a scapegoat for the same.

Strife puts his arm all the way down. He still looks wary but he seems to have relaxed into it. “No, it’s okay. Don’t bother him if he doesn’t want to be,” he says, and goes back to what he was in the process of doing, which is sitting on a girder and catching his breath.

The dead monster on the platform below does not require any immediate attention and Strife doesn’t suggest as much. In fact, he suggests nothing at all, and aside from the occasional curious glance, seems entirely content to go through his post-battle rituals without any interactions. This was expected and by itself is sufficient to rule him out, but as the uncontested strongest of the SOLDIERs, he merited consideration. Also, given the very low number of surviving SOLDIERs and the dubious quality of all written documentation surrounding them, Chaos does not have very much information about them for this purpose, so he still provides helpful general observations on the type.

Strife eventually pulls out his phone. He puts his thumb over his screen but holds off on dialing. “Uh…I have to call this in,” he says. “It’s good to see you—two, but they’re—people will come. Does…he want to…be here? Or for people to know he’s up again?”

No and no. That was an excellent fight and Chaos very much enjoyed it, but they must move on.

“Okay,” Strife says, turning back to his phone as Chaos departs.

* * *

“Oh, shit, I thought you were back in the coffin!” yelps Fair, stumbling backwards from the window.

As he is in an abandoned warehouse and in the middle of what has so far been an unexciting patrol, there is inevitably a hole in the floor behind him that is three stories deep. He is deeply networked and would be missed and Chaos is not undertaking this to drive the human further into isolation. It is distasteful, but Fair must be rescued.

“Thanks!” Fair beams, clapping his hand to the human’s back. Then he cracks his neck, picks up his sword, and hops back to his patrol, eagerly peering into the next room. “Needed that. Also, wow, it’s been a while but you honestly look pretty good for coffin-napping and all. So is this just a quickie or are you out-out? Because we were thinking about a get-together now that Marlene’s old enough to get herself to bed and Cid’s got this homebrew, I mean, whoa. And I don’t know if that’s gonna do it for your situation but never hurts to try, am I right?”

No.

“Vincent? Vincent? Where did he…aww, man, Aerith is going to be so mad I lost him…”

* * *

Hewley does not fall into a hole on a regular basis. However, Hewley also spends his weekends rotating between various agricultural and animal husbandry initiatives. He appears to genuinely enjoy being covered in muck, putting his arm up the backsides of various livestock—for legitimate veterinary reasons, at least—and amiably chatting with strangers who show up to volunteer at the same places. He is clearly an extrovert.

Also no.

* * *

Chaos observes Rhapsodos over the better part of a week. The man is competent at the physical skills demanded by his position but has ongoing difficulty with integrating with others. He frequently is alone at night, and from all appearances is discontented by this yet refuses to accept others’ overtures of friendship unchallenged. He has nightmares, and while his shoulder and arm no longer bear signs of Jenova’s poisoning, he does have frequent episodes—possibly psychosomatic—when the limb goes stiff and apparently numb, although it still has limited movement range.

He also grooms himself properly and his library at home is well-stocked, which is attractive to Chaos if not so much the human, since one of the highlights of humanity for them is literature and it’s been a while since they had the opportunity to catch up. At the same time, Rhapsodos shouldn’t exacerbate the human’s hibernation leanings since he does leave his home outside of going to and from work. Although this is primarily on his own for long nighttime rambles about the city, it is not too different from the human’s habits when he is bothering to be present. Overall Rhapsodos seems like a strong possibility.

However, when Chaos attempts to assess whether the nightmares originate entirely with the man, they immediately encounter another entity. She is not hostile and in fact wishes Chaos luck on their own efforts, but she is firm about Rhapsodos needing to better engage with himself before he can entertain others. Chaos does see her point, since they and the human have only recently come to détente themselves and it would be an effort on both their parts to tolerate another such linkage, even if both ends of said link are obviously more preoccupied with each other. Also, per their list, a pet should not make the human feel as if another’s fate turns entirely on his involvement.

So Chaos moves on, albeit with some reluctance.

* * *

Sephiroth looks at them less than a minute after they’ve arrived. His expression is neutral but there’s an implicit challenge in both the directness of his stare and the length of it, well beyond what the humans consider polite.

But when they do nothing, he turns away, with a barely-detectable grunt of dismissal, and resumes his patrol. On this particular night, he kills three monsters, investigates the tracks of five more, and takes down coordinates that he later radios in from a higher point for follow-up by the morning team. He doesn’t expend any energy on anything he’s not assessing and at one point walks through a corridor permeated with the aromas from a popular hawkers’ market a couple blocks away without stopping, though his nostrils do flare periodically in that hallway. Then he goes home and spends several hours writing up his own reports and reviewing those of others. Chaos later pulls them via the human’s hacking skills and finds them concise but containing all pertinent details, although stylistically, a word processor’s correction feature has more personality.

Once Sephiroth has finished his reports, he takes out a standard-issue ration packet and prepares it. He adds the necessary water but only uses the self-heating mechanism and doesn’t also use the microwave by his head, and as he does not appear to have any kind of seasoning in his kitchen, he eats it plain. While he doesn’t gorge himself, it takes him less than ten minutes to complete his meal. After that, he showers and then sleeps for the minimum recommended time.

For the next two days, he completes exactly the same nighttime routine. On days four to six, his schedule varies mostly because he is now on the daytime shift and is in meetings, but substantially the only difference between how Sephiroth handles sitting through a presentation and a patrol is the amount of corpses at the end. Chaos notes that several individuals, including the previously-considered SOLDIERs, attempt to elicit more spontaneous engagement from Sephiroth but this is consistently rebuffed. Chaos will long remember his and Strife’s duel, but right now he is possibly even more impressive for seeming so much less vital as himself than as Jenova’s puppet.

On day seven, Sephiroth returns to the nighttime shift. He deviates three hours and fifteen minutes into it by doubling back and then landing on the roof next to them. “As you can see, I am still very much in my right mind,” he proclaims as he swings his legs over the edge and takes a seat with an air of mocking camaraderie. “I am also happy to submit to any questions on the subject, although for the sake of expediency, I suggest we relocate for that. That old antenna might interfere with your recording equipment.”

“I’m not recording you,” says the human before Chaos can.

Sephiroth narrows his eyes. He considers them for long enough that Chaos understands he’s attempting to induce a psychological effect, but the human has nothing to say about that. Eventually Sephiroth says, “You’ve shown up for a week to track me through my entire patrol and back to my quarters. That is the textbook definition of spying.”

The human nods. “But I’m not recording you.”

A sharp, incredulous noise escapes from Sephiroth, but he appears to reject the idea of further conversation out of hand, only shaking his head and pulling his feet up under himself. Then he leaps to the next building over and continues his patrol.

This night’s after-patrol session includes the drafting of a number of messages to various individuals, then uncharacteristic bouts of inactive gazing at the screen before the messages are deleted. Recipients include Strife and Hewley, as well as a partial attempt to type Rhapsodos’ name, but do not include Fair.

They also include Sephiroth’s mother, who is the reason that Chaos did not observe the man directly after Strife, despite Sephiroth’s abilities being second only to the other man’s. While the human has interacted with her since her own awakening and Jenova’s defeat, he has displayed a contradictory series of reactions, with his direct interactions being cordial but only after intensive efforts to avoid such interactions in the first place. He does not appear to hold grudges towards any individual who was involved—consciously or not—in thwarting his avoidance behavior, but he also doesn’t appear to welcome such interventions. Memories of Lucrecia invariably spur an emotional reaction from the human, which he clearly dislikes, but he displays absolutely no interest in the usual human approaches of either forgetting them or amending them with more current and positive experiences.

She is a complex and fraught figure in the human’s mind, and Chaos does not have the interest or temperament to delve into it. They are attempting to find the human a purpose that requires his attention for fostering self-improvement and rewards that with unconditional affection, and none of that seems conducive to either. And yet, when Sephiroth deletes the draft email to his mother, Chaos detects that the human is relieved.

This is interesting. Chaos does not spoil what is interesting by acting hastily, and so they do nothing at that moment. They carry on as they were, and on the eighth night, Sephiroth approaches them only thirty minutes into his patrol.

“You know where to find Mother,” he says.

This time he turned and deliberately looked over, much as he had the first night, and then landed several yards in front of them before walking up to deliver his statement. It is intentionally aggressive, as is the hand resting on his sword, even if it is not on the hilt itself but at the belt-clip. Chaos is well-aware of their own power and skills—and no one alive today, not even that Cetra girl, knows the true extent of them now that they are not fettered by the Omega form—but they also do not like being forced into a fight not of their making. Also, aggression is not on their list of desired attributes. They see no harm in leaving.

“Yes, I do,” says the human instead.

Sephiroth frowns. Then starts to reply this time, only to stop and frown again at the human. His hand slips from his sword and flexes absently in the air a few times before he finally seems to recall his duties and glances back where he’d come. His lips thin and he looks sharply back at Vincent, then irritably rolls his shoulders.

Then he jumps back to the other building. He follows the designated patrol route and completes all of the required elements, but with a markedly different attitude than before. This is most notably demonstrated when he’s set upon near the end by a pack of monsters, and instead of luring them into more advantageous terrain where he can efficiently and safely dispatch them, he draws his sword where he is. He is easily a good enough fighter to handle them here as well, but in doing so, he allows them escape routes and one wounded monster decides to take one.

That the monster fails to detect Chaos is its own fault, and that it dies at their feet is merely because Chaos found it convenient and not out of any particular desire to save humanity. But it does bring Sephiroth over to them again.

This time the stare is longer, but the intent seems less belligerent. Sephiroth seems impelled to say something, but doesn’t settle on what for several minutes, and in the end Chaos forces the reply by stepping back from the growing pool of blood around the monster’s throat.

“I thought,” Sephiroth says, sharp but with its point clearly aimed past and not at them, as a signal—albeit a testy one—only to wait for him to finish. Then he inhales a little before finishing, though he should already have enough breath in his lungs. “We’d settled the matter of Hojo.”

“We did. He wasn’t your fault,” the human says, and then he blinks hard as Chaos deliberately slips to the back of his mind. This annoys him but not so much that he drops out of consciousness in a fit of petulance, and he continues to look at Sephiroth. “If I…wanted revenge on you for that, you would already be dead.”

Sephiroth smiles the smile of an apex predator with the higher ground, but over it his eyes still hold a significant degree of perplexity. “Then why are you always here?”

The human blinks again, and now Chaos can feel him starting to edge towards them, as if they’re a convenient hiding place when they share the same mind. He looks down at the monster, then back at Sephiroth, who is no longer smiling and who looks even more confused. And then he hops backwards onto a windowsill, twists through the glass-less window and is fleeing over the rooftops before Sephiroth can so much as call him a coward.

This is exasperating, Chaos thinks. But this is also clearly the one.

* * *

With the selection process over with, Chaos considers how best to proceed. They are briefly concerned that the human’s erratic nature might cause him to resist any such efforts, but when they pick up his phone and unlock it, he makes no such efforts. He also makes no effort to help and still keeps trying to sidle around in the background as if he’s the one who all shadows call master, but that is a mere nuisance.

Sephiroth will clearly need some persuasion. The resources Chaos consulted before suggest that the man has been habituated to his current state for long enough that, despite his intelligence, he may refuse to recognize an improvement as an improvement. Moving directly to capture is likely exacerbate the issue, possibly to the point that he only associates the human with antagonistic forces. Chaos is aware of Sephiroth’s prior interactions with Hojo and finds all of this advice highly transferable.

The recommended approach is, so long as the target appears in good condition, to break down the necessary tools into components and gradually introduce them into the environment as seemingly harmless. This makes eminent sense and Chaos did observe Sephiroth’s involuntary reactions to the street-food odors, so on night nine, they appear with a bag of takeout.

“Are you bringing dinner along now?” Sephiroth says incredulously. This time he had come as soon as he had spotted them, and even as he sneers at the bag, he’s leaning towards it. “Is your life so deprived of entertainment that you have to resort to this?”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” the human says. He crouches on the edge of the roof as usual and sets the bag off to the side, looking not at it but down into the alley.

Nothing in particular is happening in it right now, but there are scrapes and scratches along the walls from some passing monster, and the breeze carries the malodorous scent of rotting flesh. Sephiroth registers that as well, frowning as he lifts his head.

The human pretends not to notice as Chaos stirs a localized counterbreeze that makes the takeout bag rustle and plume up more enticing aromas. This results in a suspicious expression on Sephiroth’s face and he turns on his heel and drops into the alley to stalk away after the stink instead.

Chaos is not disappointed. This is merely the introduction and so they patiently await the outcome. Indeed, in less than an hour Sephiroth returns, still wary but also still plainly curious, first about whether they will still be there and then, when he sees that they are, about whether the food is still there.

“You didn’t come to watch,” he accuses.

“So it wasn’t entertainment,” the human rejoins. And then he gets up and walks the other way along the rooftop, with the faintest hint of defiance towards Chaos.

He can be amusing upon occasion, but Chaos has to divide their attention between his petty rebellion and Sephiroth, who had made some kind of quick movement right as the human had risen but who hadn’t actually shifted his feet. The man stays in place until the human is off that building and well across the neighboring roof, and then, just as the human turns around a water tank, Chaos picks up more noises: Sephiroth walking up to the bag, picking it up, and then moving it around enough that he likely is opening it.

The human is prickly and muttering for the next hour, but he doesn’t actually object to their circling the area, staying well out of Sephiroth’s path but not actually leaving. And when Sephiroth’s patrol is due to end and they return to the rooftop, the human actually speeds up.

No bag is there, either on the roof or in the alley below. Initially there is still the possibility that Sephiroth simply took the bag a little further and then disposed of it, but as they inspect the place, they find oily fingerprints on some concrete, which smell of Sephiroth’s saliva and the takeout. He at least tasted it.

Excellent.

* * *

The human is suddenly argumentative. Food is all well and good, but deep-fried anything would taste good and given the problematic supply chains into Midgar it’s more likely than not that the meat was not strictly as advertised. SOLDIERs were engineered for high performance, not to thrive on scanty resources, and the human recalls there were numerous documented incidents where undiagnosed malnutrition led to degradation and other severe issues. Also Hojo probably did that on purpose as one way of keeping them on a short leash.

These are all reasonable points once the emotive coloring is stripped away, so when they procure dinner for the next night, they do not go to the hawker stall again but instead locate an establishment making similar food that has been recently inspected by the city. Then they take that and repeat the same process of temporarily departing the scene so that Sephiroth can retrieve it at his leisure.

They also monitor the reports he’s been submitting. None of them mention the human. He has sent his mother an invitation to have lunch, but it is scheduled for the workplace cafeteria at a normal mealtime, so Chaos doubts that any conversations about confidential subjects will occur at it. He also has reduced his weekly order of rations by the number of meals that they have left for him.

When he goes back on the day shift, it is necessary to adapt delivery times and mechanisms. The human has some kind of opinion on this, but does not actually make it known to Chaos so Chaos acts in a reasonable manner and leaves dinner with the reception desk in Sephiroth’s building. They understand—and do share this feeling with humans—that personal dwellings are considered highly sacred and intimate places and unauthorized entry into one is viewed as a hostile act. Others also live in this building and Chaos has observed that it is the customary for reception to hold similar deliveries for the occupants.

So they are somewhat surprised when Sephiroth appears in the doorway of the building’s security office a few minutes after stopping in at reception, the current night’s dinner dangling from his hand. “Mother is worried that you think there’s something wrong with our rations,” he says.

“There is something wrong with them. They’re disgusting,” the human says.

Sephiroth stares at him. The man works his jaw briefly—Chaos is preoccupied with re-reviewing his emails for missed clues about this behavior till the human wearily informs them that Sephiroth would have assumed he was being monitored on all channels once the human admitted to spying—and then asks, in a tone of mixed bewilderment and irritation, “Is there something you want from me? Aside from testing the extent twenty years in a coffin can excuse behavior?”

“No,” the human says. He gets up from the chair and tucks it back behind its desk, then looks at Sephiroth, who shows no evidence of any intent to vacate the sole doorway. “The security officer is taking their meal break and so is their alternate. They weren’t bribed—it is protocol that if anyone with a Level 1 designation issues instructions, these override any and all standard protocols.”

“Including the one about not taking breaks at the same time. I see,” Sephiroth says. He does relax a minute amount, but still doesn’t appear ready to step away. His irritation is clearly ceding to his confusion. “I also see that we should consider the kind of loophole that creates when a Level 1 designee is acting oddly.”

“Twenty years in a coffin,” the human says.

Sephiroth blinks. Then winces, although he partly disguises that by raising the bagged dinner. “I…should not have said that,” he says after a moment. “But I don’t understand what exactly your interest here is. The food is…why are you suddenly concerned with what I’m eating? I thought you were done with me once Jenova had been defeated—you said you’d save my mother’s son and you did.”

The human mentally writhes, raking up memories and emotions and thoughts until he clearly has overwhelmed his ability to focus, even though outwardly they look impassive. It’s a small windowless room with a single occupied door, but the wall next to them is an exterior wall and Chaos knows exactly what the human will be tempted to do and refuses to let him drag them out. He can crawl into his hole if he likes but they are not going to come out to bash down a wall because he doesn’t want to face anything.

He’s angry. Very angry, almost to the point that Chaos prepares for an attack on par with their early battles for mental supremacy, and then Sephiroth happens to lower the bag of food. As the man does, the bag brushes against his coat and since some of its contents have leaked, a little grease smears against him.

Sephiroth immediately notices and reaches down to wipe at the spot, grimacing, and the human also looks in that direction. “It’s not just the food,” the human says. “Why are you still wearing something that compromised? Good as you are, lucky shots can take anyone and with body armor like that, all they’d need is a paperclip.”

“A paperclip?” Sephiroth says, startled. His fingers go from his coat to the abdominal plate he’s wearing under it, then curl quickly in on themselves as he looks up. Even if Chaos couldn’t see for themselves the visibly-stressed portions of the plate, that reaction would be confirmation of the human’s accurate analysis. “Are you jo—wait, did you ever actually—Vincent, damn it—”

Of course Sephiroth had unconsciously shifted his weight onto his back foot and twisted as he’d looked down at himself, which makes just enough room for the human to squeeze past him, with some judicious application of supernatural speed and cloaking. This is by far not the most elegant use of Chaos’ abilities, but nonetheless Chaos has to admire the sheer juvenile exhibitionism of it.

The human informs them in still-angry, harried tones that this is in fact part of Chaos’ strategy. Food was only the first component of several to be introduced, after all, and clearly the theory of gradual conditioning is working so they should continue following it rather than spoiling everything with a sudden escalation.

Yes, Chaos agrees, as blandly as is possible given their shared consciousness. That is rational.

* * *

They continue to have dinner delivered to Sephiroth’s building, with slightly increased portions in case Sephiroth is sampling it to be lab-tested as they suspect. But he does retrieve them from reception and eats at least part, they’ve confirmed that visually, and they’ve also confirmed via an overheard comment to one of the other Firsts that he seems to have developed an actual opinion on the rations and it is deeply negative.

Replacement body armor is more challenging to procure. Even with their combined resources, limited supplies and Sephiroth’s non-standard proportions are difficult obstacles. The human also points out that off-the-shelf would be impossible anyway given his verbal critiques, since that would be inferior quality and Sephiroth would immediately know. Since custom fitting is required, they cannot deliver a replacement before the end of Sephiroth’s current stint on night patrol, so instead they deliver a summary of various relevant suppliers, locations and contact information to the man’s inbox.

Sephiroth reads the email. Shortly afterward, parts of the summary reappear in other emails circulating between the Firsts and allied parties such as Tuesti and Wallace. The fact of the reuse is sufficient to indicate that Sephiroth has accepted the latest offering so Chaos spends little time on the actual content of these emails, although the human briefly shows interest. So it is unexpected when a series of emails from Sephiroth suddenly assault the human’s phone.

The emails contain lists of questions about the summary. Chaos had attempted to write the summary in a style similar to Sephiroth’s own reports and had only included fully-verifiable information, but from the tone of the questions, Sephiroth has concerns about the mere existence of several of the suppliers. The human informs Chaos that this is likely due to rising black-market trafficking in abandoned Shinra equipment and that a few fatal accidents have already occurred due to ignorant breaching of containment protocols, then slinks back to his hole like the magical foxes of his maternal land, which Chaos has always found particularly infuriating.

Chaos answers the questions as completely as possible. Unexpected as this is, it is a strong showing of increased interest and that is still aligned with the overall plan, so they see no harm in doing so. Sephiroth responds with further questions to a smaller subset and Chaos responds to those as well. This second round spurs a third, much briefer set of questions, and then Sephiroth terminates communications. This spans two and a half days.

About a half hour afterward, the human independently and voluntarily checks Sephiroth’s inbox while Chaos is busy contemplating the menu of a newly-opened restaurant specializing in Sephiroth’s preferred cuisine. He notes that Sephiroth has changed his schedule and will be on night patrol a day before his usual time, meaning tonight, and then he inexplicably insists on adding a first-aid kit one of his friends had forced upon him to their usual dinner package. He refuses to engage when Chaos points out that violent aggression is uncharacteristic of their interactions with Sephiroth to date and that in any case, they can fly faster than Sephiroth can run. But since he still permits them to go out on time, Chaos ceases the unnecessary and tiresomely one-sided debate.

Sephiroth is accompanied by several other individuals, and rather than a patrol, is setting up a security cordon around a small building. Chaos is gathering from communications between them all that the real target is actually in the basement when there’s a pointed pinging sound from the air vent behind them.

They turn. Sephiroth resettles his scabbard at his hip to move it away from the air vent, then walks forward with one arm extended so that the small paper bag he is holding is clearly being presented. Chaos consults the human, who only observes that the bag smells of sugar, fat, and almonds and identifies the aroma as belonging to a type of cookie specific to his maternal origins in Wutai, the invention of which is well within Chaos’ memory. The human is resembling those damned foxes more and more these days.

“Mother said you ate these,” Sephiroth says abruptly. He stops about a yard away, holding the bag about level with their shoulder. They look at it, then at him, and he sighs and pivots a few inches to deposit the bag on the ledge next to them. Once it leaves his fingers, he quickly resumes his prior position, except his arm is at his side. “Before. On coffee breaks and other…she said you made a point of using your Turk privileges to have boxes sent up from a place in Corel. Unfortunately that location no longer exists, but this one appears to use a similar recipe.”

Since this predates their merger, Chaos is incapable of providing any sort of opinion to Sephiroth on the cookies without having the human share certain memories that they both know cause strong emotional disturbances in the human. The human is very irritated at the reminder and grabs up the bag, then opens it and takes out a cookie since obviously, this is a more direct way to settle the matter than digging up said memories.

“I also spoke to Strife,” Sephiroth says. His tone measurably reduces in stiffness but despite the greater ease, he seems no less wary. If anything, he’s suddenly more watchful, one hand slipping to loosely encircle his scabbard. “He was…he had a somewhat different opinion on the exact nature of your…your state than most people, including my mother. Are you actually separate and independent entities at this point?”

“Yes and no,” the human says, and then at least has the grace to pause and allow Chaos a moment. He still seems oddly and irritatingly prepared for this eventuality, but willingly initiates the fastest way for them to fully comprehend Sephiroth’s question and assist in devising a representative answer. “It’s different from what Jenova tried to enforce with you and the SOLDIERs, and it’s also different from…historically-documented instances. Hojo made irreversible modifications, plus the Protomateria had an effect and also—I have, apparently, an ‘irrationally’ strong consciousness and Chaos has different views on self-preservation than most—they have their own views. We do—we do separately…contribute but we do not act—we are not a ‘split personality.’ We share awareness, both of each other and together. It’s reasonably harmonious from our point of view and we’ve stopped trying to fundamentally change it. There’s not really a good comparison in modern terms, at least that I’ve found so far.”

Sephiroth listens intently. Once or twice he appears ready to ask questions but he always refrains, even though Chaos can discern that he doesn’t understand what they are saying to his complete satisfaction. But this is likely distinct from understanding sufficient to accept that his question has been answered, the human notes, and in the end, Sephiroth only gives them a slow nod.

“I see,” Sephiroth says. He takes a half-step to the side, pauses to think about a question, and then takes a more committed step away. “Enjoy the cookies. Or if they aren’t—they’re incorrect, then…say something.”

With that, the man departs, and in a few minutes reappears below to direct an assault on the building. It seems to go well and although some casualties ensue—enough that for the sake of convenience, they eventually take the dinner back with them to leave it with reception in Sephiroth’s building—none are fatal even on the antagonistic side and the team Sephiroth has brought appears well-supplied with appropriate emergency medical items. The first-aid kit was unnecessary.

The human performs the mental equivalent of eye-rolling and then insists on bringing the kit with them on the next night, when Sephiroth again forgoes patrol for returning to the same location. This time Sephiroth appears on his own, toting some specialized investigative equipment that is entirely inadequate for the amount of filth spewed onto him when he has to slash some pipes on the way to diverting a monster that had been kept in the basement but overlooked on the prior night. He wounds the monster, then pursues it upstairs to where they have dispatched it.

“Ah,” Sephiroth says upon seeing the aftermath. He starts forward to examine the body and bright red lines open up along his upper arm and across his thigh.

“That’s contaminated,” the human points out as the smell of blood hits them both. “Even for you. There’s a—there’s a shower in the next room.”

Sephiroth doesn’t appear significantly hampered at the moment, but he is frowning and trying to scrape clean his limbs with one hand. “Damn it. Yes, but the water’s disconnected.”

The human sighs. “I have a water materia. We can use it.”

He also has the first-aid kit, which he offers once the materia has supplied enough power to flush the dirt off of Sephiroth. The shower has no walls so they had retreated to the other side of the doorway, but when they push the kit out into the middle of that, Sephiroth appears in the doorway itself. Current general human morality dictates that Sephiroth use his long hair to cover his genitals but he has not, and in fact, he starts to bundle it up after stooping for the kit and realizing that that might cause its ends to touch the floor.

“Does that have the antigen compound we developed?” Sephiroth says, apparently concentrating only on the kit. He holds his hair crushed to the back of his head as he touches the kit with his other hand.

“Yes,” the human says. Then pushes himself off the wall and onto his feet, pivoting into the doorway on the other side of the kit. He could have just reached out to help Sephiroth open it but Chaos keeps this to themselves as he rummages through the kit’s contents, locates the applicator, and then assists Sephiroth in cleaning and dressing several wounds.

This process does not proceed without physical discomfort, but Sephiroth submits to the human’s ministrations without vocal complaints, and with several positional adjustments that move him closer.

“The…the cookies. How were they?” Sephiroth mutters near the end.

“Close,” the human says, stuffing a used swab into a disposal bag.

Sephiroth cocks his head. “Not identical?”

“I think they use butter here, and in Corel they usually had margarine. But I don’t know, I never baked so I have no idea what the actual recipe is,” the human says, which is an unusually long statement for him. He seems to realize that and makes a face as he starts to screw the cap back onto the applicator. “I ate them.”

“Good,” Sephiroth says, and then makes an expression identical to the human once the differences in facial features are accounted for.

Sephiroth stares at the top of the human’s head. The human stares at the kit that he’s refilling. Chaos experiences an uncharacteristic surge of impatience, which they fight down with the knowledge of millennia of watching humanity’s foibles on repeat, and then the human sighs again. “I know I said the past was—I’d redeemed my past sins and so nothing was owed on either side, and I meant that. It was—there was—I don’t want to revisit it again. It was hard enough, doing that, and I think your mother and I both…deserve…to let that finally rest.”

“Good,” Sephiroth says, with a different tone and a considerably less-conflicted expression, although he still looks surprised with himself. Then he inhales and twists his head to frown at one of the now-scabbing cuts on his arm. “I had no intention of excavating anything between you and her. I—did mention to her that we were communicating but I…may have given it a professional context.”

“Cookies are professional?” the human queries.

“I made it about possible adverse food reactions since you were meddling with my meals,” Sephiroth says tartly.

“I was replacing. I wasn’t adulterating, though with those rations I’m not sure even Chaos would be able to tell,” the human shoots back.

Sephiroth narrows his eyes. Then, as the human irritably snaps shut the first-aid kit, Sephiroth suddenly sets his jaw and shoulders, shuffles forward, and grabs the human by the arm. “That was for her benefit. I wasn’t certain what you were up to and honestly I’m still unclear, but for my part, I wasn’t hoping for professional—” he starts.

The human puts his hands around Sephiroth’s head and then presses their mouths together. He shifts his knee out of the way so when Sephiroth promptly attempts to crawl onto it, they don’t overset their respective balances, and also wraps his hand around Sephiroth’s bundled hair so that it stays off the extremely dirty floor. Not that the walls are much better, especially for what the pair of them use those for over the next quarter-hour, but Chaos is not going to demand perfection over success.

“I need to—return and submit these,” Sephiroth says later, standing very close to the human even though that impedes his ability to redress himself. He looks down at the box of samples he’d collected before the fight, then over at the human. “The rations are nutritionally complete and cost-effective, and especially now, it’s important to convince people we aren’t privileging ourselves above them. But…I agree about the taste. I…like what you bring.”

The human nods. “You can bring more cookies,” he says, and then departs while Chaos contemplates the next phase.

* * *

What next phase, the human wants to know. Sephiroth doesn’t think they’re trying to poison him or involve him in some kind of mission or conspiracy. Aren’t they done?

Chaos says nothing. And continues to say nothing several hours later when Sephiroth shows up in their current retreat, looks around, and then wakes them to express how completely and utterly appalled he is…at the location. “You fought critical rearguard actions and protected millions, and even more than that, you suppressed your own—your own body so it didn’t transform into a world-destroying entity,” Sephiroth rants at the damp concrete, rusted grates and pipes, windowless walls. “How can this possibly be all you have? You deserve far more than this.”

“It’s not really what I want,” the human says. Then pauses, wrestling entirely with himself while Chaos withdraws as far as possible to avoid accidentally provoking the human’s contrary sense of guilt. “But I just…didn’t really think about wanting at all. I was tired after everything, and I…needed to rest for a while.”

Sephiroth looks sharply over at him, but it’s not in an accusatory way. It’s actually very thoughtful, and a few seconds pass while Sephiroth composes himself. “I can understand that,” he tells the human quietly, before drawing himself up again. “But this is—is inadequate. We can do better than this even if it’s only for somewhere to rest.”

“Not your building,” the human says. Then he pulls out his phone and thumbs at it while Sephiroth frowns at him. “We were doing a survey—it’s not complete but it’s good enough to show you the holes, and they’re not all because I pulled rank.”

The human glances up when he says ‘we’ and Sephiroth is clearly watching for it, from the way his own eyes narrow. Then Sephiroth makes a disgruntled noise while striding over to peer at the phone. “At this point I’m assigning to Chaos nearly all of your useful points,” Sephiroth mutters. “I hope you consider that with any additional suggestions you have about where would be adequate.”

“I didn’t really think about that yet. They haven’t either,” the human says, and then shrugs off Sephiroth’s disbelieving look. Which Chaos doesn’t disagree with, since Sephiroth is edging even closer. “If you want to go somewhere else, we can, I just want to make sure it doesn’t have the same problems.”

Sephiroth opens his mouth, then grabs the human’s wrist and uses that to both pull himself up against the human and to move the phone where he can tap at it. “Let me see this, clearly I’m not going to ignore reasonable objections but I’m also not about to replicate this—” he nods absently around them “—again. There has to be something…”

Now they’re done. This human has been particularly exhausting, and Chaos is ready for a good long rest of their own.

* * *

Chaos is not ungrateful and sends their thanks to the Cetra girl for the resources she shared. Admittedly this is several weeks and a significant upgrade in residence later, but it is still uniquely human that a minute after their text goes out, the human’s phone rings.

“Hi! I just saw your text and I’m glad that I could help,” she chirps. “Hope I’m not bothering you or anything but I’m just sort of confused, because Zack and Cloud did tell me you’d moved but nobody mentioned a pet? And Tifa said she doesn’t remember any pet carriers and she helped get your stuff out.”

There had not been nearly enough to merit all of the assistance offered, but Chaos understands that humans build relationships via this sort of unnecessary action. Also, the SOLDIERs that Sephiroth had brought to carry things had all been very wary of perfectly innocuous mold and had been dragging things out. If some assistance needed to be accepted for the sake of social ties, Chaos and the human both had preferred Lockhart’s briskness and forethought in bringing her own mountain-climbing gear. “We don’t have a pet.”

“Oh, okay.” Aerith pauses. “But you said the stuff I sent you…which was about—”

“How acquiring a companion can restore the purpose to one’s life,” they say patiently.

Even through a wireless connection, they can detect how furiously Aerith is thinking over the next few seconds. “Well, anyway, I’m glad it all worked out and Vincent’s feeling better now. Let me know if you ever want to talk about something else and please say hi to Sephiroth for me!”

“Acknowledged,” they say, hanging up.

Then they look down at Sephiroth, who had been dozing on their chest but who is now studying them with an increasingly familiar expression of suspicious curiosity. “Aerith has your number?” he says.

“Yes,” they say, and then the human adds: “She usually talks to Chaos.”

“I find that even less reassuring,” Sephiroth says, not getting up. In fact, when they put the phone down and then relocate that hand to the back of his neck, he drops his chin onto their chest and pushes up into the caress. “At least keep my number out of her hands, Vincent. I do appreciate her, but if she ever has an urgent need for me, Zack or Strife can reach out. I have absolutely no trust in Chaos’ sense of humor.”

“Agreed,” they say, because they are all in agreement. This is true, and this is a very satisfactory outcome.

They are pleased.