one: the (last) good doctor

"Physician, heal thyself."
     --Luke 4:23

"The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right thing for the wrong reason."
     --T.S. Eliot

Dr. Ellis Mezcla leaned back in his stiff-backed wooden desk chair, bracing a hand against the back of his neck and tilting his head all the way back, grimacing at a series of dry cracks like gunshots. Awful for the spinal column, he reprimanded himself, an ironic little twist at the corner of his mouth. Ought to take my own advice more often.

He pushed his thick glasses up on his nose, brushing at his thin gray wisps of hair, and bowed back toward the records spread out on his desk. Back when he'd had a nurse working in the office, he wouldn't have needed to update these himself; but with the way business had dropped off in recent years, it had been a long time since he'd been able to pay an assistant of any kind. Shinra's corporate network of services and the steady drain of money from the slums to their taxes had served to dramatically decrease interest in seeing a private practitioner. Only a few loyal patients continued to see Ellis, and the single bitter consolation for his updating these records by hand was that there weren't many to update. He had to wonder sometimes how much longer it would be before poverty's sharp edge scraped an irreparable gash in the bottom of his business and sank it, leaving him stranded at the near edge of old age.

Ellis sighed, shook his old fountain pen again (the last of a long succession, and almost dry), and set it back to the paper, scratching down numbers in the spotty black ink. No matter. He would keep it afloat for another day.

The door of the small office wheezed open, admitting a breath of the pervasive smog and dry coolish air that characterized Midgar's autumn. The once-jaunty brass bell tied above it coughed out an irritated jingle, and then was still.

"Sorry, it's after business hours," Ellis recited mechanically to the visitor, not even bothering to look up. "Come back tomorrow morning. Or go the Shinra free clinic up on the other side of 2; that's surely more what you're looking for anyway." Another bitter little almost-smile deformed his mouth.

"I'm afraid I'm not looking for anything to do with Shinra," a deep, rumbling, familiar voice replied. Ellis started so violently his glasses slid off and clattered on the blotter, and he began fumbling after them, blinking owlishly up at the blurry shape to whom the voice belonged.

"Zangan?" he quested, though he knew well enough who it was. "My God, man, what are you doing here?"

"Calling in that favor you owe me," Zangan replied grimly, and as Ellis grappled his glasses on again, a blob across the larger man's chest resolved itself into a young girl, perhaps in her mid-teens, cradled carefully in his arms. Ellis got hastily to his feet, and followed Zangan to the wheeled surgical table, where he lay the girl gently out on her back. Bumping his glasses up on his nose, Ellis could see easily that she was badly injured: her cheeks were ashen, her breath too shallow, too slow, and with a thick, wet sound to it that sent a thin thread of alarm through his mind; and, more obviously, a thick line of gauze batting was strapped inexpertly down the center of her chest with medical tape.

Finally--and somewhat more disturbingly--she bore a vague, peculiar resemblance to Allicia...

He glanced up at Zangan, leaning lightly on the table.

"Who is she?" he asked evenly, attempting to put aside for a moment the urgency of the situation and the tumult her appearance stirred in his mind. First, he had to make sure all was safe here; with Zangan, it was entirely too possible that he was about to involve himself in something serious, something that could make bankruptcy look like a blessing...

"A student of mine," Zangan answered with a touch of impatience.

"How was she injured?"

"Does it matter? Ellis, you owe me at least an attempt to help --"

"It matters," Ellis interrupted coolly, "in that I need to know the nature of the injury before I can make an effort to treat her."

Visible relief spread across Zangan's face. "Ellis --"

"Shut up and tell me what happened," Ellis cut him off again, waspishly. Zangan nodded quickly, scratching absently at his short gray beard.

"She was cut across the center of the chest, from a few inches under the collarbones to about the base of the ribcage. Beyond that I can't say much. She was already injured when I found her; I don't know what happened."

Ellis frowned curiously. "Found her? Found her where?" Zangan began to answer, but Ellis raised a hand suddenly to halt him, shaking his head. "Never mind; I'm sure you don't want to tell me, and it'd just waste our time anyway. How deep is the cut?"

"Deep," Zangan said shortly. "Thin, and clean, but deep."

Ellis nodded briskly. This wasn't his area of expertise, but he'd learned a thing or two living here that wasn't exactly typical; and a favor owed was a favor owed. "I'll do what I can; that's all I can promise. Help me get her into the back."

*

Zangan fairly jumped off the desk as though it were on fire when the door between rooms opened, and didn't notice that he'd dropped the pen he'd been impatiently toying with in between glances at Ellis's battered wall clock. The doctor readmitted himself to the front office with a sigh, stripping off bloodstained surgical gloves and physician's coat, weariness written across his face like faded runes, and Zangan fairly ran to him.

"How is she?" the bigger man asked, his voice stretched taut with agitation.

"Stable," Ellis said shortly, dumping a soft paper mask in a waste-paper basket. "For now. She's very lucky." He closed his eyes briefly, spreading a hand across his brow to rub both temples at once. "Good God, Zangan -- what in the flaming hell happened to that girl?"

"I only wish I knew. What do you mean?"

Ellis turned dull, disbelieving eyes up to his face. "I'm not surprised you didn't see it -- the area was obscured by blood -- but Zangan, I've seen some damned queer things working as a medical professional in this part of Midgar, and I swear to you, I have never seen anything remotely like this.

"You were right -- the cut is thin. But you have no idea how thin. When I opened the girl, I could see where the cuts must have been -- but I couldn't see them. A few of her ribs were cut, and one lung was opened, but there were no marks. Just tiny, tiny slits. Possibly almost microscopic. I admit I'm no surgeon, I have only an intellectual conception of how injuries look at that level anyhow, but this... this... in God's name, Zangan, what in the world cut her?"

Zangan shook his head. "I haven't the slightest idea. What do you mean, she's lucky? How bad is it?"

"Oh, it's bad, of that I assure you." He shuffled around the desk, began to hang up his coat, then noticed the blood spread blotchily across its front and instead tossed it on a small laundry basket with a grimace. "The lung and the ribs are most of the problem, of course, but she's lost a lot of blood, and picked up a spot of infection, too. But on the other hand, she could have been a lot unluckier: the cut is thin, God yes, and clean, but also very dangerous and very oddly awkward... it's almost like whatever -- whoever -- cut her meant to hurt her badly, but missed. It could've hit her heart, of course, or both lungs -- injuring one's survivable for a short time, but two generally means suffocation, which is definitely a rather unpleasant way to go -- or it could've hit a bit lower, ruptured some digestive organs or opened her intestines."

"I didn't ask you for an anatomy lesson, Ellis," Zangan interrupted tersely. Ellis gave him a sour look.

"If you're going to run about teaching the world how to mangle the human body, you might as well learn a thing or two about repairing it," he snapped back. "The point is, what cut her didn't do any of those things, just roughed up her breathing a bit. And she's also lucky in that someone apparently saved her life by accident."

Zangan cocked his head, frowning. "How's that?"

"Well, you always learn not to move somebody who's been injured without a medical professional present, because it could jostle any loose biological debris around and cause more damage, true?" The bigger man nodded. "Good advice... usually. Trouble is, sometimes the debris has already been jostled around some, and need to be jostled more, to get them back into place. Not often, but it happens. There's trauma on one of the slit ribs that makes it look like its halves got pushed apart, maybe by her bumping into something after being cut. The cut edges of the ribs are sharp, and there's a spot where it was clearly poking at her good lung. Given more time, it might have punctured it... but there's other evidence to suggest that someone moved her just after she was injured, and that that pushed the rib back into place. Whoever moved her may quite possibly have saved her life. Was it you, do you think?"

"No," Zangan said shortly. "I didn't arrive until some time after she'd been hurt; if that was what was happening, I would have been too late to stop it. Someone else must have moved her. Really, this is all fascinating" his voice went dry "but what about recovery? How long do you imagine it'll take her to heal?"

Ellis shrugged, sitting again at his desk. "Harder to say. They physical recovery rate is fairly variable, depending on the patient's constitution; but there's a bigger problem than that. As I've said, there has been some infection, enough so that there could have been some neurological damage. Some short-term memory loss or confusion is more than likely, possibly long-term too. It's fairly difficult to judge how it'll all fall out, but I think it's safe to say she's going to need quite a bit of rehabilitation, physical and psychological."

Zangan nodded slowly, turning away. There was a moment of silence.

"Could I leave her with you for that?" Zangan asked finally, quietly leaning forward slightly on Ellis's desk. The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't stay in Midgar. Could I leave her in your care, at least for the time being?"

Ellis frowned. "What do you mean, you can't stay?"

"I'm not exactly in good with Shinra," Zangan reminded him dryly. "And the situation certainly hasn't improved. If there's any word that I've brought her to the city, they may decide to track me a bit, and that could me, and her, and you, in some rather serious trouble."

Ellis nodded briskly, lips thinning slightly. "I see. It may be more difficult without you, however; she's going to need something familiar, preferably someone, and I surely don't know a thing about her."

"I think I can find someone in the area who might be able to care for her, once you've helped her through the physical problems," Zangan assured him, a bit distractedly. "I appreciate the help, Ellis. This is -- it's very good of you."

"And I wouldn't do it for anyone else," Ellis responded in a tone that somehow managed to be both gentle and acerbic at once. "This is a damned inconvenience, Zangan, and I'm not doing fabulously well as it is, I might remind you."

Zangan looked at him for a moment, and then smiled unexpectedly. "But you owe me one," he shot back. Ellis stood, matching the smile.

"I do," he said simply, and shook the larger man's proffered hand. "The Sector 2 gate is guarded, but there's a hole in the wall about half a mile south from it, in a junkyard. A young man there charges people like you ridiculous amounts of gil for safe passage out of the city. Tell him you're a friend of mine, and show him this." Ellis drew a small chunk of metal from a top drawer of his desk; closer examination showed it to be a flattened, slightly rusty and rather misshapen bullet. "He'll take you as far as the coast."

Zangan accepted the bullet bemusedly, turning it over in his fingers. "What does it mean?"

"It's one of seven I took out of his body four summers ago," Ellis replied coolly, "and it means that I'm not the only one with a debt to repay. Send it back, if you can; I've only got five left. Take care, Zangan."

Zangan smiled again. "Only if you do," he returned, almost automatically, and left.

Ellis sat back at his desk and looked at the door for a very long time, as though expectant. Finally, he sighed again and set his face down into his hands.

Shinra. It would be Shinra. After all these years--

Allicia--

*

A week later, an unmarked envelope was pushed under his door. In it were two things. One was the bullet. The other was a name.

*

Her world was pain. A steadily encroaching weakness as something warm and vital leaked from her -- poured from her. Dimly, she became aware that it was blood. Her blood, puddling around her, covering the floor. Soaking her. She couldn't breathe --

And she fell --

*

And at two o' clock on a Wednesday afternoon, nearly two weeks after her instructor in the martial arts had brought her to the office of his old friend and departed, Tifa Lockheart thrashed abruptly awake in a dark room.

And was assaulted by disorientation. She had no idea where she was, or how she had gotten there; all she seemed able to remember were dim vestiges of a bizarre, dark dream of screaming, smoke, flashing silver and noise, and blood...

She closed her eyes again. Reopened them.

The room had not changed.

It was small, mostly square, crowded with a few tables, lamps, and a wooden chair. It had a look of neat but dusty disuse that spoke very clearly of a long-disregarded guest room; the only fragment of identity was a small picture, of a dark-haired, smiling adolescent girl, which sat in a frame on the bedside table. Tifa was spread out evenly, almost symmetrically atop a creaky narrow bed. A rather ancient respirator pumped unenthusiastically at the cloudy plastic mask over her nose and mouth. She stared for a long moment at the dim, floating outline of the ceiling.

Where -- ? Her mind fumbled. Am I -- ?

Slowly, Tifa sat up, pulling the mask a bit nervously from her face. It thumped dully on the pillow, wheezing apathetically. Her breathing felt very peculiar without it: shallower, as though her lungs didn't have quite the same interests at heart that she did. A fiery itching ran down the center of her chest, and she noticed that beneath the paper gown and slightly threadbare robe she had apparently been put into at some point, her torso felt mummified with tape and bandages. Only by looking at her right arm did she realize that there was an IV needle patched into the principal vein, and numbly she pulled that loose as well.

Slowly, her wandering, fragmentary thoughts formed into coherent concepts. She managed to wonder where in the world she could be. And why in the world she should be afraid to wonder what had happened.

Tifa climbed to her feet, still slowly, not quite sure how firmly attached the various parts of her body were, and made her way over to the thick gray curtains drawn on one wall of the bedroom. She found her mouth had gone dry as she took the fabric in one hand, and a frown creased briefly across her still-numb face.

What? What am I afraid to see?

(black sky, the flames leaping from every corner, bodies in the road, her worn high hiking boots squelching through soaking puddles of their blood)

A soft, strained, unconscious mewling noise stirred in the back of her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head hard. The image went away... but she thought it might be back. She thought it might be back more than once, more than a few times.

Nibelheim. The realization was like ice. Fire and ice. Nibelheim burned, oh God, I saw it, I was there, and Dad -- the whole town gone --

Tifa felt tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, in horror and pain... but they were oddly cold, still shell-shocked and disbelieving. They didn't really mean anything, not yet. She had the distinct, premonitory feeling that that realization would keep coming up on her, in a million different ways and on a million different occasions, as the days marched away from this one, until maybe someday it finally became reality in her mind; and maybe -- maybe -- someday, much later, it would stop hurting. The prospect made her feel suddenly, dismally ill.

She pulled aside the curtain.

The slums of Sector 2 spread out beneath the rickety ledge Ellis's office and home perched on, an uneven sprawl of burnished, rusted metal and cracked concrete. The dubious panorama spread out under the heavy blanket of a late-autumn fog, which shrouded the narrow streets and alleys in a mask that was almost merciful, covering the almost prehistoric lumbering of vehicles and the dull-eyed, shuffling bodies that constructed the flow of afternoon traffic through the darkness of the lower city. The overall impression was one of rats running endless tunnels, making aimless motions in lightless depths, searching for nothing until they simply dropped dead in their paths, and the others ran blindly over their bodies.

Tifa looked up, and saw only a lid of metal.

She let the curtain fall, and made her unsteady way back to the bed. She had barely sat down again when the door opened.

The man who entered the room with an air of brisk authority was tall and thin, almost gangling, and bald but for the sparse gray hair that formed a rough ring around his head. His age was nearly impossible to determine through the conflict between his precise grace and the bitter, weary cynicism of his face, but if pressed to do so Tifa might have guessed him to be in his early fifties. He wore a traditional long white doctor's coat, and was holding up a syringe in the dim artificial light from the window, tapping it with a short, clean nail.

"Well, good morning," he said swiftly, without hesitation, lowering the syringe to offer her a bit of a smile. She only nodded dumbly. "My name is Ellis; I'm a doctor. And if I were you, I wouldn't bother with 'Who am I?' or 'What happened?', since I assure you I haven't the slightest idea."

Tifa found her voice then, scratched and raspy though it felt. "It's okay; I... remember that. My name's Tifa."

"A pleasure. Do you happen to remember what happened, as well?" He drew the curtains with a single swift motion, perching on the bed next to her for a moment and brandishing the syringe. "If you could push down the shoulder of the robe, please; I need to inject you with a few quick antibiotics -- thank you." He completed the procedure with such characteristic quick efficiency that Tifa barely noticed anything until he had finished.

"No -- not really," she faltered, finding the thin thread of the odd conversation again. "I mean -- I can remember some things, but -- not really anything that makes sense. Where am I?"

"You're in Midgar," Ellis replied, finally settling down a bit, looking at her somewhat more kindly with gray eyes that swam hugely behind his glasses. "You've apparently suffered some severe medical trauma, and I'm attempting to patch you up. My office is downstairs; I heard you moving a few moments ago, when I was with a patient. I believe Mrs. Rathety thinks I'm involved in something scandalous now, I'm afraid." He uttered a dry chuckle and got to his feet, pulling a stethoscope from a pocket in his coat and donning it. Tifa noticed, vaguely, his eyes flicker to the picture on the table, and a spasm of some deep, old pain cross his face.

"Well, anyhow. Tifa, did you say?" She nodded, and he placed the cup of the stethoscope under the edge of the gown, beginning to check her heartbeat. "Tifa, are you experiencing any dizziness, nausea, chest pains?"

"No."

"Mm-hm. Any muscle cramping or spasmodic muscle contractions?"

"No."

"Hm. Good." He produced an otoscope and began investigating her eyes and ears. "Trouble breathing, shortness of breath?"

"Yes. Shortness of breath. Not a lot, but it feels a little strange when I breathe in."

Ellis nodded, almost visibly absorbing the information. "I see. That's perfectly natural -- quite what I expected -- and it'll most likely improve shortly." He tilted her head gently to the right, peering now at the left side. "Are you feeling at all disoriented, disconnected, having trouble grasping simple concepts?"

"A little," she admitted. Ellis smiled his thin but kind smile again.

"Well, that's easiest to deal with," he assured her, stowing his instruments in his coat again. "I prescribe more rest and then a small meal. I'll finish my appointments for the afternoon; you sleep a bit, and then we'll see what we can do. All right?" She nodded, and he smiled a little again. "This used to be my daughter's room," and again came that brief, aching flash, so quick she almost wasn't sure she'd seen it, "and there should probably be some clothing in the closet. She was about your size, I think; you can use it if you'd like." He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid I'm almost late -- if you'll excuse me --"

And with that, Ellis left as briskly as he'd entered, only silence remaining in his wake.

*

"Breathe in deeply, please, and hold it."

Tifa obediently sucked in a huge breath, staring at the ceiling as Ellis turned his attention to whatever sound was coming to him through the stethoscope. Another few weeks had healed the wound in her chest down to an angry red line of scar, though it remained bound with tape until whenever the rib knitted itself back together. Her breathing had improved, though Ellis had continued to put her back on the respirator at intervals even after the sutures had come out, and her energy level had increased remarkably since the second blood transfusion. Moreover, she found she was growing to like the doctor a great deal, though it was a little tiresome to be confined to his sole company for so long. However, she conceded easily to the painful truth that there was really no one else she knew of with whose company she could have relieved his; and for Ellis's part, having a companion in his home seemed to have cheered the older man considerably, and it led Tifa to wonder just how long he had been alone in the slums, and just how much simple loneliness had to do with his bitterness.

"All right, release," Ellis instructed, drawing back and standing again, and Tifa did as she was told. "Excellent. It sounds to me like you have two working lungs again, Tifa."

"Imagine that," she replied with a small smile. Ellis returned it, perhaps a bit sardonically.

"And one working smart mouth, I see, which is one too many. How are you feeling? Up to some exercises?"

Tifa made a face, but nodded nonetheless. Physical therapy wasn't the most entertaining part of recovery, but she had to admit it was a helpful one. "I guess so." She stood up on her own, without a hint of a wobble, and not without a touch of pride at that. Ellis had to help her a bit to reach the worn blue mats he'd lain out on the floor, and to steady her enough to start into her series of stretches, but after that he was able to stand back and let her stay up alone. Again Tifa was oddly pleased. Her body was healing itself, the way only a body could. It would all come together again; she would be fine.

Between stretches, she looked up to see Ellis standing by the bedside table, the picture she'd noticed him looking at many times in his hand and before his eyes. Her previous question -- how long he'd been alone here -- recurred in her mind, and she paused.

"Um -- I probably shouldn't ask this," Tifa spoke up timidly, before she had time to think better of it. "But -- your daughter --?"

"Died," Ellis finished shortly, replacing the picture on the table a little too hastily and turning a thin-lipped not-quite-smile to her, resting a hand on the headboard of the bed. "When she was about your age. Seventeen, actually. She was involved in protests against Mako power, with a group of other young students; when they all died in an accident at their school, the only thing the proper authorities were able to say about it was that Shinra wasn't involved --" Tifa noted, with alarm, that Ellis's hand was no longer resting on the headboard; it was clenched there, so tightly the knuckles had gone a bright yellow-white. "Her mother died in childbirth, with a doctor standing right next to her--" His voice, which had been tightening steadily, finally choked off, and he looked down at the floor for a long moment, slowly forcing his hand to relax.

"I'm sorry," Tifa ventured softly, from the silence. Ellis snorted bitterly and shook his head, finally looking back up at her.

"No, I'm sorry. It's... a rather difficult subject." Tifa bowed her head slightly, in understanding.

He may not know it, but I think we have a lot in common, she thought.

And on the heels of that: If he hates Shinra so much -- and I understand why he does -- then why doesn't he do something about it?

After a moment's silence, Ellis cleared his throat slightly. "Perhaps you'd like to discuss what you remember about what happened to you?" he said quietly, leaving it between a question and a suggestion. Tifa paused in mid-stretch, glancing up at him with a frown that hid the sharp, now-familiar ache.

He's never asked before, she realized suddenly. This is the first time he's really tried to get me to talk about it. And that, combined with what he'd just told her, made her feel strangely guilty, as though she owed it to him now to tell.

Not really, I guess... but -- well, why not?

Because it hurts, her mind answered itself in a whisper, but she pushed that away with the easy strength of her well-founded, developing pragmatism. Ducking what hurt would never get her anywhere.

"Why not?" she echoed her own thoughts, and was slightly startled at the hollow sound of her voice. Her last efforts to stretch flagged and finally trailed off as she spoke.

"It started when the group from Shinra came to check the reactor. There was -- someone I was expecting to come with them, but he... he didn't show up." She bit her lip a little, unconsciously. "They stayed in the mansion at the north end of town... and when they headed up into the mountains to see the reactor, I guided them..."

And she told him. Told him about the buzzing of the town over the excitement of Sephiroth's visit, and how that buzzing had grown more and more nervous as the small task force stayed overtime and the elder soldier withdrew further into the mansion's darkness. About the confused images and dreams that were all that remained of her memories of the night Sephiroth's mounting insanity turned violent, about the embers in the sky and the merciless falling of the famed sword through the bodies of villager after villager, as though they were nothing but weeds to be cut down in his path. How her father pulled her behind the edge of the tiny mountain cove only they knew of, just beyond the outskirts of the town, so that she couldn't see any more; how he turned and set off after the general as he headed for the reactor, eyes full of mute, doomed purpose. How she tried her best to follow, limping slightly, coughing with the smoke in her lungs...

...and then the steady blackness that her memories faded into as they ended.

When she had finally finished, they were both quiet for a moment, as she tried to steady the tremble out of her breathing and scrubbed a little at her eyes. She couldn't make the fear stop coming back, no matter how she tried.

Finally, Ellis spoke, slowly and thoughtfully. "Sephiroth? The Sephiroth?"

She nodded mutely.

"And... something in that mansion sent him mad?"

Another nod.

"The whole town burned?"

"You don't believe me," Tifa said flatly. She folded her arms as Ellis gazed at her with something frustratingly like pity... and something strangely like unease.

"I believe," he replied smoothly and patiently, "that you are a young woman who has suffered a great deal very recently, physically and emotionally, and also that you have been through some experiences that have obviously caused you to suffer from some memory loss. Beyond that, it's not really my place to believe or disbelieve you. Clearly, something very traumatic has happened to you -- but you yourself have admitted that you don't remember very well what that is." His voice dropped a notch, and he met her eyes with earnest concern. "Frankly, Tifa, you need more help with this than I can give. If I could, I would desperately want to arrange you some time with an analyst -- but I'm afraid in Midgar the qualities of 'competent' and 'trustworthy' are mutually exclusive in mental health professionals, and I'm in a precarious political position as it is." His eyes darkened for a moment, but Tifa barely noticed. She leaned back against the wall, arms now crossed protectively, staring at the floor.

"I'm still having trouble remembering things," she admitted finally. "From one day to the next -- I'll remember general things, names and where I am, but not other things. Like I'll try to think of what I did that morning and not be able to, or I'll walk into a room and won't remember how I got there. It's like things... keep dropping out of my head, every now and then."

Ellis nodded, frowning ponderously. "Well, that's not unreasonable for someone who's been through what you have, but I can see how it might be very disconcerting. You may continue to experience some short-term memory loss for quite a while, at least until you've made a full recovery. It's not precisely harmful, in a strictly medical sense, but it may be something that takes some getting used to." She nodded slowly, still looking at the floor, and was silent for a long time.

"I don't think I want to know what happened," she said at last, quietly. "I know what I remember, even if you don't believe me, but I really just don't want to know the rest."

Ellis moved to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe that's why you don't," he said gently.

Then, with only a quick "Call me if you need any help," he was gone.

Tifa sighed, shook her head a little, and tried lamely to resume stretching. Her muscles were stiff and sore, her concentration fragmented at best, and the exercise didn't really seem to be doing much of anything; she continued more out of habit than anything else, as her mind wandered slowly away.

Why doesn't he believe me? she thought, with a touch of hurt. I mean, all right, it's not really all that believable by itself... but he treated me, after it happened -- he must've seen some evidence of the fire, or something -- and he knows the dreams I've been having...

She sighed again and gave up on the stretching, sitting on the end of the bed. But he doesn't believe me. And actually, I don't blame him. God, I'm not even sure I believe myself anymore.

*

With his act of clinical calm dropped, Ellis barely managed to pull out a chair from his kitchen table before falling heavily into it. He pulled off his glasses and nearly flung them aside, dropping his forehead into both hands and scrubbing at his eyes fiercely. Tifa's voice echoed You don't believe me in his head like an accusation, and he tried in vain to push it away.

Finally, after a long moment spent like that, he stood and walked almost mechanically to the rack where he saved his newspapers, digging through until he found one from about three weeks ago, when Tifa had still been unconscious. There was really no reason for him to continue to subscribe to the paper, he supposed, seeing as how it was Shinra-owned and little more than a sheet of Orwellian fabrications anymore; no reason, that was, but habit. Ellis wished now fervently that he'd given it up. He drew the thin periodical out of the stack and carried it back to the table, staring down at the front page with a sick, twisting feeling in his belly.

------

MILITARY HERO DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT
Associated Press

Today the world mourns the death of a soldier, a patriot, and a hero.

On a routine inspection of a Mako reactor in the town of Nibelheim, in the northern counties of _____, general of the Shinra armed forces Sephiroth Gevura fell to his untimely death into a reservoir of highly reactive Mako. The exact circumstances of his death are unknown, but the incident was described as "a terrible accident" by SOLDIER First Class Lieutenant Zackary Eleva, second in command on this particular mission. The mayor of Nibelheim spoke for the townspeople, saying they had been "very honored by the visit, but very sorry for this tragic loss." The town (continued on Page 14)

------

Ellis read it, word by word, at least three times from beginning to end before he was able to tear his eyes up from the paper and close them.

It's just as I thought. Exactly. There's no mention of a malfunction in the reactor they were inspecting, but that hardly means anything; I don't think Shinra would even admit the Gongaga reactor's malfunctioning if it melted down. And of course they didn't say anything about the town being burned. That's probably why Zangan was so worried about Shinra coming after him and Tifa; if a word of their biggest prize running mad ever slipped out to the public, it'd be one hell of a black eye for the company, and they must be the only survivors who saw it...

He opened his eyes again, staring down at the cold, lying black newsprint. Thinking about what that meant; what the girl in that long-unused room had seen and been through.

I believe you, Ellis thought at her helplessly. I didn't want to... but I believe you.

He stood again, beginning to pace around the perimeter of the table, restlessly. Bad enough that she was so like Allicia, not only in the vague physical resemblance, but in that unique gentleness and peculiarly level head both girls shared; bad enough that something like this had happened to her, but that it was Shinra who had done it, done it again...

She has to tell people. The thought struck Ellis like a bolt of lightning, and he stopped abruptly. She's well enough to go -- has been for a while, really, though I suppose I've kept her a little long, her being so much like Allicia -- but I can't let her yet. She has to -- we have to get this out in the open. She may be the first person to come out alive and clear-headed from a cover-up of one of Shinra's mishaps -- she has to let people know the kind of things they do! It'll be risky, of course -- can't use the paper, we'll have to just go public --

He paced for what must have been hours, finally retreating to his own room to think. To plan. Excitement seized him and shook him in its teeth, for the first time in what must have been years. Shinra had always seemed utterly unreachable, supernatural, with the fiction and misinformation on which they kept the public happily glutted; and he had finally given up on the idea of ever piercing through that shield to wound the hated corporation. But now -- now, there was a way through their cover. Now, there was a crevice in Shinra's armor.

Now, they could get what they deserved.

*

Sparks.

Ellis's thin but genuine smile was all the answer he needed.

*

And, some thirty years later, that hazy but very pointed memory-dream was all the rebuke Ellis needed.

The doctor sighed as he belted on his worn brown robe -- he sensed there would be no more sleep for him tonight -- and made his way to deposit himself in the ancient, tattered and sublimely comfortable chair in the corner of his room. He leaned his forehead on the heel of one hand for a moment, eyes closed, with a bitter, rueful smile.

A damn sad thing when a physician has to rely on dreams for his dose of common sense, Ellis reflected briefly. It may be about time for me to retire...

If I set the girl up against Shinra, she might go; but she wouldn't know better, and I would. I told Zangan thirty years ago that the patient's best interests must come first, and I still know that now. It's sure as hell not in Tifa's best interests to go out as a crusader against Shinra and make a big target of herself -- God, Allicia learned that -- and it's not in her best interests to stay with me anymore, period. The girl has lost a great deal, she has suffered a great deal, and she needs time with a familiar face, and a sympathizer. She doesn't need a doctor -- she needs a family, or at least a friend. And I'm too old and too foolish to give that to her, no matter what I tried to tell myself. I have the name, and I've done enough digging to have a location and a profile too, and I know that's the place to send her. And yet I haven't.

How did I forget what I knew like my own name at twenty? He snorted self-deprecatingly, rubbing his brow. I know the answer to that, of course. Because I wanted to forget. Because she's so like my daughter, and because I'm so damned alone, and then because I hate Shinra so much. I have somehow managed to make my patient's recovery all about me. Because maybe I'm the one who needs recovery. What's that old saw? ..."Physician, heal thyself." Well, the context may be iffy, but the meaning stays the same: if you need someone to help, start at home. Tifa's not the one who needs the mental health professional...

Ellis sighed again and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes. Well, at least this time I saved myself another mistake to damn me. At least now I know the proper direction, fool or no. Tomorrow morning I'll tell her that it's time for her to go, and I'll send her to that young man in 7. I'll do what's right for her. And I'll do it for her, and for Allicia...

And, I think, for myself.

His eye lit on the newspaper then; he'd brought it in with him that evening, too excited to let it out of his sight, and left it on the bedside table when he slept. And as far as that goes... I think the less Tifa hears about this whole incident for a while, the better...

She doesn't want to remember, and as far as I'm concerned, she shouldn't have to.

Ellis stood and retrieved the paper, pulling the front page loose. There was a dusty, long-unused book of matches in the table drawer; he emptied a metal waste-paper basket of a few crumpled leaflets, struck a match, and dropped the lit page in the can. He watched in pensive silence as it shriveled, curled and blackened, the flames reflecting dimly in his glasses.

After a moment's thought, he burned Page 14, too.

*

Tifa walked into the kitchen, drawn out of another restless, tumultuous night of continuous dark dreams by the somehow eternally comforting smells of breakfast--and paused. Ellis, at the stove--enough time alone had made him into something of an enterprising cook, which for some reason rarely failed to amuse her--didn't look well; he was still in his robe, and his eyes were dark-circled, his face thoughtful and almost grim. He was facing out the tiny kitchen window, staring, and didn't even glance at her when she entered; not a good sign.

"Ellis?" she tried timidly. The older man jumped slightly, almost guiltily, and turned to her with a bit of his thin smile.

"Good morning," he responded, indicating with his head that Tifa sit at the table, which she did. "I was just gathering my thoughts. I have a bit of a surprise this morning, I'm afraid."

Tifa looked up at him, a trifle uneasily, but ignored that for a moment. "How long have you been up?" she asked instead, bluntly. Ellis half-smiled again, perhaps a little more bitterly.

"Far too long, as a matter of fact. But that hardly matters. Tifa -- you've reached the end of the good I can do you." He held up a hand when she frowned and opened her mouth to interrupt. "It's true; physically, you're quite functional again. However, the physical is all I can deal with, and I don't believe it's the end of the injury. Therefore, I'm referring you elsewhere.

"I have the name of a young man in Sector 7 whom I've been told you knew quite well in younger years -- a Mr. John Englein. He's of sufficient means to take you in as a guest, and I've made contact enough with him to learn that he would be no little pleased to see you again. It'll certainly do you far more good to be with an old acquaintance right now than a grouchy old doctor --"

But that was as far as Ellis got, since after that Tifa was hugging him too tightly.

*

She left the next morning, walked by Ellis to the nearest train station. They said quick goodbyes in the post-dawn chill that marked the onset of a bitter urban winter, and Tifa disappeared onto the first car to Sector 7 of that day, with only a narrow duffelbag and a slightly misshapen bullet in her pocket, "just in case". Her sometime doctor walked back home alone once she had gone.

That was the last time anyone ever saw Ellis Mezcla alive... but that is a tale for another day.

<= / main