Our cubs grow fast, and despite the fact that Hojo was deprived of observing their birth, in the end he still controls what happens in his lab. A little under a year after they were born—when they were weaned and active and bright-eyed, always willing to chase each other through the enclosure or nuzzle up, purring, against their mother—they are taken away, and my fear from so long ago is realized.

Hojo expects more from us and demands that Nanaki and I breed once more, as if we haven’t had sex regularly already. As his seed once again takes hold and my belly swells with yet more life, we hold each other in the night and whisper stories of freedom.

Sometimes in my pregnancies, my dreams show me the visions that they had before. I am in the Lifestream again and that ashen-haired, cold-eyed man is gazing at me from across the sea of spirits. At times, flitting around the edge of the dreams, I can sense the others on the border of the Lifestream: Cloud, Tifa, Barret, and others besides.

I call out to them and sometimes I almost imagine they answer.

Days bleed into weeks bleed into months and soon I am ripe as a berry and once again I bring forth a litter. It’s smaller this time, a pair of twins, both girls, and I hold them close to my chest and let them suckle at me and I try not to get too attached because Hojo will take them away except no, I’m their mother and these are my children, and when they’re taken away, too young to speak words but old enough that their bright eyes still look at me sadly, I hope they remember me as I’ll remember them.

How long have I spent here, a captive of Shinra? How many years have Nanaki and I been laying together in the warmth of our den? I can’t know. Not too long, for I am only partway along my third pregnancy now—but yes, too long, since we are captives. At night he whispers to me of Cosmo Canyon.

And I dream of the Lifestream.

I can’t say what about the dream this time is different. Maybe it’s my young in me acting up, causing my Cetra abilities to spike. Maybe I’m simply growing stronger as I age. Maybe it’s nothing more than a freak accident, a chance of nature.

But this time, when I dream of the river of souls, I see the cold-eyed man being chased by Cloud, and it strikes me that this isn’t a dream, this is Cloud, it’s him, and when the spectre of the man in black leaves, Cloud turns and sees me and I can see him and everything stops.

“…my god,” he breathes. “Aerith?”

“Cloud,” I say, suddenly conscious of how I look.